#i have so many thoughts about the way they present things

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ stargirl interlude: chapter ii.

wnba!paige x pop star!azzi. men & minors dni.

⋆ 🪩 masterlist.

synopsis: azzi’s one of the industry’s fastest rising stars—a notorious ice princess. she doesn’t pay much attention to the internet, so she’s caught off guard when she finds out who her biggest fan is: world-class athlete paige bueckers, publicly losing her mind over her.

cw: implied mental health issues, fluff, first date, medium burn?, young girls rediscovering themselves and their desires, slight angst, mentions of faith.

notes: hi, my doves. let me know if you enjoyed this. sorry this is a little sad, but azzi is a product of childhood fame. love you. can't wait to see you in my inbox.

II: SECOND SKIN.

“i’d like to work on something different. something that feels more like me.”

azzi watched as her manager’s brow rose, sensed her mother's gaze boring holes deep into her skin. she steadfastly ignored them, focusing instead on the condensation dripping down the plastic body of her iced blueberry matcha. 

the head of the label sat across from her. he was a stout man with a pinched face. it always looked as though he was struggling to breathe. he was kind though, had seen many a pop legend come and go, and seemed to have a soft spot for her ideas, usually called silly, when she presented them to katie on the car ride home.

“you don’t feel any connection to what you’re doing now?” he asked her, and azzi blinked back into the moment.  

“i think i did at some point but,” azzi pursed her lips, then let out a flow of air, “i’m not feeling myself in any of it. i look at the lyrics and open my mouth and nothing comes out. at least nothing i’m proud of.”

the man sat back, green eyes unnervingly bright. she focused on the liver spot that pulled across his neck, mind running as she tried to remember his name. it was something rather clandestine. micheal? murray? 

“what do you feel yourself in?”

azzi looked up from beneath her lashes, her cheeks haloed by her unbrushed curls. she was only in a midi black dress, the straps thick and the neckline square. along her collarbones lay a thin diamond chain with a silver, cursive ‘a’ pendant that swung forward every time she readjusted herself. her feet were encased in faux-leather flats, the small, needlework rosary tattoo she’d gotten on a whim dark and visible.

“i’ve been listening to a lot of indie rock. red hot chili peppers, smashing pumpkins, the teenagers. i like the way i feel when i listen. there’s more room in the writing to sing about what i’m going through, big or small. i’m—” she hesitated. “i’m tired of being a sexy baby.”

“indie rock, huh?” the man said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “i didn’t think kids knew of red hot chili peppers these days.”

azzi smiled, her two front teeth shining white and new. her mother, who had been holding on for a rather impressive amount of time, finally gave her input.

“but she’s not a rockstar, max! she’s a pop star.”

oh, so his name was max. yes, very clandestine. max rolled his neck over to one side as he glanced irritably at katie, his jaw working before he responded. 

“i get that, katie, i really do.” azzi tried not to laugh and took a sip of her matcha. “but reinvention is how these girls stay alive in this world. azzi’s right. people are not looking for the sexy baby thing right now. i mean there’s always an audience, but azzi’s demographic has grown with her. and if she wants her growth to be noticeable, i think it's smart to play up a different image other than discovering that you have a body and desires for the first time.” 

huh, azzi thought. go, max.

he looked back at her, eyed her drink. “need another?’

“sure,” azzi said, her voice quiet but her resolve strong. 

they got up. they took a walk.

⟡

azzi pushed three thick sprays of salt water through the nozzle and into the back of her throat, her nose burning as california brine coated the muscles. then she texted paige. 

» hey, paige. just wanted to touch base about getting coffee this week.

her arms burned when she pressed the meat of them into the metal strings of her bass guitar. she shined it earlier and its teal corpse stared at her, reflecting a distorted image of her face as it begged her to touch it—to raise it from the dead. she felt the feeble spirit of her thirteen-year-old self in the marrow of the instrument, and she focused she could hear her too.  

she hated the message once she sent it. she sounded so out of touch with what it meant to be a young girl, a cool girl. while she waited for paige’s response, her eyes roved over the other girl’s instagram. she cataloged what she knew of her already: she was twenty-five, two years to azzi’s twenty-three, and a well-loved prodigy. she frequented texas, dallas to be specific, due to her current contract. she flew back and forth to new york, apparently helping to coach teenage athletes in her spare time. 

azzi liked that, that the goodness of her heart gave her a reason to plant her feet on new york’s rat-run ground. azzi sometimes worried that she wasn’t good, not even a little bit. 

she lingered on a candid of paige in the pews of a church, the light streaming in through the thin stained glass adorning her with mock sainthood. azzi wondered if it would matter to paige that god tended to put a frog in her throat, that she had removed his hands from around her neck and thighs and was trying to sit next to him without flinching on most days. maybe they would never get there. 

» hey, azzi. yeah, i’m still good for coffee. 

azzi smiled. i wonder if you know how good you make me feel, she thought and then was immediately embarrassed. 

» that’s really good to hear. 

she paused, then sent another message. 

» sorry about saying “touch base”. it was weird.

the response was swift.

» nah, it wasn’t. 

azzi wondered if she should leave it alone, but if she was going to coffee she may as well ensure it wasn’t too awkward. she raised her arms, ignoring the indentations in her skin, and snapped a picture of her guitar. the steel of its strings gleamed; the teal paint seemed to cry. you could see her shadow reach across it. her leg was bent, but visible—tender from her weight being shifted across it for several hours.

» trying to learn how to use her again » going a new direction with my music and i’m kind of really scared 

too honest, she berated herself. paige didn’t seem to think so.

(paige didn’t think so at all. her crystal blue eyes had fallen on the reddened skin of azzi’s knee, on the thin strip of darkness made by the bend of azzi’s leg and the crush of her thigh. her mouth watered, and she redid her ponytail to regain some self-control.)

» u have a voice like an angel, azzi. some things are just meant to be. 

» God knew what He was doing. 

she capitalized God, azzi noted. her mouth twitched into a smile. she liked that. it was a good detail.

» i’m not that religious, but since you are i guess you would know. » sorry that sounded mean, but i don’t mind it. your faith, i mean. please don’t feel bad.

a moment passed and then,

» i don’t know, i just trust. » and i didn’t feel bad. ur not a mean girl. 

azzi laughed out loud then. 

» it’s my desire to know vs my desire to trust, she said.  » see you tomorrow, paige

her phone buzzed one last time. 

» can’t wait. i’ll be looking for u. 

azzi took a deep breath and closed her eyes. she thought hard of california, saw her father in the waves with a hand around her arm—the bone thick with baby fat. she heard something, someone. 

she touched a string. it sang.

⟡

the morning light came in sharp, cutting the shop into bright angles and long shadows. the windows were too clean, the floor polished to a dull shine. it smelled like scorched milk and antiseptic, something artificial masking something else. the kind of place people pretended to not mind, with its ten-dollar oat lattes and plastic baristas. the kind of place azzi used to think she liked.

she had dressed without thinking—well, no. she had thought about it quite a bit, but it was a good fantasy.

a strapless smocked top, tight across her ribs, the fabric shifting when she moved. faded jeans, loose at the hip, cinched with an old leather belt. they slouched low, soft, and worn in the way vintage denim should be, brushing against the tops of her boots. she carried her jacket in one hand, twisted around her fingers like an afterthought. her hair, loose from whatever styling had held it the other morning, fell in soft, uneven spirals. she’d drawn up the top with brown butterfly clips to prevent it from getting into her eyes. 

she looked like someone caught between selves. not quite undone, but close.

her fingers traced the rim of her mug, nails chipped down to uneven edges. the heat of the ceramic barely registered. paige was watching her. not in the way people usually did—calculating, expectant—but with a slow heat closer to patience. like she was trying to understand something. azzi often felt like a ghost within her own body, but now, someone was gazing at her,  not through her.

paige sat with her legs apart, elbows resting on her thighs. it was the kind of posture that helped make her look present without seeming too comfortable. the light made a halo of her, just for a second.

she wore a white, slightly oversized button-down, sleeves rolled up just once—as she did it absentmindedly, not for style. the fabric looked soft; it seemed the kind that came off better the more it was worn. beneath that: dark wash straight-leg jeans, fitted enough to hint at her strength but relaxed to a degree that spoke to her disinterest in the semantics of fashion. they fell heavy at the hem, half-swallowing her vintage nike cortez sneakers. a simple chain encircled her neck, barely noticeable except when the light caught it. a cross, just simple metal.

the image instilled a sense of wonder in azzi. she wanted to ask about it, if it meant anything.

paige grimaced, picking up her vanilla latte with two shots of espresso. "twelve fucking dollars?" she muttered. "for this?"

azzi watched her, something soft developing in her chest. she slightly recognized this feeling. it was like rediscovering a language she'd forgotten she knew how to speak. it began to bleed through her, raw and unfiltered. she worried that it would stain her shirt.

"so," paige said, her voice slipping through the lo-fi hum of someone’s terrible 2010-esque playlist, "tell me something."

azzi blinked. the overhead lights buzzed, too bright, catching on the fine gold chain around her throat. her small scorpio pendant shifted when she swallowed. 

“um, let’s see. i'm twenty-three," azzi started, her words falling into a practiced rhythm. "born in virginia, but lived in california for a while. i miss it there. uh, oh. my favorite color is pink. i have a birthmark shaped like texas on my left hip.” 

paige took another swig of coffee and then looked her dead in the eye. she raised an eyebrow. "you giving me teen beat facts?"

azzi suppressed a smile. she shrugged.

paige leaned in, elbows on the table, hands loose but steady.

"something that doesn’t exist in a press release." a pause. "give me the real you, please."

the words settled between them. the moment stretched, thin and expectant. something about it made azzi want to look away.

she didn’t.

“um,” her voice was quieter now, “i’m terrified of spiders, but i don’t ever want to kill them. i’m allergic to fake gold, and my ears swelled when i got them pierced as a toddler. i can’t cook or bake, but i have a good eye for presentation. i haven’t really written or performed anything i’ve liked in over two years.”

the last bit took her by surprise, but paige’s eyes only softened. she leaned back and swallowed down the remnants of her drink. she put it down and tilted her head, her blonde hair shifting with the movement. her mouth seemed electric as she spoke. 

“i want to take you somewhere. come with me?”

they ended up at a small ethiopian restaurant.

it was tucked between a laundromat and a convenience store, where the scent of berbere and spiced butter pulled at the air before the door even opened. inside, the walls were warm-toned, lined with woven baskets and paintings, the floor covered in persian rugs softened and faded by years of footsteps. it hummed with low chatter, the clink of metal trays, and the occasional burst of laughter from a group in the corner.

azzi looked around, a little mesmerized. "this is beautiful."

paige watched her, further endeared. "yeah."

they sat on the floor, low cushions pressed against their backs, a tray of injera and slow-cooked stews set between them. the place was packed, families and couples and groups of friends leaning close, tearing pieces of bread with practiced ease. 

it was intimate in a way that surprised azzi—hands reaching, sharing, dipping.  food was so respected here; the art of the meal and family so centered. she followed paige’s lead, watching her scoop a piece and fold it with practiced ease.

azzi’s first bite made her eyes widen, then flutter closed. "oh my god."

"right?" paige grinned, watching as azzi eagerly took another bite. it was so good, flavored in a way that stuck to your ribs. this was the kind of food you could taste long after you’d left the table.

they stayed like that, across from one another but intersecting as their hands met in the warm rivers of heavily spiced sauce and pots of yellow rice.

at some point, azzi got a bit of sauce on her chin, then her cheek, and paige, without thinking, swiped her thumb over it only to smear it across the bridge of her nose. azzi let out a startled laugh, brown eyes crinkling, and paige smirked.

"you missed a spot."

paige watched as azzi lifted her phone, angling the camera to capture the streak of sauce on her cheek, then her nose. she stuck out her tongue, crossing her eyes in one, then tilted her head slightly, lips parted to reveal her american girl teeth, a mess of curls cradling her face.

"these are so cute," she murmured, voice warm as she tapped through the shots. "i never get to have food on my face."

and it was clearly meant to be funny in an offhanded way, but then azzi’s face flickered—like she’d just realized something. a small thing, but a thing that felt bigger, heavier. her throat tightened, and she hurried to blame it on the spice, but she could tell that paige saw through it, saw the way her fingers flexed like she didn't know what to do with them.

under the table, paige found her hand. squeezed. then, casually, she tore another piece of injera, scooped up some stew, and lifted it to azzi’s full lips—the skin a deep pink and swollen by the flame of peppers.

