#and some of the ones that are there have bashing

[cressidagrey]

Not an accident

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Oscar gets asked about his daughter in an interview. It does not go well. 

Warnings and Notes: Chris Piastri bashing (The poor guy hasn't done anything in real life (As far as I am aware at least) but I needed a bad guy and he fit the bill. Sorry. Mention of Bee's very traumatic birth.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar Piastri sat in the chair with the usual polite calmness etched into his features, the lights warm against his skin, the mic clipped neatly to his collar. He’d hundreds of interviews by now—race recaps, performance breakdowns, media days—but this was one of the first few times he’d walked in knowing the questions wouldn’t stop at racing.

Not after the reveal.

Not after the world found out about Bee.

He braced himself without moving, only the faint twitch of his fingers against his knee betraying any tension.

The interviewer was the usual type: bright smile, confident voice, a clipboard full of questions that made Oscar’s stomach twist the moment he saw the label “life off-track.”

And then it started.

“Oscar,” the interviewer began smoothly, “you became a father at just nineteen years old, and that’s a massive responsibility. How difficult has it been to balance being a father at such a young age with the demands of Formula 1?”

Oscar exhaled slowly. Once. Deliberate. He lifted his gaze, eyes flat and unreadable.

“I don’t balance them,” he said.

The interviewer blinked, startled. “You don’t?”

Oscar’s voice was steady. “No. Because that question assumes my family is something I need to compromise on to succeed. And they aren’t.”

A pause stretched between them like a held breath.

Oscar blinked, fingers tapping the armrest now. His jaw ticked, just barely.

“I’ve been racing since I was a kid. My entire life has revolved around this sport. And then my daughter was born, and suddenly, I had something even more important. That didn’t take anything away from my racing—it gave me more to race for.”

The interviewer tilted his head slightly. “You don’t think it held you back?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “No.”

“But wouldn’t it have been easier if you had waited? Focused on your career first, then thought about settling down later?”

His jaw tightened. The polite edge in his expression vanished, replaced by something sharper.

“You seem very concerned about how I live my life.”

The interviewer faltered for the first time. “It’s just—most young drivers aren’t in your situation. They’re traveling freely, making the most of their careers without the extra weight—”

Oscar’s entire body went still.

“Extra weight?” he repeated, voice low.

“I just mean—”

Oscar’s tone sliced through the room like a scalpel. “No, I heard exactly what you meant.”

His eyes locked onto the man, cold and dark.

“I don’t consider my wife and daughter ‘extra weight.’ They’re the best thing that ever happened to me. My career isn’t something that exists separate from them—it’s because of them. Everything I do, I do for them. If you think loving my family is a burden, that says a lot more about you than it does about me.”

The interviewer cleared his throat, tried to pivot. “Well, balancing Formula 1 and a family is a lot for anyone, let alone someone so young. Some people might say it’s—”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Some people might say what?”

“That it’s a distraction. That it could have—held you back.” The interviewer paused, then added almost casually, “You became a father at just nineteen, which isn’t exactly… typical. I mean—surely that wasn’t planned?”

Oscar’s silence was lethal.

“What did you just say?” he asked quietly.

“I just meant—”

Oscar leaned forward slightly, calm but unmistakably furious. “No, I want to hear you say it again.”

The interviewer hesitated now. The air in the room was thick, tense, electric.

Oscar’s voice dipped even lower. “You’re asking me if my daughter was an accident. Live. On television. …Are you serious right now?”

Silence.

The interviewer shifted, suddenly nervous. But it was too late.

Oscar leaned in, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Did you seriously just imply that my daughter was a mistake?”

“I wasn’t trying to offend you—”

“No, say it. Be a man about it. Say exactly what you meant.”

“I—I just meant if it was difficult—”

“Difficult?” Oscar let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You sit there and ask me if my daughter was a complication, like she’s some kind of setback? Like she’s something I have to work around?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“That’s exactly what you meant. And let me tell you something, since you clearly don’t get it.”

He leaned forward again, voice calm, words lethal.

“First of all, whether my daughter was planned or not is absolutely none of your business. But since you’re so interested in my personal life—no, Beatrice wasn’t an accident. She was very much wanted. She was very much planned.”

His tone was steel. Precision. Fury cloaked in professionalism.

“You sit there, smiling, asking if my daughter was an inconvenience, if she ‘complicated’ my career. Like she’s a hurdle I had to overcome. Like she’s some kind of burden.”

His jaw clenched. The camera caught the twitch in his cheek.

“Let me make something perfectly clear. My daughter is not—has never been and will never be—a burden. She and her mother are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Bee is the one thing in my life that is bigger than racing. And if you think for a second that I regret having her, then you have absolutely no idea who I am.”

Silence.

“You wouldn’t ask Max that about his girlfriend. You wouldn’t ask Lewis if his family was a ‘challenge’ to his career. But you think it’s okay to sit here and imply that my daughter was a mistake? You’re acting like my wife and daughter are a burden. Like I should regret them. Like I’d be better off without them.”

Oscar’s voice dropped, deadly calm. “You don’t get to talk about my family like that. You don’t get to act like my biggest joy is some kind of inconvenience. Like the love of my life and the little girl who calls me Papa are things I should have avoided.”

The studio was silent.

“You think I wasn’t ready for this. That because I was nineteen, I couldn’t have possibly wanted this life. Like I didn’t make a choice. Like my wife and I didn’t sit down and decide that we wanted a family. That we wanted her.”

The interviewer’s voice was paper-thin. “I was just asking—”

“No, you weren’t just asking,” Oscar snapped. “You were making a point. A pathetic, lazy point. So let me make one of my own—”

He leaned in, every word clipped and crystalline. “I have never, not once, questioned whether being a dad would hold me back. Do you know why?”

A beat.

“Because loving my wife and daughter doesn’t make me less of a driver. It makes me better.”

Oscar’s tone turned to steel. Absolute and final.

“So let me spell it out for you, since you seem to have a hard time understanding. My daughter was not an accident. My daughter is not a challenge. My daughter is not an obstacle. She is my world. Fliss and Bee are the best things that have ever happened to me.”

The pause that followed was blistering.

Oscar’s eyes cut through the silence.

“And if you ever—ever—talk about them like that again, this will be the last time I answer any of your questions.”

The interviewer was ghost-white, gripping his notes like a lifeline.

Oscar didn’t look at him again.

He leaned back. Let the silence linger.

And then, coolly:

“Next question.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1insidergirl: oscar piastri just verbally assassinated a journalist on live tv for implying his daughter was an "inconvenience" and honestly? good.

@/lanblessed: you can see the moment oscar goes from calm to australian dad rage. interviewer said "extra weight" and oscar said "time to die"

@/verstappenvevo: if i was felicity i would’ve made that entire interview my ringtone

@/gridchaosofficial: lando watching that interview like: 😳🥹😨💘🐝📊🧁

@/f1girlboss: oscar piastri just verbally suplexed that interviewer with the calm fury of a man who’s been waiting YEARS to be asked that exact question. father of the year. husband of the decade. driver of my heart.

@/beewatch24: the way he went from calm to “say it again. be a man about it.” like sir this is formula one not game of thrones

@/trackmoments: Oscar being asked if having a family held him back and him answering “it made me better” has me curled up in a ball. you don’t understand.

@/michelinmealwife: interviewer: “surely it wasn’t planned?” oscar, full deadpan fury: “what did you just say?” me: cancels everything for the rest of the day to watch this meltdown on loop

@/mclarencult:  he really said “if you ever talk about them like that again, this will be the last time I answer any of your questions.” THAT’S a man. THAT’S a husband. THAT’S a father.

@/undercutcentral: You could hear the exact moment the interviewer realized he f**ked up. Piastri went from “media trained” to “do not test me.”

@/felicitynation: Everyone talking about Oscar defending Bee but don’t forget he said “Fliss and Bee are the best thing that’s ever happened to me” LIKE OKAY I’M CRYING

@/haasapoint: Oscar Piastri just did more for paternal representation in motorsport than 50 years of PR combined.

@/beatriceupdates: The way he didn’t raise his voice once. Just iced that man out with pure devotion and fury. He’s not called Ice Spice Piastri for nothing.

@/nobodysgirlfriend:  you can literally see the moment oscar’s expression shifts from neutral to I will end you 10/10 dad rage. I respect it.

@/felicitysbreadloaf: imagine being a journalist and walking into an interview thinking you can imply a child is a “setback��� and walking out with your dignity in ashes. couldn’t be me.

@/racingbeeupdates:  🚨 Oscar Piastri just eviscerated a journalist live on air for implying his daughter was a “mistake.” I have never seen someone go from calm to lethal that fast.

@/beeandflissupdates:  Not to be dramatic but if anyone ever implies Bee was a burden again I hope Oscar drives a McLaren directly over their kneecaps.

@/gridtea: the way oscar kept his voice even the entire time?? no yelling. no swearing. just pure, icy rage and surgical verbal destruction. I would have cried on set.

@/formulalads: oh my god did oscar piastri just evaporate that interviewer on live TV???????

@/lan_doughnut: Lando’s probably backstage with popcorn like “YES KING DESTROY HIM”

@/engineeredforlove:  Him: I don’t balance them. Interviewer: 😬 Him: Because my family is not something to compromise on. Me: dead

@/wheelfeels:  This is your reminder that Oscar Piastri became a dad at 19, chose that life, and then defended it like a seasoned lawyer in a murder trial. 💅

@/notyouagainf1:  sorry but what was that interviewer ON. “Surely she wasn’t planned?” WHO SAYS THAT OUT LOUD. ON CAMERA. TO A FATHER??

@/beeandfliss: The question wasn’t even subtle like… “do you regret your child?” is INSANE journalism. Did they think Oscar was just gonna smile and nod???

@/theundercutpod: Imagine sitting across from Oscar Piastri and thinking “yo, let me imply his daughter is a mistake and see what happens.”

@/f1reactions: Oscar’s response was a MASTERCLASS in composure and fury. The interviewer should be ashamed. You don’t talk about people’s families like that. Ever.

@/tiresmokeandtea:  The way the interviewer spiraled from “how’s parenting?” to “your kid was an accident right?” in 45 seconds like it was casual small talk. WILD.

@/f1legalbriefs: PR should’ve cut the mic the moment “extra weight” left his mouth. Unprofessional. Dehumanizing. And Oscar had every right to shut it all the way down.

@/griddreams:  i’m sorry but who LET that interviewer cook?? like did they genuinely think asking “was your daughter a mistake” on live tv was gonna go well???

@/f1familychronicles: literally who approved those questions. “did you plan your child?” “isn’t your wife a burden?” what the actual hell

@/paddockwivesanon:  Let’s be clear: that wasn’t journalism. That was misogynistic, condescending BS dressed up as an “honest question.”

@/oversteerandtears: listen I’ve seen dumb F1 media questions but “was your daughter an accident?” is straight-up career suicide. like. sir. be serious.

***

Lando had seen Oscar angry before.

Not often—Oscar wasn’t the slamming-doors or yelling-in-the-garage type. His anger was usually cold, controlled. The kind that showed up in clipped sentences and narrowed eyes and a post-race debrief that ended early because he’d already told them three times what was wrong with the setup.

But this?

This wasn’t that.

Lando stood just off-set, arms folded, watching as Oscar stalked out of the interview area like a man who had just walked away from a wreckage—calm on the outside, but with wreckage in his wake. His jaw was tight. His shoulders rigid. And his hands? Shaking. Barely. But shaking.

And that scared the hell out of Lando more than anything.

Because Oscar didn’t shake.

He didn’t snap.

He didn’t break.

The interviewer, pale as a sheet, hadn’t moved from his seat. PR was scrambling. The camera crew had stopped pretending to work. Lando just stood there, stunned, as Oscar walked past him like he didn’t even see him.

“Mate,” Lando said, reaching out instinctively, “what the hell happened?”

Oscar didn’t stop walking. Just muttered, “They called Bee a mistake.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

“They asked if she was an accident.” He said it like the words still tasted like ash. “If she held me back.”

And then he was gone—shoulders taut, eyes fixed ahead like he was afraid if he stopped moving, the fury would swallow him whole.

Lando didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.

Because that? That wasn’t race-day frustration or missed-lap anger.

That was something else.

That was Oscar Piastri, quiet and even-tempered and scarily precise, brought to the edge of rage.

And Lando—who’d spent years next to him in briefings and press junkets and those awful team-building days—had never seen anything like it.

He swallowed hard.

Oscar had always been calm, cool, calculating.

But now Lando understood something he hadn’t before:

You don’t mess with the people Oscar loves.

Because if you do?

He will burn you down with perfect diction and a smile so sharp it cuts.

And you won’t even realize you’re bleeding until it’s far, far too late.

***

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Oscar hated that.

He had spent years mastering stillness. Learned early that silence could speak volumes, that restraint was sometimes more powerful than reaction. He could wait out storms. He could hold pressure in his bones and still keep his voice steady. He could drive through chaos at 300 kph and come out the other side calm.

But not this.

Not that question.

Not the way the interviewer said it, so casual, like Bee was an unexpected speed bump in a promising career. Like Felicity was a mistake he hadn’t learned from yet.

His hand trembled as he pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen blurred for a second. Then cleared.

Fliss 💛

He hit call.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Hi, love,” she answered, breath warm, voice soft and familiar, like home. Like the low light of the farmhouse kitchen at night, the way she always said "you're back" when he stepped through the door, like she hadn’t expected him to leave a piece of himself behind on every flight.

He sat down hard on a bench just outside the studio. Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked instantly, picking up on something in the silence.

He hadn’t said a word yet.

“I’m fine,” he said, and the lie sounded wrong even to him.

A pause. Then: “Oscar.” Her voice was quieter now. Serious. “What happened?”

He swallowed. Let the words sit there like stones.

“They asked if Bee was an accident.”

Silence.

“They asked if I regretted having her,” he said, voice low. “If she ruined my career. If she was a distraction. If—if we hadn’t meant to have her.”

Her inhale was sharp and audible through the line. “What?”

“I shut it down.” His voice cracked despite him. “Hard. Probably too hard.”

“No such thing.” She sounded furious now—quietly, lethally furious, like the way she only got very rarely and that promised vengeance. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

Another pause.

Then, gently, “Where are you?”

“Back hallway. Between media and the McLaren room.”

