#did no one think this might be a bad idea?

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).

Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.

Series Masterlist

You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.

It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given you—probably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.

The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadn’t realized she was in a romance novel yet.

And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.

The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)

His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to “stalk” her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, “I will protect you… wait, don’t run!” before faceplanting into a bush.

2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)

This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.

3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)

The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasn’t interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, “Ah, you’re just shy.” No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.

4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)

He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.” He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you weren’t even sure why.

5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)

He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroine’s arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.

And the villainess? She wasn’t even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.

Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfaction—an assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.

That was it. That was the ending.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you weren’t sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.

You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.

It was time to go home.

As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.

A faint rumbling.

A presence.

And then—

“OUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!”

A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic banshee’s cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.

For a split second, you locked eyes.

And in that moment, you knew.

You were not surviving this.

Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.

Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.

She. Didn’t. Even. Stumble.

Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me…?

And then, everything went black.

The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth you’d never personally known.

Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:

Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.

Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.

Oh God. The ambulance bill.

Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system when—

The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.

And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.

You knew that face.

You knew that godforsaken face.

This wasn’t a hospital. This wasn’t even your world.

Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.

Your will to live immediately evaporated.

This couldn’t be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadn’t even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, “It’s so bad, you’ll love it.”

And now? Now you were going to die in it.

While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like he’d just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” he said.

You almost threw up in real time.

NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.

Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.

“Man, you were out for so long,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “We were starting to get worried.”

He paused, then snickered. “Not that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddle—y’know, because chivalry—and then you started struggling and he, uh…” Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. “He might’ve… dropped you on your head.”

Your soul left your body.

The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.

You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadn’t even been five minutes.

Meanwhile, Ace—clearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdown—casually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.

“Try not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?” he said, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.”

And just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut.

And you were left alone.

You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.

Then at the overly luxurious furniture.

Then at the mirror across the room.

You knew what you would see before you even looked.

White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novel’s terrible cover.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.

This was real. This was happening.

And worst of all—

You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

You needed a plan.

You needed a way out.

You needed to reject them.

You needed to survive.

With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.

The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.

Step One: Gather Allies.

Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circle—which, in this case, meant the heroine’s original friend group. You weren’t sure how well they’d take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.

They were all staring at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.

“Listen,” you began, voice firm. “I need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.”

There was a pause.

Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.

He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a spine. It’s about time.”

You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.

Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.

“You need to get rid of them?” Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.

“Yes,” you stressed. “Immediately.”

Riddle hummed in approval. “Good. Then let’s strategize.”

You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.

Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.

A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.

“Y’know,” he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, “we could make things way easier if you just tell ‘em you’re already taken.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Ace smirked. “You'd just need a fake lover, right?”

“…Yes?”

He shrugged. “I could do it.”

The room went silent.

Deuce’s face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.

You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.

On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroine—for you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.

On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.

And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.

“…Alright,” you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.

Ace grinned like he’d just won a bet.

Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.

And just like that, Operation “Escape Horrible Men” was officially underway.

The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintance—if you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.

He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.

It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated in—swatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.

Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.

The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.

On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.

But this man—this absolute buffoon—had the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.

You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.

You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.

You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.

At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.

Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.

You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.

He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.

Then he hand-fed you a pastry.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.

Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.

But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.

Time to twist the knife.

You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, “Darling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to you”

Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.

In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, “My love, I’ve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.”

That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.

“You’re… dating?” he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.

You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, “We’re soooo in love~”

He ran away crying.

It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.

And then, just for a moment—barely a second—you caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.

One down. Four to go.

The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.

You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of “dancing” was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?

You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroine’s muscle memory will kick in.

It did not.

You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniable—you needed help.

Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.

Ace. The man who claimed he could “totally waltz” but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people did—just not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.

Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.

Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.

Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.

Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.

Meanwhile, Trey suffered.

He suffered so much.

You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.

“Ah, you’re getting there,” Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.

Ace twitched.

The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.

The next day, you arrived at Ace’s estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.

Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was “currently practicing” and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."

This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.

You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.

There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.

Dancing.

With a coat hanger.

He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.

You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.

You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.

So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.

“Wow, Ace. I didn’t know you and the coat hanger were so close.”

Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.

He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.

“I—this—I wasn’t practicing for you or anything!” he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.

“Oh, of course not,” you said, nodding sagely. “You were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.

“…You wanna practice together?”

And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.

It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.

And somewhere in the background, Ace’s butler was already reallocating the estate’s budget for your wedding.

You had successfully survived the dance.

This was, by all accounts, a miracle.

There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a duke’s son in the face.

You had defied fate.

And it definitely helped that your partner had been Ace—as much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"

You would rather perish.

So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.

And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.

You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.

One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the next—

He was there.

The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.

Oh, this was bad.

"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."

This man had the audacity—the sheer, unholy nerve—to look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.

You had one option.

You fled.

You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.

Ace.

Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.

Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.

Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.

You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.

The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.

"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.

Ace did not remove his arm.

In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.

"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.

You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many things—irritating, reckless, an absolute menace—but he was not immortal.

Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.

Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.

To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.

The plan was in motion.

Phase One

From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creation—a true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.

A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Trey took one fateful step.

Tripped (As planned)

And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.

Straight. Onto. The. Prince.

Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.

Smug. Smug. Smug.

Something in your stomach did something.

You ignored it.

The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.

And then came Phase Two

Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someone’s life, rushed forward.

"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."

The entire ballroom went silent.

The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.

"What?"

"You’re covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.

The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.

Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.

He grabbed the prince’s jacket.

And pulled.

The ballroom collectively inhaled.

Because underneath—where there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a “warrior prince,” where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategy—

Was nothing.

Not just nothing—an outright betrayal of physics and expectation.

The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.

His coat—once the source of his so-called “strong, masculine presence”—had been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.

Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.

The ballroom gasped.

The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.

He ran.

You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.

And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:

"From Brawn to Busted: The Prince’s Muscle Mirage!"

2 down. 3 to go.

It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.

The universe had other plans.

One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the next—

Betrayal.

Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.

And then you hit the floor.

Hard.

Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.

And that was when he had completely lost it.

He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.

"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your ego— oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."

And that was how you had ended up here.

Ace had decided—without your input, without even a semblance of human decency— that you were now a particularly large handbag.

He carried you everywhere.

There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"

And he had not put you down since.

Which led to your current predicament.

You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.

The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoon—

And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.

Silence.

The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the king’s court.

Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looked entertained.

And you? You had given up.

"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Ace’s shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.

Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. You’re furniture now."

You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menace—"

Ace ignored you completely.

He dropped into a chair, still holding you.

This was your life now.

Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So… sprained ankle?"

"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, when—boom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."

"You were laughing," you deadpanned.

"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.

Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.

Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.

"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.

And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Ace’s face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.

"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."

Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.

It had been a perfectly normal day.

Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.

You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.

Slowly, you turned your head.

A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.

You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."

"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive… as expected of my fated beloved."

As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.

Silence.

A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.

The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."

You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"

He rose to his feet dramatically—or at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).

"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."

A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)

You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.

"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."

He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows… truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"

"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.

"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"

You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.

Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.

"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"

He took a bold step forward—

—and promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then—THUMP.

He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.

Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.

But the Viscount?

He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.

"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love… is pain."

You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount… if only you had come to me sooner."

His breath hitched. "You mean—?"

"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not already…taken."

Fake gasps echoed through the hall.

The Viscount staggered. "No… it cannot be!"

"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I… I have already pledged my love to…"

You spun dramatically—and pointed straight at Ace.

Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.

Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.

Cater’s camera zoomed in on his expression.

You turned dramatically, seizing Ace’s arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancé, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you sooner—this is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"

Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.

"WHAT."

The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.

"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"

Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.

"No—no, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"

You gripped Ace’s collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at his—his, um. His face!"

Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "His—his unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"

"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.

"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."

The grand hall erupted into chaos.

Ace visibly short-circuited. "I— WHAT??"

Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.

"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"

You clutched Ace’s hand tighter. "Last night."

"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.

You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.

"Aha… aha… yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my beloved—" his voice cracked, "—who I love so much!"

You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."

The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.

It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.

More silence.

Then, from below: "Love… is pain…"

Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"

You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancé, Ace."

Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.

Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.

The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.

Then Ace Trappola happened.

He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."

You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.

And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.

"WAIT—NO—"

It was too late.

You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.

"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now we’re both glowing."

Ace wanted to talk back— wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.

And he was losing it.

Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.

Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.

Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequential—some royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanser—but Ace couldn’t process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to just—just—

The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.

This was not a platonic feeling.

This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.

And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.

By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.

You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.

The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.

You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, and—oh.

Oh no.

Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even weird.

It felt… right.

And that was when it hit you.

Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.

You were in love with Ace Trappola.

You. Loved. Ace.

How unfortunate.

You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this way—but then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.

You stopped breathing.

The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.

You slowly raised a hand.

And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a year—and every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.

This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesn’t-even-exist coats.

He did not take rejection well.

Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.

"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."

Pathetic.

And now, as expected, here he was again.

And as always, he came prepared.

This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.

A solid gold chair—because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.”

An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."

A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.

Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.

Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Duke’s arrival, stood nearby. It didn’t take long for you to realize why—she liked him. She wanted him.

You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Your expression said: “Lady, I don’t even want him.”

Her expression said: “You lying harlot.”

And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.

Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:

"Oh, sorry, we already got married."

Riddle choked on air.

The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.

"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"

You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.

Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.

"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.

You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."

The Duke’s breathing audibly shortened.

Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh my god, make it stop.”

"WHAT?!"

Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."

The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.

"SIX?! BUT IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"

Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.

"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.

The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.

There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.

One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.

The Duke completely lost his mind.

"YOU—YOU HAVE—YOU’VE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"

Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.

Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, y’know?"

"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.

Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."

At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.

The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.

And then, without another word—he left.

Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."

Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.

Ace didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

Ace doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

He’s always liked you. A little.

A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.

But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.

Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.

You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.

Because now?

Now he’s the one barely keeping up.

You match him perfectly—step for step, disaster for disaster. If he’s instigating, you’re escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.

And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, let’s cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.

He’s so ruined.

And the thing is?

Ace has done this to himself.

Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.

He’d fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.

Except now he’s holding your hand in public.

Now he’s whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.

Now he’s calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ and ‘my love’—and you play along like it’s a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.

At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?

Ace thinks he might literally die.

No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the world’s most bitter, lovesick ghost.

Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.

The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.

You called him ‘Acey’ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.

One time, you said, "I feel safest when I’m with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.

You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.

And now you’re standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.

He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.

How he’d buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.

How his entire soul is in shambles because he’s standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."

Ace Trappola, Ace ‘Fake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Idea’ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:

"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. You’re in love."

And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"

And he almost chokes on his own tongue.

Because yes.

Yes, it would suit you.

So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.

But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."

And you laugh.

And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.

The worst of the lot finally appears.

You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.

He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.

His sword—which was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodies—glinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.

"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils of—"

You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."

The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "You’re right… I must protect you. From myself."

Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."

And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.

Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?

"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"

You blinked. "What."

"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shall—"

Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.

Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just… make it quick."

You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.

You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.

"No," you whispered. "You don’t understand."

The Knight faltered. "Understand… what?"

You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a… a… a goose."

Silence.

The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.

"A… a goose?" he repeated.

You solemnly nodded.

And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.

The Knight looked between you and Deuce’s retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.

Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.

But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.

Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.

Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touch—the little red heart painted onto its cheek.

Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."

"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."

The Knight reeled. "No. That… That cannot be!"

The goose honked.

"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."

A perfect beat of silence.

And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."

The Knight—a man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of death—let out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.

And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.

Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heart—once so full of love and poetry—was now full of terror.

Terror of you.

Terror of your goose.

Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.

You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.

A long silence followed.

Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.

Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"

Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."

"You love us," you said.

"I do not."

Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."

Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.

But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.

A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.

No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.

You were free.

And yet—

As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt… unsettled. Uneasy. Almost—upset.

Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.

So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?

And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.

Ace.

This meant no more holding hands in public to “convince” people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.

It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.

And now it was gone.

The realization hit like a carriage crash.

You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.

Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.

And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now… or take this to your grave.

Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.

Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.

You’re finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.

Most of them think you’re taken. One thinks you’re cursed.

It worked. You’re safe. You’re free.

So why does Ace feel like he’s the one who lost?

He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.

And now? Now it was over.

And he doesn’t know how to go back.

How is he supposed to just… be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it could’ve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?

Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until you’re the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.

But most of all, he knows—knows deep in his bones—that if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.

He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.

You’re running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine who’s just realized she’s been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hair’s a mess, and you probably look like you’ve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.

Because Ace is running too.

You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like he’s been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have—metaphorically and literally.

You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they should’ve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he can’t believe you’re actually here. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.

You’ve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.

So you kiss him.

And for a second, there’s nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

And then he’s grabbing you, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like he’s terrified it’s all a dream and any second now, he’ll wake up.

You pull away for air—and he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.

This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. It’s like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into you, like he’s afraid to stop, like he’s trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get it—because you feel the same way.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.

“I love you.”

Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

“What took you so long?”

And then he kisses you again.

The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.

You’re both trying to act normal, like the world hasn’t completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadn’t kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadn’t confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it could’ve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.

Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, “Great Sevens, finally.” His tone is not congratulatory—it is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.

Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. “Congrats,” he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.

Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.

“LET’S GO, MY MAN!” he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. “Finally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.” He’s already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.

And then there’s Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.

He doesn’t cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like he’s just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like he’s been carrying the weight of Ace’s obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that it’s over.

“I don’t have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,” Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m free.”

Ace shoves him.

And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.

And in that moment, you can’t help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.

You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.

She was a real one.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[endiness]

@sugarrushsock Wow I’m so happy someone actually has all the receipts cuz every other post just seems like vague call out post with no substance. Also wildly the Henry cavill just seems to say whatever makes him look best at that moment. You’d think he’d have a better pr team

@cilianda1 His interviews are scripted all the time

@sugarrushsock They’re terrible at their job if that’s the case. The lack of consistency is alarming to say the least. Like stick to a story cuz they made this guy look stupid

Okay, just to address this, but Henry Cavill's PR was actually a lot more insidious than this post might make things seem. Because he really only fucked up and showed his hand a few times.

Like, out of +50 interviews for S2, it's only in (iirc) 3 interviews that he ever acknowledges anything about how he was the one cutting Geralt's lines — and even then, all of those interviews either happened at con panels, in interviews over ~10 mins long, and/or in foreign/non-english press — all of which are significantly less likely to be seen and reported on by the fandom and larger news outlets. But in all the rest of those +50 interviews? He was talking about how much he pushed for a more verbose Geralt whilst never acknowledging how HE'S the one responsible for that mess in the first place.

Same thing with him going on about how much he cares about adhering to the source material as if Lauren's vision of the show is somehow in opposition to that. He went on and on and on about that all throughout the press for S2, but it's only in a few interviews where he fucks up and actually gives the context for what he meant by "Lauren's vision" ie Yennefer and Ciri being just as important as Geralt is and the show heavily centering around women.