"here, mama," she said, voice easy. "try this one."

azzi took the bite, chewed, and swallowed. she exhaled, slow. paige didn’t let go of her hand.

before they left, the owners took a polaroid for the wall of customers. azzi insisted they take two, so they could have their own. in the photo, azzi was mid-laugh, eyes bright, sauce still dotted on her nose. paige stood beside her, relaxed in a way she didn’t even realize, watching azzi like she had a secret within that she didn’t know yet.  like she always had.

they didn’t decide who would get to keep it officially, but it ended up in the back of azzi’s phone. a pale copy sat in paige’s gallery. azzi pocketed the second polaroid, running a thumb over the glossy surface. something shifted inside her, loose and warm. 

later, on the train home, she tucked her legs beneath her in the seat and hummed under her breath. a melody had given birth inside of her—new, half-formed, and fighting. words came to her unbidden, stale lyrics made better by the fact that she was trying again.

she murmured into her phone’s voice memo app. she held up the phone to paige’s mouth and asked her to speak. paige smiled, tender with joy, and protested that she didn’t know what to say.

“it’s not the real thing,” azzi assured her. “you can say anything.”

paige hummed and then,

“will you get another coffee with me?” 

azzi grinned, her body trembling. she lowered her feet to the floor and leaned over until her head fell onto paige’s shoulder. she picked up paige’s hand and turned it over so that the pale palm was open and exposed. she traced nine letters into the skin.

yes, please.

paige closed her hand and kept her there. 

azzi hummed from the station to her apartment. even the clink of her keys into their designated bowl seemed on-key. 

it was a song. her song. the first in a long time. she could’ve sobbed. 

thank god, she thought, that i remember how to sing.

⟡

voguescandinavia: azzi fudd has a new approach: “i want to keep going to places where i don’t know anyone or anything. i tend to find myself there.”

a black and white portrait accompanied the tweet. azzi's face was slightly turned, wind-blown wisps of her natural curls catching across her cheekbone. her expression was borderline intense, almost vulnerable—eyes looking slightly off-center, not quite meeting the camera.

she wore a simple white tank top, and her skin was slightly tanned, with shadows and bits of sand dusted along parts of her face. the background was indistinct, a blurred landscape suggesting openness, motion. her gaze penetrated.

it was silently understood that she wasn’t performing, but truly present.

the reception was overwhelmingly kind, warm. but only one mattered.

trending simple and proud:

pbueckersofficial: angel falls short but swear it’s her true form 🩶🎙️

on her private account, her heart to mouth filter had failed. the same picture, quote retweeted but with different wording: 

pbuckets5: i want to run away. make a world of just you and me. somewhere between the city lights and the way you breathe—i'm desperate to understand everything.

her teammates' immediately lit up her notifications.

karnold: girl what is happening  aubrey: wait what.   janaaa: oh. drewbuckets: paige poetry era??

azzi, almost half asleep, saw the public thread. smiled. then quote-tweeted:

azzi35: i'd like to stay on earth for another coffee with you 🕊️

the internet imploded. 

username: they actually hang out?!  username: paige bueckers and azzi fudd interacting again??? this is not a drill  uconnsports: we're witnessing history  ⤷ username: who is the intern running this page lmfao username: the way they're speaking about each other?? its giving legacy love story i fear karnold: y’all don’t you worry, we got somebody checking on paige cause she may actually be dead idk

and trending worldwide: #bueckersfudd2028.

⟡

azzi went to sleep. in her dreams there was a stage, but no microphone. azzi opened her mouth and extended a hand to the sole person in the audience. from her mouth burst three pink butterflies. 

teach me, they said with every pump of their wings. please, teach me.

the woman stood from her seat. her hair was so blonde it was almost white. she looked at azzi with her sharp blue gaze, touched her own throat, and then stepped forward to press into azzi’s skin. the heat from her fingertips spiraled up into azzi’s mouth until she felt so warm that she thought her bones might melt into ash and milk. 

the woman cupped her cheek. from her heart a beat; from her mouth a word. 

azzi, she said. her mouth was closed. God himself opened your mouth and placed music on your tongue.

azzi, she said. sing.

© hcneymooners.

[doberbutts]

Being transgender, being gay, I made my peace with a lot of things when I learned many hard truths about what life would be like for me the moment I chose to chase my own happiness and walk away from the sensibilities of my family and hometown.

I made my peace with never passing as male. With never getting top surgery. With never having a friend group that actually understands me. With never loving someone who actually wants who I really am. With never getting married, or having a family.

I thought I could be content with what little I could do, because it seemed like I wouldn't be able to do much of anything.

It will be two weeks from my top surgery tomorrow. And it has felt like I'm living in a dream the entire time. I suppose after years of dreaming about finally having a flat chest, having this now be my reality feels like one sharp jolt and I will return to the waking world where this was never going to be an option.

I look into the mirror and I just see- me. I undid my surgical garment to apply my scar strips and couldn't help but stare. That's me looking back.

My breasts were large enough to obscure the shape of my torso- so I really had no frame of reference for what I would look like without.

I hated the sensation of having my breasts and especially my nipples touched- and I know part of this is the nerves re-attaching- but it's so sensitive right now. Not painful, just sensitive in a new way that I never really felt before. And it does feel like I still have nipples, even though I don't. Where my nipples would be, there is sensation present that is similar to what I've always associated with my shirt rubbing against them.

I've chased and wanted this for so long that now that I have it, it feels unreal. It feels like tomorrow some politician is going to announce that I'll undergo a second procedure to put them back on.

But it also feels like freedom. The smile on my face when I look down and see my chest, the giddiness I feel when I remember that this is the first two weeks of the rest of my life.

I don't have full range of motion or strength back yet. I can feel my pecs twitching as I sit on my couch, and I feel a million sensations playing back and forth across my chest as the nerves do their thing.

I started my scar tape today just to see if I can prevent the hypertrophic scarring I'm prone to and have in other areas. But, even if I can't, I'm happy to simply be flat. I'll figure out the rest later.

Anyone who has been suffering quietly- I'm 32. I came out at 13. I didn't feel right being a girl before that.

It has been a long and arduous journey. But it is never too late to take your first steps.

You also can chase your own happiness. You deserve it.

[bunny-jpeg]

pretty little panties - simon r. simon wanted something that reminded him of home. he was tucked away in latvia near the russian border. it was a pretty simple mission, but he missed his honey, his dove, his everything.

you were all the way back home, he bet at that very moment with the time differences and everything, you were probably tucked under the covers in your shared bed. under that fleece black and white blanket you loved so much. your face pressed against the stuffed animal he bought for you before his deployment - a little reminder of him. he bet you were nice and cozy. and that gave some ease of mind. after all, you were what was he was fighting for. making sure good in the world stayed good. it let him rest easier between missions.

but it also gave him a raging erection.

simon didn't ask for many things. he was a hard person to get gifts for as a result. but when he got a rather small, thin care package from you. he was delighted to find a hand written letter that smelled like you and inside the folds of paper were a pair of pretty pink panties.

at the end of the letter it read, "take good care of them, i want them back when you come home." and simon could have kissed you on the lips at that very moment! he snuck them into his pocket for later.

it wouldn't be for a few days till he was able to really feel the soft fabric between his fingers. your panties spent most of the time in his tactical vest. the knowledge that it was there felt good, like when he had your picture in his helmet. felt like a little piece of you was with him. he couldn't wait to get his hands on you, feel you in his grasp once more. you were such a pretty sight to see and feel, and while the panties were pretty and smelled like you. they weren't you.

alone in his room for the night. he tried to get comfortable in bed with his green shirt and casual pants on. he leaned back into the few pillows he had and started to palm his cock through his pants. he got the panties out of the pocket. they had been his little good luck charm since they arrived. he brought them to his nose and deeply inhaled before he got his cock out of his pants.

he spat in his rough palm and started to stroke his cock. it really wasn't the same as your more delicate hands. hands not cracked from war. they were soft with next to no callouses. they felt like heaven on his cock, your mouth was even better. it didn't take long before he wrapped the panties around his hard cock and continued to stroke himself.

he imagined you where he was. at the base he was at. tucked away for a little visit. you wouldn't fit in at all on the base, obviously standing out as a civilian. but simon would make sure you got anything you needed. he protected his little dove. the love of his life, after all you gave him such a little present. pre-cum stained the pink cotton, but he kept stroking himself. the pleasure was built up in his body. he'd make sure that you'd both fit in the tiny bed he currently slept in. even that meant him having to sleep on the floor. your comfort was the most important.

his dark eyes closed and he continued to stroke himself quickly. thoughts of you plagued his mind. he tensed up a little and more pre-cum spilled out. he thought about all the things he'd do to you. how your pretty body would move up and down his cock when you rode him.

he'd wrapped his strong arms around you and bounce you on his cock. he'd finish load after load in you. give you messy kisses. he wanted to feel his angel again, you were just perfect for him. he loved you so very much. he wanted those hot kisses and those gentle cuddles. how you'd trace patterns across his skin and snuggle in his arms.

he loved you.

so it didn't take much longer for him to cum all over the panties. the cotton was ruined with his thick cum. he knew there was no way to save them. but yet he kept rubbing his oversensitive cock with them. he couldn't help himself. it just felt so good.

he knew the next time he got the chance to message you. he'd apologize for ruining the pretty pair you gave him, and ask very nicely for another one. that he'll definitely treat nicer. <3

inspired by recent events

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

the thing about Lucanis and Spite is like. neither of them actually wanted to be there. and that is both how they were able to survive the melding and why they resent each other so much. Lucanis' banter about the Ossuary where he says to survive it he "Shut down completely. Think nothing. Feel nothing. Except what you need to escape." And when asked what's left he says "If you're lucky? Revenge. And bad dreams." like. he always had this core of his own personal spite down in him (not doing crow jobs the easy way, ignoring Caterina's summons, not embracing his future as a potential first talon, to "live truly is to live fully" but he HASN'T been allowed to and resents it, etc etc etc) but in the Ossuary he really hollows himself out into the perfect vessel, empties himself of everything but wanting to survive anyway. and "no one was in the Ossuary by choice, not even the demons" so of course he and Spite can agree on this One Thing. they make their deal that they're gonna make it through just because everyone else there is waiting for them to die, and of course they're not gonna just give them what they want. even if they're fighting each other the whole time (hence Lucanis being used to Spite 'hitting' him etc when he doesn't get what he wants), they still have this united purpose Every Day about getting through it. like it's utterly crucial that for both to survive at all the demon had to be something that wanted to defy what the venatori wanted from it.

and this is also why their relationship falls apart once they do escape, because without something else present to rail against every day, they have to turn on each other. and of course it is actually an absolutely miserable situation for both of them to be in--Lucanis is living the nightmare of his body being puppetted around without his consent, just like the blood magic he already had to endure under Zara, and can't ever be alone again even in his own mind. Spite is trapped in a world that no longer responds to his shaping, lacks the autonomy of a truly possessed host body, and can barely comprehend the new laws that govern the place he's in.

for both of them it's such an intense violation of being, and one I wish got more emphasis/recognition. it's really easy to make jokes about how Lucanis could be better at sharing/compromise with Spite more (like I make them too myself, it's easy) but really just... man. this isn't like with Anders & Justice, who agreed to their situation, or Wynne where Faith is content to be mostly a silent passenger and did it to save her life. Lucanis and Spite are suffering the most complete form of intimacy under the worst circumstances, and neither actually wanted it. which makes it honestly impressive at all that (unhardened) Lucanis & Spite are able to reach an accord at all by the end. like i'm glad that they did--and have SO many thoughts (& fanfic WIPs lol) exploring just how they managed to get there--but boy was it hard won, if you actually look deeper into it than the game has room to explore.

[vinylfoxbooks]

March 26 - Skeptic | @into-the-jeggyverse | wc: 899

“I don’t like Regulus’ new partner.” Sirius mutters low to his boyfriend. They’re settled on the couch, mugs of tea in hand with Remus reading and Sirius curled around his partner, lost in his own thoughts. Said Regulus and partner have just left for the night, tucking into Regulus’ room. He says it only when he can’t hear them shuffling around between the bathroom and Regulus’ room anymore. 

