#but look at how much fizz has grown

[birdy-babe]

I kinda really love these outfits but not just because they are adorable and Fizz looks great

It’s also because I feel like this is Fizz being himself. This outfit feels like something FIZZ wants to wear- not something he feels he NEEDS to wear in order to appeal to the image his fame gave him. He’s no longer dressing for the public, he’s not dressing for Mammon, or for a show. He’s himself!!! It’s the first time we’ve seen him in an outfit HE wants to be in!

I love him <3

[luveline]

I love ur writing 💕 can I request something where reader is dense sortof/has low self esteem, so she likes hotch, admires him and would love to date him but can't imagine he would view her that way,, so he has to be really obvious with his advances? Not self indulgent at all 👉👈 no worries if not. Love u!

Hotch has to break the news that he’s been pursuing you. fem, 2k

Hotch would like to call you unassuming in the kindest way possible. Unassuming, in that not everyone who looks at you would find themselves immediately aware of your beauty (an old-fashioned way to put it, and true), because your poor self esteem leaves you shy. 

You don't believe anyone would want you. It doesn’t matter to Hotch beyond a weary heartbreak for you, as he doesn’t mind if it takes time to convince you. He only wishes you’d have more confidence. You’re pretty and you deserve to know it. 

“Hello,” he says, with intent to try again. 

You like him. He’s a grown man and a good judge of character, better of action, and he’d like to think that your sudden grimace whenever he speaks is again this cloud of insecurity rather than a true dislike for him. You have to warm up to him every day, but you do warm. 

“Hi, Hotch.” 

And listen, he’s not one to flirt at work, but if he ever wants a real shot with you, he has to be heavy-handed. “Hi,” he repeats, smiling, “how are things today?” 

You’re assistant office administrator for the BAU, and so Hotch isn’t technically your boss, but you do work beneath him. “Things are the same as always.” 

“Not too hard for you, then.” 

You catch his teasing, which is a new development. “Not too hard for me,” you say.

He doesn’t pretend he has reason to hang around. He thinks it might’ve contributed to you not believing he’s interested; he’d drop by with coffee because you seemed tired, or checked in on issues that didn’t need his supervision, and you’d taken every extra minute spent at your door as his attentiveness to his job, rather than an affection for you.

He stands with his hand on the doorway and just looks at you. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“You look beautiful today.” 

You touch the button at your neck. “It’s too much for work.” 

“No.” You’re wearing normal business casual clothing. You’ve pulled a necklace over your sweater, soft collar of a shirt kissing your throat. He imagines you’re wearing regular pants and flats or maybe a skirt and short heels beneath the desk, it doesn’t matter. “It’s not just what you’re wearing. You look pretty.” 

You could catch flame if something sparked near you. Lost, your lips part, and eventually you squeeze out a timid, “Thank you, Hotch.” 

 “Aaron.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Can we get coffee?” He dislikes the panic in your eyes and regrets how casual he sounded. “Can I get you a coffee?” 

“I’m okay.” 

“Well, maybe we can take lunch together?” 

“Have I done something?” 

“Have you?” he asks. 

He feels… young. Haley was the only woman he’d been with at a time, and casually there have been others now, but you’re the first woman he’s attempted to woo like this. He sometimes forgets that you’re shy and that he’s been married, distracted by his fizzing, almost joyful feelings for you. Flirting with you is a pleasure. 

You lick your lips quickly. “Where did you want to go? For lunch?” 

He was thinking you could bring your sandwich to his desk, but what you’re asking is a thousand times better. “Where do you want to go? Melanie’s?” he suggests. 

You breathe out in a strange laugh. “For lunch?” 

No, perhaps not. It’s rather fancy. “Somewhere nice, at least,” he says. 

“I don’t know where’s nice.” 

“Well, we can find somewhere. I’ll try to find somewhere before one, what do you think?” 

“Okay.” 

He smiles. “Okay.” 

He’s pulling away from the doorway when you stand up from your rolling chair and say his name, a near yelp, “Hotch! Wait, uh, wait a second.” 

He immediately turns back. “What?” he asks, giving you a quick once over. 

“Are you sure I’m not in trouble for something?” you ask. To your credit, you give a bashful little laugh. “I feel like I’m walking into a trap.” 

“I have no intentions of trapping you anywhere.” 

“Please don’t fire me at Melanie’s.” 

He smiles at you again and leaves your alcove of the office to head back to his own. Around the desks and the bullpen where his team sit doing their paperwork, up the stairs to the landing. He pauses before he goes inside.

JJ’s standing behind Derek’s desk. They’re chatting, JJ sipping at a mug, a small smile on her lips. Spencer watches her from his own desk. He doesn’t like her anymore to Hotch’s knowledge, but it doesn’t stop him from smiling at her with that slight thread of lovelorn shyness when she asks him what he’s so busy doing. 

Hotch has a moment of clarity at his desk when he realises he needs to find somewhere perfect to take you come lunch time. You hadn’t seemed convinced of your job security when he’d left you, and he spends some time pondering how best to accommodate you as he sorts thought Quantico’s best cafes and restaurants. 

He has emails to answer, phone calls to take, and to make. Time moves quickly, and by 1:02 he’s all sorts of late. It’s almost 1:12PM when he’s again at your office door, a warm plastic bag against his side. 

You’re looking at your lap. Coat in your hands, lip nibbled raw, there’s an internal conversation happening that he’s not privy to. He doubts he’d like it very much —the agony of self-doubt is written plainly in your slouch. 

He knocks your door, feeling very sorry for your startled jump. “Hi. Sorry, I’m late, I know. But I thought I’d bring dinner to you.” 

He thought of it like this: if he were to take you to dinner, you could explain it away as a professional superior who was going to fire you and changed his mind, or a superior checking in on his employee, or a superior simply being kind. He has, on occasion, taken different members of his team or office out to discuss things in their lunch hours because he was busy and needed their time at a convenient hour. You might not think anything of it. 

Right now, Hotch really wants you to think something of it. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Is that okay with you, if we stay here?” 

It’s a little much for you, apparently. You finally tip into incredulity. “Aaron, is everything alright? I really don’t understand what’s going on.” 

“I’d like to eat lunch together.”

“But why?” 

“Because you’re good company.” He’s sat knee to knee with serial killers, and his next sentence is still scary, “Because I like you, and I’m not sure how else to show it.” 

You press your coat to your stomach, frowning. “You like me.” 

“I was under the impression that you liked me too,” he says, smiling despite you and himself. Hotch might be a drill sergeant and a bully all those terrible moody stations as a boss, but he’s also just a man, and there’s little room for stoicism in love. 

“But you…” 

He waits, but then feels too sorry for you to let you flounder. “Honey, I don’t know how else to put it. I’ve tried compliments, I brought you that plant,” —he points to the still blooming orchid on your window— “I ask you what your plans are every weekend.” He looks swiftly behind him. Alone, he edges into your office to close the door and allow some privacy. “And every weekend I ask you if you want to get a drink. I’d think you didn’t like me if it weren’t for your tell.” 

“What’s my tell?” 

Your hand. Whenever he’s around, you take something into your hand and squeeze at it or feel it like you’re going to explode with nerves. He saves you the explanation, and instead lays his most gentle look on you. “If I’m wrong, please let me know. I’d never want to put you in an uncomfortable position, but you’re lovely.”

“You’re not making me uncomfortable,” you say, semi-disbelieving. “You never do. I'm just confused.” 

“I’d really like to get to know you as more than a colleague.”

“You know me,” you mumble. 

He does. He knows what your favourite colour is, your favourite food, your soccer team. He sent you flowers on your birthday, asks after your sick neighbour, and checks your office light every night when he goes home, though he knows what time you leave each evening. And he knows that you’re scared to admit to liking him or anyone, because you worry you’re not allowed. 

“I do,” he agrees, giving the plastic bag a jostle. He doesn’t need big answers now. “Can I sit down?” 

You might not have a big answer to give, but your expression tells a story nonetheless. You wheel your seat backward and he pulls a spare chair toward your desk, your smile like an adornment as you push aside your things to make room. You smile so hard it changes your entire face. 

“Do you have napkins?” you ask, not so subtly breathless as he places the bag down and pushes the plastic back. 

He pulls out a wedge of them. You pinch them, and for a second the both of you hold them, your eyes meeting, your cheeks appled with matching smiles. 

“I thought the orchid was for secretary’s day,” you say quietly, taking the napkins. 

“You aren’t a secretary,” he says, holding out a plastic fork. 

When you go to grab it, he moves it up out of the way. Your startled laugh is beautiful. Totally stunning. He hadn’t realised how badly he’d wanted the quiet intimacy of teasing you over lunch until he had it. 

You grab the fork before he can move it again. “Too slow,” you say. 

“Oh, you think so?” he asks. 

“I know so, Aaron. Who has the fork?” 

Aaron, he thinks. Finally, Aaron. “You have the fork, but I have your lunch. I’d tread carefully if I were you.” 

[p0orbaby]

Not Nineteen Forever

summary: co-parenting with two kids? light work

warnings: are exes a warning ?

a/n: i smell reconciliation in the air…

word count: 1.1k

-

“He’s forgotten his boots? What time is his lesson? No sorry don’t answer that, I’ve got meetings for the rest of the day, I can’t leave the office. Can he play in his school shoes? Can I just ask, have you tried getting in contact with Alexia? No, you just called me, got it. Well it looks like he will have to miss football then doesn’t it. Yes, it’s such a shame! Okay, thank you, bye”

You hang up and smash the phone back into its receiver, frustration boiling over. This is the third time this month something has come up with the kids while you are at work. Balancing a full-time job and single parenthood was taking its toll. You sigh, running a hand through your hair, and try to refocus on the mountain of tasks waiting for you.

It has been a year since you and Alexia divorced. The decision was mutual, borne out of necessity rather than any particular wrongdoing. Her career had always been demanding, but as she rose to greater heights, the time she could spend at home dwindled to almost nothing. The distance, both physical and emotional, had grown insurmountable. You had drifted apart, slowly and painfully.

The kids have taken the separation surprisingly well. They are resilient, adapting quickly to the new arrangement of split weeks and alternating weekends. But despite their brave faces, you can see the strain it puts on them. You miss the days when the four of you were a team, tackling life’s challenges together.

As you stare at your computer screen, trying to immerse yourself back into work, the phone rings again. It was the school. Again.

“You should have Alexia’s number on file but if you need me to confirm-“

“I’m sorry?”

“Luis’ boots. If it’s that much of a problem I’m sure my wife- ex wife, can drop them off”

“Apologies Ms Putellas, but I'm ringing about your daughter. This is the school nurse…”

-

You arrive at the school to find Alexia already there, uncharacteristically nervous as she waits. Despite everything, she always manages to be present when it truly matters. It’s one of the things you admire most about her, and also one of the most frustrating – her ability to show up at the critical moments, even if she couldn’t be there for the day-to-day.

Silently you’re both ushered into the head's office, where your daughter sits with a bandaged arm and teary eyes.

“How did this happen?” you ask suddenly, directing your question to the principal as you crouch down to inspect Liliana.

“She was climbing on the monkey bars and lost her grip,” the older woman explains. “It was an accident. She’ll be fine, but we thought it best to have you both here, given the circumstances”

“An accident?” Alexia echoes sharply, her voice edged with anger she normally only reserves for the pitch. “She’s only four! Why wasn’t she being supervised properly?”

The principal shifts uncomfortably. “We do our best to keep an eye on all the children, but sometimes with kids these things happen. We deeply apologise for any distress this has caused”

Alexia’s face tightens with frustration. “My daughter could have been seriously hurt!”

You place a calming hand on Alexia’s arm, feeling the tension radiating from her as she fizzes on the spot. “Ale,” you say softly. “We can talk about this later”

Alexia finally takes a deep breath, her eyes softening as she looks at Liliana, who is now clinging to her like a lifeline. “Are you okay, Cariño?” she asks, her voice gentler for your daughter's sake.

Liliana nods, though her eyes are still wet with leftover tears. “It hurts, Mami.”

The principal nods. “She’ll need some ice and rest, but otherwise, she should be okay. We just wanted to make sure you both were informed and could decide if she should go home for the rest of the day”

You glance at Alexia, your mind racing. It’s been a long time since you’ve had to make a decision like this together. “Do you think she should come home?” you ask.