“I’m going to kill someone.”

He smiled. Brief. Shaky. “You don’t have to. I did enough damage for both of us.”

“Don’t care. You okay?”

He looked down at his hand, still clenched around his phone like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“I just—” He swallowed again. “They don’t know. What it was like.”

He didn’t have to explain. She knew.

The hospital walls. 

The sound of monitors screaming as they wheeled Felicity into emergency surgery. 

Oscar standing there, useless, blood on his hands and no idea if his wife or daughter would survive the next ten minutes. 

Signing papers he didn’t understood, that felt like a death warrant, but where the only, the only way to even have a chance to safe them. 

Bee in the NICU, with more wires attached to her than she had limbs, a newborn baby girl with a scar all the way down her chest where surgeons had cut her open to save her life. 

Felicity unconscious, her skin grey and cold, as they pumped her body full with medication and sedatives and antibiotics and anything else they could think off. 

3 days until he could hold his daughter for the first time. 6 days until his wife opened her eyes again. 

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Oscar whispered.

Her voice cracked. “I know.”

“They don’t get to talk about you like that. Or Bee.” His voice sharpened again. “Like I wasn’t the luckiest person alive the moment I got both of you back.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I almost lost everything before I ever really got it,” he murmured. “And now people want to act like I should be… what? Regretful? Like I should have waited? Like if I could go back, I wouldn’t choose this?”

A sound came through the phone—her breath catching.

“Fliss,” he said, his voice breaking for real now, “I’d still choose you. I’d still choose her. Every single time. Even knowing how terrifying it was. I’d still choose it.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I would too.”

He could hear Bee’s babbling in the background, talking to Button about her cereal like the world wasn’t on fire.

Oscar scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes burning.

“Can you—can you put me on speaker?” he asked softly.

There was a rustle, a beep, and then—

“Papa?”

Bee’s voice. Bright. Clear. Safe.

“Hi, Bumblebee.”

“Button said he wants ice cream but I said no, because it’s not a food group.”

Oscar laughed through the tears he hadn’t realized were there. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I saved you some cereal,” she added seriously. “But I ate most of it. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, Bumblebee. I love you. I’ll be home soon,” he said.

“We’ll be here.”

He sat there for a while longer after Felicity hung up, phone still warm in his hand, eyes closed.

The anger was still there. But quieter now.

He could breathe again.

***

Andrea Stella had sat through hundreds of driver debriefs in his career.

He’d worked with World Champions. Managed egos the size of paddocks. Navigated every kind of media disaster F1 could throw at a team. He liked to think he was hard to rattle.

But this?

This had rattled everyone.

The media room was still humming with tension when they got back to the motorhome. Sophie from PR was already mid-crisis mode—headphones in, phone glued to her palm, tapping out what Andrea suspected was a fire extinguisher disguised as a media statement.

Lando slumped into the nearest chair, wide-eyed and weirdly quiet. That alone set off Andrea’s internal alarms.

Zak Brown stood with his arms crossed, watching Oscar, who had yet to sit down.

Oscar Piastri, who was usually measured to the point of maddening, stood like a man who had just walked out of a courtroom, not a media call. Shoulders stiff, jaw set, eyes unreadable.

Andrea cleared his throat.

No one spoke.

Right. So that was how this would go.

“I take it we’ve all seen the footage,” he said finally, quiet but firm.

Sophie didn’t look up from her phone. “It’s already trending. Hashtag Oscar Piastri is the number one global tag on X. Half the comments are calling it iconic. The other half are debating whether or not it was professional.”

Lando raised a hand. “Just to be clear, I’m in the ‘iconic’ camp.”

Zak gave him a look.

Oscar didn’t move.

Andrea turned to him carefully. “Oscar. Do you want to tell us what happened?”

Oscar’s fingers curled once around the edge of the table. “They asked if my daughter was a mistake.”

Silence.

Andrea inhaled slowly. He hadn’t seen the full interview—just the snippet Sophie had shown them before hauling everyone in. But he’d heard the tone. The steady, controlled fury. The kind that didn't explode—but flayed.

“And your response was…” Andrea paused. “Passionate.”

Oscar looked up at that, eyes dark and guarded. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I would,” Andrea said without missing a beat. “I’m not here to reprimand you.”

That seemed to surprise everyone, including Oscar. Even Sophie glanced up.

“I’m here to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“By muzzling him?” Lando asked suddenly, sitting forward. “Because if that’s the plan, I’m out.”

“We’re not muzzling anyone,” Andrea said calmly. “We’re protecting our drivers. That question should never have made it through the vetting process. Sophie?”

Sophie sighed. “It was an independent syndicate. We only got the final questions ten minutes before.”

“That’s ten minutes too late,” Andrea said. “We’ll be stricter. From now on, no interviews with unvetted press. I don’t care if it’s the New York Times or Top Gear or someone’s bloody podcast.”

Zak nodded once in agreement. “Fine by me.”

Oscar finally sank into a chair. He looked tired now, the adrenaline clearly ebbing, replaced by something heavier.

Andrea leaned forward, voice softer. “Oscar, no one here is angry with you.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. ““I was asked, live on television, if having a family ‘held me back.’ If I should’ve waited. If my daughter—my three-year-old daughter—was a complication. And then he asked if she was planned.”

Zak let out a long breath through his nose. “Yeah. I saw it. We all did.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, the picture of exhaustion. “What exactly do you want me to do? Apologize?”

“No,” Andrea said immediately. “You were right.”

Everyone turned to him.

“Oscar,” Andrea continued, measured, “I have worked in this sport a long time. I’ve seen what it does to young drivers. To people who start young, who grow up here, who become machines to survive. You didn’t lose your temper. You didn’t lash out. You defended your family.”

Oscar blinked. Slowly.

“But—” Sophie began.

Andrea raised a hand. “That interviewer was out of line. Deeply. Recklessly. He made assumptions about your wife, your daughter, your entire life. If anything, I’m proud you didn’t throw the chair at him.”

Zak gave a soft snort. “Yeah. If it were me, there would’ve been a chair.”

Oscar didn’t laugh. Not exactly. But some of the iron in his shoulders unspooled. “So what happens now?”

“We control the narrative,” Sophie said, slipping into PR triage mode. “You’re not apologizing. We’re framing this as a boundary. You were disrespected, you responded with clarity and composure. You’re a father, and a husband. And people are going to understand that.”

“We’ll have to smooth things with a few sponsors,” Zak added. “But honestly? Most of them like when a driver shows some spine. Especially over something that personal.”

Lando finally stirred. “You know people are already calling it ‘The Piastri Clapback of the Year,’ right? I mean. I thought you were going to ice that guy through the floor.”

Oscar looked away. “I wasn’t angry for me.”

Andrea’s voice softened. “We know.”

“I was angry because… she’s going to grow up in this world. And if people talk about her like that now, when she’s not even old enough to go to primary school—what the hell are they going to say when she’s fifteen? Or twenty?”

That landed hard.

The room fell quiet again.

Andrea looked at the young man across from him—this precise, quiet driver who never caused a fuss, who internalized stress like it was a competition, who everyone said was unshakable.

And thought, No wonder this cracked him open.

“You did the right thing,” Andrea said, final and firm.

“You’re a father first. A driver second.”

Oscar exhaled, just once. But this time, it sounded like relief.

And Andrea—keeper of calm in the chaos—made a silent promise to himself.

If anyone ever went after Oscar’s family again?

He would not be nearly so diplomatic.

***

GRID GROUP CHAT

Lando: I WOULD LIKE TO FORMALLY STATE FOR THE RECORD THAT I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE TERRIFIED OF OSCAR PIASTRI THAN I AM RIGHT NOW

Charles: He didn’t raise his voice once I felt physically ill Like I had disappointed a headmaster I respected

Pierre: I have never been so terrified And I wasn’t even in the room

George: The way he said “next question” like he had just buried a body and wiped his hands on his fireproofs 😭

Pierre: He surgically dismantled that man with calm vocabulary and fatherly wrath. 10/10. Would follow into battle.

Lewis: He protected his family. Good. Also: that interviewer needs a vacation. And perhaps a priest.

Carlos: I paused the video halfway through and had to take a walk.

Yuki: He made no threats. But I felt threatened.

Lando: I was IN THE BUILDING HE WALKED PAST ME I SAID "ARE YOU OKAY" AND HE SAID "THEY CALLED BEE A COMPLICATION" AND KEPT WALKING I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO BREATHE SINCE

Max: if someone said that about penelope i would have flipped a table oscar’s version was scarier respect

Lance: Was that interviewer okay after?

Esteban: Define “okay”

Daniel: They showed the full clip on Sky. I was eating a sandwich and almost choked. Man said “extra weight” and Oscar’s soul left his body before returning as a precision airstrike.

Valtteri: He smiled. That was the worst part. He smiled and ruined that man.

Charles: i’m genuinely scared for Bee’s kindergarten teacher if she ever gets a bad report card

Oscar: I can read this, by the way.

Lando: and we love that for you

also: remind me to never, ever, ever imply that your wife or daughter are anything short of divine blessings thanks

George: No seriously, that was… devastatingly composed. Are you alright?

Oscar: Fine now. Fliss and Bee are okay. That’s all that matters.

****

Group Chat: Piastri Fam ❤️

Nicole: I just saw the clip. Oscar. That man is lucky you kept your cool.

Hattie: I would’ve punched him. On live TV. Straight up.

Mae: You were so calm. But brutal. I’m proud.

Edie: You okay, Osc? That was intense.

Oscar: I’m fine. He crossed a line. I responded.

Chris: Okay, hang on. Before we all get defensive, maybe the interviewer didn’t mean it badly. He just said what a lot of people probably think. Oscar, you were 19. It was early. No one expected—

Oscar: Don’t.

Chris: I’m just saying—

Oscar: Don’t. Don’t ever say that again.

Chris: Look, I understand you were upset. But the interviewer wasn’t totally out of line. He was just saying what a lot of people are thinking.

Nicole: Chris.

Chris: What? We’ve talked about this before. Bee wasn’t exactly planned. You two were what, 19? The guy just said what’s on a lot of people’s minds.

Oscar: Stop.

Chris: I’m just saying—

Oscar: No. You’re not just saying. You’re repeating something I’ve told you a hundred times not to say. Bee was not an accident. She was wanted. Chosen. Loved before she even existed. Fliss and I made that decision. Together.

Nicole: Chris. Stop.

Oscar: You think I haven’t heard this before? That I don’t know what people say behind my back? That I threw away my career, that I was too young, that it was an accident, a mistake? You think I don’t know?

Oscar: But to hear it from you— To hear you STILL think that after everything—after what Fliss went through, after what Bee went through— Do you have any idea what that feels like?

Chris: It’s not about judgment. I’m just trying to be realistic—

Oscar: You want realistic? Realistic is Felicity and I making a decision and standing by it. Realistic is Fliss fighting for her life after giving birth. Realistic is Bee in surgery at 20 minutes old while I sat in a hospital chair praying she’d live long enough to roll over one day. Realistic is us building a life from scratch. So don’t come in here, years later, and tell me what you think we should’ve done instead.

Nicole: Oscar, honey, take a breath—

Oscar: No, Mum. I’m not doing this again. Not with him. Not anymore.

Hattie: …Okay, Dad. Maybe read the room for once?

Mae: He named her after Mum, and you’re still acting like she wasn’t supposed to exist.

Edie: You know who wasn’t ready? You. You’re the only one who still can’t accept this family looks different than what you expected.

Chris: I just wanted the best for you—

Oscar: And yet you never once trusted I knew what that was. I’m done justifying my life to you. If you can’t respect my family—my wife, my daughter—then don’t expect to be part of it. I won’t let Bee grow up thinking love has conditions. Not from anyone.

****

Felicity’s phone buzzed as she wiped Bee’s fingers clean of strawberry jam.

It was nearing dusk, the light outside golden and syrup-thick, catching the curve of the farmhouse windows. Bee had insisted on a picnic dinner in the lounge—mostly crackers and fruit and a lopsided sandwich she had "made herself." 

She glanced at the screen: Nicole Piastri (Mum-in-law) – Calling…

Felicity blinked. Nicole rarely called unprompted. Especially not during dinner hours.

She picked up, already half-bracing. “Nicole?”

There was a pause, just a breath too long. Then— “Hi, love. Is this a bad time?”

Felicity sat back on the floor, one arm absently wrapping around Bee, who had settled in her lap. “We’re mid-picnic, but you’re fine. What’s going on?”

Nicole’s sigh was soft, but it wasn’t casual.

“I just… wanted to let you know something. Before Oscar does.”

Felicity went still. “Okay?”

“There was a… situation. In the family group chat.”

Felicity didn’t speak, but something in her chest curled. She could guess.

Nicole went on. “Your father-in-law…” Her voice wobbled, just slightly. “Chris said some things he shouldn’t have.”

Felicity closed her eyes. “About Bee.”

“Yes.”

“I figured.”

Nicole exhaled. “He still thinks she was an accident. That you and Oscar should’ve waited. That it would’ve been ‘easier’ if she’d come later.”

Felicity was quiet for a long time. Bee squirmed slightly, and she ran her fingers through her daughter’s curls, keeping her grounded.

“Did Oscar say anything?”

There was a pause. Then— “He snapped. Properly. Not like yelling, not unkind. Just… done. He told Chris he didn’t get to rewrite history to make himself feel more comfortable. That Bee was chosen. Wanted. He told him if anyone calls her an accident again, they don’t get to be around her.”

Felicity swallowed around the knot in her throat. “Good.”

Nicole’s voice dropped, soft and apologetic. “I didn’t know he was still holding onto that.”

“Chris never said anything to me,” Felicity murmured. “But I always wondered why he was a little… distant, when we told him. Not upset, just—off.”

Nicole’s silence said enough.

Then—gently—  “I wanted to call because I don’t want you thinking we all feel like that. I don’t. And neither do the girls. Bee is ours. Entirely. You are, too.”

Felicity’s eyes stung.

“I know,” she whispered. “Thank you.” Felicity’s throat tightened. “We really did plan her, you know. We talked about it for months.”

Nicole cleared her throat. “I know. And… just for the record? That little girl has brought more light into our lives than I knew we needed. And the way Oscar talks about you, about her—I don’t think he’s ever had a single doubt.”

“I know he hasn’t.”

“I just wish his father could see it that clearly.”