Or, like, in S1 interviews, he was perfectly fine with bringing up how he had no idea about the books until Lauren told him about them and he had no problem talking about how much he was inspired by the video games for his performance as Geralt. Then come S2 (after he'd gotten dunked on by reddit for his book inaccurate performance in S1) and he suddenly changed his tune, hardly mentioned the games as inspiring his performance again (or, really, at all), and started going on and on about the books.

Or even with him admitting to, basically, having only played the third game despite saying he's played all the games and everything — he only ever admitted that in maybe, like, 2 interviews all of which were in foreign/non-english press. Same thing with him admitting he only ever read through the series once — he only ever said that in one interview and it was at a +40 minute long con panel.

Or even this quote from S1 press where he admits to how he didn't actually prepare for the role or do any research:

"I asked my agent to put me on the spot and wanted to meet Lauren as soon as possible. I didn’t even need to prepare specially for the role. Because I breathe, I experience this universe every day. I’ve already had many opportunities to think about this character when I was playing the game. My preparation was already done before the casting even began!"

Like, where is that quote from? It's from an interview he did with a french magazine. So obviously not a lot of people saw it. Plus, the quote might sound… fine without context. But what is the context? He hadn't read any of the books and he had only ever really played the third game.

Like, adding it all up, it does look bad. Because it is lol. But the thing is, the vast, vast, vast majority of the fanbase never did this. It read or watched maybe one or two interviews he did here and there and only ever saw Henry Cavill talking about how much of a fan he is, how much he knows, how hard he pushed for a more book accurate Geralt, how important adhering to the source material is to him. But when you actually look into everything he's said, that's when his whole story really falls apart because none of it adds up or makes any sense.

Debunking misinformation about Netflix's The Witcher (Part 1)

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7]

"Henry Cavill is a massive fan of the books and the games and he quit the show because the writers wouldn't stick to the books and he just cares about the source material so much."

Henry Cavill not only did not know that the books existed when he started pursuing the role of Geralt, but he actually thought that the books were based off of the video games (and he still didn't bother to read them) and he didn't learn that the games were actually based off the books until Lauren told him (even though the first thing in the game credits is that they're based off the books); as of 2021, he as only read the full series once — right before he was cast in 2018; while he has played TW3, he has only played a little of TW2 (and I've never found any evidence that he's played the first game); and he also has not played the DLC for TW3.

Henry Cavill also started heavily pushing the narrative that he's just such a massive fan of the books and how important adhering to the source material is to him during the press for S2 to deflect from how it was due to his acting choices of cutting Geralt's lines and either saying nothing or just grunting instead that Geralt's characterization — who is much more verbose in the books — was book inaccurate in S1:

He also lied about the situation and tried to act like Geralt was never originally written as being verbose and blamed the lack of dialogue on Yennefer and Ciri's prominence, which cannot be true as confirmed by Lauren:

And tried to act like the lines he was cutting weren't that important anyway so it wasn't really a big deal, which also cannot be true as confirmed by Joey:

He also started pushing the narrative that adhering to the source material is so important to him and it's 'tricky' to do that with Lauren's vision, but his definition of "Lauren's vision" is the show being an ensemble piece with Yennefer and Ciri at the forefront (like the books) and the show in general heavily centering around women (like the books):

So the idea of him caring so much about "book accuracy" is, in fact, not accurate to the books at all as his problems were the prominence of women in the show when Ciri is the main character of the main book series, which the show started adapting from S2 onwards (which is when Henry Cavill started to complain about wanting "book accuracy" in the first place), and when women are very prominent, central, key figures in the books and they often drive the plot forwards.

Lastly, S3 was the closest adaption of the books out of all the seasons so far, so the idea that he quit after S3 because the writers just weren't respecting the source material and the show wasn't following the books doesn't make any sense anyway.

"Henry Cavill is the only reason why the show was even close to the source material at all."

I've not only never seen any evidence of this, but if anything, I've seen the exact opposite: Henry Cavill was either directly responsible for or at least contributed in some way to a lot of things that went against the books or didn't happen in them.

As I already pointed out, he cut Geralt's lines in S1 and either said nothing or just grunted instead which is inaccurate to Geralt's characterization in the books. Here's another quote from Joey affirming that:

(Just to note: During the press for S1, he frequently talked about how the games inspired his performance as Geralt — sometimes talking about them even more than the books despite how the show is based off of the books, not the games — and it wasn't until S2 press that he suddenly changed his tune and started talking about how important adhering to the source material ie the books is to him. He also only started advocating for a more book accurate Geralt because he got dunked on by reddit for his book inaccurate performance in S1.)

He didn't want to play Geralt and Jaskier's friendship as directly as in the books and buddy-buddy with each other:

He didn't want to have any kind of conflict in Geralt and Ciri's relationship in S2 — at least on Geralt's side of things:

Nor play Geralt struggling with fatherhood at all — all of which led to the domino effect of Yennefer's betrayal:

Eskel's death (which in itself also led to things like Vesemir trying to create new witchers and Lambert's attitude toward Ciri):

And Voleth Meir being the big bad of the season:

He didn't want Geralt and Triss to even just platonically find comfort in each other in S2 — which is what happens in the books:

He nixed a sex scene between Geralt and Yennefer in S2 because he didn't think it'd be in character of them to have sex after reuniting which, uh, is absolutely in character of them:

While this is an incredibly inconsequential change, given the prevalence of this idea that Henry Cavill is such an ardent defender of the source material ie the books and how much he wanted the show to adhere to them, I do think it's important to note that he pushed for — and got — more signs into the show even though by his own admission that is more of a game thing than a book thing and he got it into the show for the explicit purpose of catering to game stans:

This is also another incredibly inconsequential change, but again, given how prevalent the idea of Henry Cavill pushing for perfect source accuracy is, I do just want to point out that he would wear his armor 24/7 to make it look worn down:

Even though it is canon in the books that Geralt will buy himself brand new clothes, so the idea that Geralt's clothing has to look worn down and can't be brand new is not actually book accurate.

"Lauren wanted to make Roach's death a joke."

Just to address this point specifically, Lauren wanted to make a meta reference about how all of Geralt's horses are named Roach. That in no way, shape, or form means that she wanted to make Roach's death into a joke or even that the scene had to be played comedically. This is what Lauren had to say about the subject and the 'joke' in question (which, js, actually fits the tone of the books more):

And as far as the "Henry Cavill is the only one who cared about the source material and he's the only reason why the show even stuck to the books at all" front goes... Henry Cavill did change the dialogue in this scene to a book quote/reference; however, the quote in question ("Enjoy your last walk across the meadow and through the mist. Be not afraid of her for she is your friend.") is not something that Geralt himself says and the line/scene from the books foreshadows Geralt's ending in them.

So, at least imo — especially taking into account the incredibly high standard the fandom has set for Henry Cavill as the #1 defender of the books — I don't think this change was actually book accurate especially given the narrative significance of that exchange in the books.

[theonottsbxtch]

HOPELESS | PO5

an: first time writing pato and i know i've written him less cocky and flirty than i wold have personally expected him being depicted. but i think for this request it worked in my favour.

wc: 3.3k

Pato had never been particularly good with words, but that didn’t matter much in motorsport. Out on the track, skill spoke louder than conversation, and for the most part, he was fine with that.

But with her, it was different.

She was the first-ever Indy champion, a driver who had carved her name into history with raw talent and relentless determination. Everyone knew her, everyone respected her—himself included. The other drivers had stories about her, moments shared in garages and on podiums, inside jokes and easy camaraderie. He had none of that.

For some reason, he simply didn’t exist in her world.

It wasn’t that she disliked him. There were no grudges, no bad blood. She treated him with the same polite professionalism she extended to reporters or engineers she barely knew. And yet, when he spoke, her responses were clipped, transactional. If she laughed at a joke in the paddock, it was never one of his. If she scanned a room, her gaze slid past him like he was a shadow against the wall.

It shouldn't have bothered him. It did.

Because Pato had been nursing a hopeless, ridiculous crush on her for as long as he could remember.

It wasn’t immediate, this thing he had for her. It crept up on him, slow and insidious, like the way tyre wear set in over a long stint—barely noticeable at first, until suddenly, it was all he could think about.

Maybe it started the first time he saw her race, years ago, before he even had a seat in IndyCar. He remembered watching from the pit wall, the way she danced through traffic, fearless and calculated, wringing every ounce of speed from a car that should’ve been struggling. He told himself back then that it was admiration, the kind any driver would have for another at the top of their game. But admiration didn’t tie knots in his stomach when she brushed past him in the paddock, nor did it make him hyper-aware of every offhand comment she made.

No, this was something worse.

And she had no idea.

Pato had tried to make an impression—nothing over the top, just little things. A comment here, a question there, something to make him more than just another driver in the field. It never landed. She’d acknowledge him, sure, but only in the way she acknowledged anyone she wasn’t particularly close with. There was no spark of recognition, no shift in her tone when she spoke to him.

Everyone else had that with her. Everyone but him.

And the worst part? He had no idea why.

It wasn’t arrogance; he knew his place in the pecking order. He wasn’t naïve enough to think he deserved her attention just because he wanted it. But it wasn’t as if they’d ever clashed, either. He’d never taken her out of a race, never bad-mouthed her, never done anything that might explain why she skimmed over him like he was background noise.

He’d never mattered to her.

And yet, she was all that mattered to him.

He knew he needed to get rid of his hopeless crush on her.

It was stupid. Pointless. Self-inflicted torture.

He told himself that constantly, especially when she breezed past him in the paddock without a second glance, or when she laughed—really laughed—at something another driver said, like they were in on some joke he would never be part of.

He needed to move on.

Until they were paired for pre-season media.

For a whole week.

Pato stared at the email in his inbox, half-convinced it was a mistake. Media obligations were a necessary evil in racing, but they were usually spread out, different drivers rotating in and out for interviews, photoshoots, sponsor promos. This, however, was something else.

A full week of interviews, press events, and behind-the-scenes content. Together.

The logic made sense. She was the reigning champion, the face of the sport. He was coming off a strong season, a title contender in his own right. Pairing them up created a compelling narrative—two of the top drivers, side by side, setting the tone for the year ahead.

For everyone else, it was great marketing.

For Pato, it was a disaster waiting to happen.

Because how was he supposed to pretend she didn’t affect him when he’d be stuck with her for seven straight days? When he’d have to sit next to her, answer questions about their "rivalry" (which didn’t exist, considering she barely registered his presence), and—God help him—probably pose for staged social media content where they’d be forced to look like they were actually friends?

He could already see it: a carefully curated clip of them laughing at some scripted joke, the kind of moment fans would eat up. She’d be effortless, charming as ever. And him? He’d be struggling to act like he wasn’t hanging onto every word she said.

It was going to be the longest week of his life.

The first day of pre-season media started early. Too early for Pato to be dealing with this.

He arrived at the studio ahead of schedule, hoping that being early would give him time to settle in. It didn’t. The place was already a whirlwind of activity—PR reps barking orders, camera crews setting up lights, stylists buzzing around like it was the Met Gala instead of a bunch of racing drivers doing press.

And she was already there.

He spotted her near one of the backdrops, talking to a producer, nodding along as they ran through the schedule. Effortlessly composed, like she’d done this a thousand times before. Which, of course, she had.

She was dressed in team gear, but even the plain polo and branded jacket looked good on her, like she belonged on the cover of a motorsport magazine. He forced himself to look away before his brain could start romanticising something as stupid as the way she stood—like she owned the room without even trying.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Good.

Maybe he could get through this week by staying in the background, doing his job, keeping things professional. He just had to ignore the fact that every time she looked through him, it twisted something in his gut.

“Ah, Pato! You’re here.”

Too late.

One of the PR reps clapped him on the shoulder before steering him forward, right into her line of sight. She turned at the sound of his name, her expression shifting from polite focus to something neutral. Not cold, not unkind—just nothing.

“Morning,” she said, like it was an afterthought.

“Morning.” His voice came out steadier than he expected, which was a miracle in itself.

She gave a small nod, then looked back at the producer, clearly expecting the conversation to move on without him.

Of course.

The PR rep cleared their throat. “Right! So, you two are paired for the day, and we’ve got a packed schedule. First up—some quickfire Q&A for the socials, then a sit-down interview for the pre-season documentary.”

Pato nodded, determined to act like this was just another media obligation. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth overthinking.

Until the PR rep added, far too casually—

“And after lunch, we’ll be doing some fun challenges—bit of a ��getting to know each other’ vibe. Teamwork exercises, that sort of thing.”

He froze.

So did she.

Her brows pulled together, just slightly. It wasn’t irritation, more like mild confusion—like she couldn’t understand why they had been chosen for something like that.

“Right,” she said eventually. “Sounds… fun.”

It didn’t sound fun. Not to her. Definitely not to him.

Pato had wanted her to acknowledge him. To notice him.

Now, for the first time in his career, they were going to be forced to interact properly.

And he had no idea if he was ready for it.

The first part of the day went about as well as Pato had expected—awkwardly, painfully, and with absolutely no shift in how she saw him.

The quickfire Q&A session was fine. Standard questions, standard answers. They sat side by side while an off-camera producer fired prompts at them. Who had the better qualifying record? (Her.) Who was most likely to be late to a team meeting? (Him.) Who had the worst taste in music? (Also him, apparently, judging by the way she scrunched her nose when he admitted to liking 80s rock.)

She didn’t laugh at him, but she didn’t laugh with him either. The same easy, effortless energy she had with other drivers wasn’t there. It was all business, like she was just getting through another obligation.

The sit-down interview wasn’t much better.

“Describe each other in three words.”

Pato hesitated. Three words. Just three? He could name 100 if she asked.

“Fast,” he said eventually, because obviously. “Consistent. And… competitive.”

She gave a small nod, acknowledging the answer, but there was nothing behind it.

When it was her turn, she barely hesitated. “Skilled. Focused.” A pause. “Quiet.”

Quiet.

It wasn’t wrong, exactly. He was quieter than most of the grid, more measured with his words. But coming from her, it felt less like an observation and more like confirmation—of what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe that she still didn’t really see him.

By the time lunch rolled around, he was convinced nothing about their dynamic was going to change.

And then, the afternoon happened.

The "fun challenges," as the PR rep had so kindly put it, turned out to be a mix of stupid icebreaker games and team-building exercises.

The first was a trust exercise.

“Okay, you know how this works,” the producer explained, gesturing between them. “Pato, stand behind her. She’s going to fall, and you’re going to catch her.”

Pato’s brain short-circuited.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, looking more amused than anything. “Try not to drop me, yeah?”

It was the first remotely casual thing she’d said to him all day.