Alexia looks down at Liliana who hugs at her leg, thinking as she strokes the top of her head. “I have the afternoon off. I can take her and keep an eye on her”

You’re surprised. “You have time off? I thought you had training”

“I managed to get the rest of the day cleared,” she says, her eyes meeting yours. “I wanted to be here”

For a moment, the tension between you eases, replaced by a shared concern for your child. You nod, before turning to the woman sitting behind her desk. “We’ll take Luis with us too”

The principal smiles, relieved. “Thank you both for coming in. We’ll make sure her things are ready to go”

-

“I finish at five, I’ll come straight here after” you say as the kids run past you into Alexia’s house. Liliana magically healed at the thought of being able to miss the rest of the school day.

Alexia watches them go, then turns back to you with a look that’s hard to read. “I know it’s been… different”

“Yeah, different is one way to put it,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light, inoffensive. “But we’re making it work”

She nods, her gaze drifting to the door where the kids disappeared. “They seem happy. That’s what matters”

You follow her eyes, watching the kids through the window to where they’ve migrated to the garden. “They’re stronger than we give them credit for. It’s us adults who complicate things”

Alexia laughs softly. “Isn’t that the truth?”

There’s a moment of silence, filled with all the words neither of you have dared to say. Eventually, Alexia breaks it. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about everything”

You feel a twinge of something you can’t quite identify, hope maybe, but you push it aside. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes meeting yours in a way that makes your cheeks flush. “I miss them. And I miss… us”

You swallow hard, trying to bat away the emotions rising hopelessly within you. “Alexia, we’ve talked about this. Your career, my job, it just didn’t work”

“I know,” she replies, frustration creeping into her tone. “But just because it didn’t work then doesn’t mean it can’t work now. People change. Situations change”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “I don’t know, Alexia. It’s not that simple”

She steps closer, a dangerous move. You can smell the lingering scent of her soap, the gum she chews. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated either”

You look at her, feeling the familiar pull you’ve tried to ignore for the past year. “I need to get back,” you say finally, peeling yourself away from her.

[tealvenetianmask]

Hell's royalty has a culture that enables Stella's abusive behavior.

Point 1: Keeping up appearances is valued above all else. And I specifically mean the appearance of things being the way they're supposed to be. Conformity basically.

Conformity in this culture seems to include a kind of stoic dignity ("you know excitement is unbecoming of a goetia"), an air of superiority ("don't bow to that one- he bows to us!"), and, of course, some good old fashioned toxic masculinity ("cease this bitch crying").

Individuals at the very top are not immune. Even though he gets past it, Asmodeus seems to spend a lot of time and effort on keeping his relationship with Fizz quiet in order to keep up the appearance of fulfilling his "lust" role.

Point 2: The members of the aristocracy who don't conform are seen as the problem, not the members who are being cruel.

Speaking of Ozzie, there's a chance he'll face real consequences for getting out of line . . . Mammon seems pretty confident about getting revenge. Also, if Ozzie had decided that his reputation was important enough to avoid stepping in to help his partner, well . . . I'm just saying. Cultures of conformity create bystanders who stand by and let abuse happen. So it's good that this guy has the courage (and a good heap of privilege and power) to enable him to step out. Yes, I realize that the crowd at Mammon's celebrated Ozzie and Fizz, but the crowd was distinctly NOT aristocratic.

Now look at Stella's party- this woman is not subtle about being cruel to her husband.

She calls the party a "Not Divorced" party. She openly talks negatively about Stolas in a blatant attempt to humiliate him. She's not trying to hide that she hates the man.

Because he's . . . an oddball. Gentle, not as polished as others in his social sphere, awkward and mostly friendless, probably autistic. And importantly, I think, not traditionally masculine.

So Stella has no need to hide that she treats him poorly. She's proud of it. And her social circle seems to support her in it, or at least, they don't push back. Because based on the aristocracy's unspoken (or if we look at Paimon, very much spoken) value system, Stolas's failure to fulfill all of his expected roles gracefully is worse than Stella's cruelty.

Point 3: Stolas's parenting, while much better than his own father's, still reflects this value system in some ways, and that's . . . complicated.

In some ways, Octavia is doing great. She has her own interests (music! gothy fashion!) that don't seem to be based on any role prescribed to her by others. She has a genuine bond with her dad that's based on care and not on molding her into some ideal princess.

But Stolas still puts on an facade in front of Via. We know that he pretended things were fine when they distinctly weren't for most of her childhood. We could argue endlessly about whether Stolas was right (as Georgia Dow explained in her video) or wrong to stop himself from explaining the situation with Stella to Via in Loo Loo Land, but honestly, the man could let his nearly grown up daughter know that abuse was happening without all out trauma dumping. It would enable her to make more informed decisions, and I think she would want to be able to do that.

Instead, Stolas keeps it to himself. Because he feels like Via SHOULD have this picture perfect childhood. Look at the pictures that are up in his palace. Look at his attempt to gloss over the fighting in the household by taking Via to an idealized childhood destination.

A part of him still thinks that good parenting is keeping up appearances, and that the ugly things are best kept hidden. Look at how hard he still tries to avoid crying in front of people. The values he was taught as a child are part of him.

And while it's not his fault (it's Stella's fault, obviously- these are HER actions), his inability to be open allows Stella and Andrealphus to scheme and (we'll see . . .) probably manipulate Via because of her lack of knowledge.

We're meant to see the moments where Stolas breaks expectations and behaves raw and even a little unhinged as triumphant. Sleeping with Blitz. That is the sound of a fucking divorce. Actually going through with the fucking divorce. Insisting on it. Appearances be damned.

And yeah, more of that please. Because if the people around Stella stop caring about aristocratic social trappings, all she'll have going for her is her shitty personality.

Thanks @akirathedramaqueen for inspiring this post with a conversation.

[weepingwillowwonder]

#1 Helluva Boss Thoughts/Imagines: NSFW [Minors DNI!! 🔞]

I'm pretty sure one person said no in the poll haha, ANYWAY!!! Here it is! These two are so cute, I can't help but want to be sandwiched in the middle~~~

<3 Fizzarolli x Shy!Reader x Asmodeus

CW: Daddy k!nk, dirty talk, fingering, a bit of embarrassment, voyeurism, size k!nk

---

“Fizz..!” You can't help but whine at the obscene noise of fluids and slapping of skin. Your body feels like it's on fire knowing Asmodeus is watching all of this unfold in front of you. You bury your face in the blanket, lifting your ass a little higher to meet the fingers buried inside of you. Fizzarolli curses behind you, rhythmically pressing his fingers deeper into you, “Babes...you gotta loosen up if you're ever gonna take Ozzie..,” he murmurs, placing a gentle kiss on your back. You can’t see the shit eating grin on his face as he watches Asmodeus from across the room, receiving a wicked smile in return. 

They’re both bent on convincing you to stay in the lust ring, perhaps with them, instead of accepting an offer with the up and coming Vees. Knowing the reputation Valentino specifically has, Fizzarolli tried his absolute hardest as a close friend to be supportive of you. However, when expressing his concerns to his partner, they both were in agreement to use “other tactics” to get you to come to your senses. It was only right for him as your friend to show you how much he cares about your well being right?

So after a few drinks, you found yourself in the bed of someone you’d grown to be good friends with over the years and his partner, who also happens to be the sin of lust. Fizzarolli’s fingers drag against your walls, adding another to make way for more room. He hisses at the muffled sounds you make and the way you’re dripping onto the sheets below you. “Fuuuuck princess, you’re drooling all over my fingers…So fuckin’ messy, Oz you gotta come see this!” 

You start to tremble as Asmodeus, gets up and makes his way over to you. Biting your lip in an attempt to quiet yourself, he gently slides his hand under your chin to make you look at him. He’s always so gentle with you, knowing how shy you seem to get around him. It’s a wonder you are so close and open with Fizzarolli because you couldn’t be more different when you’re around him. “You’re doing so good letting Fizzy stretch you open sweetheart,” he coos, pressing your cheeks together slightly. The tears building up in your eyes fall at his words, feeling overwhelmed by embarrassment and the sensation of Fizzaroli roughly finger fucking you. 

Asmodeus lets go of you and comes around behind Fizzaroli to observe what he’s seeing. “Shit, he wasn’t lying...” he breathes out, When he reaches down to explore your core, Fizzaroli pulls his fingers out, opting to stoke himself instead. You jerk when you feel the much larger fingers stroking your folds, making you rock yourself back into them. Asmodeus toys with you, quickly swiping his fingers against your clit before slipping one into your cunt. You curse loudly and gasp trying to catch your breath. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck..!” 

You’re sobbing now, begging for more as Fizzaroli growls behind you, “tell big daddy how it feels..his fingers are so big…making you feel so good, huh?” You try to sputter out a response as your orgasm grows rapidly. You’re lewdly riding Asmodeus’ as you plead with him to help you finish, “so close,,wanna cum..need it so bad…feels good oh my gosh, so good..!” Both the fingering and Fizzaroli’s stoking increases as your whines press them forward. Asmodeus’ level voice pulls you out of the headspace you’re overwhelmingly slipping into, “Come on baby, be good for daddy, yeah? Make a mess on his fingers…” He uses a free hand to pull Fizzaroli close to him by the hip and takes over stroking him off as his finger continues to slip into you. 

Both you and Fizzaroli become whiny messes as you’re pushed over the edge at the same time, hips bucking in tandem with Asmodeus’ movements. His essence spills over your ass and your own leaks out of you as the fingers slowly move inside of you. Asmodeus kisses Fizzaroli’s temple and smooths a hand over your ass before asking suggestively, “Did so well for us…are you ready for the main course..?” 

[chaifootsteps]

Looking back on that childhood “friend” episode im actually stunned at how unnatural and uncomfortable it all is. Especially compared to fizz, who was left behind at the circus all alone :(

The dialogue is bizarre, stolas has such an annoying accent and he talks like a fully grown adult, half the time he is fact checking and lecturing Blitzø about something. While Blitzø doesn’t want to be there and he finds stolas boring, weird, creepy, and annoying. He seems amused by how easy it was to trick him. He also smiles when he tosses the bag of stuff to his dad. Lol. Then the chandelier scene, what was that? Why did stolas get excited as if he’s never seen his own furniture before? Then they say “oh yes!” “Yeah woohoo” about…a chandelier? And they fall down. What was that dude.

The tree scene - ugh. Stolas lectures about the grimoire, with his finger pointed up in the air. Blitzø says it’s cool. Okay. But he doesn’t have any strong feelings about his own future or his life. Blitzø talks about his dreams, which is cute, but stolas laughs not with but at him, the entire time. The funniest part to stolas is the idea of an imp hiring him. Which irritates Blitzø as much as “is this an imp game” he just grumpily replies “yeah if I feel like it..” And when he says he’d be a good boss and a great business, he’s talking as if a parent is saying “that’s great sweetie, we’ll put your drawing of this cat-dog-thing..right on the fridge” and Blitzø says “you say that with sarcasm” was stolas just always a pompous jerk? I don’t think the ‘he was raised that way it’s not who is’ excuse is true at all. There is zero bond and zero chemistry here.

It's insane, isn't it? Blitzo is literally plucked from his moment with Fizz, the two of them happily playing their little balloon horse game with no hard feelings about Fizz having to swoop in to upstage him, and dropped in front of this little rich boy he hates being around and we're told that the latter is the childhood friend romance that's written in the stars.

[ronearoundblindly]

Hi Ro! I know I'm late to this party, but can I get B and F for Steve?

Thank you! 💜

Never too late, darling! This is tumblr, not a job 😁

This one got away with me. It got weirdly sappy for the categories asked, but I went with general Steve from no particular universe here, plus a nondescript part of the timeline or beyond, could even kinda be AU--if you squint--except Steve is definitely famous in some capacity and was small when young. (I just think he happens to look very cuff-able in this gif so we roll with it.)

These dirty asks from this game are aptly titled, so MINORS DNI.

B - Bondage

He can't exactly be tied up, not by anything commercially available, but Steve surprisingly likes the chance to sit still, take a backseat, and enjoy experiencing your enjoyment. He used to be so small. He assumed he'd never have the power he does now.

The restraints, as useless as they are, work as a calming tool to shut off his brain for a while. He's not responsible for anything. That's nice. Very freeing. The act of binding him is in itself roleplay; he's playing small and weak.

He's noticed something else, too.