Remus hums, putting a thumb on his line, “What about them?” 

“I don’t know, they're just… weird.” 

“I’m a werewolf, love, I don’t think you can be talking about dating someone a bit ‘weird’. I’m sure Regulus thought the same thing of me when we first met.” 

“That’s a lie,” he shakes his head, “He liked you from the beginning. I think it was all the nerdy book talk.” 

Remus gives him a flat look, “We both know that’s not true, I may have placated him with the ‘book talk’ but he was on edge around me for months after we first met.” Then, after a couple seconds he bookmarks his book and settles it on his lap, “What about them is weird to you?” 

Sirius sighs and takes a moment to formulate his words, “They… came in here strong in an… odd way. Wearing odd, hand-me-down-looking clothes that were all dirty, the way they talked was… it was like they weren’t really present.” 

“What are you trying to say?” Remus sighs, seemingly getting frustrated with his boyfriend, “And it better not be you stuck up family beliefs trying to prevent you from seeing your brother happy.” 

“I don’t think that’s it.” 

“Don’t you?” Remus hums, “I came walking into your house for the first time in a similar state, so what makes you so skeptical about Regulus’ partner?” 

“I just-”

“Listen, Sirius.” Remus sighs once more, turning to lake eye contact with him, “Your brother is clearly happy with James, it’s obvious with the way that they look at each other. They’ve also seemingly been dating long enough that Regulus would have been turned away by them if something was wrong. James clearly cared about Regulus.”

“But-”

“No, Sirius. Your brother can take care of himself, in fact we both know that he prefers to. Whether James is ‘weird’ or not, they’re nice and they seem to treat Regulus well and that’s all that matters. It should be obvious that Regulus introducing them to us was just a courtesy.” 

Sirius sighs, “I know…” 

“Excuse me,” A voice says behind them, making them both turn to it. James stands politely in the entrance to the hallway, gazing at them with the most present look in their eyes that SIrius has seen from them all day, “Where do you keep the tea that Regulus likes?” Sirius takes them in while Remus answers for him, noting their threadbare sleep clothes and lack of as many charms and jewelry pieces as they were wearing before. There are still a couple bracelets on their wrist, blue and with little eyes on the beads, and a couple pieces of jewelry in their piercings, but they’re much less decorated than they were before. 

Remus hums and watches them for a moment, “In the cabinet opposite the sink, we just had the kettle boiling so it shouldn’t take long. Mugs are in the cabinet to the left of the sink.” 

James smiles at him, “Thank you.” And with that, they sweep into the kitchen and the couple can hear the telltale signs of someone preparing some tea. Remus gives his boyfriend a look, Sirius just shakes his head and lays it on the taller’s shoulder, smiling when a hand comes up to pet through his hair. 

When they come back out a couple minutes later, Remus hums, “James?” After making sure he has their attention, he starts, “Can you tell me about how to care for the basil you got us?” 

James nods, making their way over to the couch chair and settling in it, muttering something as they put the mug of tea on the coffee table, “Basil is a bit persnickety about its care. It needs lots of sunlight, so putting it in your sunniest window is best, and it’s demanding on water. Keep the soil moist at all times. Watering it every couple of days would be best.” They gaze over at the beautiful, hand painted pot that holds the half-started basil that Sirius and Remus put on the coffee table when James handed it to them, “Once it starts consistent leaf growth, then you can start cutting off the leaves and using it for things like cooking, I’ve found that homegrown basil is extra flavourful. It’s also spiritually protective, believed to bring luck, wealth, and health to a household so take care of it and it’ll take care of you.” 

Remus seems a bit taken aback by the last part, but he collects himself after a moment and nods, “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you James.”

James smiles at him, moving to stand up, “Of course, have a good night you two.”

“You as well.” And with that, James makes their way down the hallway and into Regulus’ room once more. The interaction leaves Sirius conflicted, but he doesn’t comment on it anymore. Remus picks up his book and continues reading, shooting a glance at their new plant every once in a while.

[dcxdpdabbles]

I love your Freelance Inventor Au so much! (And, like, all your other work,, lol) I can't help imagining Danny finding out about the Batfam and turning to Bruce like, "You let our kids be vigilantes?!" Meanwhile Bruce is stuck on the fact that Danny called them "Our" kids. Or the reveal the other way, with Bruce finding out about Phantom first? He'd freak out- clearly he doesn't know Danny as well as he thought he did. And he can't believe Danny never told him! Meanwhile, Danny thought he mentioned the Phantom thing ages ago and that Bruce just doesn't care.

Since Jazz put the idea in his head, Danny has been unable to think of anything else. The idea that he might be in love with Bruce Wayne and had been for so many years but didn't notice because he assumed everyone felt that it was for that one friend.

It was there whenever he was drafting new blueprints, when he traveled across the world looking for inspiration and investors, when he settled into bed for a good night's rest, and most of all, when he finished his weekly phone call with Bruce.

"Get some rest," Bruce's warm, smooth voice says over the speakers. "I'll talk to you soon. Goodnight, Danny."

"Goodnight," he responds softly. He has a request to stay on the line on the tip of his tongue, but with the time difference, he knows it's not a good idea. And have a good day, Bruce."

The call ended with a click, but he couldn't help but feel their goodbye needed something.

I love you.

That was it. That's what was missing. But did he dare? Could he? Was he confusing love for something it wasn't? Was Bruce even interested?

Danny places his phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling of the latest hotel he booked, wondering if Bruce is leaving for lunch with the kids. He said they were celebrating Tim's new clothesline and wished he was there to cheer the boy and his team on.

Danny is in Toykyo today, presenting his new hologram keyboards to a big company.

Of course, they were the second company allowed the selling rights. Wayne Tech was the first, and Danny kept the production and creation rights. It was one of Danny's most ingenious inventions, if he did say so himself, but the look on Bruce's face when he revealed it to him was far more exhilarating than creating the keyboard or gaining the fat paycheck.

Fenton's Ghost Touch was a set of two rings with a hologram keyboard inside. When someone needed to type, they would spin the rings and double-tab the inner lining, connecting to devices using the Bluetooth function.

A visible hologram would pop up underneath their fingers, or if they wanted (and were good enough typers), they could move their fingers in the air without it, which would still allow them to type.

Danny had chosen to release the line in black internationally with Toyko, but Wayne Tech would release an exclusive color line. The rings were of the same design, all using slick silver bands but with different colors as the activation inner rings and some elegant carvings, unlike the international releases, which were just one solid color.

Fenton's Ghost Touch would come in seven colors: blue, red, pink, green, purple, white, and yellow.

Danny had purposely designed them using each of the Wayne kids' favorite colors and sent them all a set with their corresponding colors. The morning they arrived, he got a picture of them showing off their new rings, smiling widely at the camera from Bruce.

He saved the photo as his laptop background. His phone background already had a picture of him and the Waynes at Thanksgiving. They had crowed around, holding their wreaths with Bruce and Danny in the center.

Danny had been facing the camera, beaming in pride at the kids' work. Bruce was half-turning, his gaze stuck on Danny's face with a strange, fond, soft smile, the kind he rarely saw Bruce give anyone else.

It made him hope. Oh, how he hoped, but it also scared him. What if this wasn't love? Danny has never been in love before, has never fallen to the urges that others describe, and had been so comfortable convincing his asexuality meant he would never have to be the kind of person staying up long into the night overthinking every interaction with another person.

Yet here he was, seeing Bruce in a whole new light and discovering how different everything was because of it. But at the same time, how nothing had changed. He spoke to Dani about this, but his clone-turned-sister had only shrugged.

"You raised kids with the man." She laughed. Dani wasn't like Danny, and although she was more informed than their parents, she had difficulty wrapping her head around not having those feelings. "I think it's past the point of having a crush on him. I think you should go for it. Make it official."

Danny reaches up, rubbing at his eyes. It was midnight, and he had a meeting with another with the Japanese board again at eight. He really needed to rest and be on top of his wits so that he and his lawyer could ensure the contact was in his best interest.

He clicks open his gallery on his phone instead of swiping through photos of Bruce and feeling his heart leap nearly out of his chest. He misses the man.

Since Jazz's conversation, Danny has been practically avoiding him. This is due to his being hyper-aware of himself and Bruce: the way Bruce laughed, the dip in his voice whenever the British accent he picked up from Alfred popped in, the slight facial expressions he made when confused about emotions, the shift from playful to professional in work settings, and most of all, the attention he always bestowed onto Danny.

How the world just seemed brighter whenever he was with the man.

Bruce was his sun, and Danny was nothing more than a flower seeking him out. It made the Halfa want to hide in a hole but dance around in public all at once, and he didn't know why.

He finds a video, tapping the play button before thinking further of it, and melts when the first sound he hears is Bruce's laughter. It's quickly followed by the loud noise of the Waynes' Children. It was taken at the last Wayne game night—at the time, Danny had been in England with Dani.

Tim recorded Damian standing proudly over a map covered in white trains, arms spread into a T position, and Duke screaming accusations of cheating. After Alfred banned Monopoly in the Manor, the game Ticket to Ride quickly took over as the new worst enemy creator.

Dick was in the background sobbing into his hands as Jason tried to confront him. Steph and Cass were each leaning on Bruce's two shoulders, laughing as hard as their father, and Alfred was out of frame but not out of hearing, so when he stated, "Master Dick, how could have gone in the wrong direction? It's the map of the USA, it hasn't change in years!"

"He has a concussion, Alfrie!" Jason protested hotly. "Leave him alone!"

"YOU CHEATED!" Duke raged as Damian continued his pose with the most serious expression he'd seen on the child. It made his heart swell to see Damian copying him.

Danny struck the same pose whenever he beat his sisters at a game, even at his advanced age. Once an annoying brother, always an annoying brother.

The video ends with Tim flipping the camera. His broad grin covered the whole screen as he shouted, "Love you, Dad! Miss you! Can't wait to see you!"

Danny turns to his side, feeling his heart flutter more as the word plays repeatedly in his head. A few years ago, the Wayne Kids—excluding Damian, who was polite to the point it hurt—switched from Danny to Dad when referring to him.

Bruce hadn't made a big deal about it even though they called him Dad. Would that mean the man was happy his kids saw him as a second father figure? Did it mean the man thought of him as....a husband?

Danny groans, burying his face into the cool sheets of his futon, begging his mind to stop for a few seconds so he can rest. After this deal goes through, Danny is going to face the music.

He would go to Gotham and figure out a way to tell Bruce how he felt. He just hopes he has it figured out by then. Danny has an idea, but explaining the mess in his head into words is going to be much harder than anything he's ever done.

Not to mention Phantom. That was a can of worms he hadn't ever touched in Wayne's presence. What was Bruce's stance on ghosts anyway?

Should he practice what he would say about the topic? Turning onto his back, Danny holds up his phone, clicking the screen so the lock screen image of a grinning Bruce appears.

It was from the surprise vacation Danny rented out the hut next to the ones the kids sent Bruce to. It had been taken at sunset, the soft orange and purples of the sky framing Bruce's grin and dancing on his wind-blown hair. It had been a spur-of-the-moment walk around the beach, but from Danny's perspective down below and Bruce climbing back up to his hunt, it had almost appeared like Bruce was descending from the heavens.

Danny had used every film skill he had ever heard Dani speak about to capture the beautiful sight.

It is the best picture he's ever taken.

"I love you," the words leave his mouth in surprise, even though he had meant to talk about ghosts. But when they are spoken, he ducks into ice water and realizes they are true.

He sits up, using both hands to hold the phone in front of him, hoping that somehow, in some unrealistic dream, the words will carry across the world, and Bruce will hear them. Maybe even feel them, too. "I love you, I think I do. Do you love me too?"

The screen goes dark, and Danny sighs. Ten years. Will he really risk ten years of friendship over these little feelings?

Yeah. He thinks he will.

[meatgrinder-0]

something that ive found myself thinking about a lot recently is the loss of autonomy that you have over your identity and what makes you "human" when you die.