Felicity looked down at Bee, who had fallen asleep in her lap, one sticky hand clutching a cracker.

“He doesn’t have to,” she said softly. “He’s not the one raising her. We are.”

Nicole paused. Then— “I’m so glad you’re part of this family, Felicity.”

Felicity smiled, even if her heart was still aching. “I’m glad too.”

They ended the call quietly.

Felicity sat on the floor for a while longer, rocking slightly, Bee warm against her chest. Then she whispered into the crown of her daughter’s hair:

“You were never a mistake. You were the beginning.”

***

Felicity had tried.

 Really, she had.

She’d been patient. She’d bitten her tongue in every family dinner conversation where Chris made offhand comments about “young love” and “life coming at you fast” like Bee had crash-landed into their lives instead of being wanted, planned for, and loved before she ever existed.

But after Nicole’s call, after hearing what was said in that group chat—

She was done.

She sat down at her vanity table, opened the shared folder titled “Project Lemonade: TTC 2019” on her laptop, and pulled up everything she needed.

Screenshot of her fertility tracking app, calendar view, June–November 2019 marked in obsessive detail.

The appointment confirmations from June 2019, two weeks after their wedding.

The notes from her OB consultation.

Even a screenshot of a text thread from that July, where Oscar had written, “Let’s make a tiny human who looks like you. I’m serious.”

And her reply, “Okay. But I’m charting this.”

She copied all of it—PDFs, screenshots, date-stamped calendar entries—and dropped it into a zip folder titled: BEE WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT.

Then, she opened her messages with Chris.

And typed:

Felicity: Since it seems like there’s still some confusion, here’s the full documentation of when and how Oscar and I decided to try for Bee.

 June 2019. After our wedding. With intent and love and actual spreadsheets.

You’ll find medical records, cycle tracking logs, and a conversation from the week we decided we were ready.

Bee was not a surprise. Bee was planned. Loved. Hoped for. Wished into existence with intention and care and spreadsheets and so many vitamins I smelled like a pharmacy.

 And I am done pretending your “jokes” or “concerns” are harmless.

Attached: [Bee_Was_Not_An_Accident.zip]

***

She hit send. 

Across the room, Bee was asleep in the big bed, curled up with Button and a blanket Felicity had crocheted when she was still pregnant—months after that first calendar entry.

Planned.

Wanted.

Cherished.

Felicity exhaled and turned her phone screen off.

There.

Now it was in writing.

She never wanted to have this conversation again.

***

Chris hadn’t meant for it to spiral.

He really hadn’t.

He sat in his home office, the late afternoon sun slanting across the papers he hadn’t touched, the coffee beside him going cold. His phone was on the desk, buzzing once, then going still.

New message: Felicity.

He glanced at it absently—expecting a polite clarification, maybe a tense thank you for his input, though he hadn’t quite expected gratitude. Not after the group chat. Not after what Oscar had said.

He hadn’t meant to start a war.

But the moment he opened the message, he knew he’d lost.

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was… clinical. Final. Devastating.

His eyes skimmed the words once.

Then again.

And again.

The words stung in their simplicity, in how clearly they were laid out, how organized and timestamped and unshakeably real they were.

June 2019. After our wedding. With intent and love and actual spreadsheets.

Spreadsheets.

He swallowed.

He opened the zip file without thinking. It was all there. Meticulously kept. Organized by month and theme. Felicity had highlighted her ovulation charts. The OB consult letter was dated two weeks after their wedding. The texts with Oscar were warm and real, giddy in that quiet, unmistakably them way. A young couple building something with both hands, even if the world around them didn’t understand.

His son’s message:

“Let’s make a tiny human who looks like you. I’m serious.”

Her reply:

“Okay. But I’m charting this.”

Chris sat back in his chair. Staring.

He hadn’t thought it was a big deal. Not really. He thought they were too young. Too quick. He had told himself he was being reasonable. Concerned. Offering perspective.

But what he’d done—over and over—was chip away at something sacred.

He had called love a mistake.

He had taken his son’s joy and dressed it in skepticism. He had looked at his granddaughter—the brilliant, bright-eyed little girl who called him Grandad with strawberry jam on her chin—and failed to see the miracle of her.

He had, with every casual word, implied she shouldn’t have existed.

And Felicity had stayed silent.

She had never once snapped at him. Never yelled. Never stormed out of a room or thrown it back in his face. She had smiled politely through dinners. Let him hold Bee. Answered his small talk. Shared updates when asked.

And now—now, finally—she had said what he hadn’t been willing to hear.

I am done pretending your “jokes” or “concerns” are harmless.

He stared at the line.

Then closed the file.

And sat in silence.

There were no words he could send back that would fix this. No response clever enough to untangle the damage.

He thought of Oscar in that interview—so composed, so furious, his voice like ice.

He thought of Felicity holding it in for years.

He thought of Bee.

He had always loved her, in his way. But maybe not the right way. Not in the way that said I believe in how you came to be. I believe your life is a gift, not an accident.

And now?

Now he wasn’t sure if they’d ever let him close enough to prove he’d learned.

Chris looked at the blinking cursor in the message box. His fingers hovered, stilled, then pulled away.

For once in his life, he didn’t hit reply.

Because some things—finally, painfully—had been said exactly as they needed to be.

And it wasn’t his turn to speak anymore.

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Chris Piastri

Chris: I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened. What I said in the group chat. I want to apologize. Properly. You were right to call me out.

Chris: I let my own assumptions get in the way. I didn’t listen. I didn’t respect the decisions you and Felicity made. I see that now.

Chris: You didn’t need judgment. You needed support. And you deserved that from me—from the beginning.

Chris: I’m sorry, Oscar. For what I said. For what I didn’t say. For making you feel like Bee wasn’t a gift.

Oscar: … Where is this coming from?

Chris: I’ve been thinking. And reflecting. And I received some things today that made it very, very clear I’ve been wrong.

Oscar: What things?

Chris: Felicity sent me a file. With everything. The charts, the messages. The appointment letters. It was… undeniable.

Oscar: She sent you what?

Chris: She wanted to make sure I understood. That there was no room left for doubt. And there isn’t. Not anymore.

Oscar: She shouldn’t have had to do that.

Chris: I know. But I’m glad she did.

Oscar: You think a file is what makes Felicity credible? That her tracking spreadsheets make her believable? Is that really what it takes for you?

Chris: No. I just… I didn’t understand how much care went into it. How much planning. I didn’t want to believe it was real because I was afraid for you. I let that fear turn into something else. And it came out wrong. Again and again.

Oscar: She didn’t tell me she sent you anything. You realize that, right?

Chris: She probably didn’t want to put you in the middle again. Or maybe she just didn’t want to make a big deal of it.

Oscar: It is a big deal.

Oscar: Felicity had to defend our daughter’s existence with spreadsheets. You do understand how insane that is, right?

Chris: I do.

Oscar: I’m not angry that you got the file. I’m angry that it had to happen at all. That she had to pull medical records just to get basic respect.

Chris: I’m sorry. Truly.

Oscar: You want to show you’re sorry? Stop acting like we owe you an explanation for the life we built.

Chris: I’ll do better.

Oscar: Don’t say it for me. Say it for Bee. Because she’s going to grow up smart enough to know when someone’s love comes with strings. And I won’t let her think that’s what family looks like.

Chris: Understood.

***

The front door creaked open just after midnight.

Oscar stepped into the farmhouse with his bag slung over one shoulder, his hoodie damp from the misting rain that had rolled in while he was driving. He closed the door gently behind him and breathed in the familiar quiet.

The house smelled like lemon balm and vanilla and something else—cinnamon? Maybe Bee had talked Felicity into baking again. That thought alone made his chest ache with something he couldn’t name.

He toed off his shoes by the door, left his bag where it fell, and padded softly through the hall.

The lounge light was still on. Dim. Warm.

Felicity sat curled up in the armchair in one of his old hoodies, a cup of tea balanced on her knees, one leg tucked under her. Her hair was twisted up, messily clipped back like she hadn’t really planned on staying up—but she always tried to wait for him after a race. Even now. Even still.

Oscar stopped in the doorway.

She looked up, met his eyes, and smiled quietly. “Hi.”

He didn’t smile back—not yet.

“Did you sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Bee did,” she murmured. “I just… couldn’t quite. Not until you were home.”

Oscar stepped into the room, his eyes scanning her face.

Then, without preamble: “Why didn’t you tell me you sent him the folder?”

Felicity stilled, the tea cooling in her lap.

Oscar sat down across from her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he was holding something fragile.

“I found out from him,” he added softly. “And I—God, Fliss, I had no idea. You had that ready? All this time?”

Felicity didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled and set the tea down on the side table.

“I wasn’t hiding it from you,” she said at last. “I just… didn’t want to burden you with it.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed. “You think defending our daughter’s existence is a burden?”

“No,” she said gently. “I think you already carry enough. I’ve seen what those comments do to you, Oscar. I didn’t want to add to the weight.”

“You didn’t add anything,” he said, sharper now. “He did.”

Felicity dropped her gaze. “He said it again, didn’t he?”

Oscar nodded slowly. “And you knew he would.”

“That’s why I sent the file.”

There was a beat of silence. Only the soft tick of the old kitchen clock and the distant wind brushing the farmhouse walls.

“Do you remember Novmber 2019?” she asked quietly.

His brow furrowed. “Of course I do.”

“We got that positive test.” She smiled, small and private. “And we both cried. Do you remember that?”

“I remember shaking,” Oscar whispered. “Because I couldn’t believe it. Because I was so happy I felt sick.”

Felicity looked up, eyes shining now. “That’s what I wanted him to understand. That this wasn’t a mistake. That we wanted her. Planned for her. Loved her before she was even real.”

“You shouldn’t have had to prove that.”

“I know. But I needed to say it. On my terms.”

Oscar stood up, crossed the room, and knelt beside her chair.

He reached for her hands, cradling them between his.

“You know what scared me?” he said softly. “Not that you sent him the folder. That you felt like you had to do it alone. That you didn’t tell me because somewhere deep down, you thought maybe it wasn’t my fight too.”

Felicity blinked fast. “It wasn’t about keeping you out. It was about protecting you. That interview—what they said about Bee—you were already carrying so much.”

He leaned in and kissed her knuckles, each word slow and steady: “You don’t have to protect me from defending our family.”

She exhaled, trembling a little, then pulled him into her arms. Oscar sank into her, arms wrapping tight around her waist, head tucked beneath her chin. She held him there, rubbing gentle circles into his back.

“You were brilliant in that interview,” she whispered. “Brutal. Beautiful. Like always.”

He huffed a small, tired laugh. “I didn’t know my voice could sound like that until I said it.”

“You meant every word.”

“I did.”

She kissed his hair. “So did I. In the folder. Every timestamp. Every note. Every line.”

Oscar pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.

“She’ll never doubt it,” he said softly.

“No,” Felicity murmured. “She never will.”

[lastoneout]

I mean I think about it all the time but I have OCD and an obsessive fear about dying AND I lived in Tucson AZ when Gabby Giffords and all those other people were killed in a mass shooting AND lived in Macomb IL when a guy took a bunch of people hostage in a Farm King very close to my house so I don't think the average American is consumed with quite as much terror surrounding guns as I am. I also live in a purple but historically red state and I look visibly queer so if I see someone open carrying I tend to give them as wide a berth as possible. There was a guy open carrying in a restaurant I was picking up food at the other day and he stormed out into the parking lot right as I was leaving and I swear to god I freaked out so bad I got dizzy. And on top of all that I am terrified of sending my kid to school when I have one and I'm really not sure how I'm gonna work through that when the time comes. Genuinely, I do not know what to do about that except idk leave the fucking country?? Which isn't really an option.

The only person who has had a gun in my vicinity that didn't make me instantly scared for my life was my godfather, and I knew he had the gun because he was an openly queer man living in a small town in a VERY red area so I really couldn't fault him for it. He was very responsible and never took it out to even show me, he understood good gun safety practices and that it was a dangerous weapon and legit just existed to protect himself from bigots who wanted to queer bash him so that put it in a different light.

Also ngl I do think most people here do think about it a lot even if they don't think they do, because I've heard people in other countries talk about the way their American friends will sit facing the exit and scope out the exits and jump at any loud bang that sounds even remotely like a gunshot and it takes a really long time for them to get used to the reality that they aren't really at danger of random gun violence there. For some of us it really is pretty baked in and it's really hard to unlearn.

That's just my perspective as an American with OCD though.

Americans - how do you function in daily life knowing there could be a gun on the same street / in the same bus / in the same Walmart as you? At any given moment? Like how do you not go insane with fear? I am genuinely asking.

[alwritey-aphrodite]

(if i could) hold you for a minute

pairing: clark kent x reader

word count: 1.4 k

author's note: saw this gifset a few days ago and then this happened. watching superman tonight tho so if it’s bad… oops. also i know close to nothing about dc or superman in general so oops for that. some brief mentions of the reader being from the midwest (def not self indulgent... why would you say that...)

Waiting in the lobby of your office building, he can hear you before he sees you. The click of your shoes against the linoleum, the quiet muttering of you talking with your coworker on your way to the door. When he finally does see you, though, you’re stormy. Brows furrowed, lips downturned into a frown that borders on comedic, but it’s your eyes that really gets him. 

The eyes are the window to the soul, or however that saying goes. Clark hadn’t thought it true until this very moment, because even without all the other signs, he can see you’re upset clear as day just from your eyes. It’s almost as if they’re somehow a shade darker than normal, like your fury has transformed you, but it may also be a trick of the light. 

“Hey,” he says quietly once you’re in earshot, loud enough to get your attention but not loud enough to startle you. Still, you jump, on a mission to reach the door and almost completely oblivious to everything else except your coworker by your side. He’d swear on his life that your eyes light up when you look at him. 

“Oh, hey!” A smile blooms on your lips, all the remnants of your awful day drifting away to be replaced by pure adoration for the man in front of you. His eyes crinkle behind his glasses, the two of you just smiling at each other like fools while your coworker looks on, beginning to plot her teasing remarks for when you make it to your desk on Monday as she squeezes your shoulder in farewell. 