He managed a smirk. “No promises.”

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips. Not a full smile. Not even close. But it was something.

She turned back around, took a breath, and let herself fall.

For a split second, he almost forgot to catch her. Not on purpose—he just wasn’t used to her being this close, trusting him with something as simple as this.

His arms wrapped around her waist just in time, stopping her before she hit the ground. For the briefest moment, she was right there, weight pressed against him, her head tilting slightly as if she was about to glance back.

And then it was over.

She straightened up, stepping away, brushing her hands over her jacket like nothing had happened.

“Not bad,” she admitted.

Pato exhaled, forcing his brain back into normal function. “Told you I wouldn’t drop you.”

She hummed, considering. “I thought you said no promises.”

He blinked. Was she—was she teasing him?

Before he could figure out how to respond, the producer clapped their hands together. “Great! Next challenge—answering questions for each other. Let’s see how well you really know your gridmate.”

Her brow lifted slightly as she looked at Pato.

Gridmates.

They weren’t. Not really.

But for this week, maybe they had to be.

The rest of the week blurred into a cycle of press obligations, staged interactions, and an ever-present awareness that, for the first time in his career, she actually had to acknowledge him.

It wasn’t much—small, incremental shifts that barely felt like progress. But Pato noticed everything.

The way she started looking at him when he spoke, instead of through him. The way she started responding to his jokes—not always with laughter, but with a twitch of her lips, like she was holding something back. The way she started actually engaging with him, even if it was just subtle, throwaway comments between takes.

By the time they reached the final stretch of media duties, it was easier. Almost natural.

Almost.

The moment that stuck with him, though—the one that lodged itself in his brain like an unshakable thought—came on the second-to-last day, during lunch.

He hadn’t even realised she was nearby until she was standing in front of him, hand extended. A cereal bar. Nothing fancy. Just one of those standard protein bars the teams kept stocked for quick energy.

Pato frowned, looking between the bar and her face, like there was some hidden meaning he wasn’t catching. “What’s this?”

She tilted her head slightly, like he was the one being strange. “You haven’t eaten yet.”

He blinked. “How do you—”

“You always wait until the last second, and then you grab something just before the next shoot.” She shrugged. “Figured I’d save you the trouble.”

Pato stared. Not because it was a grand gesture—if anything, it was small. Thoughtless, even. Like she’d noticed, made a decision, and moved on without thinking too much about it.

And maybe that’s what got to him.

She noticed.

She noticed.

Before he could say anything, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him standing there, cereal bar in hand, trying very hard not to read into something that probably meant nothing.

Probably.

That night, Pato was actively losing his mind.

The cereal bar was still sitting on his hotel nightstand, untouched. He didn’t even like that flavour. That wasn’t the point.

She had noticed him. Noticed him. And not in the usual, fleeting, empty way where he barely registered in her head. She had paid attention. To his habits. To the fact that he was terrible at remembering to eat on time. She had walked over, handed it to him, and left before he could so much as process the fact that it had even happened.

What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

There was only one person he trusted to make sense of this for him.

His mother.

He pressed the phone to his ear, pacing his hotel room like an idiot, waiting for her to pick up.

“¿Mijo?” came her warm, familiar voice. “¿Qué pasó? It’s late where you are, are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’m losing my mind.”

She sighed, the kind of exasperated sound that only a mother could perfect. “Ay, Dios. ¿Qué hiciste ahora?”

“Nothing! That’s the problem!”

A pause. “… Es por una chica, no?”

Pato groaned. “Of course you immediately know it’s about a girl.”

“Because you sound like your father when he was being tonto about me,” she said, unimpressed. “Who is she?”

He exhaled. “It’s—ugh. It’s her.”

His mother knew exactly who he meant. He had never explicitly told her about his hopeless crush, but she wasn’t stupid. The one time she’d come to a race and met his fellow drivers, she had taken one look at him watching her across the paddock and raised a knowing eyebrow.

“Ah,” she said, like that explained everything. “And what has she done to make you so dramatic?”

“She gave me a cereal bar.”

A long silence. Then—

“… Perdón?”

“A cereal bar! At lunch! She just—she noticed that I wasn’t eating on time and handed me one and walked away like it was nothing.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And I know it’s stupid, but she’s never noticed me before. Not really. And now she’s—she’s just—”

“Being nice?” his mother finished dryly.

Pato groaned. “Yes. No. Maybe?”

Another sigh. “Mijo, listen to me. You have been in love with this girl for—what? A year? More? And you’ve done nothing because you convinced yourself she doesn’t care. And now that she’s proving you wrong, you’re still doing nothing?”

“I—”

“Ay, Patricio.” When she used his full name, he knew he was in trouble. “What do you want? Honestly.”

Pato sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

“I want her to see me the way I see her,” he admitted, quiet.

His mother’s voice softened. “Then haz algo, hijo. Do something. Say something. Stop standing in the background of your own story.”

Pato closed his eyes.

She made it sound so simple.

It wasn’t.

But maybe… maybe it didn’t have to be impossible, either.

Pato barely slept.

His mother’s words looped in his head all night. Do something. Say something. As if it were that easy. As if he could just shake off a year of being invisible and suddenly be someone that mattered to her.

By the time 5 a.m. rolled around and his brain still refused to shut up, he gave up on sleep entirely. He pulled on a hoodie, grabbed his keycard, and made his way downstairs to the hotel’s outdoor pool, hoping that the quiet would clear his head.

And then he saw her.

She was sitting at the edge of the pool, feet dipped in the water, arms braced behind her as she stared out at the city lights reflecting off the still surface.

Pato froze.

His body screamed at him to turn around before she noticed him. But then she shifted slightly, head tilting at the sound of footsteps. Her gaze landed on him.

Too late.

He had two options: pretend he had some other reason to be here, or…

Do something.

Taking a slow breath, he stepped forward, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it onto a nearby lounger before sitting down a few feet away from her.

“You do realise this isn’t a race,” he said, nudging his chin towards the water. “No need to be this dedicated to aerodynamics.”

She huffed a quiet laugh through her nose, shaking her head. “It’s peaceful. And I couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he admitted, nudging his bare feet into the water. It was cool, not freezing, but enough to shock his system awake.

A beat of silence stretched between them. Not awkward, but not entirely comfortable either.

Talk, his mother’s voice nagged in his head. Say something.

“So,” Pato started, searching for anything to keep the moment from slipping away. “Since we’re stuck doing media together, I feel like I should get some information. Y’know, for survival.”

She raised a brow. “Survival?”

“Yeah. Like, what’s your go-to pre-race meal? Most important question, obviously.”

That earned him an actual smirk. “Pasta. Always.”

“Solid choice,” he mused. “Okay, follow-up: if you weren’t a driver, what would you be doing?”

She hummed, tilting her head in thought. “Something adrenaline-based. Maybe skydiving. Or stunt driving.”

Pato snorted. “I can definitely see that.”

“What about you?” she asked, glancing at him.

He blinked, caught off guard. Not just by the question—but by the fact that she was asking in the first place.

“Probably something quiet,” he admitted. “Maybe a mechanic. Or a watchmaker.”

That made her actually turn towards him, brows raised. “A watchmaker?”

He shrugged. “I like precision. Small moving parts. Everything fitting together perfectly.”

She studied him for a moment, like she was seeing him properly for the first time.

Before Pato could think too hard about that, he exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, last question.”

She arched a brow. “Go on.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

She hesitated, glancing away. “Extra media obligations. All day.”

Pato nodded, swallowing the mild disappointment that settled in his chest. “Right. Of course.”

But then—she paused.

“… But I’m free after eight. Why?”

His pulse kicked up, and before he could overthink it, the words tumbled out.

“Dinner,” he said. “Just as grid mates.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him. Then—her lips quirked slightly.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

Pato’s brain immediately short-circuited.

“N—no,” he said too quickly, scrambling to backpedal. “I mean, it’s not—obviously not—”

“That’s a shame,” she interrupted, standing up and stepping out of the pool. She grabbed a towel, casually drying off her legs. “Because I would have said yes.”

Pato forgot how to breathe.By the time he managed to reboot his brain and form a response, she was already walking away, leaving him sitting there—staring after her, heart pounding, and officially, completely doomed.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[bunni-v1]

May I ask your advice on something? I want to make a cookie that will be loved by shadow milk and I toss and turn the idea in my head thinking about his loneliness, but his arrogance in assuming most cookies aren’t worthy of his time makes it difficult. It leads me to building the cookie to be bigger and more powerful/elaborate than him so he immediately recognizes it, but that’s unsatisfying for me. I’d like them to be ordinary, clever of course, observant, and quick witted to not only keep up with shadow milk, but to even outpace him at times in a verbal sparring match. But most ordinary cookies don’t really fit the bill. They usually either worship or fear him depending on personality and self awareness. Both are good and what he needs/uses, but you can’t really be friends with a tool. Makes it hard to think of an ordinary cookie that might have caught his attention. I liked your analysis of what getting close to him pre corruption was and he’s a more viable candidate, but even he on some level looks down upon ordinary cookies that know less and don’t live as long. Namuwiki and regular wiki categorize his corruption as both an obsession with his own power as well as loneliness in a truth that broke him. I think the truth that did so or that at least planted the seed of corruption was: that cookies/people don’t care about the truth. He states as much so many times to pure vanilla to weaken his resolve, his dedication to truth. How cookies willingly/happily turn from the bitter truth to embrace a sweet lie. How cookies were more interested in listening to him speak than what he was really saying. It’s a one two punch realizing the cookies around you don’t really care about the thing that makes you you. And if they do it may only be for selfish gain, not for knowledge in itself. And the real rub is the reason they don’t care is often times due to some form of ignorance or stupidity. I mentioned this to a friend irl and she said,”oh he got bullied before he got corrupted. 💯” Which made me think of the cookies before his fall, who maybe took for granted that 1. The font of knowledge even exists and 2.That he would willingly and happily answer their questions truthfully forever and 3. Would never lose his patience. Because how much do you want to bet that the illusion from the sugar free road he taunted pure vanilla with, the woman yelling at him saying “tell us where to seek healing! Tell us how to be healthy to live in wealth and happiness! Use your power! Share your power with us! Do it if you truly care!” Were words from a cookie in shadow milks past? How many refused to seek the truth themselves, wishing no demanding he provide it for them. And criticizing him if/when he either refuses or lies, like bratty children. “Nothing but empty promises. All a lie.” Give them! Cookies who were so ignorant and stupid wanting to take away the thing that makes him him. Because that’s all he is isn’t he? His power his soul jam. Neither he nor anyone else it seems has seen him beyond his abilities. To who he is as a cookie.

Which is just another layer to his isolation, but all of which to say. Maybe the ordinary cookie who just happens to be curious, innovative, and above all patient and kind is his only balm against such words. And maybe that cookie crumbles under the weight of their deceit. Maybe that helps crumble his resolve. After all the main thing hes running from, the big lie he tells himself is that nothing bad ever happens to him. Because how could it? He’s a god, he’s all knowing, but not all powerful. Thoughts?

I think Shadow Milk's fall is the most interesting, because it could quite honestly be either he fell first or last. I'm a bigger fan of the him falling last theory, because it's very interesting to see how he would react to his friends becoming beasts and realizing he too will shortly.

With the new costume's story we can get a better look into him, and he's a lot like PV. Patient, kind, gentle, intelligent, and more than willing to share his knowledge with cookies. With such knowledge, he is very separate from other cookies. He knows and understands things that other cookies could never dream of.

That much knowledge will weigh on your being, even if you are a god. Especially if it's all you're supposed to be, a fount of knowledge for cookies. I think he does enjoy sharing his knowledge and the truths of the world. He cares for his cookies. How could he not? they are innocent and freshly baked, full of fear and confusion. His knowledge is meant to soothe them.

But, cookies fear what they do not understand. When they start asking harder questions, and he gives them the truthful answer, they don't like it. They lash out and deny the truth, and he realizes they would rather live in a lie than bear the truth. The fact that, even if it's unintentional, the very cookies he loves and cherishes are rejecting him... well, it would devastate anyone.

Shadow Milk Cookie became a beast because he was rejected by his people. He became the embodiment of lies to become what they wanted, rejecting the truth to show them the error of their ways. This is what they wanted, right?

I think that's why he needs a partner who challenges him. They can't just accept everything he does as okay. He doesn't want or need someone who just sits there and affirms him like his minions. His partner needs a backbone and a strong moral compass, the confidence to look at him and say, "Absolutely not."

They also need to have the awareness that he is the master of lies. They need to be able to see through his lies and illusions by themselves because he can't hold their hand all the time. He has this deep aching need to be seen, though he doesn't acknowledge those feelings. They have to be able to crack his shell by themselves and show that they care, and only then will he open up to them.

It's certainly not an easy feat for a normal cookie, but if Ginger Brave and co. can do it, I'm sure his partner can also do it. It takes a special cookie to get the master of deceit tripping over himself, after all.

[skellseerwriting]

5 Times Iida Thinks You’re a Boy and 1 Time He Finally Realizes

Oblivious!Iida x Fem!Androgynous!Reader

Part 4: Date

Part 3

Word Count: 800+

Content & Warnings: rejection, slight angst (there’ll be a happy ending but not in this chapter), Iida and reader both make presumptions about each other

Summary: You’re at the library with Mina, and she convinces you to do something

“I’m telling you, that’s what he said!” Mina squealed, jumping up and down behind you with her hands on your shoulders. Sighing for more than one reason, you shushed her to keep her voice down as you continued to browse the library shelf.

“That doesn’t mean he’d want to go on a date with me.” You said, a little disgruntled. With Mina as your best friend, peace and quiet was a luxury you couldn’t afford. You wouldn’t have it any other way though, of course.

“Yeah but he said he likes intelligent girls who hold respect for rules and authority. That’s basically you in a nutshell!”

Hissing out another “shh!” Before the librarian could chase you down, you randomly pulled a book out and went to a nearby table. Sitting down, you opened the novel right up against your nose and did your best to ignore her. In truth, the words sparked a bit of hope within your chest, but the fear of it all crashing down scared you more than anything else.

“Come on.” She whispered to your left, sticking her nose between the edge of your book and your face. “There’s a good chance he might say ‘yes’.”

You slammed the book closed. Mina jumped back to avoid her face getting clipped. “Or he might say ‘no’.” You divulged to her your fear. It slipped through the syllables and conveyed exactly what you didn’t want to risk happening.

Placing a friendly hand down on your arm, she smiled warmly at you. Like always, she emitted guidance and trust. “And would that really be so bad?” She asked you in a heartfelt manner. It made you think.

Dipping your head, you let out a weak “no”.

“Great.” Her voice sounded solid. “Because now’s your chance.”