(as has been said before by multiple different people) technically ford does not die when he goes through the portal, but as many have said at this point--in a metaphysical way when he goes through the portal he is dead in the eyes of his dimension, so i find in the narrative he experiences a similar loss of his humanity and in the same way that might've occurred with his death, his memory for any that have access to any form of it constructs him into an idea rather than a person.

and really anything can be said and done with him by the people who are still "alive" when this occurs. since he is in all aspects dead people can use him to justify their actions, as a figure in their concepts, and imagine him up to be whoever they want him to be for as long as he remains dead. the audience of course also partook in these same things prior to his reveal by theorizing about what type of person he was or how he might fit into the narrative as a person but to be more specific to examples of this idea in the show is how stan and dipper see ford as an idea.

due to being absent ford had no possible way to influence what stan thought he would want him to do about the portal outside of his existing warnings in his journals so stan is able to twist ford into a justification to work towards opening the portal, and during the length of his work on it according to alex's statements about stan "expecting ford to be weak and in need of help when he came out of the portal" (i feel the likely useless need to say whatever a creator says about their work is always only as canon as one wants it to be but this is worth mentioning here and i think it makes sense contextually within the text) the ford who comes back is so jarring because in his "death" he's become an ideal of what stan wants to see in him to play into his hero fantasy and hopes of earning back his appreciation

and of course as i think about a normal amount of times per day--the duration of the show presents the author as a figure that is wrapped up in a concept of ford while presenting him in a much more mythical format--another one of gravity falls' mysteries. pretty much every main character that isnt stan views him in this mystical light throughout the show with dipper being the prime example and uses the idea of "the author" as a driving force to pursue the questions that the town begs them to ask. there is something to be said about how creators of the show refer to journal 3 as "its own character" in a way that clearly separates it from it's author. even outside of the universe of the show itself, even in the show's own writing team ford--somehow despite being already being only a concept by virtue of being fictional--is stripped of humanity and becomes an even further abstracted concept.

but even to the ford who is alive the self who had gone through the portal is also a concept. i know this idea isnt explored much in canon if at all but bear with me here while i make shit up for fun--in a way, we ourselves the way we are now are dying near constantly. when we wake up each morning we of course have access to the same memories and the same body and the same experiences as the self we were before we fell asleep, but if we were to get existential, how can we be sure that we are the same consciousness that we were before?

even if this is a bit too absurd of a concept to be applying to a messy braindump "analysis" of a fictional character theres something about how extreme change in a person (often from trauma as ford has experienced for Obvious reasons) or even just the passage of time leaves the former self as nothing more but a memory to even the body that it once inhabited.

as i said theres not much to connect this to in the canon of the text, but i do believe that ford does see his past self who wrote the journals as an idea just as much as anyone else in his life did.

[shehungers]

AYYYYY, YO, WINTER!!!!!!!!!!!!

this was so fucking good! this hit on so many things I adore: geto suguru, personifications of death, and dark content. I think you accomplished all of these exquisitely well and in very compelling ways.

to start off with, I love interpretations of geto's character like this. presenting him as a darker sort of entity, clearly mad, always feels more authentic to his canon counterpart than some other things I've read in the past. this is also a sort of interpretation I liked to write myself when I was still involved in fandom.

as both geto and as a personification of death, I think you captured this extremely sultry, sensualness that is just so enticing to read. by your descriptions of how beautiful he appeared, there was always something more about him that always made mc wade on the side unease. prickling. a dark density which seemed to shroud him. while you didn't shy away from the fact that he is, indeed, of otherworldly beauty, you also consistently described that depth of unforgiving cold and darkness that just exists in conjunction with him

I find that to make this a tremendously, well-crafted and blended interpretation of both his character and the fact that he is death.

I think this does a very good job of conveying how enthralling and luring his entire being is, but there's an edge of danger to it. Mc still does not know him, but he's able to know mc that intimately right from the get go. these are such delicious details. I adore them.

I think his also encapsulates him, like, entirely as death and how he and the darkness are the same. they just form him. shape him? Jesus this is such gorgeous imagery and it's probably some of my favorite in the fic.

this segment here, in particular, is probably my favorite in the entire story because this is where it really leans deep in the dark content. and geto's character not even gonna lie. the fact that he created this inescapable fragility in mc, and he revels in having that power over her? fucking diabolical and batshit, but it is absolutely perfect. mc is suffering bc of perceived transgressions, but he's enjoying this wasting of theirs.

the entire end scene with him sucking the soul out of mc's body with a freezing kiss is both horrifying, violating, and erotic, and I think you do it so remarkably well. how absolutely hellbent he was to possess mc. and, ofc, the idea of hunger and consumption being metaphors make be go absolutely apeshit wild

bc, like, in theory: consuming a human soul is the closest you could ever come to someone. for him to consume the soul is for them to come together, for mc to be absorbed into him, become a part of him (or at least contained until he decides otherwise) and I think you wrote it in such a way that anyone who reads it can fully understand what you were going for.

one last thing I'll mention is the juxtaposition between how you describe geto throughout the fic, and this faceless lover mc had for a while who brought them warmth, safety, and happiness, and how geto had never been that for mc at any point. it's like looking a screen halved by light and darkness, with the darkness gradually slithering in and eclipsing that light.

EXCELLENT work, winter. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this and sharing my thoughts on it !!!!!!!

and in return you give hell : death! geto suguru x f!reader

"death is certain, but killing doesn't have to be ugly."

DARK CONTENT, MDNI ༚༅༚˳ . ♱ . ˳༚༅༚ alternative universe, no sex, stalking, blackmail, manipulation, jealousy, envy, obsession, yandere themes, noncon foreplay, possessiveness, major character death, deadly sickness, pet names (little one, my love, beautiful), reader is a nurse for context — 3.5k words

summary: inspired by the fairytale death's messengers, you find a man, wounded beyond mortal comprehension, at your doorstep and nurse him back to health.

a/n: part of @ljubimaya's 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐌'𝐒 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐁

It all begins with a stranger laying at your doorstep, looking on the verge of death. 

His body is umoving, wrapped in the kind of silence that only the most severe of injuries can bring. A man cloaked in black, fallen to the ground as though the world had dealt him its harshest blow. His long, dark hair clings to his skin, sticky with sweat and grime. His face,  pale and sharp like the edge of a knife, is twist in pain.

Something about him seems out of this world, and yet, he looks so very human in his pain. Truth be told, all you yearn for is a warm bath after your draining nightshift, but instead there is another stray cat at your doorstep—desperate for the tender care of your hands. 

The people in your town are not only used to your kindness, they even take advantage of it—which is exactly why this man had been left at your door in the dead of night. 

You can’t refuse. It is in your kind-hearted nature to try, to heal, to save.

Kneeling beside him, you brush damp strands of his long, dark hair from his face, revealing features so flawless they seem carved by ancient stone masters. Despite his seeming strength—broad shoulders, a body hardened by something far beyond mere labour—he looks fragile. A strange dichotomy. 

“Hey,” you murmur, with your shaking fingers reaching for his ice-cold hand. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes hold an eerie emptiness as they flutter open to meet your curious ones. Their colour, rare as musgravite jewels, only alienate the man further. Subconsciously, you lean in, searching the depth of his dark stare, yet he was the one who found answers: Deciphering your entire life story with one glance alone.

“Help me,” he whispers, his voice rough yet strangely melodic. He tries to sit up, but slumps back down with a low groan. “Who did this to you?” you asked carefully , curiously. His injuries are unlike any you have ever seen before, the cuts too deep, the bruises too dark. He gives a low chuckle which quickly turns into a cough. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, little one.” Despite the sharp edges of his situation, he sounds oddly amused.

“I…” You looked around helplessly. “Allow me,” you start a sentence you leave unfinished, the pain you are about to cause something you can’t prepare him for either way as you muster up the strength to help him rise to his feet.

His lips curl into a faint smirk, entertained by this adorable little mortal trying her best to help him. “You’re braver than you look.” Yet a wince quickly follows his mockery once you slip an arm under his shoulders to help him up. His body is heavy against yours, lean and strong but cold as ice. 

It feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from your shoulders once he finally rests on your couch.

─── ♱

For days, he stays in your little haven. Basking in your tender care as you nurse him through the worst of it, never daring to ask questions. Something tells you it is best not to find out certain details of the world.

However, it is difficult to ignore the way his presence lingers in the room, like something else, something darker. The air seems colder around him, the shadows in the room longer and sharper. 

But you ignore it all. After all, he needs you.

Eventually, you come to know his name—Suguru, he said, though it rolled off his tongue with a strange weight that made you think it wasn’t the whole truth. He speaks little about himself, and when he does, his words carry an air of melancholy, as if he was recounting memories from a lifetime far from yours.

And yet, as you press a damp cloth to his forehead, your eyes lingering a moment too long on the curve of his lips and the sharpness of his jaw, you couldn’t deny there was more to this. A pull, as if his very presence beckoned you closer.

You can’t help but notice the strength in his body, the way his muscles flex beneath his skin when he moves, the quiet beauty in his features when he sleeps. 

In those tranquil moments, you find yourself watching him more than you should. There is an unexpected grace to him. It’s impossible not to stare at his full lashes or his ebon hair spilling over his shoulders.

But there is more to him. He carries an aura that makes the air feel heavier, making your skin prickle with unease. You tell yourself it was the mystery of him, the way he seems to exist just outside the realm of normalcy.

─── ♱

When he finally recovers enough to leave, he hesitates on your doorway, his tall frame casting a large shadow over you. “Do you know who I am?” he asks, his tone low and solemn.

You know his name. But it doesn’t appear to be of importance at that moment. So you shake your head, hesitating momentarily before you speak. “No. Does it matter?”

His lips curl into a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He takes you by surprise the moment his cold lips linger against your forehead, fingertips encasing your chin to peer into your gentle eyes one more time. “I am Death,” he says simply. “The end of all things. The one who comes for every soul.”

You stare at him, your mind scrambling to process his words. The nervous chuckle escaping you is a reaction Geto is already used to. 

“That’s… not funny.”

“I am not joking.”

The look in his eyes tells you is earnest. Upon which your body subconsciously shifts into flight mode, with small steps taken backwards and away from the man you come to care for. “If you’re Death, then why are you here? Why did you need my help?”

For the first time his expression softens, just a fraction. “I was careless. Even Death is not invincible.”

You can‘t seem to find a reply for his nonsense.

“You saved me,” he continues, “and for that, I owe you a debt. I cannot undo what I am, but I can promise you this: I will not take you prematurely, and notwithout warning. When your time comes, I will send my messengers first, to prepare you.”

There was no kindness in his voice, no warmth. It was a statement, a fact, nothing more.

You nod slowly, though you’re not even sure why you offer him as much. You thought much of Geto, but didn’t expect him to be mentally unstable.

That day, he left his first curse with you. A small, deformed creature clinging to your shoulder, allowing Death to keep an eye on his chosen one.

─── ♱

Months passed, the seasons cycle through and the strange encounter becomes a brushed away dream. But the memory of his touch—cold and consuming—lingers. Even as you return to your life, throwing yourself back into work, an eeriness remains, like something shares your life force and weighs you down. 

You try to distract yourself from the growing discomfort, attempt to focus on healing others and ignoring the strange pull that lingers inside your chest.

But Death did not forget you.

When spring gives way to summer for a third time, you meet him—a kind man, with soft eyes and a gentle touch, someone who brings you comfort in the simplicity of his affection. He holds your hand with care, kisses your forehead with a tenderness that soothes any ache. His words, though few, are always full of warmth. 

It feels like a reward for the care you give to others, for your patience and your love. Maybe this was your chance at true happiness. 

And for a while, you allow yourself to be happy. You allow yourself to believe that maybe there can be a future with him, a simple life. With your new love, you feel safe, content. His touch is warm, reassuring, and his presence a balm to your soul.

It drives Death to madness. 

His jealousy surges through his very being, twisting the air around him until it becomes suffocating. How can you moved on so easily? Why are you giving his gift away to another man? You belong to him. 

Maybe promises are made to be broken, Suguru concludes, as his sanity boils away while witnessing you giving yourself to another.

Death knows no surrender. From that night on, he is there, always just out of sight. You catch glimpses of him in reflections, feel his presence in the cold that settles around you in the dead of night. He doesn’t speak, but you know it is him. 

Death. 

Watching. 

Waiting.

He has been patient enough. It is time for you to come to him, to remember who you are truly meant to be with. 

He sends a second curse. A cough. Harmless at first, just a light tickle in your throat, nothing alarming. So you dismiss it, believing it is simply a sign of the summer heat or the impeding change of the seasons. But as the days pass it grows worse. You find yourself coughing more, unable to breathe properly, your chest tightening with each passing hour as though something was pressing down on your lungs. 