“Heard you had a rough day,” Clark says, holding up a drink and a brown paper bag he’d been holding that you hadn’t noticed before that very moment. You’d spent your lunch break ranting to Lois about your disaster of a morning, and you’d spend the second half of your day planning out how you’d update her on the rest of your awful day once you’d made it to the comfort of your apartment. Of course, though, she’d filled in Clark, who is probably the nicest person you’d ever met, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s downright gorgeous too. Just seeing him seems to make the sun shine a bit brighter.

Greedily, you take the drink from his hand, sipping through the straw. Your shoulders relax, tension seeping from your body as you drink. 

“Is this the raspberry one?” You ask, restraining yourself from chugging it all right then and there. Clark nods in confirmation, before handing you the little brown bag he’d been holding. “What’s in here?”

“A bagel,” he clears his throat, looking bashful as he adds, “and a muffin. I wasn’t sure which one you’d want.”

“Good choice, because I want both,” you tell him, even as you roll the top of the bag shut. Ideally, you’d stand in the doorway of your office building and scarf down the snacks, but even with your terrible day, that’s a little too rude to fathom, especially with how sweet Clark is, today and every day that you’ve known him.

The two of you set off, with Clark holding the door open for you as you exit. This is part of your routine that you know well, even though the treats were a pleasant surprise. Every day, without fail, Clark walks you home from work. It could be a torrential downpour, he could have a hundred-and-three degree fever, and he’d still walk you home, twenty minutes in the opposite direction from his own place.

Chatting in between sips of your drink, you seem to make it to your apartment in no time. The two of you hover outside, sharing a slightly awkward smile. This is normally where the journey stops, you wave goodbye and Clark waits for you to be safely inside before he heads off to his own place, but today, with his thoughtfulness and your extraordinarily awful day, it feels wrong to send him away. 

“Wanna come in? We can split these,” you hold up the brown paper bag containing the snacks, smiling in a way that you hope is endearing but are almost certain is simply uncomfortable looking.

“You sure you wanna share your snacks?” He teases, even as his cheeks take on a pink tint.

“Only because I like you so much,” and, unable to handle the eye contact, the smiling, you turn towards your building, hoping and praying that Clark follows.

Luckily for you, he does, tailing you up the steps and holding your drink as you fight with your lock. Finally getting the door open, you take a deep inhale as you step into your apartment, as if finally being in your own space means your day is officially done, you can finally start to decompress and destress, building yourself back up to return and do it all again on Monday. 

“You can just put your bag wherever,” you say as you toe off your shoes, Clark smiling at the back of your head as you speak. The way you talk always reminds him of his childhood, of the way everyone around him talked for the first portion of his life. The shapes and sounds of your vowels bring him comfort, like a well-worn blanket, even though he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. 

“Better not be laughing over there!” You shout out from the kitchen, opening and closing drawers in a search for a knife to cut the baked goods in half. Typically, you know the layout of every nook and cranny of your apartment like the back of your hand, but today you’re beyond frazzled, and not just from your rough morning and your equally dreadful afternoon.

“I’d never laugh at you,” he replies, even as the force of his grin makes his cheeks ache. You just shake your head at him in exasperation, trying to hide your own smile as you duck your head to divy up the food. 

He sits at your kitchen table like he’s there every day, completely comfortable in your space. Despite what has now been years of friendship, the two of you rarely spend time at each other’s apartments, choosing instead to meet up for coffee or lunch or an afternoon wandering around under the sun. Still, though, your space feels familiar to him, as familiar as your smile and your laugh and the  pair of shoes you wear practically every time he sees you. Something about you just makes him feel at peace, makes everything else fade away until it’s just the two of you, alone in the world in the warm glow of your kitchen. 

When you come to join him, it’s with two plates, the bagel and the muffin split as close to perfectly evenly as possible. Knowing Clark, he’d give you the bigger pieces of both if there’d been any obvious difference in size, even if you thought you’d been sneaky about handing him the bigger half. Briefly you’d even considered finding a ruler, before deciding that it would be downright insane and would only invite more gentle teasing. 

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks after you settle into your chair, watching you pick at the muffin on your plate for a few moments before breaking the silence.

“It’s boring and stupid,” you sigh, the flame of your anger having died out with time and distance from your job, leaving you simply exhausted.

“Nothing that bothers you could ever be boring or stupid,” Clark retorts, and you look up at him from under your lashes, finally breaking your stare away from your plate. 

He’s framed by the light coming in from the window, making him look even more angelic than normal. Sometimes you think he can’t possibly be human, that he had to have been sent from heaven or outer space or some other universe, because there’s no way he can be so perfect. He’s looking at you so earnestly, it’s like he can see into your heart, into your soul. The weight of his gaze makes your skin tingle, makes your heart thrum, but it’s not uncomfortable, just unexpected, and if you think too hard it might be too revealing for the both of you.

Unable to withstand the force of his puppy-dog eyes any longer, you look away, sighing again, before you start to recount your day, detailing every awful second. Clark listens eagerly the whole time, chiming in at just the right moments with words of support or outrage on your behalf. By the time you finish, the sun had long since set, all that was left of the baked goods was two piles of crumbs, and you feel a million times lighter.

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

Wait wait what would the batfamily or Bruce when he finally realised what he pr team did

Trying frame little reader for being a spoilt brat

Would Alfred confront Bruce or let it go?

It would be your mom who would confront Bruce about what the PR team did. I'm pretty sure she would walk all the way up to Wayne Manor, across a flight of stairs and in high-heeled pumps, and slam his office door open just to cuss him out. Yeah, there's no escape from this one; he obviously fires his PR team after that. And what's your mom yelling at them for, as long as she needs to? But the type of comment she leaves Bruce with before she leaves, quite honestly, changes his thoughts: "What kind of man are you, Bruce Wayne? How can you call yourself a father when you let your PR team bash your own child? Half of the internet calls you a spoiled brat. What kind of dad is it to ignore you every single time you come to him, to say 'later, darling' or another time? What type of man is he? You try so hard to get back into his arms, to get him to trust you, to get him to like you, to get him to see you with those bright, sparkly eyes like you're the moon and stars, to have you praise him like he's the only one in the world. But now it's too late. All that praise, all that love, all that adoration is going straight to Oliver, and he just can't handle it. His own rival taking the heart of his only biological daughter. You're calling for Ollie when you have nightmares. What happened to calling for Bruce or for Batman? He won't even hold your hand when it's time to cross the street. He knows that you're a big girl, but it's a habit that he's used to. The cold got the memories now stinging his fingers, the ones that used to grip for dear life crossing the sidewalk. At every gala and every socialite event, you're at Oliver's side. You tell him almost everything; you even told him about your elementary school graduation. How come you didn't tell Bruce? You told the rest of the bats; you even told Alfred, but you didn't tell him. You've started to slip away from him even more over some stupid dance. It's just not fair.

[mari-starz-writing]

Hi Mari!! Can I be fishy🐟 anon :D btw can i request a shedletsky/betrayed 1x1x1x1 x Artist! Reader

thank you!! also remember to take care of yourself, remember to eat well, hydrate yourself and get some rest!! :DD

I actually like this duo, it feels right. There's a chance this could be OOC, so my apologies if it isn't in character.

(NOTE: For two characters in one request, it'll be 5 for each instead of the usual 10 for one character. For example...)

1 character - 10 headcanons for each

2 characters - 5 headcanons for each

3 characters - 3 headcanons for each (And a bonus.)

4 characters - 2 headcanons for each (And two bonuses.)

5 characters - 2 headcanons for each

6 is my limit. Just a rule I may add for the future.

Shedletsky and 1x1x1x1 x Artist!reader

Shedletsky

・Oh, this poor man... The pining he experienced was horrible. Looking at you whenever you weren't, sneaking a few peeks at your sketchbook when walking by, and always asking questions about your works. Just so he could admire your beauty. Of course, he pretended he wasn't being an absolutely smitten man by cracking so many numerous cocky and flirty jokes before saying something along the lines of, "Oh, haha, I was just kidding! Admins have humor too, you GOOFBALL... (Acting like he isn't one himself, I see. -Mari/Kanade)"

・Whenever you two are cuddling (If you initiate it first. Despite that playful demeanor, he's... Pretty shy to initiate things. -Mari/Kanade), he'll play with your hair, talking about his day while you're forced to lay there beside him, his arm a around you and listen. If you're the one talking, you'll talk about your latest drawings and how they've been turning out, Shedletsky laying on your chest and looking up at you with a smile as he nods intently.

・You may want to pay for things due to your money from art, but he's pretty rich due to being one of the admins for Roblox itself. So, he'll probably insist on paying for your meals or art supplies. You might resist a bit, but he'll flaunt how amazing the both of you are, so he could handle it. In the end, it'll probably just be a split bill, after all of that drama...

・He's overprotective of you during rounds. Going to slash the killer whenever you're both near them, staying nearby you at all costs, or keeping watch while you do a generator. You get thrown a medkit or Bloxy Cola when needed, and when you get injured, Shedletsky will rush in, picking you up and carrying you bridal style to somewhere secluded to tend to you and your injuries. And... Maybe try to get a few kisses for saving you.

・If he's not being bashful, he's being quite flirtatious towards you. Whether you're drawing in your sketchbook or cooking a meal in the kitchen, Shedletsky will come up to you and sit next to you, putting his arm around you as he smiles, before saying something stupid. "Oh? My dear partner whom is suuuuch a cutie? What are you doing there hmmm?~" Sigh. You don't now how that's flirting, but whatever. He makes you laugh.

1x1x1x1

・She thought the feeling in her chest was jealousy of your skills, not love. After all, they're the embodiment of Shedletsky's hatred. How could they feel attraction to some random artist? But when he finally accepted her feelings, it'd be obvious. Constantly sparing you. Always "accidentally" leaving a useful item near you. Stealing some of your drawings to hang on somewhere to look at. Could they make it more obvious?

・Whenever you're drawing, you'll feel something looming over behind you. And when you look, it's 1x1x1x1, staring at your work with an interested face. He'll ask about different parts of the drawing, and compliment the small parts that most don't notice. She genuinely loves your art, and expresses it in one of the only nice ways she knows.

・1x1x1x1 would surprise you with art supplies left at the floor of your door, and act like they weren't the one who left them. You'll roll your eyes and act like he's right before kissing his cheek and thanking her, a soft smile on your face as you pick up the gift and take it into your workspace.

・You were the one who confessed. A painting of them was left on their bed, a note attached to the corner of it reading, "I'd like to show my love for you. Not platonically. Romantically. Please meet me at the dock at 2AM." When she walked to the entrance of the wooden dock, you gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek before smiling. She gave you a kiss back on the lips, before nodding. (I believe that's their way of showing reciprocation?.. -Mari/Kanade)

・1x1x1x1 will randomly show you one of their own drawings, pointing out that you were the reason he wanted to make it. You're such a talented artist, so why not show her appreciation with some imitation? It is the sincerest form of flattery, after all. You'll take the paper, studying it before constructively criticizing some parts and complimenting it, and giving them a kiss as a thank you.

My first double request. I hope I did alright.

[ghouljams]

I think if Lt "Not gay if I top" Ghost were to approach me I'd have to let him fuck me out of respect????

my pronouns when w ppl that know are "whatever is most interesting/funny/hot in the moment"

then comes this straight(?) guy chatting me up, suddenly switches to "it", "fae", etc when I say "any pronouns"?????

fuck, man lemme help you w your belt

calls me a fag after and i can't even say nuh uh

you tell ghost to use "any pronouns" and he glares at you for a long moment before asking if you're "one of those queers that use ze/zir or some shit?" and then uses those pronouns flawlessly the entire time he is talking to you. sure he calls you a fag but when is the last time you had someone seriously use your neopronouns without batting an eye? he just nods when you tell him to use kitten/kittenself and the worst thing that happens is he makes a joke about having some "milk" for you if you're thirsty.

you will still tell your friends about the weird homophobe that fucked you in a gay bar's loo and then when you point him out to them (running into him at the same bar) he is still using your pronouns exactly how you told him them. like you thought he might forget and he so clearly hasn't that it almost makes you think he likes you (he does not care about people, he is trying to fuck you again).

ghost will beat the shit out of someone for trying to gay-bash some wayward twink at the pub and then immediately tell him that he takes payment in the form of ass.

he is the worst.

[lizzieisright]

how’d tlou!alpha abby act about reader getting seriously hurt in patrol? (also i’ve been thinking about the seraphites in the a/b/o au and i think they’d probably be a creepy cult that’d make omegas some kinda of slaves?)

Ohh they definitely would be creepy and treat omegas as basically incubators ew disgusting (in my head they don't care that Lev is trans - they care because he is an omega who dared to escape)

tags: angst with a happy ending, near-death experience. ~2k words

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Infected are scary, but at least with them you know you're done for if you get bitten - that's why, as a sane person, you stay the fuck away from them and take them out with guns; unlike Abby, who just fucking fights them, bare fists and all. She saves you ammo, but she doesn't save your heart from going into the cardiac arrest at least three times a week.

With humans it's a whole different story.

Usually you cover Abby from a distance while she fights your way out of the mess you'd be in, and it has been working for the two of you for a long time. You don't get your hands dirty, Abby doesn't worry you'll be attacked because you find a good place to cover your back and you are terrifying as a shooter. Abby hasn't seen someone so fast and so accurate - shit, you can throw your knives in someone's head and it actually works! (Abby tried, but her knives just land handle first).

But humans have the mental capacity to not only fight back and dodge, they also set amazing fucking traps.

You get ambushed by the seraphites.

It's the scent that leads them to you - you're the only omega in the vicinity. You smell them too just in time to start moving, using all your ability to stay quiet, and you have an emergency peppermint spray that you put behind yourself; you don't breathe for as long as you can, but you still catch some of it.

Your heart beats in your mouth, your hands shake because you're very aware how close you're to death - or worse, capture. Every muscle in your body is tense, and it takes everything in you to just not run and expose yourself.

The smell of peppermint alarms Abby: no one uses the peppermint spray unless they're threatened seriously, so she fights her way to you, knowing your scent even when it's covered by mint.

Abby is terrified. She doesn't notice how she brutally handles every person in her way, that she puts bullets in their heads like nothing, just because you're in an active danger.

She reaches you and you fall into her arms, your scent all sour and churny from the primal fucking fear. Abby swallows hard and looks around, looking for a way to retreat. Too many fucking seraphites and a terrified omega push Abby into extreme protection.

*You're okay." She whispers in your ear, using her alpha voice to soothe you. "We need to move."