“What?” You shot your head back up, but it was too late. Mina had already zoomed out of her seat and away from your sight. Immediately, you understood what she meant. To your right, where you had just been before, browsing the same shelf on the same row, was Iida.

Sweat dotted your brow, and before you knew it, you stood up to make your way over to him.

“Oh, hey Iida.” You greeted, moving to slot your book back into its spot (which just so happened to conveniently be a foot away from him).

“Good afternoon.” He responded, smiling upon seeing you. The brief nervousness you had felt a moment ago seeped out of your body. Mina’s words coursed through you. She was right.

You could do this.

“Are you looking for something to read in your spare time?” You asked coolly. It would be easier to build up to talking with him about a shared interest. You liked books, he liked books, what’s not to like?

You, apparently. Or at least, that’s what you feared.

“Yes.” He confirmed. “I’m trying to find a piece of classic literature, but the author’s name appears to be evading me on this shelf.”

Following along with his finger as it reached where you were standing, you took a step back and pulled out the book you had just put back in. “It wouldn’t happen to be this one would it?”

His face lit up. “Marvelous!” He exclaimed. “I had no idea you were also into classic novels of this manner.”

You sheepishly rubbed the back of your head. Yes, you had randomly taken it out of the shelf, however, you had already read that book before. Multiple times, in fact.

“Yeah,” you told him. “It’s among my favorites.”

Iida leaned farther into your space. “If you like this one, perhaps you’ll enjoy some similar classic literature I have in my own personal collection of books.”

“I’d love that.” You gushed, then, saw the conversational opportunity and took it. “I would also love it,” you tried not to hesitate and just get the words out. “If we could go out on a date.”

You held your breath.

Iida’s mouth stayed partially open for several seconds. Then, he cleared his throat and straightened his posture. His eyes evaded yours and his cheeks turned pink. Despite his best effort to be vocally clear, he stuttered out his response. “I- I don’t-“ he vaguely gestured to all of you. “I’m not really into…”

Your eyes widened, quickly catching onto what he was saying. “Oh, I’m sorry for assuming. My bad.”

“No no,” he shook his head, still not looking at you. “It’s okay.”

“It’s alright.” You reiterated.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Now you were both standing there awkwardly. Another beat passed.

“Well.” You clicked your tongue. “I gotta go…”

“Right!” He said, arms stiff at his sides. “I shall see you in class.”

You did your best not to look at him forlornly as you quickly passed by. While attempting to exit the library, Mina intercepted you.

“What happened?” She asked gently, noticing the way you looked upset.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You said in hushed tones. She let you slip by her and through the door. You wanted to tell her the truth, but you couldn’t do that to Iida. If she asked again, you would just say that he rejected you. And that was true, right? Regardless of the reason.

He had rejected you.

Tagist: Tenya Iida

@electronicexpertshark @ragdol-666

[love-toxin]

Seóirse Commission

a/n: a commission i did for one of my lovely commissioners! <33 cws: afab!darling, meet cute, pwp, size difference, heat/rut cycles, mating, scent kink, breeding, dirty talk, rough sex, m on f oral, groping, chokehold. word count: 5.1k

Today would be the day you finally did it. You'd made your choice–you were going to learn how to swim, even if it killed you. 

In retrospect, it wasn't the greatest of your many ideas. Swimming was a useful skill of course, and it might save you if you ever found yourself stranded somewhere or were somehow dropped into the ocean by the powers that be. But finding adult classes to learn how was both difficult and expensive, unless you wanted to pay to do water aerobics with a group of 70-year-old women…which actually didn't sound that bad when you thought about it. Regardless, you'd seen enough videos of parents chucking their babies into pools to feel confident enough to try it all on your own. In the ocean. On the beach. It couldn't be all bad–it was free, wasn't it?

Alas, that was how you found yourself in your current predicament, with a swollen ankle and your fingers gripping the buoy you'd managed to drag yourself up on. There were far more rocks than you expected on the bottom, and after trying to keep your balance against the unexpected strength of the current, you'd rolled your ankle on a loose one and yelped in pain before being swept up by one of the foamy waves that had lapped at your feet on the shore. It brought you right out into open water in what felt like an instant, and in a panic you started splashing and paddling for dear life. No amount of deep breaths could quell the overwhelming feeling of “I'm going to die” until your wild flailing eventually caused you to smack your hand on the buoy, and you scrambled to cling to it without thinking twice. 

As grateful as you were to have avoided a painful and sudden drowning, the assessment of your new circumstances was quick to bring tears to your eyes and a sniffle as you glanced around. Aside from the steadily moving shoreline that seemed to shrink the more the waves jostled the buoy, a look over your shoulder exposed the vast expanse of a wide, unending sea that would surely swallow you whole at the first opportunity. Sharks, whales, drop offs, whirlpools, anything and everything could kill you in an instant and each possibility appeared more horrifying than the last. It almost felt more hopeless to cry in the face of such daunting odds–after all, the shore was right there. Still close enough to swim back to. But you had no reassurance that you could fight the sea's luring pull out into the deep, and without that, you most certainly were not moving an inch off of this buoy. 

Luckily, you wouldn't have to. Right at the pinnacle of your sorrow when all seemed absolutely lost, a dark shape moved beneath the waves towards you…and at the very last moment, a head breached the surface and a man sucked in a deep breath as he peered up at your pitiful face.

“Are you okay?” His soft voice carried a twinge of sympathy, because he knew. It must've been obvious by your expression that you were anything but, all you had to do was shake your head to confirm it. “That's okay. You're safe now.”  

You noticed at first glance the way his blue eyes glinted under the overcast sky, but even more captivating was his hair; his silver locks had been slicked back by the water and a few strands twisted as the breeze blew them against his flushed cheeks, yet he looked so young at the same time that he almost struck you as having a baby face. There was no way he was over 40, but by his size and the gentle maturity of his voice you could tell he wasn't any average man in his twenties, nor could he be a teenager. His eyes locked in on your ankle, and without touching it he hovered his fingers over the swollen patch. 

“Looks twisted,” He mused under his breath. “Here, I'll help you down-” The stranger held out his huge arms to help you off the platform, but when you clung harder to it with a whimper he drew back instantly with a worried gleam in his eyes. “What's wrong? You don't want to get in the water?” 

A firm shake of your head said all that needed to be said. He let out a soft sigh, but he wasn't irritated–rather he seemed bothered by your apprehension itself, and wanted to make sure you felt secure. 

“Well…I see. Are you a strong swimmer?” 

“N-No..” With how shaken you looked, he was surprised you even answered. 

“Oh, that's alright. Why don't I carry you on my back? You can keep your head above water, and keep warm.” Sniffling softly, you peered down at him with a glimmer of hope.

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course.” He nodded happily. “There's nothing to be afraid of. We'll be back to dry land in no time.” The way he smiled up at you, how he held the buoy firmly in his hands and it resisted the current with his bare strength alone, all put you at ease with a haste that you'd rarely experienced from any other person, especially from a man you didn't know at all. He seemed kind. Humble. Maybe even one of those awkward yet friendly types, but in a good way. It was too easy for you to give up your name to the enigmatic stranger, but he replied with enthusiasm and a light splash as he kept treading water.

“I'm Seóirse. I'm a swimming instructor at the community pool, so I promise you're in good hands!” Seóirse chuckled meekly. “Just climb on my back, and I'll get you back home.” 

So you did. Awkwardly, and cringing with pain at the jostling of your sore ankle, but you managed to slide off the buoy with Seóirse's help and slip back into the dreaded water. He let you pull your arms round his shoulders and tugged your wrist for you to squeeze them closer to his neck, reassuring you with a smile that you wouldn't choke him. As soon as you were secure, he started paddling towards the shore–and it amazed you that, even with how massive he was compared to any man you'd ever known, he glided through the water with you like the current was nothing but a breeze against his skin. He managed to keep your head above water with each stroke and squeezed your thigh on his hip when your breath started hitching, assuaging your fears when you thought you saw something moving about in the sea around you. 

Although it felt like it took ten times as long to get back to land than it did to get dragged out to sea, you reached the shore before you even knew it was happening and tightened your grip on Seóirse once the heaviness of gravity set in upon him stepping up out of the shallows. Your squirming in anticipation of being put down just made him laugh; he held both your legs up and bounced you to get you higher up on his back, so your cheek rubbed against the silky strands of his damp, dripping hair. 

“That ankle needs to rest. My home isn't far–I can treat you there, if you like?” The question poked at your mind while he moved further up on the shore, the sand slipping out from under his feet though he managed to keep steady with your weight on him. You had to admit, it certainly sounded better than sitting in a hospital for hours waiting to be seen, especially for something that wasn't all that serious in the first place. 

“Um…uh, yeah.” Unconsciously, you nuzzled yourself closer to Seóirse's warm body and clung to him in the cold. The breeze from the overcast day cooled the water clinging to your skin in an instant, and left you feeling frigid and shivering as you both dripped all the way down the beach. He managed to bend down and grab the handle of your bag that you'd left on the rocks without having to set you down, and hooked it around his elbow to carry along before he continued towards a little cottage at the shore's end. If there wasn't anything else you could say about the rather enigmatic stranger, you could say this; he was incredibly strong, and it was difficult not to notice the flex of his toned muscles with every step he took while you were pressed against his body so intimately. 

It took less than ten minutes to reach the little home on the edge of the sea. A grassy outcrop at the end of the shore propped up the humble abode he called his own; he didn't even mind the water dripping in the foyer as he carried you in, reassuring you that it was no big deal and he tracked in all sorts of things you wouldn't believe. Seóirse brought you into a little sitting room off to the right and laid you down on a huge, comfy sofa, where he proceeded to fuss over you for an hour or more with ice and blankets and a towel to dry your hair. 

Of course he wanted to know why you–a person he'd never even seen around here before–was swimming out to sea on such an overcast day, especially since he knew for sure now that you were by no means a practiced athlete in that sense. It took a bit of prodding for him to ease it out, but when you finally admitted that you wanted to learn how to swim, he didn't click his tongue or lecture you on your poor methods of doing so. In fact, he smiled.

“Well, why don't I teach you?” The way his eyes brightened at the thought alone made your heart ache with the desire to say ‘yes’. “We can swim together. I don't get to go out in the ocean as much as I'd like, anyways..” He peered out almost longingly at the water through the window, churning and foamy and frightening-looking to anyone who wasn't so confident in the ocean. But he was. Nobody else would come to the rescue of a stranger from so far out if the water wasn't like a second skin to him. 

“I…o-okay. If that's alright with you?” You almost didn't want to accept for fear of acting greedy with his generous offer, but it was hard enough to say no to those sweet, gentle eyes. “Can I pay you?”

“Don't worry about it.” Seóirse rubbed your hand just to squeeze it in his giant palm. God, his smile was just blinding. He was like a living sunbeam. “We're friends now. You'd be doing me a favour, too.”

There wasn't much to argue with that. Seóirse made sure you were warmed up, ensured you could get home safely, and gave you his phone number before he sent you off. You had no idea just how prevalent his presence would be in your life from that day on, or how much he would go on to change everything you knew about your own world itself.

“Seóirse?” You called out softly, rapping your knuckles on his door yet again. With your bag slung over your shoulder and your hoodie on, you were more than ready for your weekly session together. 

But Seóirse hadn't answered your texts for two days, and you feared something might've happened to him. He was always so timely with his responses unless he was working, and even then you'd hear from him after an hour or two when he'd send you an apology, because he'd been tied up with a student or was doing an extra lesson in the pool. He'd never ignore you completely, and although you didn't want to pry you didn't want to just give up without making sure he was alright.

“Hey, Seóirse? Are you okay?” Knock knock. “It's me. I'm worried about you–if you're okay, can you come out?” 

Suddenly a thump resonated from inside the cottage and you jumped, shifting a half-step back as your mind raced. Was he getting robbed? Did he fall and hurt himself? 

“S-Seóirse?” 

“Go away.” His voice rumbling so close to the door startled you again, and you nearly slipped off the step, but if anything the raspiness of it made you infinitely more worried. It sounded as if he had pressed himself completely up against the door with how close he was, and you caught a whiff of something–it grew stronger and stronger as you took it in, a musky, heady scent that you could nearly taste with how thickly it hung in the air. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I haven't heard from you in-” A slow, soft grunt hit your ears in a funny way, his breathing deep enough it stopped you in your tracks. “...days.” 

It'd been several weeks since you'd first met Seóirse out at sea, and each day since then you'd had some kind of contact with your new friend. Whether through texts, calls, or meeting in person, your mind automatically went to him whenever you had something to do or wanted to feel a little less alone. He was so kind if a bit reserved, and that was fine with you, but this wasn't the first time you suspected that something was…off.

The real reason for that was the thing you had found by accident while searching through his attic for a space heater. It was small and cramped, far too tight for Seóirse's enormous body to squeeze into comfortably, and he'd let you up a few weeks ago when a cold front moved in and chilled you down right to the bone. Maybe being so huge, the cold didn't bother him as much, but when you came over for dinner he'd mentioned he might have a heater and let you climb up to search for it. But as you were dragging it out from the far corner, your foot bumped a box out from its hiding place and you'd dived to catch it before it fell down the hatch you'd climbed through. It wasn't really your fault for opening it, since it was already half-cracked…but when you peered inside out of curiosity, what awaited you was something you never would've expected. 

You could tell by looks alone that it was blubber, perhaps some sort of rubbery pelt from an animal as you touched it and felt the skin spring back. It was so pretty, so unusually soft it was almost slick, it gleamed without any light…when you lifted it you could guess it might be sealskin, but before you unfolded it completely, Seóirse called up suddenly from the bottom of the ladder and asked if everything was okay. It might've been a case of you projecting your own feelings, but you almost sensed a hint of panic in his voice as you shut the box with a snap and hurriedly tucked it back into its place. You wouldn't have thought much else of it and might've forgotten it completely by the time you climbed back down the ladder. But you caught your friend's sigh of relief when he saw the space heater in your arms, and when you headed down to the dining room you heard the muffled creak and a small shake of dust as someone else made his way up to the attic to double check. Only once he returned did things go back to normal, but you thought of that incident a lot, and paired with his behaviour now, and the scent…well, you had some ideas of what might be happening with your friend. And an online search had reaffirmed your convictions just days before he disappeared.

“S'nothing..” Seóirse sighed faintly. “...’m fine. I'll be fine.” 

Obviously he could sense your trepidation, but maybe he wasn't expecting how determined you would be to inject yourself into his private affairs. There was a bit of guilt welling up inside you for prodding so much, but how could you help it? 

“I'm gonna hurt you if you come in here,” He muttered at the twisting of the doorknob as you tried it to see if it would open. As if he was dumb enough not to lock his doors during this time of the month. 

“You'd never hurt me.”

“I might not have a choice.” He growled, guttural and almost feral, like he was more animal than man. “Leave.”