Over the weeks and months you two have repeated this ritual of tying him up, and you both understand just how much it doesn't remotely hurt him, you've grown...more aggressive with the bonds. It's only when you're tying them--never an ounce of it in anything that follows--but he watches and realizes that you relieve frustration by pulling harder, knotting tighter, heaving around until their just so.

At this point, since Steve can do nothing else, he loves to see it. He's heard short and vague accounts from you, of shitty behavior, of innuendo, of back-handed compliments about how you do so well even with Steve. How his reputation must boost you. How you don't have to work so hard or be good because he'll carry you. How your accomplishments are all tied to him somehow.

It's not true, but they say it. They mean it. Steve can do nothing but let you physically yoke him down in your life, even for a few minutes. The weight it seems to lift from your shoulders is worth any momentary sting he might feel.

No. Steve doesn't mind the bonds at all. He even hates that you can't restrain him for real. He wishes he could give you that. Then people might see that you're just that powerful and you've always been that strong. He had nothing to do with it.

Okay, one sec, let me pull myself together here. YIKES.

IT BECAME ITS OWN FIC! [Entwined]

F - Food Play

[Fools Rush In Steve a.k.a. Sketch is notoriously anti-crumbs-in-the-bed, so he is 1000% not a part of this convo. Sorry, bub.]

YUP. Steve loves to feed you. It's a care thing. He always wants your opinion of all the food on the table, so you have to try everything. Here! Try this. The fork is already by your lips and he's smiling eagerly.

In the bedroom? Oh yes, he is very fond of licking sweet things off you and having them licked off him. It's one of the things that seems to tickle Steve the most--body and soul--and it's so playful. He even gets to lean into having a fast metabolism and needing calories after his workouts. If he drizzles honey or chocolate syrup on you, or hilariously fizzes too much whipped cream out of the canister he has not gotten the hang of yet, then that's a snack and a half. That's multitasking. That's just good time management, ya know?

Savory stuff is for meals and the table though. There's none of that that gets played with during sex. He's never outright said that's a rule, but it seems obvious when there's never been a crossover event.

Super random shout out to Steve having a bit of a thing for champagne and licking it off your neck after he deliberately splashes or pours it there. The bubbles tickle like hell and the cold is so shocking, but whatever, he loves it.

🙄

Thank you for asking!

Ack, I can feel in my bones that the bondage one might end up as a one shot. I am in so much trouble.

[Main Masterlist; Dirty Asks Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[tumblermakesapodcast]

draft one, part one

roughly the first 30 minutes, ~4k words PINK text indicates an undecided name, as well as sentences i wrote and am definitely going to change Sections are separated by a new line break // indicates a note to myself, usually put in as a way to remember where a plot element goes, or to indicate that a section is missing a large/important part of its content

behold it, in all of its messy, imperfect glory:

Letter, Odette to Friend

Dearest Vergie,

I wouldn't be surprised if you saw this envelope and immediately figured out the reason for my sending it. Nevertheless, I find that I cannot say anything other than 'thank you.' From the bottom of my heart, thank you for putting in a good word for me with Mr. NAME. I am happy to report that I am officially the newest hire at COMPANY, though I am swiftly impressing my skills on my superiors.

Because of this, since the time you last visited, the pattern of my daily life has changed drastically, and there is much to update you on.

The first and perhaps most drastic of these changes is the widening of my world from just my bedroom to the whole house, and sometimes even the street! I nearly made it all the way past the Fischer's home unassisted the other day-- a new record! I’ve regained most of the strength in my arms, but my legs still remain weak, which has made walking difficult. Luckily, John recently bought a Ford, and has been driving me around town-- the wonders of modern technology!

The most recent of these was a trip to (PLACE—ARE WE IN PERU?)

I do have a word of reprimand for you, my friend, and that is that you failed to mention to me how downright fun this job would be! While we're on shift, it's all business--no talking, eyes forward, you know the drill, but after, after is a real treat. I hadn't realized how much I had missed being in the company of girls my own age! Though we are not exactly alike, I find a lot of kinship and joy by being among them, and am so grateful to be getting to know them. When we got off shift the other day, we all went down to the drug store for sodas, and Katie convinced me to get a scoop of ice cream to go in mine. I was skeptical at first, because I figured the fizz would sour the milk, but she was so earnest and sweet that I simply could not deny her. The drink was surprisingly good—a touch too sweet for my taste, but I think you’d like it just fine! Next time you find yourself with a soda, you should try it.

I hope you aren’t working yourself too hard, dear.

All my love,

Odette

Letter, Friend to Odette

My dear Odette,

I'm so happy to hear that the job has been treating you well. See, I told you all you needed was to get out of the house! I remember when Beni was sick and I had to stay at home to keep the sickness from spreading-- those four days nearabout drove me up a wall, I can't imagine what a month of bedrest might do to me! It's heartening to know that you're improving, if however slow. One day at a time, dear, it'll be over before you know.

I'm very sorry for missing your call the other day. I would've called back, but I fear the operator must have written the callback number down wrong, because I tried to reach you and got some farmer over in CITY instead!  I'm sure you do a much better job than the kids over here-- Mrs. Fletcher's youngest was just hired, so that tells you all you need to know about the state of affairs here at our office.

You know, it's funny, they showed me the call card and it didn't even have a message on it! Good grief. Hopefully your coworkers are demonstrating more proficiency than that!

Oh, speaking of Mrs. Fletcher, you'll never guess who I ran into at the grocer the other day! Thomas. Fletcher. That's right, Tom Fletcher, perusing tomatoes as casually as you please, looking every bit a civilized young man, can you believe it? I almost didn’t recognize him at first—he’s grown up so much since we were kids. I tell you, it’s remarkable the transformation he’s undergone, he looks like a full functioning member of high society, now! You’d hardly know he was responsible for dropping toads down people’s dresses, or that dreadful stink bomb on Easter Sunday! I suppose time really does

And now, Dettie, I have some terribly exciting news to share with you: Hobie and I are expecting! I went in to the doctor just the other day, and he confirmed it! A baby, can you believe it? I tell you, I have not stopped smiling since the news, my cheeks ache!

Diary Entry, Odette

Sleepless again. Frustrating. Had thought that having something to do during the day would tire me out more, but alas, I find myself at these pages once again at the ripe hour of three in the morning. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Diary, Odette

Got a letter from Vergie today. The strangest thing, she mentioned missing a call from me, though I can't remember calling her any time recently

Note, Manager to Odette

Miss Odette LASTNAME,

Congratulations on a successful first quarter! You have been a tremendous asset to the company, and we are more than pleased with your work with us so far.

In light of this, your hours will be extended to a full twelve-hour shift, securing your status as a full-time employee of COMPANY.

Please contact your shift manager for more information.

Best,

Company Manager

Call, Odette & Other Odette

Buzz, incoming call

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

MALE VOICE.  //number

ODETTE.  What’s the name for the call?

MALE VOICE.  John Smith

ODETTE.  One moment, please

Clicks of pins/switches being moved

Chime, as call connects

Buzz, incoming call

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

FEMALE VOICE.  //number

ODETTE.  What’s the name for the call?

FEMALE VOICE.  Jane Doe

ODETTE.  One moment, please

Clicks of pins/switches being moved

Chime, as call connects

Buzz, incoming call

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

The buzz continues

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

Static, screechy whispering snippets of a voice, but no words

ODETTE.  Hello?

Static. From amidst it, OTHER ODETTE’s voice crackles.

OTHER ODETTE.  Hello

ODETTE.  Hello, how can I connect you?

OTHER ODETTE.  1234567. 1234567. Odette. 1234567.

This pattern continues, even as ODETTE tries to talk to the caller.

ODETTE.  I—I’m sorry, I don’t understand—

OTHER ODETTE.  1234567. Odette. 1234567. 1234567.

ODETTE.  Um. That’s too many—Are you sure you have the right number, sir?

OTHER ODETTE.  Odette. 1234567. 1234567.

ODETTE.  I’m sorry, hold please

OTHER ODETTE.  Odette. Odette. Odette. Odette.

The voice suddenly cuts off. Dial tone.

ODETTE.  Thank you for holding, may I have the name of the city you’re calling?

Static.

ODETTE.  Hello? Hello? Are you still there? He—

The call cuts off.

Diary, Odette

Had an odd incident at work today. Customer called and requested a number that was much too long, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, and what’s more, they hung up before I could get any sort of clarification! Katie says it was most likely some rascal playing a prank, which I would like to believe, except… the voice sounded familiar. And it could’ve been my mind playing tricks, but I could’ve sworn I heard my name somewhere in between the numbers

Diary, Odette

The numbers man called again.

Diary, Odette

1234567. 1234567. 1234567.

Another sleepless night finds me at these pages. All I can think is 1234567. What on earth?

Book Excerpt, Number Stations

Book Excerpt, Encyclopedia

Coordinates Revealed

Letter, Odette to Snr. Ibarra

Dear Sir,

I am writing to express my thanks for your discretion and compassion regarding the incidents of (DATE). I know you have received communication from Mr. (ROWAN) and Drs. (NAME), but I felt it prudent I sent something to you personally. Additionally, I would like to apologize for

Diary, Odette

//the journey to CITY

Diary, Odette

My first night in CITY. Or, rather, just outside of it-- the train let me off in the town at the base of the mountain, I’ll have to go the rest of the way by some other means. It was too late in the day to continue my journey, so I’m spending the night in a boarding house owned by a very sweet older gentleman, who insisted I take his room on the ground floor when he saw my cane. I tried to refuse, it’s his room, after all, and his house to boot, but he would hear none of it.

Everything around here is so beautiful—greenery and rolling hills all around, nothing like the beige drudgery of the city. I sat on the front steps of the boarding house to watch the sun set, and nearly wept at the vibrancy of the colors. I don’t think that even given a century I would be able to find the right words to describe it. I am by no means a poet, and find myself jealous of those with a gift for words. What must it be like, to be able to paint a picture with a few simple strokes of a pen? Alas, I fear I may never know.

I had thought, given all the travelling I’d undertaken today, that exhaustion would take over and send me swiftly into sleep, but that is not the case. Once again, three am has found me wide awake, staring at the shadows cast by the moon. This room is positioned perfectly to catch the most moonlight— for the moment, at least, it’s nearly bright as day in here. I can see clearly without need for another light, that’s how bright it is!

Diary, Odette

Finding transportation up to CITY is proving more difficult than I thought. I’ve received a strange assortment of reactions from people when I ask after it, some have laughed, others shoo me away, still others outright ignored me. One lady even started shouting at me, telling me to get out of her shop before she calls the cops again! I think she mistook me for someone else, but still. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why it should be so hard to get information on how to get to a nearby city. You’d think that it would be easy, to even just point me in the direction of the road that will take me there, but for some reason, even that much information is eluding me.

I asked NAME, the man who owns the boarding house, for a map of the area, and have been scouring it for CITY, with little success. I’ve traced out the coordinates, just like John taught me, but it keeps landing me in the middle of nowhere… UGH! I am beginning to grow frustrated by this whole ordeal. Not to mention, the amount of walking I’ve had to do today has been obscene—it’s just past noon and I’m exhausted. Am going to try and sleep for a bit, hopefully things will shape up while I’m in dreamland.

Diary, Odette, Same Day, Later

A bit of news—talked to NAME, who revealed something to explain the weird reactions I’ve been getting when asking after CITY. Apparently, CITY is another name for CITY2, technically. From what NAME tells me, CITY was founded a mile and a half away from CITY2 well over two centuries ago, until a devastating flood rendered the land unlivable. Nearly half the town’s residents lost their lives, and the survivors were left homeless. They moved a smidge west, to where CITY2 stands now, but locally, the two names are interchangeable, so when I was asking for directions to CITY, the odd looks I was getting were because I was already in CITY, aka CITY2!

I showed NAME the place on the map that the numbers pointed to, and he confirmed that CITY stood there before the flood, so that’s one mystery solved, and about a million more questions left in my mind.

I no longer know why I’m here. I was blinded by the chase, and now that it’s over, and with such an abrupt, accidental end, I feel… adrift. I don’t know what to do, now. There’s still a day left before I have to go back to ORIGINALCITY, but I’m not ready I don’t think. I feel unsatisfied. There was supposed to be meaning at the end of this, answers, but instead I’ve received a stock-standard story for my troubles. Why would someone take the time to call me, over and over and over again, with these coordinates and my name, only for there to be nothing? What purpose does that serve? If it’s a child playing a prank, it’s an elaborate one, and I fail to see the humor in it. If not, I fail to see the logic. At this point, I begin to wonder if perhaps I was wrong, if maybe I’m finally succumbing to the exhaustion brought on by too many sleepless nights and have begun to dream things in my waking life.