You go unnoticed for the most part, and after a few more shots and bashed heads, you're finally in the clear.

Or so you thought.

Abby sees it in slow motion: you're standing in front of her, panting but smiling a little, and the next second you cry out in pain and fall on the ground. You clutch at your side, and when you bring the hand back, Abby sees so much blood. She blacks out just for a moment from the visceral terror that crushes her.

"Did it go all the way through?" Abby asks, her voice shaking.

"Hard to say." You manage to say through the gritted teeth. You're in so much pain, but you know you have to keep going, otherwise you're going to die. "Abby, we need to move." You tell her, your voice strained. "We need to get back."

With infected you're done for, and this certainty brings some peace. With a bullet in your side you still have hope you'll survive, and this is much worse.

"Fuck. Hold on, alright?" Abby tears apart her shirt and hands it to you so you could press it on the wound. "I'll carry you, come on. Press it hard, alright? Can you do it for me?"

"Not for long."

Abby's heart sinks. She blinks and lifts you up as careful as she can with the time limit you two have - it'll be seconds before the seraphites show up and kill you both. She can't let herself feel right now, she needs to get you help. Abby runs fast, fueled by the adrenaline and pure instinct to protect you: all her senses are sharper, she doesn't feel pain or how sore she is, she just keeps going, because every fucking second wasted is a second that takes you away.

You start to sweat from the pain, you're dizzy, and by now Abby has carried you almost half the way to the base. You wish you were an optimist, but you live in a fucking post-apocalyptic world, so you can't take any chances. You've got a bullet in your side, for fuck's sake, people don't survive them.

"Hey, Abby?"

You sound weak and Abby doesn't want to think why, because the answer is so scary there's no words for it.

"Save your strength, it's not long now."

"We both know I'll lose consciousness in a few seconds. Just- just in case-"

"No." Abby growls, but she smells terrified, she is completely fucking helpless right now. She knows you're right, she knows your chances of survival are low, but she won't think about it. "You'll make it." Abby swallows. "You will make it." She repeats in her alpha voice, praying for it to work.

"Let me say it. Just in case." You're starting to faint, Abby hears it in your voice. "Don't wanna have any regrets." Your tongue feels too big in your mouth. "I love you. Thank you for everything. You we- are the best part of my life."

"Don't fucking say it, you're not going to d-"

You use your last strength to squeeze Abby's shoulder.

"Just in case. Tell me you love me too. Just in case."

Abby swallows, her eyes stinging, but she holds herself together and keeps pushing. The bullet is still inside, it's good. You will be in the medical in a few minutes, it also good.

"I love you." Abby croaks, but you don't hear her, already unconscious. It doesn't sound like a reassurance. It sounds like a goodbye.

These minutes that Abby carries you, non-responsive and bloody, to the medical, are the worst minutes of her life. Your scent is getting weaker, quickly disappearing from your wrist on her shoulder, your body is getting colder in her arms. She watches in slow motion how this world takes her another loved one away from her.

When her dad died, it felt like someone stabbed her in her heart with how sudden and painful it was. Now, when you're slowly dying in her arms, Abby thinks of being pushed under water, helpless, drowning, knowing this is the end and not being able to do anything.

Abby makes it to the medical and starts yelling for someone, anyone who could help. Nora and Mel run to her with a few people and they rush you in, leaving Abby behind.

Abby holds herself together as long as she can, but when the word goes out that you're hurt and might not make it, Owen rushes to the medical. He sees Abby, helpless and terrified and for a moment she looks seventeen again, her eyes big and scared.

Owen crushes Abby in a hug and holds her, while she wails into his shoulder.

"She will be okay. She is getting help. You saved her, Abs. You saved her."

Abby doesn't respond and just cries until there's nothing left in her except dread and anxiety. Owen talks with her, discusses what happened.

"You couldn't have seen it coming. It's not your fault."

"She is not going on any patrols, ever." Abby chuckles wetly. She has to act like you'll be fine or she will go mad.

"She is not going to listen to you at all."

"True. Stubborn asshole."

"I'm happy to see how much you love her." Owen teases Abby gently, but she only presses her lips together to stop herself from crying.

"She is my reason to live, Owen."

"That she is." He says softly and holds Abby some more.

The surgery is long, you've lost a lot of blood and they struggle to find the right type, so the whole WLF gets searched for someone with the same blood type, which turns out to be that sweet omega, Lily. They use her blood to give you a chance to fucking survive, and Abby has to leave so she could throw up in the bathroom.

After five hours Mel emerges, her face neutral, and Abby feels cold all over. No.

It can't be.

Just-

no.

"She is stable."

Abby sags into her seat and cries silently.

"She is recovering from anaesthesia, but you can go to her."

"Fuck. Thanks, Mel." Abby says quietly.

Mel nods. There's still some tension between them, but right now it doesn't matter. What matters is that you've survived.

Abby sits at your bed and tries not to sob - you look dead, even if your chest is moving. In a few hours you went from being a cute pain in her ass to almost a ghost, and Abby can't bring herself to touch you, afraid you'll be cold.

But you seem to smell her: you slightly turn your head in her direction and your fingers twitch.

"Y/n?" Abby calls you softly and braces herself before taking your hand in hers. You're cold, so fucking cold, and for a second Abby can't breathe, but you gasp.

"You'r wrm." You mumble and Abby smiles through her tears. "I'm cold."

True to your words, your teeth start to clack and you shake all over - it causes you so much pain and Abby rushes to get all the blankets possible. It makes it better and you fall asleep again.

Abby sits like a gargoyle next to you, your hand in hers, her nose pressed against your wrist. It grounds her, smelling your scent and knowing it's there. She wishes she could take your pain away. One stupid bullet, one shot and it almost cost Abby everything.

You wake up in a few hours, groggy, but in the right mind.

"That was a shitshow." You tell Abby and she smiles, kisses your wrist. You smile back and take her face in your palm. "Thank you. You saved me."

"Thank you for pulling through, you damn idiot. 'm not taking you on patrols any more."

"Oh, fuck off." You laugh, but it immediately sends the wave of pain through your side. Abby springs up, her scent full of worry.

"Do you want some painkillers?"

"No, no. I only feel it when I move. How bad is it?"

"You've lost a lot of blood, but it didn't damage anything that could kill you."

You see how hard Abby tries to save her face, but she can't fool your nose. She is still scared and on the verge of a panic attack.

"Come're." You ask Abby, and she sits on the edge of your bed. You bring her down with one hand and put your forehead against hers. "Breathe, Abby." You soothe her as best as you can.

Abby breathes, and with every inhale something unfurls in her: she relaxes slowly, puts her nose in your neck and nuzzles.

You're here. You're safe.

[creep3r-chan]

Favorite Color: GREEN!!! I've been obsessed with green for god-knows-when-and-why (creepers) and I've made it my whole personality. EVERYTHING gets to be green when I get the chance.

Currently Reading: hoo boy... I've got a lot of unfinished books... But I'd say Never Satisfied. I only have the first book though, so I might ask if I can get the rest of the series.

Last Song: Dance Delightful by JAMIE PAIGE!!! IT'S OUT RIGHT NOW!!! TODAY!!!!! I discovered it 15 minutes after it was posted due to sheer luck ... I THINK YOU SHOULD TOTALLY LISTEN TO IT!!! /nf

Last Film: Would you guys bash my head in the wall if I said My Hero Academia (TBH it wasn't really my intention to watch it... I won't elaborate on that part)

Sweet/Salty/Sour: usually depends on how I feel... but I'd say sweet!! (But DARK CHOCOLATE BITTERSWEET!!!)

Coffee or Tea: COFFEEEEEE!!!!!

Currently working on: 10 sorry, 20 sorry, 50 WIPs, redesigns of REALLY old OCs, and... Uhh.... One, two, three- FOURTEEN FUCKING ANIMATIONS, AND NONE OF THEM ARE FINISHED!!! 🎉🎉🎉

@gutzygumsho3 @misses-kiseki-san @oll1312-artz @starlightluvstickling @ OH GOD I HAVE SO MANY FRIENDS I CAN'T REMEMBER THEM AND I DON'T KNOW IF SOME OF THEM WANT TO BE TAGGED OR NOT AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Get to know your mutuals!

*grabs mic and clears throat* Thank you so much @jintaka-hane and @igiulss for tagging me! I love these things and I love you girls! ❤️

Favorite Colors: Black, purple, and red. I was a bit of a goth teen, and my favorite colors never really got to change 😎

Currently Reading: SMUT! *snort* I used to care a lot about what I read, trying to stick to 'good literature' and the classics and all, but I'm now at a stage of my life where I stoped giving a f*ck and now I read what the hell I feel like. Judgment be damned. So I'm going through the ACOTAR series, devouring them like a madwoman. I have Edgar Allan Poe's short stories giving me the stink eye from my nightstand, and I might use him as a palate cleanser after!

Last Song: Oh, I've been cranking the Imperfect soundtrack I created on Spotify to get me in the mood for the next chapter, and the last one that played was, curiously enough, Imperfect by Stone Sour. I can't get enough of Corey Taylor, that man is a God!

Last Film: I barely watch any TV. I read and write in my spare time, so the last movie I saw was in the movie theatre and I took my son, so we got to see the live action of Lilo & Stitch! I enjoyed it a lot! 🥰

Sweet/Salty/Sour: All of them???? I mean... I can't choose! I have a very sweet tooth, but I love sour things... and salty snacks? UGH! Why are you doing this to me??? Gun to the head: sweet!

Tea or Coffee: Coffee. 100% coffee. Expressos, please. Or how we call it here in Portugal: bica. Actually was discussing this with Giuls just yesterday. I need at least 4 of them on a daily basis. 😍

Working On: Too many things at the same time, actually 😆 I'm working on Imperfect, Kid's Meet-Cute and I'm also throwing a few paragraphs for chapter 2 of All of Yourself, as well as trying to plan and write a very challenging longfic for my main account with ships like: SaNami, LawBin, Ace&Vivi and ZoTash.

I'm going to tag *checks to see who hasn't been tagged yet* @physics-of-one-piece @laidenbreecatchall @isabeauwolf and anyone else who wants to jump in on the fun wagon!

[headcanon-everything]

Could you please make some Doug headcannons?

(Please keep it SFW)

I hate that at first glance I always mix up his and dunk's name TT^TT

Romantic Doug Headcanons

needs therapy for his depression

is sweet, but in the weirdest ways??

he's .. not the best but he's trying

if you're sad? his first instinct is to show you something shocking to try and get your mind off of it. the problem is that it's something like a compilation of bridges collapsing or something

it does get better over time though

the longer he's with you and the longer you're patient with him, the more in tune with your needs he is

he HATES seeing you cry

kinda panics if you do tbh, he flounders for a bit because he wasn't trying to go too far to the point of tears

the more you call him out on his bad attitude the less he does it

he starts shifting his existential dread from you to others, because he doesn't like the thought of you upset

won't tell you though - you'll just notice that he'll bring up depressing and/or things to overthink about less and less

gives gifts like a toddler; will make you hold out your hand (he WILL make you think it's a bug) and then walks away once you have it

(if you ever catch his face when he turns around, he's blushing)

knows all your favourite foods/drinks just from observing and will order stuff for you just to bring it over

if you kiss where his nose should be is, he's blushing HARD

gets bashful and pushes you away while muttering grumpily to himself lol

isn't really the jealous type, he's too confident in himself

you more so have to deal with him spiraling and thinking you're leaving him if you don't talk to him for so long

^this does get better with therapy

do NOT give him the silent treatment, he will beg you to do literally anything else: scream at him, hit him, throw things, anything except for the silent treatment because he will be an absolute wreck

actually has a really sweet laugh if you can get it out of him (and it's not the one where he's laughing AT other people)

sometimes his 'dread' facts are really interesting and involve a lot of science

he appreciates if you do take an interest in some of them once in a while

he can't help being existential dread - so it feels like you're accepting all of him, jagged edges and all

I just realized you never said romantic oops, I hope this still works!!

[bewitched-hours]

Hope you're having a nice day :D

I'm here to ask for a part 2 for the god!reader x Telamon/Shedletsky after they got reunited in the cabin. I don't really have an idea for the plot but maybe you could include some wing preening if you'd like. Maybe now that they're both like normal robloxians they can pay more attention to their emotions and somehow find out that they like eachother. (Bonus points for hugging or cuddling with wings! 😋)

Ps: maybe Builderman knowing what's happening and just watching almost frustrated from how the ex gods don't know how to deal with love (bc he both knew them before they got forsaken ofc)

Thanks a bunch! ^ ^

Ask for a part 2 and you shall receive~ Part 1

Reader gets- once again- She/They-

It had only been a few days but the others were painfully aware that something switched...

Especially Builderman, who could only groan when you both pulled him aside to ask if he knew all along because- well- he had been friends with you both back in the day...

You were both dramatically shocked about it when he nonchalantly explained how he knew but wasn't interested in drama so he wanted to watch you two figure yourselves out.

It was... Actually quite comical, you had to admit-

But now that you and your old friend were reunited, you decided to make the most of it and not dwell on the betrayal of Builderman keeping silent. Though neither of you seemed to really have a grasp on more complex human emotions so when you inevitably felt a crush growing, you didn't know how to act. This emotion was so foreign to you, like an unfamiliar warmth you didn't know wether to welcome or not.

But much to your luck, Shed wasn't much better at understanding this.

He'd do little gestures like draping a wing over you which would prompt you to do the same to him or shielding each other from rain on the odd times that it actually rained in- and outside of rounds. It was building habits that he perceived as intimate while you doubted yourself and felt awkward to try and do it right. He never seemed to get it but you also didn't get his occasional behaviour changes that seemed to appear randomly.

But Builderman was painfully aware...

You don't even know how it happened when it suddenly became habit for you both to preen each other's wings regularly. You found it comforting and tried every which way to tell yourself it wasn't romantic but that didn't help the fact your wings would visibly relax around him or how you would almost always fall asleep by the time he was done preening and vice versa.

It was so PAINFULLY obvious but no one dared to say a word about it even when you'd fall asleep on top of each other in the main cabin.

Chance tried to bring it up once but your display of obvious denial and oblivion had him trying to get info from Builderman to help set you two up officially.

"No- Chance..." He was already exhausted when Chance came to him and holding his filled coffee mug. But Chance was just ranting while you and Shed were off preening each other's wings again.