It isn’t a cold. It isn’t something you can just sleep off. Something is wrong.

“Do you love him?” 

A deep voice often asks in your dreams. The question rings in your memory over and over again. Something about the tone was eerily familiar yet unknown all at once.

The sensation of someone watching you—the same suffocating, chilling presence you have tried so hard to forget—returns. Creeping into your life, even as you fight it with all your strength. 

He stalks you at night, a shadow that seems to grow stronger with every passing day. His jealousy consumes him, his need for you becoming a twisted obsession. And even while your lover comes to you, offering comfort and warmth, Suguru is there, lurking in the background, claiming you in ways that no mortal can ever comprehend.

You begin to distance yourself from your fiance, afraid that the illness might be contagious. Retreating into the silence of your home, shielding society from your misery, you isolate yourself. 

The cough, now violent, rackes your body.

By autumn, a third curse has joined. A fever that seeps into your veins, leaving you bedridden on your worst days. You visited doctors, tried medication, but nothing seems to help. Your body grows weaker, your once-bright eyes dull through exhaustion and pain.

But no matter how hard you try, you can’t escape it.

You can’t escape him.

You wake in the middle of the night to find him standing at the foot of your bed, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. “Are you truly here?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer, only tilting his head, as if studying you. His presence is suffocating, a reminder of the mortality you can’t escape. You hate him for it, and yet, part of you longs for the man you once cared for, the man who looked so vulnerable in your arms.

"You’re unwell, aren’t you?" His voice is smooth, deep, exactly like the one that haunts your memory.

You nod hesitantly. “I’ve been sick for weeks… I’m not sure what’s going on.”

His smile deepens in faux-compassion, an expression that makes your blood run cold. "I can help with that, my dear."

Though, before you can respond, he disappears, lost in the shadows. But his words linger in your mind like a curse. 

─── ♱

Your final scene begins.

By now you are barely hanging on. The fever consumes you, leaving you delirious and weak.The wish of experiencing another Christmas seems like an impossible dream, your apartment is a cold, abandoned place. A mirror of your body, devoid of any love and comfort. 

And as you lie there, weak and frail, your mind begins to fill with dreams—no, not dreams, not anymore.

Death visits uninvited, when you are too weak to stop him. Night after night, you awake to the feeling of a cold touch on your skin, a whisper in your ear sweet like poison, the unmistakable presence of Suguru. His lips brush against your neck, his hands caress your fevered body, and all the while, his voice murmurs in that low, dangerous tone.

"My love... my beautiful, fragile love. Soon, I will no longer be a shadow to you. Soon our flesh shall embrace and we shall be as one.”

It drives you insane. You want to scream, want to beg him to leave you in peace, but the words won’t come. Instead, you awake again, breathless and panicked, the sensation of his touch lingering on your skin like a phantom ache.

Whenever your frantic eyes search the room, you find no sign of him. No shadow, no dark figure standing by your bed. And yet, you can feel him. He is there, in your bones, chilling you to your very core.

The cough that started in summer leads to your grand finale in the depth of winter, when the world grows cold and lifeless.

The night before Christmas, the fever burns like wildfire. Each breath feels like a battle, your body wracked with shivers that no blanket may calm. In your hopelessness, you think of him—the man you once nursed back to health. Death. And in your fevered delirium, you curse him.

That’s when he returns.

The air grows still, unnaturally so. Shadows gather, thick and impenetrable, until they shape into a figure at the edge of your bed. Him.

“My love,” he nearly purrs, his voice laced with something dark and possessive. He steps closer, his presence overwhelming, suffocating, you can’t help but shrink back into your bed.

“You should have known better than to entertain another,” Death muses, his tone soft, almost sweet, yet dipped in venom. “Did you think I would not see? Did you think I would let another have you?”

Tears dance along your lash line, your head shakes softly from left to right until you feel dizzy. “I didn’t... I wasn’t… You promised me—”

“Shh.” He is beside you now, his cold fingers brushing against your burning cheek. “It doesn’t matter, my dear. You’re mine. You always have been.” 

The chill of his touch feels like relief, one that you can’t refuse but lean into and yet it sends a shiver of fear through you. His gaze lingers on you, drinking in your frailty, the way your body trembles, the way your chest heaves with laboured breaths. It is as though every part of you—the sickness, the weakness—was a testament to his power over you.

You make him feel mighty.

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your face. His lips curve into a wicked smile, that when you come to realise that he is overjoyed. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. This very moment is Death’s personal heaven.

"I’ve waited so long," Suguru whispers, his voice low and dripping with dark affection. "So long to see you this way, fragile, weak… yearning for me."

His lips press to your neck, icy and unrelenting, stealing the warmth from your skin with each display of affection. His hands claim every inch of you that monkey dared to taint with his mortal hands. 

The tension between you and Suguru grows unbearable. You want to fight him off, want to yell at him, want to break free, but every time you try, his strength overwhelms you. 

He is Death, after all, and you are nothing.

"Please," you gasp, voice weakening beneath his kisses. "I don’t want to die. Not yet."

"You’re already dying, darling," he whispers in return. "But don’t worry. I’ll be with you. Every step of the way." His thumb traces your jawline, wiping away a tear you haven’t realised had fallen. You were already drowning in the cold pull of him, in the overpowering grip of death. 

Life has no meaning, but your death shall.

Your body can no longer fight, can no longer resist him. Weak hands try to paw him away, yet to Death it was but a featherlight caress against his chest—enticing, pitiful.

The cold seeps through your figure as he finds refuge between your thighs, to press his groin against your near-lifeless form. His kisses are unrelenting, reaching down to the valley of your breasts with a tenderness that sends chills down your spine. His hands roam, claim, tear at you with an icy grip as he holds you firmly beneath him. 

"You look so beautiful, my love," Suguru praises in deep satisfaction, his voice softer now, almost affectionate. "So close to me," a sighed moan vibrates against your skin as terror grips you tighter upon the realisation of something hard grinding against your stiff body.

“You called for me,” he whispers against your ear, his voice a cruel mockery of tenderness. “And I  listened to your command. Now I’ll take you with me-” he pants, clearly strained from shamelessly moving against you. 

Tears run free as you stare up at him, his smile tender and twisted all at once. “Please,” you whispered. “Don’t.”

He grasps your wrist in his hold, keeping you wide open while his face hovers dangerously close to yours, black strands cascading like curtains as his figure dwarves yours. 

“Have I not sent you one messenger after another?” he seethes with terrible hunger. “Did the cough not render your mortal body weak? Did not fever come and strike you, and shake you, and throw you down? Did you not feel a heavy burden on your shoulder the moment I left? During the night, did you not lie there beside me already, begging for me to come to you?”

He releases you from his bruising grip, his fingertips trace the shape of your lips instead. “You are mine,” he said, his voice a dark promise. “Now and forever.”

His presence is suffocating, his touch commanding, and as his hand slid down to your chest, his fingers digging into your skin, you feel something inside you break.

His lips hover over your neck, just above where the pulse still weakly beats. "This is my love," he murmurs. You can feel the cold of his breath against your skin, a prelude to the final moment. Tears won’t stop streaming down your face, strained cries escape your dry lips and through it all, Suguru whispers nothing but his sick testament of devotion into your skin.

The words hit you like a hammer. "Shh," he cooed. "It’s time." In an instant, his lips press against your skin. Your vision blurs as his kisses continue, the weight of your body dragging you down.

With a deep, longing kiss, Suguru steals your life force: allowing the cold to fill your very being. 

It is unbearable.

As though your body is being turned to ice from the inside out, each kiss a freezing touch that steals the warmth from your blood, the fire of your soul. Your body goes limp as the last of your strength slips away. His kisses trail down across your chest, each one leaving an imprint of icy darkness that consumes you. 

And in that very moment, you feel the coldest, deepest part of him—pressing against your lips, stealing the last of your breath. Your body grows still, your pulse fades, and then, just as everything seems to fall into darkness—there is a sudden, jarring pull. Something inside you is being torn away, your very essence ripped from your body.

Your soul is leaving you. No, Death forces it to leave.

It turns into an orb—a pale, glowing sphere that hovers before him. His eyes gleam with victory, a sickened joy in his expression, as he reaches out, slowly, almost lovingly, to take it. Cradling you in his palm like his most prized possession.

With a swift motion you’re gone. Swallowed whole, consumed entirely as Suguru licks his lips.

You are his. All of you. For eternity.

His eyes fall shut for a moment, savouring the feeling of you—now part of him. He had claimed you in the most intimate way possible, and you would never be free again.

"Forever," he whispers, his voice filled with dark pleasure. "You’re mine. My beautiful, fragile pet. Forever."

Suguru sits back on your bed, a triumphant sigh ringing into the silence. He waited so long for this, for the day when you would finally be his. Now, he can feel you inside him, feel the warmth of your soul, your essence, your pain eternally bonded to him.

He can’t wait to let you out for your future play dates.

And as your empty body lies before him, still and cold, Suguru smiles—sick, twisted, and overjoyed. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lips. “Even in death,” he finalises, before crashing his lips into yours one more time.

Forever.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[obsessedwhyyes]

The Art of Not Admitting a Thing (1/2)

Summary: Something's going on between Gale and Astarion... you're sure of it. So naturally, you decide to investigate. Who knew that one simple question would reveal such a mess of longing, denial, and a master class in emotional avoidance?

Rating: T Word Count: 1177 Pairing: Astarion x Gale Content: First Person Gale POV, interview format, mutual pining, yearning, denial of feelings, character study, Gale is bad at feelings, fluff, a teensy bit of angst but not much!

A/N: So here we have my first ever Bloodweave! I am both exceedingly nervous, and very excited about it. I've had ideas in mind for Bloodweave for months, but actually writing these ideas and sending them off into the big, wide world has been a rather intimidating affair. But we're finally doing it! And what better way for me to dip my toe into Bloodweave waters than by being incredibly predictable and writing yet another first person fic?

Chapter 1: "What do you think of Astarion?"

What do I think of Astarion? Well, that's a rather loaded question, is it not? Not that I don't have an answer, of course. No, quite the opposite, actually. I have too many answers, all vying for precedence. Because, you see, Astarion is not the sort of person one can sum up in a single sentiment. He is… how shall I put this? He is an equation with variables that simply refuse to behave. Utterly unsolvable.

Come now, don't look at me like that.

It’s just that Astarion is - well, to put it plainly - a lot. A relentless force of nature wrapped in silk and a layer of his own smugness. He walks into a room and suddenly you're aware of him. No, not just aware - attuned. It's all deliberate, of course. All part of the performance.

Yet, somehow, despite knowing it's all a performance, I still find myself watching.

And it's not just his presence. He's also clever, which is, dare I say, the most irritating thing about him. Not just sharp-witted, but… strategic. He understands people, knows exactly where to sink his teeth. Not just the literal ones - though those certainly warrant consideration - but also the more subtle. A smile, a look, a well-placed word. He plays people like instruments, plucking their strings just so, and I… Well, I have spent a great deal of time telling myself that I, of all people, should be immune to such things.

Alas, I am not immune. 

Which, of course, presents something of a metaphysical conundrum. Feelings, after all, are best understood when dissected. Laid bare and examined like lines in an ancient tome. One does not simply experience something without questioning its nature, its source, its… implications. No, the wise approach - the rational approach - is to study it with the same rigour that one would apply to any magical phenomenon. To categorise it, to determine whether it is genuine or merely some arcane anomaly. A peculiar resonance of the heart, if you will.

And so, in pursuit of intellectual honesty, I find myself studying Astarion with perhaps more dedication than strictly necessary. Any lingering thoughts are purely academic, I assure you. Elminster once told me that understanding the world means understanding its people, and what is Astarion if not a mystery to be unravelled? The way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he wields his beauty like a blade.

… Yes, he is beautiful, but that is besides the point. The point is–

…

I've lost the point.

That's what he does to me, you know. He derails my thoughts. I'm speaking perfectly rationally one moment, and the next, I'm somewhere else entirely, wondering if that grace comes naturally to him. If, behind closed doors, he rehearses those cutting remarks, those honeyed words.

Of course, I’m hardly special in that regard. I’ve seen him turn those honeyed words on just about everyone. He gives people what they want with such artful sincerity that they can’t help but believe him. He doesn’t mean it - not truly. And I would be a fool to imagine I’m any different. The world is his stage, and he is quite the performer.