“I can't.” You insisted, just to flinch at the sound of his fist slamming against the doorframe. “I-I can't, Seóirse. I know you're in pain.”

“I can smell you.” He sucked in a breath of air through his teeth. “You smell so good..” 

“Something's going on. I know you're not…like me.” You leaned closer to whisper, hoping he would hear it over the erratic thumping of his own heart. “I know you came from the sea. I want you to know that I don't care about that–I won't judge you, and I won't tell another soul what you are.”

The silence that followed was grim, heavy, dark like the clouds that were slowly gathering overhead. You'd get rained on if you didn't get inside soon, though what Seóirse uttered next raised the hairs on your neck faster than any oncoming lightning. 

“I'm in heat.” He whimpered under his breath. 

“I-I can help you..” You swallowed. “I can try.” Seóirse scoffed from beyond the door, but he seemed to understand your determination the longer he let it settle in. Help. 

The door suddenly swung open, and he dragged you inside with a heavy slam as it shut behind you. Pitched into almost complete darkness with the curtains covering every window, Seóirse's hands groping you in the dark made you squeak and shiver with every squeeze. What you thought might've been his leg suddenly dug into you painfully, the stiffness of his growing appendage sending a cold shiver racing up your spine. He was big. 

“You don't know what you're doing.” He muttered into your ear, and practically lifted you off your toes like you were a doll in his grip. “You should've run from me.” 

“I-I-” 

“You found it, didn't you?” He grunted lowly. “You found my skin. Why didn't you take it?” 

“Because I-” He cut you off with a kiss, his chapped lips hungrily devouring yours in the wettest kiss you could've imagined. He couldn't stop once he started, only trailing them further down your cheek to your neck before he bit down and started sucking. “..I-I couldn't do that–ah!” 

Seóirse sucked a deep, dark bruise into your throat that you wouldn't notice for days–you would have so many by the end of this that it'd be a struggle to count them. 

“Y-You're my friend, Seóirse..” 

“Friend?” 

The way he growled that singular word made your stomach knot itself up, only made more intense by his moan when you nodded against him. He grabbed the back of your head and held it to his chest, which was so warm and sweaty it heated up your whole body from the inside out. He wasn't the Seóirse you knew in that moment, but you weren't all that opposed to it the more he pressed himself against you. 

Yet, just as the energy in the room came to a climax, the arms you'd been wrapped up in peeled themselves away, and Seóirse stumbled back, rattling the end table as he bumped into it in the dark. Suddenly freed from his grip and sent teetering backwards, you felt along the wall for the light switch–and with a flip, you saw him in the state he’d been suffering in for the last couple days. 

Sweat poured its way down his body, it had drenched him from his forehead all the way down to his calves. You'd felt his skin but didn't realize he was completely naked, staring down at you with such a flushed face he looked sick. His bright eyes were hooded and dark, his breathing husky as his chest heaved, and he stared like he was watching the movements of prey–and then, in a flash, he darted away and raced through the hall to his bedroom, where he slammed the door shut behind him. 

This time, when you crept down the small corridor to reach him, you knew he wasn't holding it shut. You could hear it before you even peeked in, the squeaking of his bed frame and his panting as the sound of fabric swished over his skin. The room was just as dim as the rest of the cottage save for a soft light in the corner, a lamp lit up to highlight the glistening of Seóirse's back as he rutted against a pillow that had seen far better days. The poor thing was soaked through and worn with light patches where the fuzz was almost completely rubbed off; was this all he'd been using to get through his heat? It was honestly surprising that he managed to tear himself off you at all. 

“Just leave,” He practically pleaded, barely turning his head back over his shoulder while he couldn't stop humping his cotton-filled partner. “I'll hurt you…you won't…you won't like me anymore..” 

It almost sounded childish, but knowing Seóirse by now, you knew he felt that way genuinely. The man had such low self-esteem, so little faith in himself and his abilities, that he would apologize just for asking you to spend time with him as friends. He would've never imagined you felt the way you do for him–he probably thought he looked like a freakshow in your eyes. 

Hence why, when you started to strip quietly behind him, he didn't even glance back until your hands on his shoulders sent a jolt through his shuddering body. The way your soft skin pressed against him from behind would curse his wet dreams for the rest of his life. 

“Let me help you,” Seóirse's back arched as you whispered into his ear, a gasp quick to escape when he grabbed you from behind and practically flung your body over his shoulder, the pillow perfectly propping up your hips in front of him as you landed. He licked his lips, bent your legs back, and no power on earth could've muffled the squeals of pleasure from your lungs as he dove face-first between your legs. The shlucking of his tongue parting your slit nearly overshadowed the wet grip around his cock, each pump harsh and tight as he tried not to think too hard about breaking you in two with it. How hard you would scream when he stretched you to fit every inch…it was so awful of him, he was an awful friend, but he hadn't been able to get it off his mind since the first few hours of his rut. 

You wanted to help him, but here he was driving you crazy with his greed; slurping up your precious clit like you belonged to him, and all your pleasure was his to bestow. The guilt would kill him when he was finally able to think clearly again…but right now, it was more likely that not fucking you would kill him. 

You could barely cry out his name as he devoured you whole, and your fingers slid and trembled in his hair like you couldn't even manage to get a grip on it. The way your hips jumped and ground against his face gave him a clear picture that you liked it, but it wasn't until your legs were thrashing and your hole started leaking that he knew you'd hit your limit. But whether you had or hadn't, he wasn't quite done–and you could tell the moment he flipped you over and grunted as he dragged you back on your knees. Still spasming from the first one, Seóirse teased the tip against your entrance with a hooded look in his eyes. Just one push. Just wiggle it in. Even your own hips bumped back against him as you whined, almost in heat yourself, but he still struggled to just go for it and not hold himself back. If he hurt you, he knew he'd never forgive himself. 

“Please,” His hands trembled in the face of your begging. “Just wanna help…w-we’re friends, right?” Seóirse swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

“Yeah..” Your back seized at the slow, gradual stretch, just the tip alone pressing into you like a mountain you couldn’t hope to summit. Seóirse’s guttural moans managed to help, though, because the shivers racing up your spine at the sound of them loosened you up with enough slick for him to slide, but he wouldn’t divert away from his goal. He’d pined over you for too long to give up now. “Yeah-!”

A sharp gasp, a twinge of stinging pain, and your nails tore the sheets beneath you as he settled in just barely halfway. Your so-called friend whined deep in his chest with pure, pleasured agony, and before you could speak a word his fingers tangled roughly into your hair.

“Squirm,” He commanded, growling hard as he gripped your head in his whole hand and tilted it back. “Squirm on it. You're not escaping me now.” Once you caught a glimpse of his near-manic expression, he shoved your face into the soft covering of his pillow–the very same he'd been using and thinking of you this whole time. The musk clinging to it alone drove you into a frenzy; animalistic and wild with little regard for your own conscience. Was this how Seóirse felt? Because if so, you could hardly blame him for what he was about to do, or how close he was gonna get to breaking you right in half. 

“Fuck!” The curse felt foreign coming from his sweet mouth, but it paired perfectly with the frantic pump of his hips as he fought to sink even deeper into your heat. You clung to him like a vice, your walls and your womb knew what they needed, and he loved the sensation of your body bending to your instincts just like he did to his. The bed went from squeaking to rattling in an instant as his powerful thrusts knocked it against the wall, but if he broke it or broke you he couldn’t even mind it–his grasp on your waist and the resistance of your soft body as you squealed ensured that his mind wouldn’t escape the haze of lust that always came with these dreaded ruts. 

Maybe it was your own feelings for Seóirse that dulled it or it could’ve been an effect of his overwhelming pheromones, but even his size and the urgent pounding of his massive hips slamming back against you couldn’t rival the bliss that crept down every limb and seared throughout your veins. It could’ve been a breeding instinct, but whatever it was you wanted more; the pain of being spread open beyond your limit and knowing your sensitive areas would bear bruises in the morning was nothing compared to the dizzying pleasure of Seóirse pinning you under his weight and reaming you into the shape of his cock. 

The sudden brush of his bicep against your cheek made you stiffen, but without stopping his merciless rampage on you, he slid an arm over your throat and effortlessly tightened his hold to lift you higher, and meet your beautiful, glossy eyes with his own. Shrouded and dark unlike the pure blue that you’d come to adore, Seóirse cracked a devious smile that somehow still carried a tone of innocence about it. 

“You love me–your pussy loves me,” He gasped, tilting his head down to press his forehead to yours. “I can smell it, I love it. I love you–ah-! I love you..” The confessions tumbled out of his mouth one by one, from how he knew you were the one by the way you smiled at him to how he wanted to do this since the day he found you all cold and alone, stranded out at sea. How you were his beloved human and he wanted to be your selkie prince, please, because he only wanted one mate and he knew it just had to be you. On, and on, and on, until his chest sunk into your back and he plowed into you with increasing urgency, your gasps and little cries fueling his desire to blow his load as deep as your nethers could possibly take it. 

Seóirse’s needy tears spilled down your shoulder as he buried his blushing face into it. One shaky thrust, then two, and on the third he squeezed you tight enough for spots to dot the edges of your vision, and a shuddering wave of ecstasy washed over him as he relaxed completely into you. Spurts of thick, sticky selkie cum glued you both together once it started leaking from the seams of your union, but based on the dampness of his sheets and the haze hanging in the room itself you could be certain it wasn’t going to be any more of a mess than he would’ve made without you. 

What was more concerning was the fact that he barely even softened up once he’d finished. He didn’t bother easing out of you and instead let you warm him, nestled deep and snug and still not fitting completely; you were absolutely ruined, but Seóirse was only just getting started.

“Are…you okay?” He mumbled into your skin with a tender kiss, and thankfully drew his arm away from your neck to leave you ample space to breathe. At first you nodded, but he waited patiently until you managed to work up the strength to speak it out loud. “I’m glad. I’m so glad…so happy you’re with me.” His fingers traced soft patterns through your hair as he sighed with relief. “I knew you were the one for me.”

The one. The words left a fuzzy warmth settling into your heart. The one, his beloved, the person he wanted so badly to love that it pained him up until now…it didn’t feel too bad to be that person for Seóirse. Besides, this was only the beginning, and you had plenty of time to get to know this side of him until the end of his rut. A couple days, a week, hell, even a month–no matter how long it took to satisfy him, you had a good sense that it wouldn’t be the last time you stuck around for your ‘friend’. 

[morsmortish]

i think we as a fandom need to stop villainising barty crouch senior. that man was put through HELL and back. imagine doing nothing wrong your whole life and then getting everything blown up by your sociopathic son. you lose your family, your career, then your life! poor, poor man.

it’s a common consensus within the fandom that barty senior was some sort of monster, controlling and abusing his son to the point of insanity, and whilst i acknowledge this is a compelling and accessible way of constructing barty as a morally good character who did Bad Things because of this traumatic childhood, i personally find it so much more interesting if bcj is just. a bad guy. there is equal amounts of canon evidence to the idea that that barty had a good childhood and that he had a bad one (none). sure, it’s easier to gravitate towards the latter, but for me, the idea of barty being raised in a loving??? environment makes his character so much more interesting. imagine these two well-to-do, respectable members of wizarding society who have followed all the rules, done everything ‘right’ their whole lives (including the way they raised their son), and yet. and yet they end up with this morally drained, completely unredeemable sociopath of a son. and it’s no one’s fault, he’s just Born That Way.

reducing a character down to their Trauma is such a limited way of thinking about it. saying that every evil character is actually inherently good, just desolated by circumstance, is not that interesting! humans are all flawed, and some more than others. thinking of barty as someone who is just a Bad Person, for me, makes him so much more powerful. and therefore, thinking of barty senior as less of the villain, and more of a victim, also makes him, and the father-son relationship, much more interesting. we know barty senior isn’t perfect- absent father is probably the most reasonable read of his parenting skills- but in my opinion, if there is any character in this dynamic who IS the inherently good one corrupted by circumstance, it’s not bcj, but his father. to me, it’s not plausible that the man who went against his entire belief system out of love for his wife (and to some extent, his son) is the same man who abused his kid. barty’s trial scene becomes so much less interesting if he had been harmed by his father prior- to give him a ‘reason’ for his actions, to say he was lashing out or rebelling against his abusive father, is changing the core of his character! he did it because he felt like it! he’s simply just Not A Good Guy!! and whilst barty senior might also not be a good guy, it makes much less narrative sense for him to be the one assigned the role of ‘villain’.

yeah, he kept his son under imperio control for years, but who can really blame him? the dude was an absolute menace. and even if we do acknowledge his actions as morally wrong, surely the logic that barty joined the death eaters and committed horrible crimes because of things that happened to him in childhood, surely that logic can also be applied to barty senior? let’s say he controlled his son BECAUSE of the things that happened to him- barty betrayed him, turned out to be a monster, destroyed absolutely everything in his life. the trauma of that is surely enough to justify imperio.

i’m rambling on now, and so. to conclude. barty crouch junior as a much more two dimensional Bad Guy, and his father as the unsuspecting victim of his son’s betrayal, reprehensible actions, and complete heartlessness, makes BOTH of them more interesting. argue with the wall!!

[femboyclownpierce]

ok. clip for reference, timestamped vod for reference, i have put my Thoughts on this together because im going to be so honest i dont have the most positive outlook on the whole conversation. also i understand that ros didn't get to say everything she probably wanted to say due to being interrupted by the keeper, so maybe there'll be a part 2 to the conversation, this is just what i think at the current moment

i think it is extremely reductive of everything clown and sneeg, but especially sneeg, have done for ros to say that they "dont listen" as well as bad, pangi, or aimsey do. need i remind folks of the fact that sneeg spent two hours listening to ros rant about owen, assuring her that what he said to her wasn't right, that what he did was manipulative?

she says that clown and sneeg are more inclined to defending her with physical action as opposed to listening to her speak on her problems, but i dont think that's really fair when she doesn't go to him in the first place. how can you say, for certain, that sneeg doesn't listen to you the way you want him to when you hardly ever go to him?

not to fucking mention clown. who has been there to help her with whatever she needed help with since DAY FUCKING ONE. who has encouraged her to be a more independent, stronger person, who he trusted enough to make his apprentice. girl you spent 9 hours letting him punch you while you talked about your problems and he very diligently listened.

it's also frustrating to hear her say that "maybe it's because they're men" when she lists badboyhalo and pangi pangolin as her other two emotional confidants besides aimsey. like, thats hypocritical. i understand going to them for an outsiders view on the kingdom, but that feels like it should be an occasional thing and not. every day. i agree with what foolish and sneeg advised her on earlier that it might not be the smartest idea to make the kingdom's single biggest enemy right now your go-to confidant.

it's just really frustrating to hear her essentially write off her two closest allies as "silly men!" who don't listen to her problems when 1) they very clearly do and 2) she doesn't give them the opportunity by never reaching out AND 3) SHE GOES TO OTHER MEN FOR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT.