"Oh, come on! You can't tell me they aren't so obviously in denial!" They said in frustration, tempted to storm over to your cabin and confront you and Shedletsky both. But Builderman luckily held him back. "They need to figure this out on their own, you know how [Reader] feels about being called out on this."

Chance couldn't help but groan, their coin held tight in their hand as they looked towards the door outside. "Can't we at least talk to Shedletsky? He'd probably take it better!" They attempted to convince the admin stubbornly, showing they wouldn't let it go until something happens.

Builderman only sighed in exasperation, shaking his head as he thought about it. You'd be too bashful to admit you were crushing on your fellow ex-god but Shedletsky was probably more oblivious about the fact you two looked like a couple...

"Alright fine, we can talk to Shed tomorrow but I don't want you complaining about how he reacts, got it?" He finally let the gambler go, who seemed pretty ecstatic at the solution. "You won't hear a word! Promise!"

And true to his word, they both confronted Shedletsky during a round where the three of them were already downed and Shed was just watching you evade the killer in your mockingly playful way. Luckily it wasn't one of the children though since you tended to let them catch you instead of using your usual taunts. They were just kids in your eyes so you felt bad about mocking them.

"Shed... Can we talk?" Builderman propped himself up against the back of the couch Shedletsky was sitting on while Chance promptly plopped himself down beside the chicken man.

Shedletsky was a little confused but shrugged as he looked back towards the TV screen to cheer you on. "Shoot!"

Chance stifled a chuckle at the reaction. Ironic considering how they were planning to start this off. "Well~ I think it's pretty obvious how close you and [Reader] have become~" He spoke cheerfully, watching Shedletsky's earwings twitch at the mention of your name and turning a bit more focus towards the two in confusion.

"Well yeah, we're old friends and we're catching up on each other's lives while making sure the other is taken care off. A mutually beneficial friend-" He was gonna deny it just like you did and before Builderman could stop it, Chance shushed him.

"It really isn't a friendship, Shed. I've got little idea about birds, let alone ex-gods, but preening is strictly a couples thing for birds and I doubt it's much different for gods." They saw Shedletsky get a little flustered at their words but Builderman pushed their hat down before they could continue to get his turn.

With a sigh, Builderman continued. "What we're saying... Is that we're glad to see you two happy but to please talk about your relationship together because [Reader] is clearly too bashful and in denial to notice it's mutual-"

"Mutual?!" Shedletsky puffed up, seeming genuinely surprised. That brought an extended silence to all three of them.

Chance was first to break it in shock. "YOU DIDN'T KNOW????" The gambler couldn't believe it. They had figured Shedletsky knew it was mutual and was probably just uncertain if you knew but now?

Now it was just ridiculous.

"I-I just figured they liked the comfort and-" Shedletsky sighed, chuckling awkwardly as his rambling was stopped by the round ending and you returning with a victorious cheer.

"And that's another win to the survivors!" You exclaimed, almost subconsciously making your way over to the trio with a giant grin on your face. "Did you guys see me?! John's spikes got nothing on me!" You were still filled with adrenaline and didn't realise their looks as Shedletsky nodded and awkwardly smiles at your excitement.

But the moment you went back to celebrate with Elliot and the others, Shed seemed to deflate a bit. "How am I meant to even bring this up???" Suddenly, his tone had changed to be a little more nervous...

"I'm- I'm sure we can help you figure it out. Just try to stay calm and act natural and-" Chance tried to help but was promptly silenced again by Builderman. "No no no, just make sure you talk about it when you're both comfortable. Last thing you need is to make [Reader] anxious by acting 'natural'." He gave Shedletsky a somewhat sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he sighed and nodded, much to both Builderman and Chance's satisfaction.

Sure enough, he waited until you were both in his cabin with him preening and you getting visibly more drowsy. "Hey, [Reader]...?" His voice was soft but you reacted regardless, your wings twitching slightly when his hands stopped moving to show you were listening.

"I'm sure this might be sudden but... Do you think about romance... At all?" You seemed to tense up but by the way your wings stayed relaxed, Shedletsky knew you weren't uncomfortable. Rather... You were flustered...

You were immediately wide awake with rosy cheeks and fidgeting with your hair. "Ah... Maybe? It's a bit hard to understand but yeah..." You tried to play it off, though you were definitely nervous. You didn't know how he felt now how-

Then he suddenly placed a kiss on your wing that made you freeze up as your wings shortly puffed up. "Are you-"

"I know, I know but listen! It's probably either now or never that we get to talk about it... And I may have spoken with Chance and Builderman to find out it was mutual..." Your breath caught in your throat, making a mental note to give those two some... Choice words later... But for now, you had feelings to sort.

"So... How long have you felt this way...?" You sheepishly asked, biting your lower lip as thoughts ran through your mind. But Shed just chuckled awkwardly and shrugged. "I've noticed shortly after I realized you were- well- you. But I'm sure I've felt it even before... And you?" He seemed to test the waters. A playful tone sneaking into his words as he tried to see wether you were comfortable going a little less serious and it brought a smile to your face.

"First noticed back when we were gods. One of my followers had used art as an offering and I realized I liked the thought of us being a package deal but didn't want it to be known... Though I did give that follower my blessing that day." You giggled, following his playfulness in tone as you leaned back slightly.

"But how mean of you to never notice~" You teased, teasing the tension as Shed stifled his laughter and finished up on preening your wings. "Yeah, well, what can you expect from a god like Telamon?" He asked with a raised eyebrow, as if the answer was obvious.

You just turned around to face him and steal a quick kiss as your wings wrapped around him. His wings tried the same but he had to settle on placing his wings further down your back while yours sat right below his neck. "From gods to fools~ But we got there." You chirped, now in a cuddling position on his bed as you two whispered sweet declarations of love, praise and teases.

Yeah... Maybe love was easier than you had thought...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[namilettes]

I loved ur yan!two time headcanons so much oh my days.. I hope it wouldnt be too much trouble if i could also request yan!azure headcanons too, or yan!azuretime x reader hcs (you can choose to just make azure headcanons if you dont know/like to write poly x reader) :D!!

Yan!Azure x reader headcanons

(+ extra yan!Azuretime x reader poly headcanons!!)

Hi anon!!!!! jokes on you I'll give you both!!!

Warnings: yandere content but not romanticized, abuse, manipulation, Azure has a hate relationship with you and doesn't know how to show his love if not with violence, slllight dubcon???

Yandere Azure x reader headcanons

In a way, he has EXTREMELY mixed feelings about you

after the stunt Twotime pulled, he'd already been having super mixed feelings about.. everything really

part of him forgave twotime already- he can remember not fighting back as he loved Twotime oh so much

but another part of him feels betrayed, like he had been sold to some kind of fur market.

When he came across you during a round.. He froze.

His body went through so many different emotions at the same time

hatred

infatuation

Memory.

He wanted to bash your brain in, make sure you never looked in his direction again- your eyes, they remind him so much of the life he used to have- he wants it gone.

another part of him longs to feel something again

after the Spectre took away most of his ability to process like a normal human- not that he really was one anyway, he didn't exactly know what he was. All he knew was that humans didnt have slimy tentacles, glowing eyes and- yeah doesn't really resemble a human besides having four limbs- do tentacles count as limbs?...

longing to feel- anything again.

He takes a long time processing these feeelings, and ''accidentally'' lets you slip out alive each round because ''I'm just merely not sure what this is.'' and uses it as an excuse to analyze himself, and you.

Mostly the reason he feels this way is because whoever, whatever you are; awakened SOME kind of humanity in him, the humanity that got ripped away from him so many times until this was the mess he was left with.

the humanity he swore was normal, turned into an unhealthy obsession as they tried so very hard to grasp more of it, obsession grew into possession.

He felt that maybe- if he got some kind of control over you, then maybe you wouldn't betray him.

wouldn't leave him.

Very much so- of course the Spectre allows this lovely little game of his that ultimately leads to BOTH of your breaking points!

When he finally gets to be around you- his heart rate,, oh how it rises like the once almighty Spawn he looked up to.

his arm reaches forward- but shrinks back in as his mind cowers in fear

his blood is running cold- he wants to hurt you- oh to hear your lovely screams. It's like having control- inflicting pain gives him back the life he had lost.

still- his breath hitches as their hand ultimately reaches back out, his finger brushing against your cheek- he lets out a moan of satisfaction and adrenaline.

his breathing- it becomes radical- the adrenaline flooding his mind- his vision, he breathes out a faint laughter.

''I finally got you.. <3''

He has a rather bipolar mindset around you. He keeps you around because he ultimately needs you

but hurts you because it satisfies him

whenever you cry- he knows just the way to push your buttons and get in your head

As much as you want to leave, overtime he gets exactly what he wants

you.

only you. And the control you give him.

Maybe it's the fact that you're real- maybe he's using you to fill in the void that the false god left after he ultimately came to terms that whatever it was, wasn't real.

now you're his god.

the god that he can hurt and please as he likes.

Mostly he gives you very minimal food- but on some days- some random- some where you behave good, he gives you something you like, maybe even more if you ask nicely

matching stuff matching stuff matching stuff

plucks you flowers and yaps to you about their scientific names and their benefits and poisons

if you complain he'll slice you up with his inhumane strength

''Next time you'll lose more than your epidermis... And here I thought we we're making progress.''

He shuts the door leaving you there to panic and cry

''Until tomorrow, lovely.''

and if you indulge in his interests- he'll still slice you up.

ironic right???

he gets such excitement and happiness from it that he can't process it normally. He just takes out his frustration on you.

The romantic- or the closest to 'romantic' things he does is placing a kiss on your hand at his arrival

if you gain his trust of not escaping to the point he actually kisses or caresses you, its aggressive. like lip bruisingly aggressive.

there are days where he breaks down- crying.

if you have his trust, he'll do it in front of you

he goes through a wide range of emotions- he goes to blaming you for how he feels- to blaming himself and apologizing- frantically kissing you- everywhere; as his tears coat your skin. If you try to fight it away he just grabs you by the hair and forces you to take it

''S-see?! we're happy my dearest.. Y-you even let me touch you.. H-hah!... I'm not a monster!..''

Or just crashes out and starts yelling at you

''I do everything for you and this is how you repay me?! I should've just killed you when I saw you!-''

Sometimes you guys have little dinners while you're tied up. Remember!! one wrong word and its another bruise to your collection!!!

Likes inhaling your scent and whispering odd shit

''My amazing.. pretty little flower..''

Definitely has a thing with corruption, makes you witness horrifying stuff just to comfort you with empty promises, making you believe he's the only one you need.

You're under his palm now.

Yan!Poly!Azuretime x reader where the reader is an old cult member

I love you anon i had a good challenge writing this

I have a feeling this kind of trope would happen with you with twotime having the whole spawn illusion and Azure going through fifty shades of jealousy

I'm mixing my earlier Yan!Twotime + Yan!Azure headcanons into this, this is why i included both in this post ;)))

Early on when you got transported into this purgatory hell, you stumble on Azure and- You guessed it, Twotime!

but things start getting weird overtime

TwoTime will NOT leave you alone, you constantly catch their random spurts of giggles and twitching around you

they cling onto you because you're the last thing they have of their past, the last thing that reminds them of their beloved members- all the people in their life before things went to this. You were once one of them. (no the fuck you werent you dont even know this person)

Brings you random offerings, despite you turning them down multiple times.

but then- you two meet Azure again!

Azure lowkey hates even looking at both of you because it brings back memories for him

But just like in the earlier part, he grows infatuated with both of you, longing for the past where things seemed particularly fine.

that was, before he found out that TWOTIME also had a teensy fatass crush on you.

They often have little fights about you, but ultimately come to the point that as Azure gets you in his hands, Two Time FLIPS OUT and it always just ends up with both of them worshipping you and your entire being.

It's odd because when its you and Azure, he's rather aggressive and distant, but with TwoTime he feels that maybe he finally has a place to be.

Twotime, trailing his touch all over your body often giggles and breathes so heavily that they could qualify for CPR by a medical professional.

''H-haah.. Oh almighty Spawn you're oh so beautiful... Doesn't it feel nice when your followers caress you?..''

even though azure lowkey just looking at them like ''wtf are you yapping about this aint no spawn god :broken_heart:''

but still- he doesn't mind TwoTime's depraved words because in a way he feels like if he breaks the illusion he'll lose the both of you.

lowkey makes stupid excuses to make out with twotime in the middle

''Yo uhhhhuhgfdjhdj the spawn god DEFINITELY told us to show our love for them in this way''

and just starts full on making out with each other infront of you.

but mostly its just them fighting about you.

yeah.

Twotime often brings you offerings and corpses, making those rituals infront of you and always staying by your side.

Azure seems rather hesitant, as if a way to show you ''I'm sorry for their actions.''

If you show too much attention to Azure, even if its literally begging to be let go, Twotime crashes out and forces you to watch as they hurt themselves.

''S-SEE THIS? H-HAHA! I'M BETTER THAN HIM RIGHT? LOOK AT ME- L-L-LOOK AT ME OH ALMIGHTY SPAWN! WATCH AS I SPILL MY BLOOD FOR YOU!''

Azure can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at this thought.

''Oh yes- Dearest Spawn, do look at our lovely TwoTime. Oh how dedicated they are...''

this bitchboy is feeding into his delusions.

This is a very unhealthy love triangle between you three, it's genuinely wearing on you. Overtime you break and become their lovedove.

[jo-harrington]

Themes/Warnings: A little angsty existentialism plus a meet cute-ish

Imagine it’s a long day and you treat yourself to a night out because you can’t bear to make your way home to be confronted with another realization that life is long and days are short and sometimes you’d rather not exist at all than spend more time in this ambient place of meaninglessness.

A movie. Doesn’t matter what it is or how much the ticket is. Local theater so there’s nothing shiny and new playing like there is at the multiplex by the mall. But you’re not here for a movie. You’re here for a night out. You get a snack and the biggest drink you can. They updated with a real soda fountain. And grenadine to make your Roy Rogers dreams come true. Better than a cherry coke any day.

The seats are old and there are a ton of them. There’s one other schmuck sitting at the front of the theater. Right by the screen. He’s craning his neck up to see the previews. Your own neck aches just watching him . You run and head to your seat, your pick of the lot. Back row, right in the center. Perfect vantage point.