I don’t know what to do next. That’s the truth, plain and simple. I don’t know that I want to do anything next. Stagnation seems agreeable, at this moment

Frustrated sigh, the sound of a notebook snapping closed

Medical Report

//Odette sees her double, passes out, gets bonked up, care gets passed to the Sisters bc the hospital is overtaxed

Patient Report, Dr. House attending.

Patient was brought in at 1:00pm by emergency response crew. According to eyewitnesses, patient had collapsed while walking down Park Row, and, in a remarkable stroke of bad luck, fell into the road. An oncoming motorist was unable to fully brake in time, and ran into the patient, inflicting fractured ribs and a mild concussion. Patient has preexisting condition in hips and left leg

Patient has been moved to the care of the Sisters, as hospital is at capacity and danger has passed.

Diary, Odette

Can’t sleep. Sick of staying in bed, but am not able to go much further than the door before someone comes swooping in to usher me back to the mattress. Infuriating. Not sure how this is supposed to help, but am not in a position to argue. I suppose I should be grateful that I have been sent here and not an institution, but I find the sentiment hard to scrape together. I can only stare at the same patch of ceiling for so long, and that time has long since passed. If it comes to it, I believe I could finagle my way out the window and into the tree that brushes its panes, though where to go from there is more of a mystery. Alas.

My one saving grace has been the texts that Sister Ana has snuck in for me to peruse. None of it is anywhere near the caliber of what I would expect from the library, given its reputation, and I cannot tell if the (word on the street) is exaggerated, or if she is simply handling me with kid gloves. I would be more mad about it, but as I said, these texts are the only things keeping me from clawing at the walls, so. I’m trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Am going to attempt to copy some of the illustrations here, to take back as souvenirs when (if) I leave the Abbey.

Image description: a pencil and paper sketch of a creature, done by an unskilled hand. The image is smudged, as if a hand had dragged its way across the surface of the paper, blurring the lines, distorting the shape of the animal. The eyes have been erased and redrawn with a heavy hand, to the point that it seems to have a good many more than it should.

Hm. Perhaps I should use this time to improve my drawing skills. That came out more than a bit scary looking, if I’m completely honest. It… it almost seems like the eyes follow me. They don’t, obviously, but. Hm. Ramblings of an overtired mind, I’m sure.

Ha. Can’t hurt to try again, I suppose. Goodnight

Newspaper Clipping //something to do with the doubles

Diary, Odette

Surprise surprise, still unable to sleep. I had thought that perhaps, given my increased mobility and the start of my duties in the Library, I thought that I might be more physically exhausted at the end of the day and therefore more inclined to fall asleep, but alas. Physically exhausted? Yes. However, my mind and my body do not seem to be in communication with one another on this matter, and I remain sleepless.

Have taken to wandering the halls at night. The garden would be the obvious choice, but on the two times that I’ve attempted to sneak out there after-hours, there’s been someone else out there, and I simply cannot deal with the human interaction that would require. Similarly, I’ve been avoiding the chapel, since there’s almost always someone praying holy hours or sitting Adoration, and it feels a bit sacrilegious to loiter there without the intention of praying or anything.

Which leaves the work rooms, or the library, and. Well. I know for a fact that the Sisters adhere to a strict schedule, that Mother Superior is very adamant on maintaining curfews, mostly because I myself have been told off for wandering into off-limits areas. This wouldn’t be a problem, except I have heard shuffling in the work rooms, the same step step swish that always accompanies her arrival into the doorway of my room. Which… leaves the Library.

The Library which I have specifically been told not to enter unless I’m chaperoned by one of the Sisters.

The Library, which I know is locked at the end of each shift (because the Mother Superior showed me the key she wears around her neck when she told me I wasn’t allowed to enter the Library without a chaperone).

Locked library means no one will be in there at night, means no one will come looking, means I won’t be found out if I camp out there.

Will have to find a way to pick the lock, though… Hm.

Research Recording, Ana

Fizzle fizzle pop of the phonograph

ANA.  Transcription, translated and recorded by Ana. Original song heard sung between children skipping stones on the lake.

¿Qué le gustaría, señor, señor?

¿Qué le gustaría, señor?

¿Media libra de patas, señor, señor?

¿Media libra de patas, señor?

¿Una fanega de tarwhi, señor, señor?

¿Una fanega de tarwhi, señor?

He vaciado mis bolsillos, Señor, Señor

He vaciado mis bolsillos, señor.

¿Qué más se puede pedir, Señor, Señor?

No tengo nada más, señor

¿Qué es lo que quiere, Señor, Señor?

¿Qué es lo que quiere, señor?

¿Quieres mia lliclla, Señor, Señor?

Me voy a quitar mia lliclla, señor

¿Quieres mi chumpi, Señor, Señor?

He desatado mi chumpi, Señor

Por favor no, Señor, Señor

¡Por favor no, Señor!

What would you like, Señor, Señor?

What would you like, Señor?

A half-pound of patas, Señor, Señor?

A half-pound of patas, Señor?

A bushel of tarwhi, Señor, Señor?

A bushel of tarwhi, Señor?

I’ve emptied my pockets, Señor, Señor

I’ve emptied my pockets, Señor

What more can you ask, Señor, Señor?

I’ve nothing more, Señor

What do you want, Señor, Señor

What do you want, Señor?

You want mia lliclla, Señor, Señor?

I’ll take off mia lliclla, Señor

You want mi chumpi, Señor, Señor

I’ve untied my chumpi, Señor

Por favor no, Señor, Señor

Por favor no, Señor!

At the end of the song, the kids all turned and sprinted into the lake, until they were knee-deep in the water. The last child who made it into the water was ganged up on by the others, subjected to a deluge of splashes and tickles for losing the footrace.

While, on the surface, an innocent childhood game, one cannot help but wonder where these kids learned the rhyme, as it clearly describes, or at the very least implies an unwelcome encounter between a man and a woman, presumably sexual in nature. Where did they learn it? It’s not entirely unlike the songs I remember singing when I was their age, but it is an odd coincidence, that it would align so neatly with my current research. Is this related to the Señor Sombro these same children have reportedly been talking about, or is it simply another instance of kids being kids? I’d like to ask around town—

Door shuts, footsteps

ANA. I--  Hello?

Footsteps stop

ANA.  Is… is someone there?

shuffling

ODETTE.  Hi. Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—

ANA.  Who are you? How’d you get in here?

ODETTE.  I—I’m Odette? We… we’ve met, you’re Sister Ana, right? You brought me some books to read…

ANA.  Oh! Yes, Odette. You’re… supposed to be bedbound

ODETTE.  You can stare at the same four walls for only so long before the need to see something else takes completely over

ANA.  I don’t… I’m no doctor, but I don’t think that’s how bedrest is supposed to work

ODETTE.  Hm. Shows how much you know

ANA.  How did you get in here? The door was locked

ODETTE.  (smug) I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?

ANA.  Yes, actually. How did you get in?

ODETTE.  Hairpin. Your locks are old

ANA.  That’s… concerning

ODETTE.  Only if there’s something you’re trying to protect in here

ANA.  Or if we’re trying to keep someone out

ODETTE.  I was told no one was allowed in here after-hours

ANA.  I have special permission

ODETTE.  Huh. Why

ANA.  I’m an archivist.

ODETTE.  It’s three in the morning.

ANA.  I’m a… midnight archivist

ODETTE.  If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to

ANA.  If you don’t want to believe me, you don’t have to

//segue somehow

ODETTE.  What’s this?

ANA.  No, don’t touch—

Recorder fumbles

ODETTE.  Sorry, sorry I didn’t mean to—is it okay?

ANA.  It’s fine

ODETTE.  What… what is it? A phonograph? Were you listening to something? I didn’t hear any music

ANA.  Yes and no. I was recording myself

ODETTE.  Why?

ANA.  It’s a… project of mine. Already, we are recording operas and musicians—why not more? Think! What if we recorded books, and stories, too? This could be our future—Someday, we could have a library full of records instead of books!

ODETTE.  I see

ANA.  You’re not convinced

ODETTE.  Not really, no. What’s the point of recording a book? Operas and music I understand, but books are already portable

ANA. What if you were able to record people’s first hand experience of things? In their own words, with their own voices? What a wonderful gift for our children, to leave them with our stories, told in our voices, for them to remember us by when we’re gone! Of what if you can’t read? Or can’t see? Just think of how many more people we could bring a world of stories to, simply by recording them

//segue somehow

ANA.  Hm. Well, you don’t have to use it

ODETTE.  Now, I didn’t say that—

ANA.  I thought as much

ODETTE.  Cheeky, you are

ANA.  Guilty

ODETTE.  So how does it work?

ANA.  Look, come closer. Here, you speak into the bell, and it moves the needle to make impressions onto the wax, here.

ODETTE.  And that…catches the sound?

ANA.  It does

ODETTE.  Wha—how?

ANA.  Sound is just vibrations, yes? So if we can make something that vibrates in the same way that your voice, or music does, then we can recreate the original sound. That’s what the wax impressions do—when you put the needle on the grooves, it recreates the original vibrations from when you recorded. Here, listen

Stops recording, starts again

Recording: Odette does the hello, hello, hello testing a mic thing

ODETTE.  That’s… does my voice really sound like that?

ANA.  I know. Odd, isn’t it?

Research Recording, Odette

//exposition but masquerading as something cooler

Research Recording, Odette

//something that won't come back to bite us until the third act

Diary, Odette

//feelings about the other odette, hanging out with deut

Research Recording #3, Odette

//the stuff other odette was working on, witchcraft, supernatural things?

Research Recording #4, Odette

//a topical poem? story of some kind?

[lulublack90]

Prompt 24 - Candy

@jegulus-microfic March 24 Word count 995

Previous part First part

They arrived at the boundaries of Malfoy Manor, dressed in their best dress robes. Walburga had insisted that Remus be left at Grimmauld Place, locked in his room. Regulus hadn’t protested. He knew better than to defy his mother. He had locked Remus in himself. That way, he knew Remus wouldn’t be hurt if he tried to escape. If his mother had set up the wards and Remus had tried to break them, he would have been cursed. 

Regulus had also left his mirror with Remus and his walkman. Then he could talk to Sirius or James if he wanted and listen to music. Regulus hadn’t realised how much he actually liked Remus Lupin. He’d pulled a face when he realised he cared that Remus was comfortable while he was locked up. 

Walburga snapped him out of his thoughts with her sharp tone. 

“Best behaviour tonight, Regulus. Do not disappoint me.” 

“Yes, Maman.” He said, his back straightening slightly as he slipped into his posh little pureblood Lord role. 

Orion stepped up to the door, and it instantly opened. A tiny house elf greeted them. She was wearing a tea towel emblazoned with the Malfoy family crest. 

“Lord and Lady Black and Young Master Black, please be following Candy to the drawing room.” She bowed low and turned. They followed her, the front door magically closing after Regulus had entered.

Candy led them to the largest of the drawing rooms. Walburga would have settled for no less and taken offence if anywhere else had been suggested. 

Narcissa was well aware of her Aunt’s temperament and had gone all out. Magical cocktails waited for them. A deep red one that slowly shifted to green and left the drinker smoking at the mouth called dragon’s breath. It was quite refreshing, with a spicy hit that Regulus found surprisingly pleasant. And a blue shimmery one that fizzed and popped, named after the famous sweet’s fizzing wizzbies. Regulus thought Remus would enjoy that one. He had to quickly shut down that thought. Figuring out that he liked Remus was already becoming an annoyance. 

Candy kept popping in and out, bringing more and more alcohol. Regulus had taken to vanishing small amounts of his. He needed to be clear-headed for what he had planned.  

Orion’s voice had grown steadily louder with each drink. But when no one else was looking, he winked at Regulus. He realised that Orion was doing exactly what he was. He knew how important tonight was. 

Candy reappeared and whispered something to Narcissa, who stood opening her arms, letting her silk dress robes flow around her and proclaimed that dinner was served. 

The meal was just as exciting as the drinks had been. Narcissa may be married to a Malfoy, but she was a Black at heart and loved drama. 

Seven courses later, Regulus was feeling sleepy with the amount of food he had eaten. He hadn’t taken that into consideration. 