[enbypotat53]

(SPOILERS FOR TNM6!)

Holy fucking shit. Two years of waiting was so worth it. I'm not even kidding I have been sobbing and shaking for the past half an hour.

I have way too many screenshots so I'll try to condense it but FIRST OFF LOOK AT THESE CUTIE PATOOTIES??? Oh my god realising that this was a year onward from the murders was like a knife to the chest; seeing Tophat and Sketchpad living together and ACTUALLY HAPPY FOR ONCE?? AUGHHH I LOVE THEM 💔

I'm not joking when I say I went back and screenshotted almost every scene GPS was in, but I'll include this one when talking about the memories because GPS hiding behind the couch is SO damn cute 💙

And. Oh. Oh my god. My fucking heart. They care SO much about Tophat and Folder, and the new song?? PEAK. Average TNM W. Seeing all of the adorable moments of these three together?? Heals the soul, but it's SO bittersweet knowing they'll never see eachother again. I'm ABSOLUTELY redrawing some of these, they're too cute not to :,3

Okay but THEY ARE SO IN LOVE?? THEY. AJDJFJFJFJ THEY ARE SO IN LOVE. I. WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS. HOW IN LOVE THEY ARE. GOD. PLEASE ALLEN JUST. LET THEM BE HAPPY FOR ONCE. P L E A S E.

"You just.. wouldn't get the full picture. It's the same with memories for me. Would it still be me.. even if I was missing a few bad ones?"

This is.. genuinely such a fantastic line. GPS has always been my favourite character, but.. damn. The idea that even bad memories hold value because they're still memories; still a part of you, and still might contain the people you love most? They're genuinely such a well-written character, and it's plain to see just how much they care for their friends. And they have a point! Memories shape you, good and bad. As much as the bad ones hurt, it can also help to learn from them in order to make more good ones in the future. And it seems Sketchpad and Tophat did just that.

God. Codey's betrayal was definitely forseeable, but it still hurts. The "I'm just following my programming" line gives me similar vibes to Speech Bubble and Spraypaint in a way; everyone has their part to play, even if (in Codey and Binary's case) it's a harmful one. I'm glad they did the right thing in the end, though. And Binary for SURE gives me Airy vibes, I both adore and despise them and to be honest that's EXACTLY what I could've hoped for in an antagonist. They're GREAT.

Wait a sec..

Binary..

OH I GET THE JOKE IT'S BECAUSE GPS IS NONBI-

Oh.

OH.

Hear that sound? That's the sound of me wailing in agony as my heart shatters into a million pieces.

"This is.. really it.. huh?" THEY SOUND SO SCARED?? God this entire episode I wanted to give them a huge hug and a slice of cake and to tell them that everything would be okay, my hEART. This entire scene broke me, the fear in their eyes and voice hurt so much to hear, my BABY HE'S BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH 💔

And just. This. Entire scene. I cannot tell you how fucking PERFECT of an ending this was. The fact that Tophat was the last thing GPS thought of before he died? The happiest moment they could think of was their high school prom dance, spending it with the person they love most? One final memory to end it all, and it was the most important one in their life. I've said this before but god. They're so in love. It's genuinely gutwrenching watching this scene; they're so happy yet this moment is so fleeting. Knowing how temporary it was and how everything ended makes it worse. Tophat moved on, maybe not fully but at least he's happier. GPS on the other hand? They're stuck reliving memories of people they can NEVER see again; people they hurt.

It's bittersweet as hell, and honestly kind of a perfect juxtaposition to the puzzle scene. Then, they relived bad memories, yet still seemed happy. Now, they're re-experiencing a moment that should fill them with joy, and yet...

Nothing lasts forever.

The ending song being a response to Imaginary Friend, too? Perfection. 💙

Thank you, Nightly Manor. Thank you, Allen. This series was fucking phenominal, and the wait was worth every second. My heart is in tatters but good lord I wouldn't have it any other way. Now it's time to redraw some scenes and try not to cry any harder than I already am! :,D 👍💙

[npuppet]

LaDs rambles #6

Songs/mini playlists I think fit each LI + YouTube links (I don’t have Spotify)

‼️A lot of songs are explicit so listen at your own digression‼️

⭐️ are personal favorites (recommended)

(It starts out with overused Insta songs lol) (I branch into more niche songs out I promise)

Zayne:

Disease by Lady Gaga (obv) (“I could play the doctor, I can cure your disease, If you were a sinner I could make you believe”) (die Astra)

⭐️Digital Silence by Peter McPoland (what if Foreseer was in modern time and was a desperate to warn MC of her future?) (“They’re gonna blind date everyone until you love them too”)

Arcade by Duncan Laurence (“Loving you is a losing game” huh? Man)

Wash. by Bon Iver (“Where ice snaps and the hold clast are known”) (It just fits the calmness he has I dunno)

Changing of the Seasons by Two Door Cinema Club (not because he fell out of love with MC but he doesn’t seem to remember as much as the other LI’s) (“The door is open, you whispered to me, As you stood frozen in deep uncertainty”)

Christmas Kids by Roar (“The Christmas kids were nothing but a gift, And love is a tower where all of us can live”) (just thinking if Zayne did remember)

⭐️Cursed Romantics by Maude Latour (bc who said Zayne can’t be girlypop?) (“‘Cause I’m obsessive when you call me “baby”, Your love is poison and no don’t can save me”)

Heavy Eyes by Zach Bryan (I just know Zayne would have tired eyes if he didn’t deal with his myth trauma right) (“Remember all the days we had, I say it ain’t so bad, Keep those heavy eyes soft and kind”)

⭐️Am I Dreaming by Metro Boomin, A$AP Rocky and Roisee (Dawnbreaker and Zayne) (“One of a kind, one of one, the only one, Got one shot and one chance to take it once”)

Rest of the LI’s under the cut

Caleb:

Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens (based on Caleb and MC being experimented on and MC dying over and over, tragic and existential) (“What could I have said to raise you from the dead?…And I’m sorry I left, but it was for the best, though it never felt right”) 🙂

⭐️i am not who i was by Chance Peña (“so if I fly to far, Will I still have a place inside your heart?…Will you love me for who I am not who I was”) (it’s him, it’s Caleb)

SPIT IN MY FACE! by ThxSoMch (man will do and tolerate anything to be with MC I mean) (“I don’t know what to say except you’re mine mine mine mine mine”)

⭐️Nobody’s Solider by Hozier (this song fits him like a glove, like his whole deal is that he’s trying to wrestle control back in his life) (“Holding my world together with a bootstring, Living the dream”)

Freaks by Surf Course (after he left MC in the explosion) (“My head is filled with parasites, Black holes cover up my eyes”)

Broken by lovelytheband (“I like that your lonely, Lonely like me, I could be lonely with you”) (our obsessive king)

⭐️Tangerine by Glass Animals (he would get on his knees anyways-) (“You only look at me properly now, When you’re drunk watching movies, Where are you? What happened?”)

Sweet Talk by Saint Motel (at this point I think I’m just giving him a degradation kink…) (“Yeah, well, I’m not scared, I’m not going nowhere, Yeah, you might want me to drop dead, but I dont even care”)

She Said No by BoyWithUke (mmm angsty) (“I don’t blame you, I hate me too, but I can’t, Do a lot to change it or the thoughts in my head”)

Sylus:

Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High by Arctic Monkeys (just based off of reckless MC) (“Incapable of making alright decisions, and having bad ideas”)

⭐️Like Him by Tyler the Creator (but very Dawnbreaker coded too so) (based on when MC got flashbacks in the story with Sylus but still doesn’t remember fully) (“How could I miss something that I’ve never had?”)

MILLION DOLLAR BABY by Tommy Richman (bc why not) (“I could clean up good for you, Oh, I know right from wrong”)

The World We Knew by Frank Sinatra (when MC went on a rampage after Sylus left, she’s real for that) (“Each road we took turned into gold, But the dream was too much for you to hold”)

Used to the Darkness by Des Rocs (just feels like Sylus)

Adventure of a Lifetime by Coldplay (ok but hear me out) (“I’m a dream that died by light of day, Gonna hold up half the sky and say, Only I own me”)

Bury Me Face Down by grandson (vengeful dragon) (“Wanted with a bounty on my head, But somehow someway, I’ma keep moving along”)

⭐️City on a Hill by Mon Rovîa (Sylus trying to comfort MC abt their past) (“Who was by your side, When the fire subsides, And it rains in your head?”)

⭐️Gold by Spandau Ballet (what was going through Sylus’ head when MC started to like him back lol) (“Nothing left to make me feel small, Luck has left me standing so tall”)

Rafayel:

Sex, Drugs, Etc. by Beach Weather (something I think he and MC should listen to on an open hood convertible kind of night by the sea) (“Dressing up for polaroids and cigarettes, Socilaize, romanticize the life”)

Softcore by The Neighborhood (kinda based off of the theory that Rafayel wears safety pins) (“You’ve been my muse for a long time, You get me through every dark night”)

⭐️All I Want by Kodaline (“When you said your last goodbye, I died a little bit inside”) (ow)

Here With Me by d4vd (another slow heartbreak song what’s new) (“I wish I could live through every memory again, Just one more time before we float off in the wind”)

Applause by Lady Gaga (bc I’m on a Lady Gaga binge lol) (“Pop culture was in art, now art’s in pop culture in me!”)

⭐️Blood // Water by grandson (I think alternative fits Rafayel) (“The price of your greed, your son, and your daughter”)

Drama by Spencer Sutherland (Raf is just feeling himself)

Love Me Less by MAX (I think it’s fitting since he’s not as forthright with his underground activities as Sylus is)

Xavier:

I Love You So by The Walters (I think it fits his 5* Outcast’s Voyage and just his story in general) (“I’m going to pack my things and leave you behind, This feelings old, and I know that I’ve made up my mind”)

Army Dreamers by Kate Bush (based on that the people who came with Xavier all had dreams but turned into Wanderers instead) (“We’ve a bunch of purple flowers to decorate a mammy’s hero”)

Towards the Sun by Rihanna (“Shadows chase me far from home, I remember when my heart was filled with gold”) (also funny that the movie this song is from is based on aliens lol)

⭐️When Will I See You Again by Shakka (song is literally made for my poor boy) (“Shooting stars never fly for me, My hearts on Mars, kinda hard to see”)

Alien Boy by Oliver Tree (just bc) (“I still make it work, But it’s overrated and somehow, played out”)

⭐️Are We Ready? (Wreck) by Two Door Cinema Club (I dunno sometimes the lyrics aligned with his story to me) (“I saw the world today, It comes in green and gray”)

Jealous by Eyedress (our jealous possessive king lol)

All LI’s:

Mind Over Matter (Reprise) by Young the Giant

Harpy Hare by Yarlokre (yup)

⭐️Chamber of Reflection by Mac DeMarco

her by JVKE

Again and Again by The Bird and the Bee (need I explain?)

ALL GIRLS ARE THE SAME by RØNIN (lmao)

⭐️Mr. Feel by John Michael Howell

can’t slow down by almost monday (kinda a song I imagine MC, Caleb, and Zayne playing on a roadtrip when they were younger)

Aphrodite by Ethan Gander (yearning my favorite (: )

We’ll Meet again by Very Lynn (obv)

MC lol:

Daydream by Gunter Kallmann Choir (MC and Sylus)

GONE, GONE / THANK YOU by Tyler the Creator (give girl a break yknow??)

Wasted Summers by juju<3 (after Caleb left her in the explosion)

I wanna be your lover by €CHO€D 4W4Y (yessir)

⭐️Apple by Charli xcx (once delulu, always delulu)

Sunshine by OneRepublic

Sick of Being Young by Krooked Kings

Feel free to leave ur songs u attribute to the LI’s ((:

[andrealol7]

the exit

mattheo riddle x reader

part 2

inspired by the exit by conan gray

a/ n : this was honestly a joke but im just gona finish it anyway. LMAOOO THIS IS SO DUMB ITS SO BAD

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Silence hung between you.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Mattheo’s words echoed in your mind, over and over, like a curse you couldn’t shake.

“Because I love you.”

You should have been happy. Should have felt victorious, knowing that after everything, after all of it, he had finally admitted the truth.

But all you felt was angry.

Angry that it had taken this long. Angry that he had waited until you were finally trying to move on. Angry that he only wanted you when he thought he might actually lose you.

You let out a shaky breath. “You don’t get to do this, Mattheo.”

He stiffened. “Do what?”

“You don’t get to say that now.” Your voice was quieter than you wanted it to be, more fragile. “Not after everything. Not after pretending like I didn’t mean anything to you.”

His jaw clenched. “That’s not—”

“You let me think I was nothing to you,” you interrupted, your voice rising. “And now that I’m finally done—now that I’m finally trying to move on—you suddenly love me?”

His eyes darkened. “You think I suddenly love you?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I think you love the idea of me. I think you love the way I looked at you like you hung the stars. I think you love knowing I would have done anything for you, and now that I’m not waiting around for you anymore, you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

His hand shot out before you could react, gripping your chin—gently, but firm enough to make you look at him.

“I have always loved you,” he said, voice low, unsteady. “You don’t think I wanted to tell you? You don’t think I wanted to be yours?”

You swallowed hard, your resolve wavering.

“Then why didn’t you?” you whispered.

He exhaled sharply, his grip loosening. “Because I’m not good for you.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “And you think that’s your decision to make?”

His fingers brushed against your cheek, barely there, like he was afraid you would disappear if he held you too tightly. “I thought I was protecting you.”

Your throat tightened. “By hurting me?”

His face twisted in something like pain. “By making sure you didn’t get too close.”

You stared at him, your heart breaking all over again. “Well, you failed.”

Mattheo closed his eyes for a second, exhaling shakily. When he opened them again, there was something pleading in them.

“Please,” he murmured. “Tell me you don’t love me.”

The words hung between you, thick and heavy, filling the space with something dangerous.

You should have said it. Should have let the lie fall from your lips and walked away. Should have left him standing there, alone, the way he had left you so many times before.

But the truth was—

You did love him.

And you always would.

Your lips parted, the words sitting on the tip of your tongue.

And then—

“Mattheo?”

Your blood turned to ice.

Because that voice?

That voice wasn’t yours.

Slowly, you turned.

And there she was.

The girl from the party.

Standing at the end of the corridor, her wide eyes darting between the two of you—between your flushed cheeks, Mattheo’s hands still lingering on your skin, the undeniable tension crackling between you like a storm waiting to break.

Realization dawned on her face.

And then—

“Oh.”

Just one word.

Just one little word.

But it was enough.

Mattheo’s body went rigid.