People tell you how brave you are to go to a movie alone. They tell you how brave you are to do anything alone. But when you have no one else. What are you but alone? One is, after all, the loneliest number. But you aren’t lonely tonight, are you. Or ever. Lonely is being lost. And you know exactly where you are. A tangibility that doesn’t exist in stacks of paper to xerox or endless numbers to crunch. You are something here. You can get up and stand on the seat if you want here.

Instead, you just sip your drink.

It’s cold and crisp and the taste of the carbonated liquid bursts along your tongue. It fizzes up and you are anchored back down.

Finally the show starts.

A comedy? A tragedy. There’s humor to it though. There’s purpose.

Front row guy laughs at the same time as you. He’s not quiet. Neither are you. You don’t need to be. It’s just the two of you here. Alone together and together alone.

He munches popcorn loudly. At some point your attention leaves the screen and focuses on him. His tub of salty kernels is his date. His arm stretched out over the back of the chair that the snack sits. Sometimes it dips down and fondles for a second before he leans close to shovel a handful into his mouth and cronch cronch cronch loudly.

One time you forget yourself and you laugh at the now-predictable action.

But since you and front row guy have the same sense of humor, he startles. He turns to the screen and then looks over his shoulder at you. Back to the screen. Back to you.

“Did I miss something?”

You almost get bashful. You almost shrink down into your seat. But you don’t. Shrinking and becoming one with the furniture is how you get through a day at work. This is not work. You are here. There is nowhere to hide. The brightness of the screen illuminates you flawlessly to his gaze. Super liminality. There is nothing but you.

So you dig a little personality that you’ve tamped down and you let it join you in the light.

“You look like you’re enjoying your popcorn. Makes me regret getting the nachos.”

If you are easy to see, easy to read, then he is the opposite. Just a silhouette. Shadowy motion on a bright background. You don’t know what emotions are flashing across his face. You don’t see anything except the figures projected on-screen.

But you don’t need to see his face to read him. Not when you see the shake of his shoulders or hear the smile in his voice.

“It’s pretty good popcorn but I think I would actually like some nachos. Might have to go get some.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Heard you crunching on them up there enough. They sound pretty good too.”

It was a fear of yours. Someone hearing you chew. An old reaction to a boss that stared at your mouth anytime you put something in it. Crunchy foods not allowed in the office with Michelle in charge. You got called enough names to last you a lifetime. Wood chipper. Buzz saw.

This seems different though.

You don’t mind the ribbing. Good natured as it is. And he’s giving you just what you gave him, a light hearted insult disguised as a conversation.

It isn’t scary. It’s human. So painfully human.

And maybe that’s why he sits in the front row. To stay grounded.

You take a page out of his book and pick up your belongings to move down a few rows.

“Not gonna come closer? I don’t bite.” There’s a click of his teeth as he chomps them together playfully.

“I'm not ruining my neck by sitting in the front row," you tell him, a little sassily. "This is just so we don't have to shout across the theater."

"Well..." He stands up himself and closes the distance, one row after another, just him and his popcorn. As he gets closer, the lighting shifts and now you're able to see him illuminated and not just a shadow. Long hair, denim vest over leather jacket, ripped jeans. He's hard edges and contrasting colors, but he has a boyish grin transforming his face into something softer. It's wonderful, although you're certain his face would still be wonderful without a smile. "Now we don't have to shout at all."

He plops into the seat next to you, presumptuously but you don't really mind. Suddenly, being alone is not as nice as it had been just moments ago. This is nicer. He shares his popcorn and you share your nachos.

He tells you that he's a yapper, which usually bothers you a bit in movies, but you don't seem to mind it now. Maybe because you've been yapping a bit already, and there's no real consequence to missing more of a movie that you've already missed a part of.

He tells you about some directorial difference that he would have done if he was in charge of the movie. "I know nothing about film, by the way, besides watching them. But I'm a damn good story teller, if I do say so myself."

"Sure."

"Sure." He says mockingly, changing his voice to match yours in tone and quality. "Oh ye of little faith. Remind me to tell you a story sometime."

"Next time we run into each other."

"Then I'll remind myself to run into you more often."

There's a weight to that sentence that makes your chest ache in a good way. So you turn your attention back to the screen, but you can't help the smile that blooms on your lips.

The theater goes silent at some point, heavy and dark and dramatic, as the story devolves into the promised tragedy.

And front row guy must see the sheen of tears in your eyes because he holds his hand out to you and whispers, "I'm Eddie, by the way."

You turn your head and stare at him, mouth open in dumbfoundedness. And you feel a lightness inside of you again, just like you did when you were still sitting on your own, way up at the top row. Like the world isn't quite as harsh when there is someone like Front Row Guy--Eddie--to soften it. Make it a friendlier place.

Maybe the tangibility of existing isn't so bad, when it means jokes in a theater and the feel of salt on fingertips as you slip your hand into his and shake it.

And maybe, just maybe, as you recite your own name to him and he smiles brightly and squeezes your hand back, he's thinking the same thing about you.

[hatemarried]

2025 Dashcon 2 Homestuck Cosplay Meet Part 2

Second batch of pictures here you go!!! also there will likely be four parts total. three parts with thirty photos and one with ten. tumblr lets you post thirty photos per post and we have exactly one hundred. now due to mix ups there are lots of duplicates in the files so there may end up being a few more if i mess up, but im trying not to double post lol. ok here we go!

also thank you for your patience! if youre in the discord you know it was late when i posted the first part and needed to eep. each of these posts takes a few hours to put together so i thank you for your understanding.

some people.... enjoy this.

as i said last time! i! love! the! beta! kids! they! are! all! siblings! and! they! love! each! other! and! it! makes! me! physically! ill! anyway...

guardians, lussi, carapacians, cherubs, fan kids, fan trolls, and au's... so basically everyone we didn't call up...

be nice to your sister, dave!!!

oh man! look at all the aradia's at aradia con! you doing alright there sollux?

i love seeing all y'all together like this! did i mention that? i think i mentioned that. idk i skipped breakfast for y'all since i had the audacity to sleep last night! jk jk i am joking! i didnt brain fuel yet cause i got a tummy ache its not yalls fault!!!!! i love yalls!!!!

ok payton, i love you with my whole heart but like... come on dude! i know every picture you take is inherently a little gay, but this is REALLY gay dude!

IF SMUG WAS A MOTORCYCLE IT JUST JUMPED OVER A FUCKING CANYON, THE CROWD GOES WILD WITH DISMAY AND COMMITS A MASS SUICIDE!!!! sorry nubs im guessing i butchered that lol.... also if y'all couldn't tell its me ruby doing all these posts! nubs has a real person job with the mouse! and this takes.... hours.

the daves are dabbing the daves are dabbing the daves are dabbing the daves are dabbing!!!!!!! somehow y'all just took me right back to high school.... back in 2015 i was in the icu for pancreatic disease and i told the nurses when i got discharged i was gonna dab on the way out.... i very much did it.... ew.... the nurses were very supportive tho! they seemed to think it was cute! i think i caught one of them filming it lol... there you go people! here's the big secret: be cringe and free in public and ill make you feel better by making myself look worse!!! ur welcome!!!! <3

ruby is yelling! ruby is yelling! sorry im yelling.... i do that lol! >XD

CALI STOP DRUGGING PEOPLE!

(also the ruby has now been fed!)

we had a fan overboard!!!!!!

fite fite fite fite fite!!!!

harleybert chaos!!!!!!! y'all this was so fun....

uh oh! i dont wanna be welcomed into the dark circus! mommy dont leave me!

CO1N? WH4T CO1N?

davekat! davekat! davekat! >:D

oh my gods we really are in the spider verse! (also ps i triple checked this picture is actually slightly different from the other one taken of this pose)

guilty!!!!! >;p

uh oh! i'm seeing fists! what's gonna happen!? DX<

oh my gosh!!! hes so bashful!!!! how cuuuuteee!!!!! >:D

haha! nubs got her ass beat!!!! go other karkats!!!!! get her!!!! hahahahah >XP

i... dont think they were ready for the photo yet. i dont care its funny and im putting it in.

its a bird! its a plane! no! ITS A JOHN!!!!!!!! oh yeah hi karkat. >XP

that kick shot is like perfect tho!!!! thank you payton!!!!!

awwww poor vriska!!! dont introduce her to the consequences of her own damn actions!!! shes so baby!!!!! D':<

MAWAGE is what BWINGS us TOGEDERR todayyy!

i feel like we caught y'all in between poses... wait its not my fault! PAAAAAAYYYYTON!!!!!

daaaavvvvveee. are you being nice to your sister? you better be being nice to your sister!

everything's alright! now we dipped from the veil! cause my buddy got my back and we re just that pale! or are you.....

continued in part 3!!!!!!

[folkloric04]

summer heat ⋆☀︎｡ part one

summary: you’re home for the summer after graduating college, reconnecting with your roots and your hometown. some connections are old, familiar…some are new.

cw: dbf!joel, minor language please do not engage if you do not feel comfortable with the dbf genre or age gaps! yes, this is an au fictional universe based on a fictional story, but it is my intention to do my best to not mischaracterize joel overall and to create a very consenual, adult relationship between the reader and joel. he's also a big softie in my mind and we don't see enough of that in dbf fics with him so here we are. be warned also there will be many troupes to be found in this fic, I'm a sucker for the classic college outline of this genre lol, and lots of texas-shaped sentence structures - as a texas native I have fun messing with the dialogue and joel's accent. happy reading! <3

"Joel's headed back today."

Your dad plops down at the table, nursing a hot cup of coffee. The morning light streams through the kitchen windows, softly filtered by the linen curtains. He takes a bite of toast and nods at the bite of eggs on your fork frozen midair, unaware of the flush forming on your cheeks at the mention of Joel Miller. "Eggs are hot, careful."

You snap your mouth closed and set the fork down, swallowing thickly. "Oh yeah?" You hide your face with your own cup of coffee, gently sipping. "I thought he wasn't comin' in until Monday?"

"Sarah finished her last final early. They’re drivin’ in this afternoon.” Your dad eyes the bite of eggs you’ve left behind on your plate and snatches it with his fork, ignoring the oatmeal in his bowl.

“Dad,” you swipe at his arm. “Finish your toast and eat your oatmeal, please. I’m not dragging you to another doctor’s appointment just for them to tell you the same damn thing about changing your diet again.”

He throws his hands up in surrender, chuckling. Lifting his spoon, he hesitantly scoops the bland liquid and brings it to his mouth. He takes a bite with a sour look. “Jesus H. Christ.”

You roll your eyes and chuckle, glancing out into the front yard, across the street to the Miller home. Through another forced bite of oatmeal, your dad catches your gaze and points to the house. “They should be back before the barbecue tonight. Bet Sarah'll be excited to see you."

The barbecue.

"Yeah. For sure," you comment, but your mind wanders, eyes tracing the paint-peeled mailbox outside, the red shutters, the leaf-swollen drainpipes. How could you forget about the cookout? It happened at the end of every May, a giant neighborhood bash to kick off summer, one your dad has co-hosted with Joel every year. You’ve been so busy settling back into town after graduation that it hadn't even passed through your mind.

“Speaking of tonight,” your dad’s voice breaks your reverie. “Think you can run to the store to grab a couple extra buns? And beer. We definitely need more beer."

“Uh, yeah, sure, make a list and I'll run there after I stop by the school,” you tell him, shoveling a few bites of forgotten eggs into your mouth.

"Tutorin' startin already?" He stands to refill his coffee, returning with the pot to refill yours.

"Not till next week. Just doin' a few preliminary things before classes start. Oh shit, I also need to stop by and feed Darlene." You lift your mug, and your eyes land on your dad's watch as he pours the hot, muddy liquid. "Don't you have that eight o'clock meeting at the dig site?"

Your dad's eyes widen, shooting down to the watch face. "Shit, I forgot I'm covering the briefing for Joel, sonofa-" He hurries over to replace the pot as you chuckle, watching him slide in his socks to the front door. As he shoves his boots on and looks for his keys, cursing under his breath about how they always seem to grow legs and run around on him, you pour his coffee into a to-go tumbler and meet him at the door as he's stuffing his arms into his jacket.

You open the door, Texas morning air warming your face, and offer him the tumbler and his keys, which were right where he left them last, by the bowl of fruit on the kitchen bar. He awkwardly stumbles forward, hands full with blueprints and papers, hat on sideways.

"Have a good day, Dad," you smile. "Text me the list when you get the chance."

He sighs and chuckles to himself, accepting the coffee and the keys. Before he steps out, he places a quick kiss on your forehead and taps the tip of your nose, like he always used to do when you left for school as a kid. "What would I do without you, honey?"

Your heart swells as you watch him pull from the driveway in his beat-up blue truck. The engine rattles down the street until it quiets completely when he turns towards the main roads. A small flock of sparrows flies overhead, settling in the great oaks in the yard, chirping to each other in a noisy chorus. Above, burnt orange kisses pale blue as the sun stretches above the horizon line.

-

The engine won't start.

Of course, right as you're trying to get out of the swarmed Randall’s parking lot, the sun beating down a 98-degree heat, sweat sticking hair to your forehead and neck, the goddamn engine won't start. To be fair, you're not sure your little baby blue Mustang has been driven since last summer, and she’s got parts several years older than you.

You jostle the key and hear it start to turn over, again and again, but to no avail.

You drop your head onto the steering wheel. "Shit."

“Car trouble?”

A familiar voice, low and southern, makes you sit up. A worn flannel greets you before a head pokes through your window, shaggy blonde hair and freckles. Your heart does a disappointed swoop. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t expecting it to be someone else, but Miles Lambert, your high school sweetheart, standing outside your car, is still a welcome surprise.

“Miles, oh my god-“

You slip out of the car as he laughs, colliding with you. “How are you? God it’s been forever-“

“I’m good, I’m good. Jesus, I didn’t know you were back!” He smiles, pulling back, emerald eyes flashing in the sun. “Thought your dad decided to take Baby for a spin.”

You snort. “Never in a million years, he loves that damn truck too much.” You soak him in. He’s tanner, a bit taller, a bit thicker, muscles hidden beneath red plaid.

“You look good,” you comment, poking him in the side, and he blushes, turning the same shade of pink he used to when you were kids.