They retired to the drawing room, the fireplace now blazing. Cognac and coffee were passed around, and they settled in for the rest of the evening, discussing politics and his mother’s favourite topic, the Dark Lord. 

“Regulus has a wolf staying in our guest room,” She complained. “But it is at the behest of the Dark Lord, so I can not go against his wishes. But it makes me feel physically sick thinking that halfbreed is lurking in our ancestral home.” Regulus kept quiet, waiting for his chance.  

Candy had just refreshed everyone’s drink, and he made his move. 

He stood and excused himself, saying he wouldn’t be a moment. He made sure to sway slightly, as officially, he’d drunk quite a few of those lethal cocktails. 

He didn’t even know if the last Horcrux was here. He’d spent enough time around the others to hopefully be able to pick out the dark magic that surrounded each of the ones they’d found. The only problem was Malfoy Manor was enormous. Far bigger than anything Lucius and Narcissa could ever need, but Regulus also knew the Manor like the back of his hand. He started in the collections rooms. There were some very dark artefacts in there, but nothing that felt familiar. He slipped down to the hidden rooms beneath the Manor where the really dark stuff was. Again, nothing stood out. 

He checked Lucius’s bedroom and Narcissa’s, just in case. Lucius had a lot of portraits of himself in his, but other than that, it was pretty boring. 

He was about to give up and head back to the drawing-room when a shiver ran through him. Almost as though he was being led, he opened the door he’d just walked past. It led him into the vast library. 

He was running out of time. They would notice he was still gone soon and come looking for him. He closed his eyes and tried to feel out where he needed to go. It was definitely the same magic. He walked towards the centre and the round bookcase. It was beautiful, all dark wood and rising right to the ceiling. 

The books on it were the pride of the Malfoy collection. He didn’t want to think what some of them were bound in. But there on the display shelf was something completely out of place. 

A small black diary stood pride of place on its own stand. The dark magic was dripping off it. Regulus picked it up and flicked it open. It was blank. But he knew it was a Horcrux.

He did something next that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He grabbed the nearest book that just happened to be a first edition of Moste Potente Potions and tore a page from it. Quickly, he transfigured it to look like the notebook and replaced it. He checked his work one last time and was about to leave when. 

“And what exactly are you doing, Regulus?” Lucius Malfoy purred just behind him.  

Next part

[pinkertinn]

CleonWeek - Day 5 Daughter, Not by Blood

Title: Weddings Always Make me Cry Summary: Father - Giver of unconditional love and unsolicited advice WordCount: 1,700 Cross posted to AO3

The soft glow of candlelight filled the chapel as everyone stood, their eyes fixed on the bride. She moved slowly, gracefully, the train of her dress whispering over the floor. But Claire’s gaze wasn’t on the bride—not entirely. Her attention kept drifting to the man walking her down the aisle. His broad shoulders, the set of his jaw, and the way he moved with quiet strength stirred something deep in her chest. That quiet strength reminded her of someone she’d looked up to her whole life, someone who had always been her rock. Watching him now brought a familiar ache—an echo of the past.

It was hard not to draw comparisons. Looking up to a man only a few years older than yourself, yet one who’d shouldered the weight of the world for you. They grew up too quickly—because they had to.

In another life, Chris would have been the one walking her down the aisle, guiding her toward something new, something filled with hope. She blinked back the sudden sting in her eyes. The memory of growing up with Chris was always there, like an anchor. But seeing this man at Sherry’s side today, stepping into that same role, brought back too much—too much love, too much pain.

There was a time when it had been just the three of them: her, him, and Sherry. A makeshift family, fighting to survive in a world that had turned against them.

But this man wasn’t Chris. He was something else entirely. He could’ve been an older brother to Sherry, with how fiercely he had protected her, but that wasn’t quite right either. He was more than that—had always been more than that. He was her father in all the ways that mattered, just as Chris had been a father to her when she needed one most. The parallel struck her deeply, and her chest tightened. If she ever found herself in Sherry's place, it would be Chris walking beside her. Just like this. It was a role that could only belong to someone who loved you as deeply and unconditionally as they did.

Later, after the ceremony, the crowd had dispersed to the reception, the laughter and chatter mingling with the clink of glasses. She found herself gravitating toward the bar, her fingers wrapping around a champagne flute. The bubbles fizzed quietly, like the tension she hadn’t quite let go of, still tangled up in her chest.

And then, there he was. He approached slowly, hands tucked into his pockets, his stance hesitant. They hadn’t spoken in so long, the air between them filled with the weight of things unsaid, but here he was, as if time had only pulled them further apart and yet closer together all at once.

"Hey," he murmured, eyes soft yet distant, the same way they always were when he wasn’t sure what to say.

"Hey," she replied, barely above a whisper. Her voice caught, as if stuck somewhere in the space between past and present.

He ordered a drink, something dark and simple, and they stood there for a moment, not looking directly at each other, but aware of the other's presence.

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” she offered, breaking the silence, trying to bridge the awkwardness that clung to them.

“Yeah,” he nodded, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “She… she’s really grown up.”

“She has,” she agreed, though the words tasted bittersweet. For a moment, she was back in Raccoon City, holding Sherry’s small, trembling hand, telling her everything would be alright even though nothing was certain. That girl had been so strong, so much stronger than they were at the time. She had survived, thrived even, because of him. “She’s everything we hoped she’d be.”

He looked down at his glass, swirling the liquid inside slowly, his brow furrowing slightly, lost in thought. “She is.”

The quiet between them stretched, filled with unspoken memories. It was impossible not to feel the weight of what they’d once had—brief and fragile, a shared life that had unraveled far too quickly.

Her mind wandered back to the day they broke apart. 2001. It felt like a lifetime ago, but the details remained vivid. They had been living together for a while, trying to make it work, but she could feel the distance growing. Boot camp, missions, obligations—his life had swallowed him whole, and she had been left in the margins. She’d made a mistake. Something so stupid. A kiss with someone she worked with. She couldn’t even remember the guy’s name anymore. It had meant nothing, but she’d told him immediately, expecting it to end them.

She had done it on purpose, pushing him away so he wouldn’t feel like he owed her anything. He had sacrificed too much already, for her, for Sherry, for a life he didn’t choose. She had wanted to give him an out.

Instead, he had begged her to stay. He had asked if she loved the other man, his voice quiet, steady, but she could see the hurt in his eyes. She had lied, told him she did, hoping it would be enough. But he had seen through it, his gaze full of a resignation that broke her heart. He didn’t push after that. He just let her go.

As she packed up the remnants of their shared life, her fingers brushed against a worn envelope, half-hidden beneath a stack of forgotten papers in the back of his dresser drawer. It was creased from being handled too many times, the ink on the front faded but still legible: Leon Scott Kennedy. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she opened it, expecting to find something mundane—some forgotten bill or letter.

But the official seal at the top caught her eye immediately—Department of Child Welfare. She read the first few lines and felt the breath leave her lungs.

"Petition for Adoption of Minor: Sherry Birkin."

The words blurred in front of her as her throat tightened. Attached was a letter, tucked into the folds, typed neatly but full of raw, personal hope.

Her hands trembled as she held the letter, the depth of what he had been trying to do washing over her. He had never mentioned it, never asked her for advice or told her how much he'd fought for Sherry behind the scenes. He’d always carried the weight alone, shouldering the burden quietly, just as he did with everything.

She sat on the edge of their bed, her vision swimming with unshed tears. He had been ready to take on a life that wasn’t his, to fight for a girl who wasn’t his by blood, to keep her safe, no matter the cost. He was always like that. Always willing to sacrifice more than anyone asked of him.

Her chest ached with a confusing mix of guilt and sorrow. She never told him she found the paperwork, never revealed how much it broke her heart to know what he had been through, what he had been denied. He had tried, but the petition had been blocked, a cold bureaucratic stamp at the bottom of the page rejecting his application. The government had their hands on Sherry and wouldn't let her go.

It wasn’t fair.

And it was then, sitting there with those papers spread across her lap, that she realized she couldn’t let him keep sacrificing everything for her, for Sherry. He deserved a life that was his own. He deserved more than this—the life of obligations that had been forced upon him.

But now, as they stood together at the bar, that moment felt like a lifetime ago. She looked up at him, seeing the traces of that same man who had fought for Sherry in every quiet glance, every careful word. He hadn’t changed much, except the shadows under his eyes had grown a little deeper, the lines around his mouth more pronounced.

She let out a soft breath, a bitter smile forming on her lips as she finally spoke the words she had never said back then. “I found the adoption paperwork once, you know. All those years ago. I never told you.”

His eyes flickered in surprise, his brow furrowing in the way it always did when he was caught off guard. “You did?”

She nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. “You were trying to adopt her. To get her out from under the government’s thumb. You were doing everything you could.”

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the memory pressing down on both of them. "Yeah. I tried. But they wouldn’t let me.” His voice was rougher now, thick with emotion he rarely let slip through.

She could see the frustration, the helplessness that had gripped him back then, still simmering beneath the surface. It was the same feeling she carried—the knowledge that they had tried to save Sherry in every way possible, only to be met with walls too high to climb. They had both done their best, and yet it had never felt like enough.

But she met his gaze again, this time with a soft smile, a quiet warmth spreading through her chest. “You know… it doesn’t take documentation to make someone your family.” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “It doesn’t take blood, or papers, or a judge’s approval. It just takes loving them.”

He looked at her, eyes searching, as if trying to understand why she was bringing this up now. But then, something in his expression softened, and he nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Then…” he said, his voice quieter now, almost tender, “you and Sherry will always be my family.”

The words settled between them, heavy and real. They had both been through so much, and somehow, even after everything, even after the break-up, the distance, and the years apart, they still shared this—this unspoken bond. This family they had built together, even if they hadn’t realized it at the time.

And as the hum of the reception carried on around them, she felt a gentle warmth settle inside her, a quiet understanding that perhaps, like family, some bonds weren’t made to be broken—not by time, distance, or even blood. They simply endured, unshaken and whole.

[occasionaloverboy]

don't you hear me howling, babe?

steddie • wip • explicit

In the fall of '91 Steve comes home - and the past finally catches up to him.

🖤•🖤•🖤

Steve turns on his heel and wanders back over the same eight tiles he's been wearing a hole into, casts a hopeful look towards the gate. There's a group of people trailing through it and Steve perks up, searches for Robin's sandy hair. He's wondering how much it might have grown out in the space of four months when a glimpse of long, dark curls and worn leather flits across his vision.

It's like a chemical reaction in Steve's chest. It doesn't matter that the person is already turning to reveal a stranger's face - Steve's blood still fizzes along insistently, trying to convince him that he's seen a ghost. 

It happens more often than he'd like to admit. Apparently seeing Eddie in his dreams on the regular isn't punishment enough - Steve's subconscious has to whisper that he's in line at the grocery store, or lurking at the back of the bar. Haunting the arrivals gate at IND.

Steve is startled out of his thousand-yard stare by someone barreling into his back. He laughs in surprise and nearly stumbles as Robin hangs off of him, snorting out her own laughter into his ear. 

“Hi, dummy.” 

“Hi, Rob.” 

She releases him and he spins around to get his arms around her in a proper hug. The last few months have been the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other since the summer of ‘85 - by a long shot. Steve has the sudden and distinct sensation of being able to draw more air into his lungs.

[r0b0s-robos]

Disrepair Park (Amusement Park AU):

This AU would follow mainly Gregory, Cassie, and Vanessa. In this AU, the animatronics from SB are instead, working at an amusement park that’s essentially abandoned. All of them are in their disrepaired/broken states.

Cassie and Gregory sneak into the Park after hours because Gregory was bullied and called a “baby” at school. His goal is to go into the rumored bunker under the park where (supposedly) the Park’s founder is buried. Vanessa, however, finds them and begins chasing them through the park.

Gregory and Cassie get separated when Cassie gets caught. But surprisingly, Cassie and Vanessa become semi-friends. Eventually, Gregory rescues Cassie from the guard’s quarters to continue their shenanigans.

The kids find safety in one of the warehouses and discover that's where the animatronics go at night.

Eclipse explains (quite bitterly) that the animatronics have been going missing. Bonnie is missing and presumed decommissioned. They all blame Vanessa and Cassie, who has heard how Vanessa cares for the animatronics and is looking for clues to Bonnie’s whereabouts, promises to clear her name.