Your stomach dropped.

Because suddenly, everything clicked into place.

The way he had looked at you that night, guilty but unreadable. The way he had kissed you like he was trying to forget something. The way he had waited—waited until you were moving on, waited until you had finally found someone else, before telling you the words you had begged to hear for so long.

You turned back to him, breath catching in your throat.

“Mattheo,” you whispered, voice trembling. “What did you do?”

His lips parted, but he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Because the silence was enough.

Because the truth was written all over his face.

Because suddenly, you weren’t the only one he had been lying to.

And in the end—

You weren’t the only one he had betrayed.

-

You felt it before you understood it— That slow, sinking feeling in your chest. Like the ground had been ripped out from under you, and you were still waiting for the fall to kill you.

Mattheo didn’t say anything. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try.

And that silence? That hurt more than anything else ever could.

The girl—his girl, your replacement, the one he had let drape herself over him at the party—stood frozen, staring between the two of you. Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

You knew that feeling well.

Because how were you supposed to react when you realized someone you loved—someone you trusted, even when you knew you shouldn’t—was a liar?

Was a coward?

Was never really yours to begin with?

The truth settled in your bones like ice.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

You were just another game, another distraction, another girl he had pulled close just to let go.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to keep your chin high, to school your expression into something unreadable. You wouldn’t let Mattheo Riddle see you break.

Not anymore.

The girl finally found her voice, though it was barely a whisper. “Mattheo…?”

He still didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because there was no way out of this. No excuse, no lie, no charming grin that could make either of you forget what had just happened.

The truth was standing right there in front of him.

Two girls. One confession. A lifetime of damage.

You felt the ache of it pressing against your ribs, but you swallowed it down, forcing a bitter smile.

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one waiting for you to choose me.”

That got his attention.

His head snapped up, his eyes searching yours with something desperate. “Don’t—”

But you were already turning away.

Already walking past the girl, offering her nothing but a fleeting glance of understanding.

She wasn’t the villain here.

Neither of you were.

The only monster in this story was the boy standing between you.

You kept walking.

One step. Then another. And another.

It was harder than it should have been. Because some stupid, pathetic part of you had spent so long hoping—waiting—for Mattheo to run after you.

For him to fight for you.

But he never did.

Not when it mattered.

Not when it was too late.

And that was the thing about exits, wasn’t it?

The moment you walked through one, there was no going back.

-

It had been days.

Days since you had walked away.

Days since Mattheo had let you.

You had expected to feel free. Lighter. Relieved, even.

Instead, there was only a hollow ache, a weight in your chest that refused to fade.

You hated it.

Hated that after everything—after all the lies, all the secrets, all the bullshit—he still had a hold on you.

But that was the thing about Mattheo Riddle.

You never really left him behind.

No matter how much you wanted to.

-

The Great Hall was loud, as always.

Laughter, conversations, the clinking of silverware—it all blurred together into a background hum.

You weren’t paying attention to any of it.

You were too busy pretending.

Pretending to listen as your friends talked around you. Pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of the Slytherin table. Pretending you hadn’t caught Mattheo staring at you three times already.

You hadn’t looked back. Not once.

And you wouldn’t.

You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

You wouldn’t let him think you were still his to keep.

But even as you focused on the conversation in front of you, even as you forced yourself to laugh at something someone said, you felt it—

The heat of his gaze.

The storm brewing beneath it.

And then—

The scrape of a chair.

The heavy thud of boots against the stone floor.

The sudden silence that settled over your table as Mattheo Riddle—dark-eyed, disheveled, and entirely too close—dropped into the empty seat beside you.

Your body went rigid.

You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

Didn’t react, even when the air around you grew thick with tension, even when your friends glanced between the two of you, their conversation dying out entirely.

And then, in a voice too low for anyone else to hear—

“Are you really going to ignore me forever?”

A slow inhale. A steady exhale.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m eating, Mattheo,” you said simply, keeping your voice level, unaffected.

He scoffed, leaning in slightly. “Right. And I’m supposed to believe that’s all you’ve been doing these past few days? Just—what? Eating? Laughing? Acting like you don’t care?”

A muscle in your jaw twitched.

You would not let him get to you.

Not here. Not now.

“I don’t care,” you said.

Lie.

You heard the way Mattheo exhaled sharply, the way his fingers curled into fists against the table. “You do.”

“No.” You forced yourself to take a bite of food, to act like he wasn’t sitting right beside you, like he wasn’t unraveling you piece by piece. “I really don’t.”

His voice dropped even lower, his breath ghosting over your ear.

“Then look at me.”

Your grip on your fork tightened.

You wouldn’t.

Because if you looked at him—if you saw that familiar fire in his eyes, the one that had always burned for you—you might start to believe him again.

And you couldn’t.

So you gave him nothing.

No reaction. No flicker of emotion.

Just silence.

Until finally, he exhaled harshly, shoving back his chair and standing up.

The moment he was gone, the table around you came back to life. Conversations resumed, the tension dissipated, and someone—one of your friends, maybe—muttered something about Mattheo being a stubborn idiot.

You didn’t disagree.

But as you pushed your food around your plate, your stomach tight and your thoughts tangled—

You realized something.

You might have left Mattheo Riddle behind.

But he wasn’t ready to let you go.

-

That night.

You weren’t expecting him.

You should have been.

Because when had Mattheo ever let something go without a fight?

It was late. Too late.

The castle was silent, the corridors dimly lit as you made your way back to your dorm.

And then—

“Are you done pretending yet?”

You froze.

Turned.

And there he was.

Mattheo Riddle, standing in the shadows like a ghost from your past.

His uniform was disheveled, his tie loosened, his hair a mess like he had run his hands through it too many times.

His eyes—Merlin, his eyes—were wild. Dark. Desperate.

You swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

He took a step closer. “Waiting for you.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, but you kept your expression unreadable. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“That’s bullshit,” he said, his voice rough. “And you know it.”

You crossed your arms. “Oh? Enlighten me, then. What exactly do you think I want to say to you?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“That you miss me.”

You inhaled sharply, but he kept going, stepping even closer, his voice softer now. “That it’s killing you as much as it’s killing me. That you’re just as fucking miserable as I am.”

Your throat tightened. “You’re delusional.”

Mattheo let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe I am. But you know what I’m not?”

He reached out, fingers ghosting over your wrist.

You didn’t pull away.

And he noticed.

“I’m not lying to myself,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to steady your breathing.

Because this was Mattheo.

The boy who could ruin you with a look.

And the worst part?

You wanted to let him.

But then—

You thought about that night.

About the way he had let you believe you were his, while he had someone else waiting in the shadows.

The moment shattered.

Your eyes snapped open. You yanked your hand away, stepping back.

“I don’t miss you,” you said, each word slow, deliberate.

Lie.

Mattheo’s jaw tightened. “Say it again.”

“I don’t miss you.”

Lie, lie, lie.

His eyes searched yours, looking for a crack, an opening, anything.

And when he found nothing—

He exhaled, his expression hardening.

“Fine,” he said, stepping back. “If that’s what you want.”

It wasn’t.

But you didn’t stop him as he turned away, as he disappeared into the darkness.

And as you stood there, alone in the empty corridor, you couldn’t help but wonder—

If he had stayed just a second longer—

Would you have let him ruin you all over again?

[nephilimeq]

A Sense of Belonging

Prompt: Sharing A Blanket

@bucktommyfluffebruary

A03:

Tommy tugged his boyfriend closer to him as they made their way down to the beach, trailing behind the rest of the 118, whispering into his ear, “You really think they don’t mind that I’m coming along?” and Evan snorted and gave him a look.

“Tommy, you may be a member of the 217 now, but you are my boyfriend, so of course you’re invited.”

He then dragged him down to the beach, two blankets on his other arm, while the airman tried to wrap his mind around the fact that he had been invited to the 118’s barbecue bash on a private stretch of beach that had been offered up by one of the higher ups. It was apparently the anniversary of the day the 118 was first created, and they did it every year, and this year Evan wanted him to come along with him, as he hadn’t been able to last year as Tommy had been on call.

As they joined everyone on the beach, Bobby called out, “Hey! We have two rules! Remember them?”

Tommy grinned as Buck groaned, and then he watched with amusement as everyone reluctantly drawled out, “Don’t do anything to make us call 911…and you’re the only one who touches the grill,” and he laughed and shook his head.

“Oh my gosh, does he make you say this every year?”

“Yes,” Evan whined, moving them towards a clear spot over in the sand that was untouched, laying down one of the blankets, and Tommy smiled and joined him on top of it, noticing everyone else migrating a bit closer towards a circle that was being formed around what looked to be a pile of firewood that would soon be a beach bonfire, and he lit up at seeing it, feeling a twinge of excitement at the idea that they would be there long enough to enjoy a beach bonfire, something he had rarely experienced, all of his other experiences being ones in the army.

He nudged his boyfriend’s shoulder with his own and said low and quiet, “This looks like it’s gonna be fun,” and Evan shook his head and relied, “Let’s just say that I brought you here for a reason and hope you don’t mind being a buffer for when Chimney gets really drunk…”

“He gets that bad?” he asked, arching an eyebrow, surprised, and he nodded.

“Oh, yeah. It’s like beach bonfires unleash some part of him that usually never sees that light of day, so…prepare yourself,” he warned, and Tommy nodded.

“Noted.”

As they sat next to each other, he wondered if he should have brought the ring along with him. They had never talked about it before, but he thought Evan might not mind being proposed to in front of the people that he thought of as his family.

—and then his thoughts were cut off as Eddie shouted, “Tommy! You made it! Good, now there’s someone else who can critique Bobby’s grilling method with me,” and the airman laughed and stood up as the man approached, and they gripped each other’s hands and pulled, dropping a hand on the other’s shoulder, and he commented, “Not up to Texas grilling standards, I take it?” and Eddie shook his head, looking genuinely disappointed.

“Not even close,” he complained. “But maybe you can convince him to add more moisture to the steaks…”

Tommy shrugged, and then Evan was back up on his feet saying, “Hey, did you bring Chris with you?” and Eddie nodded and pointed over a ways.

“Yeah, he and the rest of the kids are spending some time together. I think they’re planning on another hostile takeover of your place,” he said with a wry grin and Tommy chuckled and replied, “I’m not complaining. It was great having all of them last time,” and Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, ‘cause they’re always good for the cool uncles but never for the parents!”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

The three of them laughed, and then Tommy found himself following Evan and Eddie over to the rest of the 118, who were all mostly gathered around the bonfire area with various drinks and snacks in their hands, and as the two of them started to mingle, he wondered what would happen once he and Evan were engaged. As boyfriends they didn’t have much say in the other person’s career choices—despite them already living together—and so once they officially tied the knot, would their priorities change?

Even as Tommy joked with Hen about some of their most recent rescues, his thoughts went to the fact that he knew he would never want to give up his job, he loved it too much…and he had the distinct feeling that Evan felt the same way about being a firefighter, so how would having a family work?

“Hey, what’s on your mind?”

Howie.

“Uh…nothing, just…thinking about Evan,” he honestly replied, grateful when his friend handed him a craft beer, which he took gratefully. “Things are really good right now, you know? I’m just…I’m just reminding myself not to take any of it for granted…”

Howie grinned and tapped his beer against his own and said, “I know what you mean. Every day I wake up and I feel damn lucky to have Maddie and Jee in my life. Have things been perfect? Hell, no! But…they’re definitely worth it,” he finished with a smile as he took a long sip from the gold tinted glass bottle, and Tommy regarded him for a moment, wondering if he should ask him about how he should propose to Evan—but then he remembered that the man couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, and so decided against it.

Instead he turned the conversation to a lighter topic as he kept an eye on his boyfriend who was moving his way towards the grill with a look in his eye that had him internally chuckling.

Oh, he was going to try and do something to the steaks, he just knew it.

But instead of doing anything, Tommy merely watched with an amused grin, enjoying the company of the 118 and the way they made him feel like he belonged, something that he had been craving for far too long—and soon (he hoped), it would be even more permanent than before.

The celebrating lasted long enough that the sun started to go down and the bonfire was lit up, and Evan had eventually migrated his way back to Tommy, drink in hand, cheeks lightly flushed, leaning into him and grabbing at his waist like they were teenagers, and the airman practically melted into every touch that his boyfriend gave him, feeling like he was somehow being able to experience something that he had been deprived of growing up.

There they stood in the fading light, lit only by the bonfire, cold drinks in hand, the wind drawing Evan’s dirty blonde hair into fluffy peaks, his eyes glowing. Somewhere in the background he could hear some music playing, something with a bouncy steel guitar, muted because it was far away.

All he could think of was the warm press of Evan’s body against his, the way his fingers slipped perfectly between his own, his head occasionally nuzzling into his shoulder, the sound of the kids screaming and laughing in the background as Howie—who was a little bit buzzed—was showing them how to play with the sparklers that he had somehow purloined from somewhere that he would bet good money wasn’t strictly legal…

…but it didn’t matter.

The sound of the waves was underneath it all as they ate the amazing food and enjoyed the wonderful company.

At some point a few people started dancing to the music in the background and he laughed when Maddie dragged her buzzed husband to a spot just beyond the bonfire and they began to twirl around. Tommy noticed the way Hen and Karen had been drinking nothing but juice and soda all night, keeping an eye on the kids, along with Bobby and Athena.

The wind picked up slightly and he felt Evan shiver next to him.

“Hey, let’s get back to the blankets,” he softly suggested against his ear, and the younger man nodded and let the airman lead him to where they had left the blankets.

As they sat down, Tommy stared at the way other members of the 118 began to dance as well, along with a couple of the kids, everyone feeling good on a typically warm California night. Evan still shivered, so he grabbed the second blanket and pulled it over both of their legs, smiling when Evan said, “Thanks,” and he pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Of course, babe,” he murmured, still soaking in the ambience of family and community, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that everyone around them would help him if he asked, and it was so intense that he had to close his eyes and swallow in an attempt to keep the tears from falling. He had never felt so safe and loved, and it was just…surreal. He had never thought that he would have this and that anyone would ever even care, let along claim to choose to love him.

He burrowed a bit more under the blanket, tugging Evan’s legs over his, watching as Eddie twirled Maddie, Howie sitting and watching with a fond smile.

He then softly whispered, “You have such an amazing family, Evan,” and his boyfriend looked up at him, blinked twice, and then said with a slow, toothy grin, “They’re our family, Tommy. You know that, right?” and he nodded.

“Yeah, I guess so…it’s just…I don’t think it’s really sunk in just yet, you know?”

They then fell into a comfortable silence, watching as everyone continued to celebrate…

…and then Evan nudged himself closer, practically in his lap, the two of them tangled up under the blanket that sprawled over their legs, and said into his neck, “Thank you for coming with me, babe. It wouldn’t have been the same without you, you know?” and he swallowed, feeling a rush of emotion, glad that he hadn’t brought the ring with him because he would have done something stupid and proposed to him right then and there, not caring who would see.