And yet…

There are things about him. Real things. Beneath those rakish charms. I see them sometimes, in the quiet moments, when he doesn't realise anyone's watching. A weariness. A wariness. He's always aware, it seems. Of every room he walks into, of every person in it, of where the exits are. I recognise that sort of awareness. It's the kind you learn when you have been made someone's pawn for too long. When you've spent years convincing yourself that you're the one holding the strings, only to realise the strings are wrapped around your throat.

It unsettles me.

Dare I say, it even hurts me.

Not that I would ever say so. I doubt he would ever want to hear it. I doubt he would believe it.

And, anyway, it's not as if–

Not as if what?

No, truly, what was I about to say? That it's not as if I care? That would be a lie. That it's not as if I think about him more than I should? That would be another.

Perhaps I should stop talking.

…

You know, there was a time where I thought myself above this sort of thing. I thought I understood love completely. How could I not? I had experienced love in its most divine form - quite literally, in fact. My devotion to Mystra is… was… something transcendent. Something cosmic. I thought that was all love could be. All it should be. That anything less would be settling for a pale imitation of true devotion.

But lately, I find myself wondering if perhaps I’ve been rather short-sighted about the whole thing. Mystra herself appears in many forms; adapts to what her followers need. Perhaps love is similar - not always a grand, cosmic force that reshapes reality, but something more… subtle? The way a person looks at you when they think you aren't watching. The way their voice changes when you say their name. The way they make you feel like you are something more than what you were before. 

But if I did feel something - hypothetically, of course - it would hardly matter. Because what could I possibly offer him? A man who’s spent centuries under the control of another, only to find himself finally tasting freedom… What could he possibly want with someone like me? A wizard with borrowed time, carrying within him a responsibility so great that I am expected - destined - to lay down my life for it?

I’ve seen the fire in his eyes when faced with that which threatens to cage him. That fierce, burning defiance - the look of a man who has faced centuries of servitude and vowed never to be chained again. And what would I be, if not another form of binding? Another tragedy waiting to unfold? No. No, I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted nothing to do with such complications.

And yet… sometimes, I wonder.

If things were different - if I were different… If my fate weren’t already destined to end in sacrifice, would he look at me differently?

If he did - and that’s a big “if” - would I be so willing to accept that fate? To willingly embrace my end, if it meant never knowing what this - what we - might have become?

I was so sure the answer was simple. But then he looks at me, and for just a moment, I feel something I thought was long beyond my grasp. A foolish, reckless thing. It makes me hesitate.

And hesitation, well… that’s dangerous, isn’t it?

But stranger things have happened.

… Perhaps I have rather a lot to think about.

But I believe I’ve taken up quite enough of your time with these philosophical meanderings. No doubt you have better things to do than listen to a wizard ramble about matters of the heart. Besides, I have some rather important reading waiting for me. Something about… well, anything other than this conversation, really.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat, @davenswitcher, @silverfangmarks, @sparrowbard, @chonkercatto, @stokzr , @trafalgarussy , @asterordinary , @bite-me-tonight , @transparentkittenheart , @vividiana (thank you for being so supportive with this one <3), @bg3-fanfic-reblogs

[ckret2]

@nebulasreblogs said: Perhaps that 10% Just Some Guy came from that elixir that Jack's father used in an attempt to destroy the Evil, which instead gave it sapience and spawned Aku

I'm forever thinking about the fact that Aku's first ever words were "You! Thank you!" If nothing else, the potion gave him manners.

But nah—jokes aside, if we're looking at Aku as "90% evil, 10% just some guy," I don't think it was the potion that gave him that 10%. I think that, at the moment he gained life, he was still 100% pure evil. (Pure evil with good manners, but I guess manners must be morally neutral.)

I think it was time and experience. He started out as pure evil—but 17 years later, after fighting Jack, now he's pure evil... plus fear of death via magic sword—which i'm pretty sure is the first trait we see him possess that isn't "evil," "enjoying being evil," or "unexpectedly polite."

A few thousand years later, he's pure evil... plus guy who acts in fast food commercials, plus guy who has learned European fairy tales and wants to tell stories to children, plus guy who hates getting mud on the rug after it's been vacuumed, plus guy who's miserable and whiny and lethargic when he gets a cold, plus guy who does stupid victory dances when his enemy loses his sword, plus guy who knows how to use the phrase "this is a safe space," plus guy who thinks he has an account in the computer but honestly sounds pretty dubious about it and would have no idea how to locate it if presented with the computer, plus guy who hides in bed when he's depressed, plus guy who's unexpectedly stoked to find out he's a girl dad, plus guy who's polite to employees on the phone.

He violates as many promises as he can, and that's evil; but when an injured minion gives him good news, he rewards the minion by repairing his body, and that's not evil. Scaramouche insists Aku will pay off his bills like he's sure it's true, and if he's Aku's #1 assassin, he must have been working for him for long enough to see whether or not Aku actually pays off his debts and rewards his underlings—and so, he must be paying debts and rewarding underlings.

When he takes hostages, people do what he says for the hostages' safety, which means he must not have a reputation for killing all hostages so don't even bother giving him what he wants—which means, sometimes, he must let the hostages go.

He makes choices to be less evil out of self-interest, and I think he probably learned to do that with time. Because if he killed every hostage and never rewarded his assassins, eventually nobody would work for him.

Just within the fifty year span of the show, we see him go from guy who doesn't understand the purpose of stretching and how it works to guy who starts his mornings by stretching. We see him change over time.

The potion gave him life and personhood, and with personhood he gained the potential to be Just Some Guy. But the potion didn't give him guy-ness. He gained guy-ness with experience. He does Evil but now, after several thousand years of interacting with the world, he also just does Stuff. The purity of his evil has been diluted by the mundanity of existing in the world.

(You could also make the argument—as I've seen some people do—that Aku was never inherently evil; rather, he was just an unthinking thing that devoured with no moral alignment—is quicksand "evil"? is a tar pit "evil"?—and thus when he gained thought he could have been anything he wanted. But because he was told from birth that he's evil, that's what he became. The emperor told the poison-tree-monster that he meant to destroy him before the poison-tree-monster announced his name is "Evil."

Personally, I think there's room to textually support the argument, but "normal person comes to believe they're evil because they're told they were" doesn't compel me narratively the way "no this person actually was legitimately born evil" does. The first one is too realistic, it happens, there are people like that walking around right now. There's nobody who's born literally evil, and that fantastical element is what intrigues me. He's literally pure evil... and therefore, what are the limitations on his actions that humans don't have? He's literally pure evil... and therefore, how does he live a full successful life when he has to deal with the consequences of his own actions? How can he be pure evil and not destroy the things he wants to keep? How does he strike that balance, if, unlike humans, he doesn't have the free will to do good? He's literally pure evil... and therefore, is it possible for him to be anything else? How? Would he ever want to be? Why?)

[enchantresss97]

Wicked Ties-Chapter One

Characters: Roman Godfrey(Slightly AU Roman is not in high school anymore, the action happens in present times) x Reader

Description: When Roman Godfrey comes seeking your help, you greet him with a blade to his throat. Witches and upirs have been enemies for centuries, and their own past is stained with betrayal. But with danger closing in and his hunger spiraling out of control, you are the only one who can save him. Bound by need, torn by desire that threatens to consume both of you, your wicked ties may destroy you both.

Warnings: dark themes, magic, witches, upirs/vampires, blood, death, SMUT, sex (most of the types).

Word count: 4158

A/N: This will be three chapters story, I really hope you will enjoy it. Happy reading! ❤️

Roman Godfrey was a lot of things but never a fool. He should have known better than to trust a witch.

But desperation had driven him to her. The hunger was getting worse, his control slipping. He was running out of ways to stop himself from tearing through flesh and draining every last drop of blood from the people around him.

Dr. Pryce had been his last hope. If anyone could have found a way to fix him, it should have been him. He had watched Pryce lie to him, experiment on him, twist his life into something unnatural. The man had promised control but had only made things worse unleashing his power. It was because of him that Roman had become this. A monster driven by hunger, barely able to hold himself together.

So, Roman had torn his throat out. Slowly. Deliberately. Let the man feel, just for a moment, what it was like to be powerless under something stronger.

Killing him didn’t change anything. It didn’t make the hunger disappear, didn’t make the need any less unbearable. It just meant he was out of options. Through out the year he tried to find many ways to escape this nightmare. Sure, he enjoyed the power who came with this, a little too much actually but not being able to control the hunger was the only reason couldn’t let it go the idea of a cure.

So, he turned to something older, something darker.

The witch had promised answers. She had let him believe she had the knowledge to fix whatever was inside him. Instead, she played him for a fool.

She was ancient, a powerful force feared even among the Sabat. Her knowledge and strength were unmatched, her reputation etched into the hearts of every witch who dared to cross her path.

But Roman hadn’t cared about any of that when he stood before her, rage burning in his veins.

She had made him believe she could help him. She had let him think that she could fix the monster he had become. The Sabat revered her, she had led them, taught them, and shaped them into what they were and the coven trusted her implicitly. She had seen centuries pass, seen the rise and fall of many so yeah, he had fallen for it, just as he had fallen for every other promise of salvation all these years. But when he finally understood that she had been playing him from the start he snapped.

In a fit of fury, Roman had killed her. There had been no warning, no calculated move. Just pure, raw rage. Her laugh still echoed in his mind, mocking, cruel, dismissive. She had thought herself untouchable. But Roman was done being a puppet, done letting anyone control him. So, he had torn her apart, ending her life in a moment of overwhelming fury.

And since a bad thing never comes alone, of course he knows that the witches would never forgive him for it. She had been too important, too powerful to be disposed of like that. Her death would send ripples through the coven. They would come for him. He needs to be one step ahead.

And that left him with only one choice:

Now, he stood at your door. The only person who could help him. The thing was, you weren’t exactly on good terms.

You hadn’t been since high school, before either of you knew what you truly were. Back then, Roman had been just a boy, and you, a girl with the world ahead of her. But everything changed the moment you both found out the truth. The truth that tore you apart.

What you had back then was innocent, sweet even and that’s rich coming from an spoiled brat like Roman. But then you found out about each other, the power dynamics shifted. You learned what you were, and so did he. And as it always went with your kind, the attraction was undeniable, but so were the consequences. Your relationship had ended badly. Too much power, too much darkness, too many things left unsaid.

Now, Roman stood on your doorstep, desperate for your help, he hesitated only for a moment before knocking on the heavy wooden door. The night air was thick around him, the scent of damp earth and smoke lingering. He knew you were there, he could feel it. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing your silhouette against the dim glow of candlelight. You didn’t look surprised, just annoyed.

But neither of you spoke. You stood there, frozen in place, just staring at each other. Even though you knew he was coming, the sight of him still knocked the breath from your lungs. He looked…different…older, rougher. His eyes were darker, haunted, but his presence was still overwhelming, suffocating even. And despite how much you hated it, your heart ached at the sight of him.

Roman didn’t fare much better. He had prepared himself for this, convinced himself that seeing you again wouldn’t mean anything after all these years. But now that you were standing in front of him, the memories hit him like a punch to the gut. You looked the same. Still had that fire in your eyes, that confidence that made his blood rush and his heart race. Yet there was something colder about you, something guarded, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of him.

He swallowed, a smirk slowly creeping onto his lips to mask the sting of nostalgia. “Long time no see,” he said, his tone casual. Too casual for what lay between you.

You didn’t look at him, instead tracing your finger over one of the tarot cards on the table. “What the fuck are you doing here, Roman?”

He didn’t answer immediately, just watched you with that lazy, arrogant smile, trying to hide the way his pulse was still racing from just seeing you again. “Missed me?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, your eyes sharp as glass. “Try again. Why are you here?”

He pushed off the doorframe and took a few steps closer, his gaze never leaving you. “I need your help.”

A humorless laugh escaped your lips. “My help” You turned fully now, eyes narrowing. “After what you did?”

Of course you already know what happened. Roman tilted his head, feigning innocence. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I do a lot of things.”

That was it. You shot up from your chair, the knife already in your hand, and in a flash, you were in front of him, the blade pressed to his throat. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just looked down at you with that same cocky expression.

“Relax, baby,” he purred. “You’ll cut me before we even get to the good part.”