Character Roles:

Eclipse: clown + manages the “strength” tests, carries around a giant inflatable hammer. he’s quite silly and still loves entertaining children, but has grown a bit resentful and bitter due to being left “broken”

Monty: Dunk tank. You get to throw things and dunk him. (no worries, he doesn't fizz out… much).

Freddy: Rollercoaster Mascot. He cant actually ride the ride because he’s too heavy. Design is up to interpretation, but I imagine him w/ the gaping hole in his chest and a semi-attached head.

Bonnie: Ski-ball mascot. He's missing an ear.

Chica: basketball/hoop games mascot. She still rummages around for food in the trash cans and also is a mascot for the food vendor areas.

Roxy: manages the Bumper Cars. Because. Because when she lost her eyes in SB she had to run and bump into things. I thought it made sense.

Staff Bots: miscellaneous carnies/game managers. They’d probably be called “Game Bots” instead. Each is designed for a specific game.

Cassie: Followed Gregory into the park as back up despite being told to stay behind. She adores Roxy and Chica and gets along amazingly with Eclipse. She truly feels for Vanessa and doesn't believe Vanessa would ever hurt an animatronic for any malicious reasons.

Gregory: Just a kid who snuck into the park after dark to prove he wasn't a “baby” and find the supposed resting place of William Afton. He’s still a big fan of Freddy, but he is a rulebreaker and unintentionally or not aggravates all the animatronics.

Vanessa: Night security. There's no virus in this AU, so don't worry about “Vanny”. She started working there because the night shift paid well. She genuinely doesn't have anything against the animatronics, but she's very off-putting and cold. She's definitely being framed and the animatronics (and Gregory for the most part) fall for it.

William Afton: Late CEO of the park. He died mysteriously and disappeared with his daughter and wife, leaving his son alone. There's a rumor that his body was found and buried in the bunker in the park.

Micheal Afton: Current CEO/Owner of Disrepair Park. He wants to figure out what happened to his missing sister, Elizabeth, and suspects that his late father had something to do with it. He keeps the park open so he can snoop and try to uncover what sort of evil his father was.

[elvensorceress]

Wednesday WIP⚡️

tagged by @alyxmastershipper @spaceprincessem @jobairdxx @hippolotamus @messyhairdiaz @ebdaydreamer @monsterrae1 @sibylsleaves @911onabc @honestlydarkprincess @spotsandsocks @rewritetheending @wikiangela @buddiearemydads

tagging @heartbeatdiaz @shortsighted-owl @bigassdiaz @rose-buddie @wh0re-behavi0r @babytrapperdiaz @fleurdebeton @cowboy-buddie @eddiescowboy

from Catching Lightning (which is now over 30K 🫠) Eddie returning home from another failed date...

Eddie drives home in the rain to an empty house, and what does he know about any of this? Maybe he’s not cut out for this. Maybe he’s supposed to be alone. The rain is mocking him but maybe it’s not wrong. 

Everyone dies alone. 

He texts Chris goodnight and doesn’t receive displeased messages from Pepa this time, but the raining picks up and turns into a storm that knocks out power to his whole neighborhood and leaves him in the dark. 

There’s lightning in the dark. 

And thunder loud enough to make his house creak and tremble. He curls up in his bed and his hands are fine. They’re not shaking like the house. His lungs aren’t wailing like the wind. His stomach is tight and tense, churning acid and emptiness, but he had a strong margarita and no dinner. Everything tastes like metallic fizzing on his tongue. There’s no flavor to anything. He didn’t want to eat, and it’s probably good that he didn’t because there’s lightning outside and he just feels like throwing up. 

His phone has only 24% power left and he shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t. He’s a grown man and it’s just a stupid storm and everything is fine. They’re not out in the bad weather. Lightning doesn’t strike twice? 

It doesn’t have to. It kills everything on the first try. 

Eddie was sore and bruised black and burned in a faint fractal for a week or so, but it was nothing like what happened to Buck. 

Nothing is happening to Buck. He’s fine. He’s probably still on his date and fucking his new girlfriend in the middle of the storm. Or something equally stupid. Eddie’s not going to do anything. Because he’s fine and nothing is wrong. 

And somehow his hands have other ideas because he’s picked up his dying phone, typed and sent a text before he’s even realized what he’s done. 

Hey. Did your power go out? Ours went out. Mine I mean. Chris isn’t here. Everything is dead.

It’s stupid. Eddie is being so fucking stupid. And the longer he stares at the words and the little “delivered” under them without it changing to “read,” the worse it is. 

Everything is dead. Everything. Everyone dies alone and lightning kills everything and Eddie doesn’t know how to feel, how to spark, how to chemistry, how to magic, how to build, how to love. 

The things Eddie knows are gunfire. Helicopter crashes. Car crashes. Bombs and explosions. The earth collapsing and burying him alive. Freezing cold water. Drowning. Bleeding. He’s always bleeding. And then he’s ripped in half by cruel sudden nightmarish electricity.

The same kind that cracks and flashes outside his window. The only light that exists anymore. Because everything else dies. 

He has to breathe. Frank taught him breathing. Inhale for eight seconds, hold for five seconds, exhale for eight seconds. 

There are sounds, noises that aren’t thunder. There’s a light thumping near his bedroom door. On his bedroom door? Eddie didn’t lock it tonight. He didn’t need to. He usually doesn’t in case Chris needs something. But Chris isn’t here tonight. And Eddie’s too overloaded to shock or startle when his door opens. He doesn’t look. It’s dark. He can’t see much. 

But he knows who sits next to him and touches him gently. 

Eddie reaches, feels around for that hand resting on his arm. It turns like it might hold his, thread with his, weave them back together. Eddie doesn’t settle on his hand. He finds Buck’s wrist, curls his fingers around it, and presses below his thumb. Until there’s a radial pulse beating steadily against his fingers. 

He has a pulse. His heart is beating. His heart is beating he’s alive his heart is alive. 

There’s a sob that breaks out of Eddie’s chest. And then he’s crying. He’s crying and can’t stop. 

“Hey,” Buck says. Gently. Sweet, soft, worried. Full of something that sounds like, feels like love. He touches Eddie the same way. A hand on his arm, a hand on his side. “Come here.”

Eddie doesn’t know reasons at this point. He doesn’t know arguing. He only knows needing to feel how Buck is alive. 

Eddie sits up and Buck meets him with arms that close around him and hold him tightly. And he’s warm and alive and solid and breathing and real and Eddie breathes in the citrus vanilla coconut that lingers on him, and his own heart beats and beats and beats. 

“It’s okay. I got you,” Buck whispers and rubs a hand over Eddie’s back and then strokes Eddie’s hair as he cradles the back of his head. “I’m okay. I’m right here.”

Eddie doesn’t ask how Buck knew, but of course he did. And with Buck in his arms, holding him tightly, the storm outside isn’t loud anymore. It’ll fade and burn out. Buck is safe. He’s alive. The tension melts away and Eddie is done crying and panicking. He’s not alone. 

“Here. Scooch over.” Buck nudges him gently until Eddie moves backward into more of the middle of the bed. Buck takes his place, Eddie’s usual spot on the right side of the bed, and motions for Eddie to lie down with him. 

It makes Eddie’s heart beat too hard. It’s not used to beating anymore. But Buck tucks his socked feet under the covers and he’s wearing dark gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved navy blue shirt. Clothes he sleeps in. And when Eddie lies down beside him, Buck directs Eddie’s head onto his own chest. Until Eddie can hear the clear, rhythmic thumping of Buck’s heart. 

His heart is beating.

It’s loud and perfect and drowns out everything else. A fresh wave of tears leaks from Eddie’s eyes, too sudden and too much for him to stifle it.

[our-future-is-up-to-us-2]

sprinkled moondust

Fic number 11 (and my longest one yet, HOORAY!) @narcosfandomdiscord

Prompt #5, Book Of Negative Spaces: Fanwork using a line from a diff show/movie as a prompt. 

The line in question: "Do you still like my hair?" from The Queen's Gambit 

Word Count: 4.1K (don't ask how I did that)

Relationships: Trent Crimm & Ted Lasso, Trent Crimm/Ted Lasso (very much leaning into that, thank you <33), Trent Crimm & Trent Crimm's Daughter, Ted Lasso & Trent Crimm's Daughter

Warnings: Canon compliant mention + description of a panic attack

A/N: I absolutely adored writing this fic... My first time exploring Tedependent in that 'something more' vein and I took a lot of liberties to what felt right for me! Just wanted to delve into Season 1, considering that I've just finished it <3

The progression in episodes as the snippets go on is as follows:

Episode 1 - Pilot

Episode 3 - Trent Crimm: The Independent

Episode 5 - Tan Lines

Episode 7 - Make Rebecca Great Again

Episode 8 - The Diamond Dogs

Episode 9 - All Apologies / Canon Divergence

~ Read the fic under the cut ~

When Ted first meets Trent, he notices a few things. 

One, he’s a journalist, in a crowd, amongst all the others. 

Two, he’s attentive. That much is clear when they lock eyes, and Trent straightens up, armed and ready for whatever is to come. 

Three, he’s got very nice glasses, two-toned, easily blending in with his face. 

Four, there’s something quite alluring about his hair… 

But if Ted Lasso, the new manager of AFC Richmond, has to give a compliment of any kind, giving it to the glasses is much nicer than to his hair. At least, it makes him seem… More approachable? Less creepy? 

Yeah, that’ll do it. 

He can hardly think of his words since he’s so sleep-deprived, and the cameras flash fast, and the water he drinks is full of fizz (absolutely abhorrent!) and all he wants to do is run. 

But, he can’t run. He can’t hide. 

He’s an American coach of American football, for goodness’ sake! He calls what these folks have ‘soccer’! He refrains from saying that aloud, though, in fear of angering every single journalist present. 

At least Trent Crimm isn’t angry. Rather, he’s just stern, calm, to-the-point, and incredibly good at wounding people with his words. 

Of course, I’m an amateur, Ted thinks, bracing the questions with a smile, ‘Specially with this British football– Thing. Yeah, I might as well just fuck right off, shouldn’t I? 

The manager doesn’t run, thankfully. He doesn’t take the next flight back to Kansas and settle in for the winter. He has to give this a red-hot crack, which is only reinforced when Rebecca Welton covers for him. 

He’ll fit in here, with time. If he keeps telling himself that, then he will. 

Trent Crimm from The Independent makes his blunt comments, but they may as well show belief, show promise. If he can talk to a complete stranger, someone so odd, with such confidence? Maybe he believes in Richmond. 

Maybe Ted Lasso will believe it, thanks to him. 

***

He can’t help but smile. 

Two grown adults in an Indian restaurant, trying to fight out the spice they’re eating. Ted handles it better, or at the very least, it comes across that way. Meanwhile, Trent Crimm from The Independent looks as though he might explode from the heat, pressing his fingers against his temples as though to manipulate it away. 

“How–” Trent practically gasps, quickly sipping his water, “How do you tolerate this?! You said… You said you’d never–” 

“Eaten Indian food?” Ted finishes for him, just to spare him the scattered breaths and unnecessary words. “Yeah, that’s right. But I guess it’s tastier than I thought? Very aromatic, crazy like that… Anyway, it’s more so about my friend’s honour, here.” 

“Honour?” The journalist leans in, brow raised, “Explain that for me.” 

“Maybe I explained it wrong,” He waves a modest hand, “Ollie invited me here, and he got me from the airport to Richmond, so… I couldn’t pass down his family restaurant! Even if it is the most knock-out sorta food I’ve ever tasted!” 

The manager is chuckling, chuckling away as he goes for another spoonful of the dish in front of him. He does it like it’s nothing! Maybe Trent’s spice tolerance is truly awful, and that’s all it is. 

Maybe Ted is just a whole lot braver than he is, willing to do anything if it means being respectful, or optimistic, or fun. It’s certainly an interesting concept, one that Trent will have to keep note on as the night progresses, hell, as the season progresses, more like! 

But he can’t help himself in the way that he notices, tracks the smile that ebbs and flows like the tide. 

“I should go,” He excuses after a while of silence, “Deadlines and all.” 

“Yeah,” Ted replies amiably, “You do what you gotta do, y’know, for work and so on… But– I really enjoyed spending this time with you, Trent.” 

And it’s clear as day, how it shows in the journalist’s face, that expression of bewilderment, disbelief, as though the manager had just insulted his family. 

“You really mean that, don’t you?” He gestures vaguely towards Ted. 