But now he knew that there wasn’t going to be anymore waiting.

Within a week, his boyfriend would be his fiancé.

[creampill]

skating date 🙏 maybe reader hasn’t a clue how to skate and is hopelessly clinging onto the behemoth of a dork who flawlessly dominates the skating rink

Okay, this is an interesting one because the outcome entirely depends on what type of skating is being had: Ice skating or roller skating? (Long post ahead, you’ve been warned)

If it’s ice skating, then König? He does fine. Growing up in Austria (and, as I headcanon, rurally) he’s had plenty of winters spent on frozen lakes with his siblings. He knows how not to bust his ass. He would have little ice hockey scrimmages with his fellow schoolkids at the little schoolhouse he went to, and he can point to some small, very old scars from unfortunate falls.

If you’re bad at ice skating? He will absolutely take the opportunity to play teacher. When in unfamiliar situations and in public, he tends to get nervous fast, especially in a romantic setting. So it would be much better to get him on a lake, just you and him, wrapped up warm and in skates just like his childhood. He’d hold you by the waist and help you stay steady, showing you how to turn your feet to stop and catch you when you almost fall. He’s warm, always so warm, and his big wide smile when you execute a turn all on your own is enough for him to melt the ice under you.

If you’re good at ice skating? He’d be much more comfortable in a public place. Ice skating is something he knows, and if he doesn’t have to worry about his beloved breaking their face, he can manage being around other people. And of course he’s skating beside you, holding your hand, doing little twirls if your skills allow. If you’re a proper figure skater, he’s watching dreamily as his little angel dances around on the ice, an aura of “that’s my partner, ain’t I lucky?” wafting off him.

If you also did some ice hockey- game is on. Once he’s given the go-ahead to get competitive, you’d better bring proper protection. König has a competitive streak as large as he is. He will use those bigass shoulders and he will laugh when he bowls you over. (Unless you’re actually hurt- then it’s all the way back to big softie puppy boy again) It’s a display of pure boyish delight and pride, and a good way to get all his adrenaline and energy out. He’s a goofy, sweaty mess afterwards- or a pouty one if you happened to win.

But, if it’s roller skating? This is a realm entirely unknown to König. One might think, reflexively, well, they’re both just skating, how much difference does it make?

A lot. First of all, different surfaces. Different centre of gravity on different types of skates. Roller blades may help, but then there’s the pushing vs sliding motion, entirely variable stopping methods- it’s a lot. And that cocky confident bastard on the ice is now looking at you with big hopeless eyes because he’s spent the last ten minutes desperately hugging the barrier with legs bowing like a newborn fawn.

If you’re also bad at roller skating? Oh no. It’s a comedy of errors, idiots in love. Neither of you know what you’re doing, you’re swapping ideas that never work and constantly having to use one another for support. There is plenty of laughter and plenty of physical contact- he’s got those nice strong arms that, even though he is impossibly clumsy, he’s still trying to Prince Charming you with. When the inevitable fall happens, it’s broken by him, landing directly onto the softness of his chest. Pressed that close, you can feel the rumble of his bright laughter as the two of you sit on your ass in the middle of the rink.

If you’re good at roller skating? Now it is you who is the Prince Charming. You get the pleasure of corralling your massive wet blanket of a datemate, König. If by some miracle you can support his weight, you’re good to go, but if like the majority of people you can’t hold steady this absolute mass of a lad, good luck. You’ll be getting a workout in, holding and leading and tugging him off of the ground. He learns fast, always has, but he still can’t help but squawk every time he feels himself losing balance.

And he is grateful, so grateful. Mostly told by how often he says thank you, his wobbly grins, jokes at his own expense. Not just for your help, but wow, he can make a fool of himself in front of you, and yet you still give him that adoring smile? God. He would take a million tailbone bruises for that smile.

💖 my inbox is open for requests, and my dms for commissions!

[biowaredisasterbisexual]

WIP Wednesday!

Thanks so much for the tag, @thedissonantverses!!

I’m tagging literally anyone who wants to do this. It’s fun! Join us! And @ me so I can come read and shout! I’ll also throw out some low pressure tags to: @mageofquandrix, @taashyvashedan, @becausedragonage, @galluslonging, @neve-gallus-girl-detective, @future-ghoost, @ofcrowsanddragons, @flowersforthemachines, @dymme, @hyperions-light, @basedonconjecture, and @lurkiestvoid, and @bygonesigh just because.

Below the cut, only lightly edited and not at all beta’d, part of a chapter I wrote and promptly forgot I wrote (???) for The Ventus Job.

“So you do odd jobs. You’re here for one of those jobs,” his cousin summarized. “And that’s it? You’re gone seven years and that’s all you can tell me?”

He chuckled. “I live in Minrathous? I’ve traveled a little? But otherwise I guess my life isn’t that exciting.” He did feel a little bad as he stacked lie of omission on lie of omission, but Livvy wouldn’t be any safer knowing what he’d actually been doing. To the contrary, he could accidentally paint a target on her back.

Her eyes narrowed on him, as though she could tell he wasn’t being entirely forthcoming. “No wife? Husband? Partner?” She asked. “Because the girl at the inn with the painfully obvious crush warned me you were taken, and I’m guessing it’s not by her.”

Rook managed to swallow the sip of water he’d taken before he choked on it. Barely. Once he was confident that he wasn’t going to die by drowning at the dinner table - which would have been a new low, even for him - he shook his head. “I’m not working this job alone, and we’re sharing a room. I’m not married.”

Though he was starting to think he might like to be. One day. Maybe. If Neve was interested in that.

Livvy still looked suspicious, but left it alone. “So, when are you going to spit it out?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her curiously. “Spit what out?”

She shrugged. “Whatever it is that made you finally write to me after you’d been here two weeks?”

The two of them stared at each other in near silence, other than both taking bites of their respective meals, for several minutes. What his cousin was thinking, Rook had no idea, but he used the period of silent challenge to figure out what he even could say.

He swallowed. “So, my partner and I, we were sent here to get some information. And it’s easiest to get if we can talk to some people that probably wouldn’t normally associate with us. Or me, at least.” Livvy cocked an eyebrow at him in curiosity, and gestured for him to continue. “And I heard there was a party at the Imperator’s…”

Recognition flashed in her eyes, and she smirked, “and you want a way in so you can interrogate those people.”

Rook shrugged, a concession. “In essence.”

Livinia set down her silverware, and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest as she thought. “I hadn’t been planning on going,” she said slowly. “I don’t think Sabine was either. But if we both go, you could be one of our guests. Your partner could be the other’s.”

She looked at him, eyes lit with mischief. “Your partner. Is he nice to look at?”

“She’s a woman.” Rook smirked. “And yes. But I think she may be spoken for.”

Livvy shrugged. “Is she married? Because I can be quite charming.”

He snorted, and shook his head. “She’s not married. But please don’t flirt with Neve. My life is weird enough as it is.”

“I thought you said your life was boring.” Kaffas. Caught. Livinia’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Besides, why would it be weird? You have a thing for your partner - what was her name - Neve?”

A thing for her? Rook guessed someone could call it that. It was far less wordy than saying he wasn’t sure he’d actually ever been in love before because of how it felt to love her, and he’d die for her without second thought.

That might come across as a little much, anyway.

[lordcephalopod]

I have a hypothesis/hot take that I'm growing firmer in my belief about like every day but no idea what to do with.

I think the rise of "food sensitivities" is fucking up people's health like. Real, real bad. Don't get me wrong! Food sensitivities and allergies are real! If you have celiac gluten is non-negotiable! If you get the potato sweats you probably shouldn't be eating those potatoes...

But I know so many people who went to some "nutritionist" who recommended a strict elimination diet to determine what the person is allergic/sensitive to. Person goes on the diet and suddenly feels better! They determine they're sensitive/allergic to some large swath of food, change their diet, and probably take fist fulls of unregulated supplements to fill any nutrition gaps.

And it goes great at first! Then like 6-12 months later their mental health, physical health, and fucking life are falling apart and they don't know why.

Like buddy...pal....it might be the self inflicted nutritional deficiency you gave yourself based on little more than Vibes and then tried to plug up with pills.

Maybe they did eliminate something they're allergic to! But that shotgun blast of a diet probably took out a lot of shit they're not allergic to. And having a very complicated, very strict, very nutritionally complete diet on the long term is a very tall order for most people.

Saw round one of this with the rise of "gluten sensitive" people who felt SO much better after going gluten free only to eventually realize their diet before was just like 80% bread/pasta/etc and they didn't feel better because gluten bad, they felt better because vegetables good.

Idk, i don't want to countermand anyone's doctor based on a hunch. I've just seen the pattern repeat so many damn time it's very frustrating. And I swear I've never seen anyone call it out without being some sort of feral "clean eating" borderline fascist weirdo.

[maxdibert]

From the way you talk, it sounds like you’re defending murderers, like they’re not even bad people 😅😅. And I’m not even talking about cases like self-defense or anything like that.

Legally, Snape didn’t kill the Potters or torture the Longbottoms, sure. But let’s be real—if it weren’t for him, they might still be alive. And he was a Death Eater for three years—do you really think he never killed anyone in that time? And why would he care? He didn’t give a damn about what they were doing until it affected him personally. Hе begged them to spare Lily… Like, who cares what she actually wanted? He wanted to save her after bringing this whole mess on them himself—even if it was by accident. If it had been any other family, he would’ve stayed a Death Eater and kept being a piece of shit till the end.

And how many times did he actually save Harry? Once? Twice? Maybe three times? (And no, I’m not counting that scene in the movie where he supposedly protected the Golden Trio from the werewolf—that wasn’t in the books.) He became a spy shortly before Voldemort’s death, and then again when Harry was in his fourth/fifth year. And the rest of the time, he just sat around doing nothing, like everyone else. So yeah, reading about his “20 years of nonstop dedication to the forces of good!!” just feels ridiculous to me.

He did the bare minimum for someone trying to redeem himself after all the shit he’d done—he literally had no other choice.)

Ah, the classic “Snape did the bare minimum and didn’t even care” argument. Let’s break it down.

"Without Snape, the Potters and Longbottoms might still be alive"

This is, at best, an absurd oversimplification and, at worst, an outright lie. Snape didn’t point Voldemort toward the Potters or the Longbottoms. He passed along information about a prophecy to his boss (which was literally his job as a spy at the time). He had no idea Voldemort would choose to target the Potters specifically, and when he found out, he did what no one else did: he tried to stop it.

Was his initial motive Lily? Yes. And? Snape was caught up in a supremacist organization from a young age, but unlike many others, Snape completely switched sides and became the double agent who ultimately led to Voldemort’s downfall.

Neither Dumbledore nor the Order could prevent Voldemort from going after the Potters. Snape tried. He failed, but at least he did something.

By the way, where was the rest of the Order in all of this? Why didn’t anyone else foresee what would happen to the Potters? Oh right, because Peter Pettigrew betrayed them. But sure, let’s blame Snape for everything. And let's blame him for begging for Lily and not Jame who was literally his long term abuser lol

"Did he kill anyone as a Death Eater?"

We literally don't know and in fact there is a huge insinuation during canon that him ceirtainly didn't.

But let's think he killed people. So what? History is full of people who have committed crimes and later changed sides. Snape isn’t a pure hero—he’s an antihero. If we demand that Snape must have a spotless record in order for his redemption to be valid, then shouldn’t we also discard characters like Regulus Black or Draco Malfoy?

What matters is that he changed sides and actively worked against Voldemort. He didn’t just say, “Oh, I don’t want to be a Death Eater anymore.” No. He became the key spy who kept Voldemort in the dark about Harry, the Order, Dumbledore’s strategy, etc.

“If it had been any other family, he would’ve stayed a Death Eater”

This is pure baseless speculation. Snape had prejudices, sure, but even before switching sides, he was never a fanatic like Bellatrix or the Carrows. He was an outcast who found power in the wrong group—until he realized what being a Death Eater truly meant.

Yes, at first, he only cared about Lily. But if she was the only reason for his change, then why did he keep fighting for years after she died?

If he only cared about Lily, he would’ve stopped after her death. But he didn’t. He stayed, kept spying for Dumbledore, risked his life daily, and in the end, he died for the cause.

“He only saved Harry three times”

First, that’s not true. Second, saving Harry wasn’t his only job. His role as a spy was far more important. Here are some things he did besides saving Harry:

Maintained his cover as a loyal Death Eater, earning Voldemort’s trust.

Protected the students at Hogwarts (yes, even the ones he disliked).

Drew suspicion away from Quirrell in Philosopher’s Stone.

Stopped Umbridge from torturing students in Order of the Phoenix.

Tried to protect Draco Malfoy from becoming a murderer and saved him from Voldemort’s wrath.

Provided the Order with critical intel on Voldemort’s plans.

Successfully deceived Voldemort until the very end, allowing Harry to win.

Saying “he only saved Harry three times” is like saying a resistance soldier only contributed because he shot three enemies—completely ignoring all his strategic and intelligence work.

“He did the bare minimum because he had no other choice”

Really? Who else in his position did the same? How many Death Eaters switched sides and risked their lives daily for 17 years? Why didn’t Lucius Malfoy become a spy? Why didn’t Regulus Black act sooner? Why did Karkaroff just run away?

Snape had plenty of other choices. He could’ve fled like Karkaroff. He could’ve pretended to switch sides and just stayed out of the fight. He could’ve let Harry die from the start and washed his hands of the whole mess. But he didn’t.

He even admitted to Dumbledore that he would never forgive Harry for surviving while Lily died. But he protected him anyway. Because it wasn’t about what he wanted—it was about what was right.

Snape wasn’t a perfect hero, but he wasn’t a one-dimensional villain either. He was a deeply flawed, complex character who, in the end, was instrumental in Voldemort’s downfall. He didn’t just do “the bare minimum”—he sacrificed his entire life, reputation, and future to ensure the Order had a chance.

If you think that’s not enough, the problem isn’t Snape. It’s that you refuse to acknowledge what he did.

PS: Do you even know what it means to be a criminal lawyer? I mean, I get the feeling that you don’t know how to read. Yes, I defend criminals. Yes, I have defended people who have killed others or hurt them very, very badly. So, I’ll insist again: you can try all the mental gymnastics you want to change my opinion, but if I have firmly believed that a person who left someone else in a coma deserved to be defended—a real person, with real consequences in the real world—you are not going to change my opinion about a fictional character whose story is literally based on a redemption arc that lasts seven books and whose only crime was criminal association when he was a teenager. I mean, I get the feeling that you’ve never actually left your house, you don’t know many people, and you’ve never interacted with anyone outside of your church in your little town.