“So do you.” He rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. Life was tragic for eighteen-year-old you when you’d left for college. The two of you had been together nearly the entirety of high school, sweethearts until the end.

But you always knew you wanted to go to college out of state if you ever got the opportunity to. And when a bit fat scholarship from New York University arrived on your doorstep, you took it and ran. Away from Austin, from your dad, from Miles. You'd left things on a good note, but you know it broke both of your hearts to leave like that.

Still…it’s good to see him now.

“I’ve got cables in my trunk.” He pulls out his keys and starts backing away. “Let’s see if we can jumpstart her.”

Twenty minutes later, your engine finally roars back to life. You shrug off your denim jacket, tank top sticking to your skin, and toss it onto the passenger seat. The sun warms your shoulders, the breeze placates your overheated body and instigates little rivulets of sweat, beads that slide down your neck and pool at your collarbone. Miles eyes you from where he’s locking your hood back down, and you pretend not to notice.

"All set.” He unhooks the cables and ambles over to where you lean against your car, the engine rattling your body slightly as the scent of exhaust wafts by on the breeze. “Think it’s just a clogged air filter. I could take a closer look at her at the garage if you want. No charge, of course."

"That would be amazing." Your smile softens. "I was sorry to hear about your dad. I should have reached out-"

Miles smiles softly. "Hey, it's no worries, really. Business has been good. Slow but steady." He glances out at the parking lot, families couples, and kids. In the distance, you can hear the roar of cars on the highway. Below, heat sizzles above the asphalt. You fiddle with your flannel, unsure of where to continue.

But Miles breaks the silence first, shifting on his feet and turning his body towards his car. "You’re coming to the barbecue tonight, right?” He says, gesturing to the cooler of beer beside the bagged hot dog buns in your backseat.

“Shitty beer and drunk neighbors on a hot Texas night? Wouldn't miss it for the world." You smile and pat his arm, rounding the car to slip inside the driver’s seat.

He leans down, poking his head through the window again as you settle in. The look on his face is sincere. The reflection of light on the silver linings of the car casts his face in a youthful glow, so familiar and reminiscent of his high-school days. “I'll see ya tonight."

"See you tonight, Miles."

--

You're sweating buckets by the time you make it back to the house.

You had to stop by the liquor store to grab some mixers for the small cocktail bar some of the ladies asked to be included in the drink selection this year. Your dad, who was currently enamored with a certain lady of the neighborhood, Ellen Jones down the street, volunteered to shoulder the brunt of supplies.

The garage is stifling, but the minute you shove open the door to the house, your body begins to cool. Once the groceries are up, you head over to the Miller house.

It's in a similar fashion to your own, except for the cobalt-gray your house is painted; the Millers' is red, with exposed brick. An awning covers the porch, leading to a short walk-up and a set of double doors. Slipping the key from your pocket, you slip inside, already sweating again.

Two paws and a sharp bark greet you.

You beam, leaning down to scratch two floppy ears. "Darlene, heya girl! How are you?"

The border collie pants, excited, as she drops from your knees and rubs against your legs.

"You hungry? Want some food?"

Your footsteps pitter-patter on the linoleum as you venture into the kitchen. Light streams in from the backyard, filtering in a cozy warmth, the kind that makes you feel invited, at home. Evidence of Joel and Sarah are everywhere, from the magazines and bills on the kitchen table to the potted plants along the shelf walls (courtesy of Sarah, of course, not Joel, who's been known to kill a few here and there).

Darlene follows you as you switch on the radio. Austin's afternoon country show is on, and you lift your shoulders to the rhythm, feet finding familiar patterns on the floor, line dances forever etched in your memory as a kid, as you pick up Darlene's food bowl and refill it.

She sits patiently beside her water bowl, which you check is at least halfway full, and wags her tail when you return her bowl to her.

As she eats, you text your dad about the groceries.

You: beer, buns, and booze secured. at the millers feeding darlene.

Dad: Perfect, thanks, Sweetheart - I'll be home soon, Joel said he's coming up on the house now.

A mild and unwarranted panic sets in at those words.

Dad:  I told him you had the goods, lend him a hand.

Oh, shit.

A car engine emerges in the distance, a gentle rattle that turns into a sure enough sign that Joel's truck has just entered the cul-de-sac.

Darlene perks up her nose, going to the garage door as it clatters open. You dash over to the hallway mirror and attempt to tidy your messy braid. Flushed cheeks and sweat still sheening across your forehead, the garage door opens as you step back and smile at Sarah as she steps inside.

"Hey, Sarah!"

"Oh my God!" She rushes towards you, dropping her bags with a thump, and throws herself into your arms.

Darlene joins, paws greeting your hip as Sarah laughs and reaches out a hand to pet her head. "Oh, I missed you guys so much." Her big brown eyes meet yours with a sparkle. "God, you look so old!"

"Me, old? Look at you!" you laugh, pulling apart. "You're almost as tall as me now, Jesus."

Another clatter sounds, and Darlene patters to the figure emerging from the garage. "Hey, Darlin'," a voice echoes as it greets Darlene.

Your stomach does an involuntary swoop as Joel Miller walks in. Dressed in a dark blue flannel, work jeans, and boots, he lumbers in with two more suitcases, messy peppered curls falling across his forehead. His gaze finds yours, as rugged and handsome as ever.

"Oh. Hey, kiddo," his voice drawls, warm and syrupy. Your cheeks warm, but you blame the heat.

"Hey, Joel."

Sarah's on her phone already, walking into the kitchen now, grabbing something from the fridge. "Hey, Dad, is it okay if I go to Rhea's before the party?"

Joel sets down the suitcases. "Uh, sure, but-"

Sarah jolts past you, headed back to the garage, but Joel holds up a hand. "Could ya at least bring your bags up to your room?"

"I promise I will tonight, Dad.” Sarah scrambles to tug her shoes on, words running together as she hurries for the garage. “Sorry, I gotta go Rhea said Nicole is coming and and Sam is gonna be there later and everyone wants to swim while the sun's still up bye see you later!"

She's already out the door before Joel can stop her, leaving the two of you alone in a static silence. The room brightens with a fresh wave of sunlight that streams in across the tiles, warming the backs of your legs.

"I-it's good to see you, kid," Joel says, albeit a bit awkwardly. He's scanning you, scanning the room. "Darlene give ya any trouble?"

"Uh, no, not at all. She's a good girl," you smile down at the dog, who pants at your knees, looking up at you.

He looks up at you and holds your gaze for a minute. "Yeah, she is..."

Your stomach clenches.

Joel sucks in a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, yer dad said you have groceries for tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, uh, they're at the house, but I can, uh, I can go grab 'em-"

"Ah, s'alright, I'll have your dad bring 'em over when he sets up for the grill."

"Are you sure? I can at least grab the beer-"

"Don't worry 'bout it." He shifts on his feet, pushing up the rolled sleeve on his right arm. Your eyes track the movement, rough fingers skimming dark fabric over worn, freckled skin.

"How long you been in town?" he asks.

Inhaling, you toe the floor with the tip of your Converse. "Uh, not long. 'Bout a week."

"Reckon you're happy to be home. It's been, gosh, two years-?"

"Three," you nervously cut in. "Almost three.”

It was true. Though your dad had made a few brief trips up to New York, you hadn't been home in nearly three years, so busy with life in the city, internships, and trying to finish college. Your dad spent holidays with you, not the other way around. You'd spent maybe a weekend or two back in your old bedroom every year if you found the time to visit, but always feeling out of place, untethered. In your mind, your childhood home was a reminder of the limits of your hometown. When you'd left Austin freshman year, you were planning on never coming back.

But here you were, despite it all.

"You finish up your degree?"

"Yep," you nod. The word leaves your mouth lamely.

Joel's dark eyes flash in the amber light from the kitchen windows. His mouth quirks in a way that has your heart skipping a beat. "You look...you look good. Older, I guess."

Suddenly, you're incredibly conscious of your clothes, jean shorts tight on your thighs, your tank top clinging to your damp skin. The room seems small; the air is clammy as it struggles on its way down to your lungs.

You swallow thickly. "Well, I'm not exactly a teenager anymore."

He scoffs, but something crosses his face. A flickering set of blinks, a bob of his Adam's apple. It passes before you can comprehend it. But not before the thought of his hesitation buries itself beneath your skin, taking root somewhere in your gut.

Joel clears his throat. "I better get her bags up 'er else she'll never unpack."

"Right, I'll, uh, I'll make sure we bring some of the stuff over." You head for the front door, Darlene yawning behind you as she pads to a bright patch in the dining room, circling up to nap.

"Hey," Joel stops, one foot on the steps, watching you as you turn, hand on the door frame. "It's good to have you back."

You smile. "It's good to be home."

taglist: @queenbbarnes

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[tboynightwing]

Saw this tiktok that was bashing Dickbabs? Antidickbabs in a sense?(Yes it was complaining about Dick and Kori not being together shocker-)

And I get it yall can have your ships and what not but I don't like how people were talking about Barbara in the comment section.

PEOPLE WE'RE SAYING THAT THEY WERE SIBLINGS?!?

(Someone Literally Said DC stop having Barbara follow Nightwing around like a dog???? Which what the fuck??? FIRST OF ALL, IF YOUR FIRST REACTION IS TO SEE BABS AND DICK TOGETHER AND THINK "OH SHE'S FOLLOWING HIM LIKE A DOG" YOU'RE THE ONE THATS WRONG????? How could you possible get this from the comics. Like yeah TT Nightwing run might have had no personality for either? But it's like I'm shocked at how yall came to that conclusion AND IT HAD MULTIPLE LIKES????)

Like you can dislike a ship. You don't got to do some moral standing over it or what not. You don't have to disrespect Babs as a character. You can just say "Hey this ship is not for me".

[tsams-and-co-memes]

Listening to "My Jolly Sailor Bold (but it's gay)," and was blessed with an entire fanfic plot line in my head immediately.

Ruin's Monty is a sailor. He's been away at sea for a long time, and he's not doing good. Physically, he's caught some slowly progressing sickness, and mentally, he's gradually losing himself and becoming someone else. While he does have his moments of clarity, he's more prone to anger, aggression, and violence. The crew notices right away that something is wrong, but they can't do anything about it because Monty’s unpredictable and physically stronger than they are.

Monty, in his moments of clarity, misses Ruin dearly. He's so far gone that he starts to see and hear things that aren't there. One of these things,, is his beloved Ruin. Perched on something that's floating in the water, and calling out to him. Of course, Monty's confused by this. It just doesn't make sense. How could Ruin be there? He shouldn't be.

Plunging straight into another virus-driven moment of madness, Monty completely loses it. Something happens, and it results in him never returning home. Ruin's on land, desperately waiting for his arrival, but he never shows up. Assuming that Monty’s simply lost, Ruin boards the next ship that's heading out to sea. And of course, Eclipse ends up having to go too. Much to his complete and utter irritation.

The trip starts off fairly normal with not a whole lot to report back on. It's relatively calm, surprisingly. As Eclipse starts to complain about how stupid all of this is, and goes on this big tangent about how the search is a waste of time, Ruin hears something.

He hears Monty.

Rushing to the side of the ship where he hears his love's voice, Ruin sees what looks and sounds like Monty, with everything waist down in the water and everything waist up on a piece of floating debris. Ruin's confused and frazzled by this, his mind scrambling to make sense of what's going on. Out of desperation to reach Monty, Ruin takes control of the ship.

Everything is chaos. The crew is having difficulty walking normally and things are rolling and sliding around, so they're struggling to even make it across the ship to Ruin. Ruin does not respond to them as they call out to him, pleading and demanding that he stops. He's so focused on Monty that he fails to notice the rock formations nearby and pieces of ships that had sunk in those waters, long before this current point in time.

Ruin is more than willing to sink the ship and risk everyone's lives, in hopes that he'll be able to get to Monty.

While the crew struggles to make it across the ship on foot to stop Ruin, Eclipse sees that walking and running aren't working, so he takes to the ropes and sails instead. He makes his way over to Ruin as fast as possible, demanding that Ruin stops whatever he's doing, but Ruin seems to be in his own little world. Almost like he's in some sort of trance.

Eclipse, upon noticing this, decides to use another method of making Ruin stop. He drops down behind Ruin without warning, and proceeds to bash him over the head with something. He'll apologize later for that. Or not. Probably not. Oh well.

Ruin gets knocked out, and Eclipse catches him just as he begins to collapse. After putting Ruin down and wrestling with the wheel, he's able to save the ship and the crew, navigating out of the dangerous waters. As he's steering and going over a mental checklist, making sure everything's fine now, he hears something, and it's an immediate distraction.

He hears Roxanne.

Calling to him, from somewhere over the side of the ship. He goes to the railing to look out at the water, wondering what the hell is going on. Sure enough, he sees Roxanne, looking like she's holding onto a large rock, with the lower half of her body in the water. Except...... something about this isn't right.

The first thing Eclipse notices is the fact that she's not in distress. She's not scared or exhausted, she's not yelling at him to get his ass over there and help her. Her hair, somehow, looks completely normal. She doesn't look like she's been through anything serious at all. The second thing he notices is the way she bats her lashes and speaks with this unnatural, honeyed tone. The way she angles her body and speaks to him. It's more seductive than pleading for help.

Eclipse starts to ignore her. She keeps trying to get his attention, but nothing seems to be working. Eventually, she appears much, much closer. This time, she's clinging to the railing. Only the upper half of her body is visible as she leans over the railing and speaks in that same honeyed tone, going on and on about how badly she needs Eclipse.

Meanwhile, he's completely deadpan. This isn't Roxanne. She would never act like this, and she sure as hell wouldn't say those things to him, either. He raises his lip in disgust and narrows his eyes, hissing at her to get off his ship. She's momentarily taken aback, but quickly goes back to acting like she needs him, begging him to come closer.

Really, truly, not in the mood for this, and almost feeling offended on Roxanne's behalf, he takes out a gun and shoots the imposter without warning. There's a tense moment of silence afterward, before she..... starts to melt.

Her hair goes. Her skin goes. A lot of her goes, and what's left behind is the ugliest thing that Eclipse has ever seen in his entire life. What's left behind is the Mimic.

He shoots it again for good measure, intentionally going for a headshot, and the Mimic's gnarled body finally goes limp, slipping off the side of the ship and dropping into the water below. The last thing anyone sees of it is its long, skeletal tail.