And when he doesn’t respond, simply smiles, smiles so bright, Trent comes up with his own conclusion. 

“Yeah.” He mutters under his breath as he grabs his coat, smoothly shrugging it on as he leaves. 

***

A week or so later, Ted receives a text. He almost wants to shrug it off, thinking it’s Beard with some funny chess joke or strange factoid he’s picked up… But now is not the time. 

Not now, not when he’s just sat down at the Crown and Anchor, Michelle opposite him. 

Mae’s just gone off to get their pints, encouraging Henry to play some darts… He’s off and away, and Ted hears his phone buzz again. 

“Sorry,” He murmurs, “I’ll just see who this is.” 

Michelle only nods, folding her arms in her lap. 

The manager feels himself freeze. No, it’s not some outstanding statement or new recipe from that subscription he’s linked to, no… It’s such a simple thing, such a simple person! 

How could he have expected this?! How could this even happen? Since when? 

Trent Crimm: I nicked your number from Rebecca. Must stay vigilant and all. 

Trent Crimm: Journalism never rests. Feel free to converse as much or as little as you like. 

Ted watches and waits as the grey bubble remains: Goddamn journalist’s typing more! Of course he is! 

Trent Crimm: :) 

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, cracking his own smile. 

Trent Crimm with an emoticon. He thinks, beginning to type a response back, The guy’s outdone himself. 

***

Ted Lasso: Hey, Trent! Good to hear from ya. A little busy now but I’ll get back to you on all the other stuff asap. Looking forward to more chats!  

He finally puts his phone back in his pocket and reaches for his pint. 

“Sorry,” He says again, “Things have been, a little, you know,” He shrugs, “Here, there and everywhere.” 

“No, I get that,” Michelle’s laugh is soft, her finger dragging against the wooden table, “Do they– I don’t know, do they wrap the fish and chips in newspaper?” She asks, “You must be the expert, now. I just read it somewhere, I think they do that here.” 

He shakes his head, raising the glass to his lips and taking a big gulp, “Not here, they don’t. I mean at this pub, right? Might be different in other places, but, it’s all on a plate. Home-style, y’know? And I like that.” 

“I’m sure you do, Ted,” She admits with a wobble in her voice, grateful for Henry’s reappearance. 

“Whatcha talkin’ about?!” The kid asks, rocking back and forth on his heels. He attempts to withhold the gleeful smile on his face from hitting a regular. 

“Oh, it’s nothing!” His mum says, gesturing to the door, “Shall we go?” 

His dad nods in response, slowly finishing the last of his drink before kneeling down with a smile. 

“You wanna know what we were talkin’ about? Yeah. Just a fun little thing… Imagine you had a doughnut wrapped in newspaper. How cool would that be?” 

“Could I learn about dinosaurs?” Henry asks as Ted stands up again. 

“If they’re in the newspaper, you betcha.” 

The trio walk out in silence and stay in silence, even when Ted parts ways to the place he’s renting out. It’s a wave, a mouthed goodbye, and a punch to the gut. 

His only reprieve is another notification. And that’s even if it’s not Trent. Truth be told, he’d like it to be. 

Well, He rolls his shoulders, eyeing the screen, Isn’t it nice to have expectations line up with reality? 

Trent Crimm: I know we’ve hardly prepared for these communications, and they’ve mostly involved me, prattling on as always. But, I believe I could use a favour from you. 

Ted Lasso: A favour? From me? Trent Crimm The Independent asking me for a favour? 

Ted Lasso: Well I’ll be. Shoot. 

The messages pause, and the manager makes sure to have his eyes partially on the pavement. After all, he’s bound to get lost if he loses focus. 

Trent Crimm: I know that you’ve been making Rebecca’s biscuits. And I was thinking, well, there’s a certain someone I know who’d like your biscuits. If you could make some for a week’s time? She’d like it if you delivered them yourself, too. 

Right. 

That’s new. 

A ‘she’, unspecified, in the journalist’s life. And he’s revealing this now? Ted’s mind runs with thoughts as he turns a corner, thankful to see familiar buildings at his left and right. 

Who’s this? And who am I to judge? I suppose it’s just a little… Don’t know. Someone needing my biscuits, of all things, not a high-five or pep talk… 

Ted Lasso: Curious now. I could make ‘em, since you’ve given me enough warning! Gotta know, though, who’re they for? 

Trent Crimm: … 

Trent Crimm: … 

Ted Lasso: Sorry if that’s too personal. 

Trent Crimm: No, it’s alright. 

Trent Crimm: Well, she’s a three-year-old, so nothing too strong. They’d have to be small as well. Maybe a bit of decoration. 

Trent Crimm: If that’s not too tall of an order. 

The manager’s staring at the screen so long that he nearly bumps into the door of his temporary flat. He takes a step back and pockets his phone, grabbing his keys and heading inside. 

At least he can process this now. At least he can start thinking about recipes for an unspecified girl who’s a three-year-old in Trent’s life. Could be anyone, some kid he’s friends with, it doesn’t really matter. 

It just… Sparks so much curiosity in his brain! Someone as sharp as a whip, someone so breathtakingly brutal, hanging out with children? It doesn’t make sense. 

He sighs and resumes his communications, realising just how nice it is to talk as much or as little as he likes. To not be… Well, trapped, in conversation. Frozen while the other sits, waiting, staring into your eyes– 

His heart grows heavy and yet, his fingers move quickly, vision blurred by sudden tears. 

Ted Lasso: You got it, Trent. 

Ted Lasso: See you in the press room. I bet you’re already cooking up some questions. If not, talk soon! 

Trent leaves him with that stupid emoticon smile. 

Ted thinks about it for a while, shakes his head, and decides it’s best to clean up in the form of a shower. 

***

The coach manages a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. 

Too many thoughts run through his head, and it’s a surprise to him that he’s not physically drowning. 

Panic, panic, panic! It’s the only vocabulary he has, and it’s all– 

Panic attack. Right. Last night, that sums it up, the stifling heat of the karaoke bar, the crowds, the flashing lights, strangled, nausea. 

He made it out just fine, thank goodness for Rebecca Welton. She helped him breathe again, helped him stand up straight, clear out some of the darkness. 

She’s likely in her own room now, doing whatever she likes, while he lies here, thinking of panic, his few-hours-ago divorce, and Sassy Smurf. 

He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, because if he looks at her, he crumbles. 

Oh, and there it is. 

Naked body, frayed hair, slow and steady breathing… He can hear her laugh in his head, he pictures last night, you know, the part of the night after the panic attack… 

And he had fun. She certainly seemed to have fun, gripping a little too tightly at his moustache in the process. 

Guilt gnaws at him, followed by awkwardness, and then, what to do. 

Because it’s not something he’s used to, the simplicity and lack of connection that comes with a one-night stand. So, Ted quickly dresses and calls room service for a coffee. 

Not for his sake, but hers. She’ll appreciate it. 

The hours pass and he’s once again thankful to receive a distraction, also in the form of messages. 

A photo from Beard. The coach has to stifle back a laugh, it’s pretty good. 

Coach Beard: Found him. He’s in Hangover City. 

Of course, how characteristically Nate of Nate to sleep in the bus, awaiting the next day, drunk off his mind, as he would be… 

And that’s when she wakes up. 

He smiles sheepishly as she stretches, head lopsided on the pillow. To him, this whole thing should lead to other things, more dates, and so on… But there’s none of that. Their ties are supposedly severed here. 

“I ordered you a coffee,” He mumbles, “Should be here in a bit.” 

“Oh?” She chuckles, blinking back at him, “How good of you. Before I leave, I’ll order an extra large breakfast on your tab.” 

And that’s Sassy being Sassy, and how can he deny that? 

“Yeah, sounds like a pro move from you… After everything.” 

“Last night was fun.” 

“Yeah! Yeah, it was.” He rubs his moustache, “Five stars. Certified fresh.” 

Right. And that’s the stupidest thing you can say to a girl after you’ve slept with her! 

Good news, she doesn’t seem to mind. Even better news, he’s given her a late checkout, because he’s gotta run, and he’ll run. 

***

He doesn’t talk to Beard for the entire five hours of the bus trip. 

He knows he should, but he’s not in that mood. Mood for not talking? Then something’s wrong. 

Ted just shrugs it off, because he knows exactly what it all is, but is that worth discussion? No. No, it’s not. 

Instead, something else is better. 

Ted Lasso: I don’t just like your glasses, y’know. 

Ted Lasso: It’s also your writing. 

Ted Lasso: And your hair. 

The journalist is probably busy, peak working hours, after all, and the manager doesn’t delete the messages. A part of him thinks it’s from the amalgamation of drunken haze, had a panic attack, slept with a girl he’d just met, followed by the beginnings of divorce. 

The truth to the matter is that Ted is being truthful. Trent’s glasses are pretty, what’s better is his writing, his talent, master strokes (if he can even talk like that anymore), and what follows is his hair. 

Why? Well… It’s just nice. Someone’s hair can be grey and yet colourful, neat and yet messy. It’s as though it characterises him to a T. 

It also looks pretty soft. 

Ted Lasso could use some softness right about now. 

***

He excuses himself from Rebecca’s office, having given her the allotted biscuits for the day. He almost offered the other box, small and brown, to Higgins. 

Not that giving Higgins biscuits is bad. No, he deserves them for all the hard work he’s doing here! 

Those biscuits, however, are reserved for a certain three-year-old, and off he goes. 

Trent’s given an address, because secrecy can only last for so long, and Ted is not intending to drop these off like a postman. 

Especially when he remembers the journalist’s prior wording of things: She’d like it if you delivered them yourself, too. 

He sighs as he approaches the door, ringing the doorbell. There’s a ‘welcome’ doormat at his feet, and everything feels… Peaceful. And if not peaceful, then well-looked after. 

With no immediate response, he rings the doorbell again. He’s in no rush, but maybe the journalist is out and about, and he’s messed the timing of things up, maybe he’s misremembered the day, or something– 

Ted shouldn’t be listening, but being so close to these walls, he listens. 

Trent Crimm. Yes, he’s inside the fucking house. No hiding that. He’s laughing. 

Not just laughing, but repeatedly laughing, giggling, even, and he’s saying things like, “Alright… Let’s think, shall we? Isn’t that too many?” and, “Oh, you… I look like a Barbie doll now.” 

The last thing the coach wants to do is intrude, but he’s leaning against the door… Which is basically him intruding. 

Even worse is that when Trent finally answers the door, Ted falls to the floor, face-first.  

“I’m terribly sorry.” The journalist sighs, that teasing tone of his ever-so present in his voice. But, there’s also sincerity, because he’s outstretching a hand. Ted takes it with gratitude. 

Both of them meet eyes first, before the coach’s eyes very obviously move to… 

“Oh, that,” He waves a hand, “Yeah, that reminds me, Ted. Do you still like my hair?” 

There’s a smile toying on the edge of his face… 

And Ted can practically feel his heart both beating and melting in his chest. 

His hair, yes, that, is scattered with one too many things, so Trent’s words told him: Butterfly clips, bow clips, ribbons of all kinds and colours. Hell, it even looks like the three-year-old has tossed some glitter in there. 

The coach’s smile doesn’t leave him. 

“Yeah, I do, Trent. Work of art. Mind introducing me to the artist?” He says quietly, noticing the girl with an arm wrapped around Trent’s leg. 

He nods and picks the girl up, clearly comfortable with her, if anything. “This–” He brushes her dark blonde hair from her face, “Is Seraphina. My daughter.” 

Biological, or adopted, or otherwise, Ted’s not to pry. But she’s smiley, cheeky, and clearly has a perfect eye for design, and it shows.

“Oh, hey there, Seraphina,” He waves at her, holding the biscuits up and rattling them, “I wonder what these are…” 

The little girl’s eyes widen, and she grins. Trent closes the door behind them all, leading Ted through to the kitchen. 

“Mm, I wonder,” He adds as they reach the kitchen island, and he places his daughter on top of it. “Well, you better show her! Can’t keep her waiting.” 

He places the box down and watches as she looks between him, the box, and her father. And then… Biscuits. 

Round, not his usual rectangular prism, and decorated with icing and sprinkles. Fairly small, but big enough to be broken into pieces. 

“Happy birthday, kiddo.” Ted laughs, pushing the box in her direction. 

“Thank you!” Seraphina’s practically gasping now, tugging at her father’s hand, “Look! The kind man made me biscuits!” “That’s right, sweetheart,” Trent replies, “Go on and try one.” 