You didn’t bother responding, just pulled back and swung the knife again, aiming to slice his cheek. He ducked, catching your wrist mid-swing, and twisted your arm behind your back, pressing you against the wall.

“Getting feisty already?” he whispered against your ear. “You always did have a short fuse.”

You gritted your teeth and stomped down on his foot, making him loosen his grip just enough for you to break free and punched him in the jaw, the force making him stumble back a step.

Roman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking when he saw the faint trace of blood on his skin.

You spun around and aimed a punch at his jaw again, which he dodged this time, but not without brushing his fingers over your waist. The touch sent a jolt through you, one you hated yourself for feeling.

“Can’t we just talk like adults?” he taunted. “Or are you gonna keep trying to take my head off?”

You threw another punch, and he caught your arm, smirking down at you. “You really think I wanted to kill her?” he asked, voice dropping to something almost serious.

You yanked your arm free, shoving him back. “You’re a fucking monster, Roman. You don’t care who you hurt.”

He clenched his jaw, something dark flashing in his eyes before he plastered on that smug smile again. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

You scoffed, muttering a quick spell under your breath. The room suddenly filled with an electric pulse, and Roman felt his legs buckle as the force knocked him down to one knee. You moved in to kick him, but he caught your ankle, pulling you off balance. You landed on top of him, and before you could move, he had you pinned beneath him, wrists trapped above your head.

He leaned down, lips brushing the side of your throat. “You’re so fucking stubborn,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I didn’t want to kill her. She wouldn’t fucking help me. She just kept pushing, saying I was a monster. Said there was no cure, that I should just accept what I am.”

You struggled against his grip, glaring up at him. “So you killed her?”

His expression darkened, but he didn’t move. “She lied to me. Promised to help, then called me a lost cause. I snapped. Didn’t even realize what I was doing until she was already bleeding out.”

Your breathing was ragged, your heart racing against his chest. You hated how his scent still messed with your head, how the warmth of his body made your skin tingle.

“You’re just trying to manipulate me,” you hissed, turning your head to avoid his gaze.

He let out a low, frustrated growl. “You really think that little of me?”

You met his eyes, and for a moment, there was something raw in them, something unguarded. But you couldn’t trust it. Couldn’t trust him. You pushed against his chest, trying to shove him off, but he didn’t budge.

“Get off me,” you snapped but he didn’t move.

You shot him a glare, then mumbled another spell, the air around you warping with heat. Roman flinched, forced to release you as the energy crackled around him. You scrambled to your feet, grabbing for the knife again, but he intercepted, catching your wrist and spinning you around, trapping your arm behind your back. Your body was pressed against his chest, his breath hot against your ear.

Both of you were breathing heavily, chests heaving with the aftermath of the fight. His grip was firm but not painful, and you could feel every hard line of his body against yours.

For a moment, you froze. Your mind drifted back to high school, back when you and Roman were inseparable. He was always handsome, undeniably so, with a lean frame that moved with effortless grace. He was good looking, but now? Now he was something else entirely.

The boy you once knew was gone, replaced by a man, a raw, intimidating presence. His body was bulkier, his muscles more defined, his chest pressing against yours in a way that made it impossible to ignore just how much he’d changed. There was a heaviness to him now, a strength that sent a jolt of awareness through you. He wasn’t the same person. And God, did you feel it.

Back then, Roman was still discovering who he was, barely scratching the surface of his power, unsure how to control it or even fully understand what he was. But now? Now he radiated power, a force that could crush anything in his path. There was no hesitation in his movements, no uncertainty. He knew exactly what he was, and how dangerous that knowledge made him. Stronger than ever. Definitely, far more dangerous than you ever imagined.

And then, there was his appearance. Impeccable, like something out of a high fashion magazine. After finding out that he’s the only heir of the Godfrey Industry, Roman started to carry himself with the poise of someone who had everything, a figurehead of the Godfrey empire. His clothes, tailored to perfection, fit him like a second skin. Sharp suits that spoke of wealth, power, and influence. It wasn’t just a look; it was a statement. A fashion icon in his own right. Oh and he definitely kept that throughout the years. The way he moved, the way he held himself, his every detail screamed control and authority. And even in this chaotic moment, you couldn’t help but notice it.

“Please,” he whispered, pulling you to reality. This time his voice wasn’t cocky or mocking, just desperate. “I didn’t know where else to go. I can’t control it. They’re going to come for me.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears, his voice sending a shiver down your spine despite everything. You wanted to push him away, wanted to scream and curse him, but something in his tone made you hesitate.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his hands loosened their hold, just enough to give you space if you wanted to pull away. But you stayed still, caught between your anger and the way his body molded against yours.

“Please,” he repeated, softer this time.

Your breath hitched, and for the first time since he walked through the door, your firm stance is starting to weaken.

You both stood facing each other, the air still thick with unspoken emotions. The fight had died down, but the tension between you two had only grown. You shook your head, clearly frustrated, but with an edge of determination. Your arms crossed, facing the reality of the mess Roman had made.

“You really have no idea what you’ve done, do you?” you said, your tone sharp, but beneath it, you couldn’t help the edge of disbelief. Roman’s careless actions had just thrown him into a storm, and you were the one left trying to figure out how to stop it.

“Hiding isn’t going to work” you said without waiting for his response, moving back to your chair, the subtle grace of your movements betraying the storm inside you. You sank down, the heels of your boots clicking softly against the floor as you reclaimed your space. The Tarot cards that had been spread out in front of you now felt like the only thing grounding you.

Roman raised an eyebrow, the cocky smirk still on his face, but it faltered when he saw the serious look in your eyes. “You don’t want me to hide? I thought you’d be all for that,” he taunted, though there was a flicker of concern beneath the bravado.

But one thing that apparently never changed? His dirty mouth. And his arrogance. Even now, with all the changes, Roman was still the same bastard he’d always been. He still knew how to push your buttons with every word that left his lips, his cocky attitude never fading.

“Shut up, Roman,” you said, your voice firm, staring at him, almost incredulously. “The coven won’t just let this go. You know that, right? They will come for you.”

Roman leaned against the table, his posture casual, but the desperation in his eyes was clear. “I don’t know what I expect to do, but I need you to help me. You’re the only one who can.”

You took a deep breath, your fingers brushing against the edges of the cards. Slowly, deliberately, you began gathering them together, the soft shuffle of the cards a steady rhythm as you stacked them. They had always been a way to focus, to clear the noise from your mind.

You reached for the cigarette case on the table, effortlessly picking up the long cigarette holder. You slid the cigarette into its end and brought it to your lips, the holder dangling elegantly between your fingers. The smoke curled lazily from your lips as you took a slow drag, eyes never leaving Roman.

Roman raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he remarked, his gaze still on you.

“Well, I learned from the best,” you replied, a hint of playfulness in your voice while you shuffled the cards once more in your hands.

You could feel the old familiarity settle in the room, and your mind briefly drifted back to a different time. Roman teaching you how to smoke for the first time. It was supposed to be innocent, just a few puffs shared between you two but every time you tried, you both ended up closer than expected. His hands, guiding yours. The way his lips brushed against yours as he demonstrated how to inhale. And somehow, every lesson ended the same way: both naked moaning each other’s name.

Roman’s eyes had darkened slightly, and you could tell he was thinking about the same thing. And for a moment the sound of the cards sliding against each other was the only noise in the room. You drag once more from the cigarette and then spread the cards back to the table with slow precision.

“I’ll talk to the coven,” you said finally, your voice cold, calculated. “I’ll explain it, make them understand. But you need to keep your mouth shut and let me handle this. The witch you killed, she was kind of the leader, I’m sure you already know this by now. After her, there were others in the hierarchy. I will speak and I’ll deal with them. You don’t get to say a word.”

Roman took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Smart? You mean playing nice with them? I’m not sure that’s my style.”

“You don’t have a choice,” you said, your voice low but firm. “Now pick a card” you continue without looking up from the cards you’d laid out before him.

Roman raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate. He moved toward the table, his fingers brushing the cards as he chose one with deliberate slowness, flipping it and then gave it to you. You watched him closely, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you analysis the card.

Your eyes met again and you saw Roman ran a hand through his hair, his mouth twisting into a rueful grin. Another gesture who reminds you of the old Roman, he always used to do this, apparently he still does.

“I know I fucked up,” he said, the cocky edge to his voice still present, even as he tried to show some kind of regret. “But I didn’t have much of a choice.”

You gestured to the cards. “Pick another one.” You said ignoring his statement.

Roman hesitated for only a moment before he reached out and drew another card, his hand still steady, but you could see the tension in his movements now.

“So, what does it say?” He asked studying the new card, trying to read something in the design, the symbols but he knows shit about tarot reading. You didn’t let him see your reaction, but you were scanning him, watching him carefully. The way he looked at the cards, the way he hesitated, everything he did had meaning to you.

Neither of you spoke, but the air was thick with the weight of the unspoken, everything that needed to be said, but wasn’t.

“Not everything is meant to be said aloud.” You finally broke the silence.

Roman stared at you, his frustration clear, but he knew better than to push you. Not yet, at least. He was here because he needed you, and clearly you weren’t about to make this easy on him.

“I’ll talk to the coven,” you said again after few seconds, “But you really need to let me handle this, Roman, no more tricks and no more loosing control. And no promise this will work.”

Roman shifted, standing a little straighter. He didn’t like it, but he knew it was the only option. His usual cocky, self-assured attitude flickered, but only for a moment.

He stepped closer, his gaze drifting over you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’re so confident,” he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “You always were.”

You didn’t step back, holding your ground. “I’ve had to be. But I’m not the one who killed a high-ranking witch, am I?”

Roman chuckled softly, the sound rich with arrogance. “No, you’re not. But you always did like being the one in control, didn’t you?”

“Not this time, Roman,” you replied, your eyes narrowing. “But still, this time you have no choice but listening to me.”

After a long pause, Roman said, his voice quieter than before. “You know, I didn’t think it would come to this. I didn’t think I’d ever be asking for your help.”

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you watched him carefully, letting the moment stretch. His voice wasn’t just the usual cocky edge; there was a vulnerability to it now, one that didn’t sit well with him.

“You don’t have much of a choice,” you said after a beat, your tone cold but not unkind.

You knew. Him, standing here in front of you was the last place he wanted to be. And the same went for you. Fate had a cruel sense of humor, mocking both of you by dragging him to your door.

There he was, in your space, with that same cocky smirk and unspoken desperation behind his big green eyes.

You looked at him with a sly smile, one eyebrow raised as you pointed to the cards in front of him. “Wanna pick another card?” you teased, your voice laced with a hint of mischief.

He let out a low, frustrated groan, rolling his eyes. “Enough with the card game,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth curved up despite himself. He leaned forward, his hands pressing down on the table as he bent over it, his face just a breath away from yours. The tension crackled between you like a live wire, his scent, the expensive cologne and something unmistakably him filling your senses.

“So this is the plan, right?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, daring you to challenge him. “You’re really gonna help me?”

Your eyes traced the shape of his lips, and suddenly, memories came rushing back. His mouth against yours, hot and greedy, claiming every inch of your skin. Those full lips had kissed you breathless, whispered filthy promises in the dark, tasted every part of you. You hated that you remembered so vividly.

“Yes,” you replied, forcing your focus back to his eyes. “But what do I get in return?”

Roman let out a soft laugh, one that was both amused and tinged with something darker. “You know, you haven’t changed. Still the same stubborn, sexy witch you always were.”

You met his gaze, your pulse quickening despite yourself. The attraction was undeniable, and it pulled at you, but you couldn’t afford to let it get in the way now.

“And you’re still the same cocky bastard,” you replied, your voice sharp but with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, leaning back, settling into the chair with an air of nonchalance.

His gaze flicked down to your mouth before meeting your eyes again, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Anything you want,” he drawled, the words coated in sin and seduction. He didn’t move back, he stayed right there, so fucking close.

You picked up the cigarette holder again, taking a slow, deliberate drag before letting the smoke curl from your lips. Your eyes never left his as you gave him a faint, almost mocking smile.

“Then we have a deal,” you said smoothly, the hint of a challenge glinting in your eyes.

His lips curved into a smirk, clearly pleased and maybe just a little irritated because he was losing control and loosing control was the one thing Roman Godfrey hated more than anything. And right now, that’s exactly what he’d done.