“Can’t say I’ve cracked the recipe with these,” Ted’s hands move to his hips, “So judge all you like! I don’t mind.” 

The toddler leans forward and picks up one biscuit in her hand, still grasping the adult’s slightly calloused hand. She’s quite dainty when she eats, Ted notices that much, and it’s oh-so clear where she got that from… 

He can practically pinpoint the moment that the sugar enters her system, that her brain is captivated by the layers of biscuit, icing and sprinkles. 

It’s the starlight in her eyes… More so the sudden widening of them, but the manager wants to feel poetic, to take this at full value. 

“Do you like them?” Trent murmurs, clearly knowing the answer. “Of course, I do!” She mumbles through her mouthful, pausing to swallow before continuing, “They’re… Amazing! So amazing! Can I write about them, dad?” 

That’s when Ted watches the shift, from Seraphina’s starlit eyes to Trent’s, the utter mention of writing leaving him with nothing but pride. 

“Oh, you can, darling… Absolutely. You’ll finish those off later, yeah?” 

“Mmm, wanna write…” Seraphina replies, moving over to place her in the living room. She sits on the floor with her pens and pencils already scattered about, and gets to it. 

That leaves the two adults to talk. 

Ted starts by scratching the back of his head, an overwhelming pride filling him, too, “Goshdarnit,” He sighs, “She is the cutest thing… And the biscuits, too. Such high praise.” 

“Might sneak a taste in, later.” Trent hums, folding his hands behind his back. His expression then changes, folding itself into something… Neutral. It’s more sincere, so the coach thinks. “Thank you for coming here. For not… Backing out. I don’t know what to tell you, Ted. It’s nice to have company, especially on her birthday.” 

He shrugs it off with his usual, “Oh, it’s nothing!” But steps closer to Trent with a laugh, “No, seriously, she is so precious, deserves the bestest birthday, if you ask me.” 

The bestest birthday… The words ring in the journalist’s head, and by the time he finishes thinking about them, he’s wrapped up in a hug. 

A warm, cosy, meaningful hug. 

Trent slowly wraps his arms back around Ted, letting out a hum in acknowledgement. He doesn’t mind how the other is quite a bit taller than him, so he’s sinking into his arms… It’s almost as though he’s being protected. 

Nevertheless, when Ted’s fingers linger near his hair, barely just brushing some strands, he doesn’t feel overwhelmed. Instead, it’s a very careful, very gentle sort of thing. After all, it’s clear as day that the manager likes his hair, no matter what form it takes. 

They stay like that for a long time, especially because, at one point, Ted tightens the hug ever-so slightly, and Trent reciprocates… 

Because nothing is easy in life. 

If the journalist knew any more about his circumstances, well… Then he’d know everything, not just the facade he puts up with every passing day. 

“I needed to get out,” He mumbles, fingers still grazing Trent’s hair, gently tracing over a particular bow clip, “Out of my head, out of that flat, out of my office. I was lucky enough to make it here without gettin’ lost, and confused, and–” 

“Ted.” Trent replies, pulling out of the hug slightly to see his face, to see him opening up, scared, “You’re alright. You’re the most thoughtful, most positive, most persevering person I’ve known. If there’s anything out there, troubling you, which there is… Then I know you’ve got a way to combat it. I’d recommend you take it slow. No point in going fast to reach a poor end.” 

“No point in going fast to reach a poor end…” Ted whispers, cracking a smile now, “I like that one.” 

Trent smiles too, and it’s a smile that reaches his eyes. “I had a strong feeling you would.” 

***

When the football coach leaves, determined to get home and start planning for the final game of the season, Trent reluctantly lets go. 

Of course, he, more than anyone, understands the importance of working… But after all this? 

He could’ve stayed like that forever, and knows that Ted could’ve, too. 

The door closes behind him. 

Trent knows, however, on a happier note, that they’ll text, that they’ll see each other in the press room. Maybe they’ll have coffee out somewhere, or he’ll pop over to Ted’s flat for a favour in return. 

Because… He might just be wanting, seeking something that he doesn’t quite know how to define. 

But, it clearly resides inside Ted Lasso. 

***

“Do you mind sharing with me?” 

There are two biscuits left. 

Seraphina’s pouting, her response of, “Fiiiine, Daddddd…” spewing the same sentiment. 

That sentiment being: They’re my biscuits! Ted gave them to me. It’s my birthday, Dad!!!

But Trent just laughs it off, taking a photo of the biscuit packet first, before eating one of the biscuits. 

Small, round, crumbly, almost shortbread-like, and sweet! 

“Yum…” He ends up saying without realising it, and Seraphina just laughs. 

“You love his biscuits too!” 

“I do.” Trent says once he’s swallowed the mouthful, “God, I really do…” 

He kisses his daughter on the forehead and folds the lid over the biscuit packet, placing the box in the cupboard. Seraphina frowns. 

“We’ll have that one tomorrow, alright?” 

“... Fine, Dad.” 

***

Trent Crimm: Photo Attached

Trent Crimm: These take the cake, Ted, really. 

Trent Crimm: Almost glad we didn’t have cake. Thank you again, for everything. 

Ted Lasso: Damn, you’re welcome!! I should be thanking you, seriously, though. 

Ted Lasso: I know there’s a lot up ahead, but today… 

Ted Lasso: … 

Ted Lasso: It really flipped a certain switch in my brain. Just a little. So good to see a new perspective. 

Trent Crimm: Glad I could help. I mean that, by the way. 

Trent Crimm: … 

Trent Crimm: <3

***

Ted searches up the emoticon at the speed of light. Because it’s not as simple as decoding a smiley or frowny face. 

An analogue heart. 

It makes Ted feel warm and fuzzy. Warm and fuzzy in a way that’s like Christmas, with a fireplace on, and cinnamon, and presents. 

It makes Ted feel… Appreciated. 

Because as much as he tells others he feels the sentiment, it doesn’t always get sent back to him. 

This is heart, literally and metaphorically. This is meaningful. This is caring. 

He takes a deep, slow breath, and lets it go. 

Ted Lasso: Thank you. 

Ted Lasso: Truly. 

Ted Lasso: But I’m gonna go to sleep now. Goodnight, Trent Crimm from The Independent! 

Trent Crimm: Goodnight, Coach Ted Lasso from America.

Ted Lasso: Oh wait

Ted Lasso: One more thing 

Ted Lasso: <3

[tealvenetianmask]

More about Blitz and anger . . .

Anger is a super stigmatized emotion. That's for a reason- it's powerful. When we see it from other people it's usually externalized- it's ugly, aggressive, shows up in abusive situations- it sometimes leads to violence. But when we talk about righteous anger, or the anger of marginalized people, we sometimes praise it. That's because anger can be empowering too.

I want to talk about how Blitz's anger, while it's also destructive at times, has empowered him.

Personal note: when I was a kid, I was yelled at frequently by my mother. The house I grew up in was a 60's rancher with a long hallway in the center, and she would chase me down the hallway yelling. As I grew older, I learned to yell back. Feeling anger and externalizing it didn't make the hurt go away, and it didn't solve our problems- it turned us into two people yelling at each other- but it did make me feel less helpless.

So let's look at Blitz as a kid. In addition to guilt tripping him, his father tells him that "there are scarier things," than stealing from a wealthy and (literally) powerful family, and he doesn't disagree. I think this screenshot captures their relationship pretty well.

We see moments of defiance from Blitz though, even as he's very much under Cash's control. Georgia Dow pointed this out in her video about how Blitz learned resilience in his childhood. Here, have some defiant expressions:

Notice Blitz's eyebrows here, mirroring his father. I suspect that as he grew older, Blitz learned to push back harder, to argue, maybe even to yell. He learned to channel his anger- at being used, diminished, devalued (very likely yelled at and probably physically hurt too) into expression, into fight (I don't picture him physically fighting Cash, but the guy has fight in him- of all kinds).

He learned to feel angry at the world and express that too- for treating imps as lower than other demons, for limiting his options in life, for filling the road to success with exploitation (as we see in the Mammon flashbacks with Fizz).

Speaking of that flashback, he's very ready, as a teenager, to express anger exactly when he needs to for the purpose of protecting a loved one.

Fast forward to the present.

Blitz's anger helps him stand up for the people he cares about- see Fizz in the present at Mammon's show but also Moxxie in Spring Broken.

It helps make him good at his job too. When we see him fight, he doesn't tend to seem all out enraged, but he's super determined and all in. He's at home in a conflict. When he's doing his best fighting, we see a mix of the "angry" facial expressions and pure confidence.

Anger also helps him manage a lot of difficult emotions. Disclaimer (and idea I'll get back to soon)- I said manage, not deal with.

When he interacts with Verosika and with Robo Fizz early in season 1, there's genuine underlying pain from how the relationships with Verosika and the real Fizz ended, but he channels that into anger. The anger makes him take action (Good action? Eh. But still action- he's not crying on his couch.) rather than get consumed by more painful emotions. He's able to keep going.

It also gets in his way, even as he uses it as a coping mechanism. Is his anger at Muffy and the Karen in the doctor's office understandable as he's dealing with his frustration about the inaccessibility of healthcare for Loona and his worries about losing Stolas? Yes. Is it helpful? No, probably not.

It isn't useful with Stolas either. Stolas is this person who's kind and beautiful and quirky and able to match his wit, and who Blitz has grown genuine feelings for, but who is also deeply entwined in the unfairness in Hell's society that Blitz has grown to resent throughout his life- AND Stolas unknowingly participates in some very familiar microaggressions himself.

Blitz channels a whole range of complicated emotions- love, fear, despair at the thought that he isn't loved back- all into anger because he HAS been wronged and his world IS unfair, and anger is COMFORTABLE because anger is ACTIVE, and with it he doesn't have to just let things happen to him!

So we end up back here.

[uninformedartist]

Quick note the kid plays Young Leia in a Star Wars show so...

1. We know how Hollywood tears kids apart so Brandon needs to be fucking extra careful

2. She works for Disney. Now while she's not on the Disney channel the only known actress to come out of that unscathed is Zendaya but Disney is EXTREMELY controlling of young stars so Brandon may have ruined her employment chances there.

3. This photo doesn't just ruin her future employment with Disney but other places since most of the time kid actors get most of their jobs with shows aimed at kids or families. Having her make art or promote an adult show or be associated with a creator/actor with exclusivy adult content might make some companies be less likely to hire unless she has done a bunch of acting already since they don't want that stuff to mix with their family friendly shit.

4. This also reminds me when I was still in the fandom how weirded out I was that they casted child actors for the young versions of Stolas, Blitzo, and Fizz. Like Helluva is animated... You don't need to that especially when the grown up versions are VERY NOT CHILD FRIENDLY. Like get a grown woman to voice the kid versions instead for gods sake.

Don't have much to add as I'll be repeating what you said anon but 100% agree. Looking deeper into this situation is all that you mentioned above, they put this child at risk career wise present and future, her safety (posting her pic on a public platform associated with an adult show/ as you said Hollywood), Brandon were so ignorant and irresponsible doing this, yeah he can't forsee all the repercussions but as an ADULT in the industry he should know and used his discretion. On the child VAs they used... sigh. Leander Lewis who voiced young Stolas is 14/15, Mason Blomberg who voiced young Blitz is 11/12, Juliana Sada is minor who voiced young Octavia. These are children Voice acting in an adult cartoon show. And its not like you can say they're used to doing VA work on adult media, this seems like their 1st time doing such work

Mason Blomberg: (9-1-1 is an adult show but it doesn't compare to helluva with its raunchy humor and content)

Leander Lewis:

Juliana Sada (again wasn't in raunchy adult shows)

And this is the post on Mason's insta announcing it and sighs to the moon, why is a child a VA on an adult show, Viv should NEVER have reached out to them to do va work, "adult cartoon, not suitable for kids" but has kid VAs on it you could've easily gotten an adult to VA your young characters.

Comes back to what I say, Viv and them don't make rational decisions like an adult should. You know your fandom is full of minors, be more active and she can since Viv is more prominent in her fandom than other creators, reprimand fans bullying and harassing minors in fandom and stick by your word and remind minors that this aint a kids show because again Viv is VERY active in her fandom. In conclusion /try to keep minors at all costs away from your adult raunchy shows. Be it them doing VA work, at cons, in fandom ect TRY TO KEEP THEM AWAY.