Given in, let himself be pulled into your plan, and surrendered to the one person he never thought he’d have to depend on. The tension between you was almost palpable, his jaw clenched as he tried to mask the frustration simmering behind those sharp green eyes.

Roman’s gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, and you saw something flicker in his expression, something primal and raw. He looked at you like he wanted to bite, to taste, to remind you that you weren’t the only one pulling strings here.

But he didn’t say a word. Just gave a single, sharp nod, his eyes never leaving yours. He hated that he needed you. Hated that he couldn’t just walk out and figure this out on his own. Hated how much power you suddenly had over him.

Your lips twitched, amusement glinting in your eyes as you watched him fight for control. You wondered if fate had been waiting all this time just to pull you back together and make you face everything you’d tried to forget.

[toasttt11]

umich

September 9, 2023

Ophelia laughed softly as Jack tripped over his own feet and Quinn immediately shushed Jack.

Quinn was holding a tray with a plate of pancakes with so many toppings as that is how Luke likes them, a glass of orange juice, hash browns and bacon.

Ophelia was holding a little crown and a few red and blue balloons, there was way more downstairs.

Jack opened the door of Luke’s room letting them all walk in.

Jack hopped onto Luke’s bed, Luke didn’t even move in his sleep. Ophelia set the balloons on his nightstand and she slowly sat down on his bed too.

“Ok Rowdy.” Quinn nodded at Jack.

Jack started shaking Luke, “Wake up Lukey boy!”

Luke grumbled turning over and smacked Jack’s hands away and he peeked his eyes open seeing the three all in his room.

“Happy birthday Lukey!” Ophelia smiled happily at him.

Luke’s face softened at her words and blinked realizing he got a nickname too, he gently grabbed Ophelia and pulled her into him and cuddling her softly.

Ophelia giggled softly and put the birthday crown on his head making him just smile.

“What no fair!” Jack immediately complained as Quinn sat on the bed with the tray.

“It’s my birthday i get Bee cuddles.” Luke smugly mumbled back making Ophelia giggle from where she was resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’ll eat your breakfast.” Jack said back giving Luke a playful glare.

“No you won’t.” Ophelia said through her laughter making Quinn look down and chuckle.

“Bee! We talked about this, sides!” Jack pouted at Ophelia.

“Sides don’t count today, it’s my birthday so i get Bee on my side.” Luke gave Jack another teasing smug smile.

Luke sat up leaning on his headboard but kept Ophelia tucked in his side as Quinn handed him the tray.

“Happy birthday Moose.” Quinn softly told his baby brother brushing a gently hand across Luke’s curls being careful to not knock off the crown.

Luke smiled up at Quinn.

“Yeah happy birthday Moose.” Jack gave Luke a soft smile and ruffled his hair making Luke grumble with a reluctant fond smile.

The four all stayed on Luke’s bed as Luke happily ate his food and once Luke was finished the three headed out of his room to let Luke start to get ready as they were going to a Michigan game for Luke’s birthday.

Ophelia put a pair of white shorts on, a simple yellow long sleeve and white air ones as she doesn’t own any Umich clothes.

She grabbed the big box she wrapped for Luke and picked it up walking to Luke’s room and knocked on the door walking in.

Luke was putting a hat on and turned to see Ophelia walking with a big box, “What is that?” Luke asked her as she set it on his bed.

“Your present silly.” Ophelia just said back making him look at her surprised and she gestured for him to open it.

The first thing he pulled out was a picture frame with a picture of him with Ophelia Quinn, and Jack and it’s them on the boat all beaming at the camera.

Luke smiled at the picture it would be perfect for his room in New Jersey.

He pulled out a smaller thing next and let out a happy laugh at the key chain, it was a little bee.

“I thought it would be good for your backpack or your keys.” Ophelia said knowing Luke is getting a new car in Jersey.

“I love it.” Luke could have a little piece of Bee with him everywhere.

“There’s two more things!” Ophelia looked excited, she’s always loved to give gifts but she hasn’t had many people to many gifts for.

Luke pulled out a little box next and pulled out an all black ring, “It’s the one i was looking at!” Luke realized, remembering when they were walking around a beach town during the summer and he loved the ring and regretted not getting it.

“It is.” Ophelia nodded softly, she had said she was going to the bathroom and went back to the store and bought the ring.

Luke put the ring on his thumb and pulled out the big thing in the box, it was a beige jacket, “Oh this is so sick!” Luke looked at the jacket.

“Make some outfits look better than a hoodie.” Ophelia knew Luke wanted more simple fashion things from her and this jacket would look good with every outfit honestly.

“I love it.” Luke pulled her into a hug, “Than you Bee.”

“Course Lukey.” Ophelia squeezed him back and they let go of each other and Luke set his things all back in the back and they left the room heading down stairs.

They got downstairs and Luke saw how it was decorated for him and he softly nudged Ophelia before he saw that Ellen and Jim got there and he went over hugging his parents and Ophelia hugged them after.

“Oh Bee we have something.” Quinn grabbed a bag and handed it to Ophelia.

“It’s not my birthday.” Ophelia just looked confused.

“Open it.” Jack just gave her a smile.

Ophelia pulled out a Umich t-shirt the one Jack and Luke both were currently wearing and a Umich zip up.

“It’s about time you have your own Umich stuff.” Luke told her.

“Thank you.” Ophelia gave the three boys a smile and she quickly went to the bathroom putting the shirt and jacket on and they headed out of the lake house all getting into the car.

Luke and Ophelia played their farm game the entire drive to Umich and paused their game once they got to the stadium.

Ophelia was tucked into Jack’s side as they all walked together into the stadium as Luke and Quinn pointed out things telling her stories as they walked in.

“Woah.” Ophelia said as they walked onto the field and she looked around, she’s never been on a football field like this before, it was crazy and the atmosphere was insane.

“Right.” Jack agreed with her hearing her words, he looked so fond watching her look around in awe and he was glad they were able to show her some things for the first time especially as she won’t get to experience everything people her age do because she is going right into the NHL at 18.

Ophelia was chatting with Quinn and Jack with a couple of the boys friends that they met at the stadium.

“Oh Bee!” Luke called out as he walked closer to the group.

Ophelia turned around seeing Luke with a few boys she hasn’t see yet but she recognized the rest.

Luke tossed an arm over her shoulder, “You know Shea.” Seamus waved at Ophelia, “This is Ethan and Mark. And you know Rutger.” Rutger gave her a bright grin.

Ophelia shook Mark and Ethan’s hands having heard a lot about them from Luke.

Ophelia ended up standing next to Jim for the game and spent most of the game listening to what he was telling her and asking questions, it was really fun.

“So have we converted you to be a Umich fan yet?” Quinn asked her at the end of the game with a playful smile.

Ophelia laughed softly, “Sure.”

Luke and Quinn both cheered and Jack laughed at his brothers.

Ophelia smiled at the three boys who have changed her life and the whole family has made this one of her best summers ever but sadly this was last real day of her summer break.

She was sad her summer was ending but she was happy to start her first season in the NHL.

[bestruction]

I was wondering what are your thoughts about how many children sasuke would have and what are their genders, ages and names. Maybe even their personalities and if they were mama's/daddy's girl/boy ( also, can I be 🐈‍⬛)

That's such a sweet thought, 🐈‍⬛️

I believe the answer to the question, "How many kids would he have?" depends mostly on you. He never thought he would go back to the village, rebuild his district, build a life with you, be loved, and be forgiven for everything. These are normal parts of life that he unlearned due to all his trauma and the war.

Your first child was an accident—him coming back from a mission looking way too good for your liking (and when doesn’t he?), mixed with impatient + your and his horny side and forgetting to check for condoms. You two were usually very careful, and he really thought he could pull out... But honestly, you both got too caught up in the moment to think about anything.

When you got a positive pregnancy test a few months later, he was down for whatever you wanted to do.

Do you want to keep it? Then he's supporting you.

You don't want to keep it? Then he's supporting you.

You were the most important thing in his life. Of course, he was ready to follow whatever you decided. When you chose to go through with the pregnancy, I swear to god, he was ready to build a crib with his own sword if you asked him.

On the outside, he looked calm, but inside, he was terrified. What if he didn't know how to be there for the child and for you? What if he messed this up? He had already broken your heart once by leaving. If he did it again—especially now—you would never look at him the same way. Plus, your friends would kill him for sure.

You two had cats, and they both adored him. That was a good sign, right?

He kept repeating that thought in his mind over and over again while your belly grew. And let me tell you, he was basically a hawk over you. 😮‍💨 He was already overprotective by nature, but seeing you pregnant made it ten times worse. That’s something else to explore later.

When your first boy was born, he was... too stunned to speak. The first Uchiha in years. The first after all the tragedies. He felt like he was holding a new beginning—one that had your nose but his sharp eyes. That’s why he named him Haruki.

Haruki was the spring he never knew he was waiting for.

For the first few days, he was so flabbergasted that you two had created a life together that he wouldn't let the baby out of his sight for even two seconds. How could the same hands that had caused so much bloodshed now hold something so fragile?

I know that in Boruto, he isn’t present in Sarada’s life, and that’s one of the many reasons I pretend that shit doesn’t exist.

Family was everything to Sasuke. After starting a new one, I don’t see him ever leaving their side. If anything, he was afraid—afraid that leaving would mean losing everything again.

He only started accepting missions again when Haruki was about five months old, and even then, he never took assignments that would keep him away for more than a week. I feel like every time he came back, he had this heavy feeling in his chest—this fear of opening the door and finding you and the baby gone, just like when he had come home from school and found his parents dead. That image would forever live in his mind. But the fear disappeared the moment he slid the door open and heard a small voice scream, "Papa!!" before little feet raced toward him, and you greeted him with a kiss.

Is your son a mama’s boy or a daddy’s boy? That’s hard to say. He follows Sasuke everywhere, yes. He’s observant, just like his father, so he picks up on things quickly and mimics everything he does—including protecting Mama at all costs. But he isn’t quiet... at all. Put this boy and Naruto in a room together, and they could destroy it. His observant side made him curious and adventurous. Plus, he wanted to be brave and strong like his father.

When Haruki was around five years old, you started thinking about having another child. After many conversations and making sure you were financially stable, you gave birth to a girl... more like a carbon copy of your husband. 😭 She literally got nothing from you. Nothing. Your genes didn’t even put up a fight this time.

And after seeing you suffer through childbirth a second time? Never again. 🫡 Not even if you begged him for another one. He couldn't watch you cry in pain like that a third time.

Miyuki wasn’t just Sasuke’s copy in appearance, she had his personality too. While Haruki was talkative, loved playing with his uncle Naruto, and ran around giving you and Sasuke heart attacks, Miyuki was different. There was no doubt, she was a daddy’s girl. She was more shy, especially around people she didn’t know, and clung to him constantly. Sometimes, you swore they could read each other’s thoughts. Sasuke didn’t talk much, Miyuki didn’t either, but somehow, he always knew exactly what she wanted and needed.

[goldsbitch]

Twelve Grapes

-chapter 12, part 1 - Brave, not afraid to tell me he loves me

Max does his fair share of pondering and starts initiating difficult conversations.

warning: none

Max might not win the title this weekend, but he's definitely unbeatable in the "staring at the ceiling the whole night" category. The mattress is uncomfortable, the pillow too big, the sheets weirdly sticking to his skin. Funny how none of this was an issue yesterday. The lights weren't too bright when he still lived in the reality where Charles didn't spin his whole world upside down by giving him a birthday gift.

Max gets up to close the blinds completely. After ten minutes he repeats that and opts for having them half shut. When he gets up from the bed for the third time, it's more than clear he's not going to fall asleep anytime soon. Thoughts running wild, yet none of them seems to stay for long enough for him to make out anything tangible.

So, he walks. The streets pleasantly calm at 4am. No one trying to squeeze anything out of him—no timesheets to answer to, no father to impress, no teammate to look behind at. Just streetlights and the sound of his own footsteps.

Singapore never really sleeps, but it pretends better than he does.

Max walks without purpose, the way he used to when he was younger. Before driving became a job, before pressure turned everything else into background noise. Back then, walking helped. He used to believe that if he stayed in motion long enough, answers would find him.

He's not sure that's still true for this version of Max living and breathing today. But moving feels better than lying down and staring at nothing. The air is heavy, thick with humidity, but for once, Max lets it in. The weight of it reminds him he's here, alive, still choosing.

He thinks about the empty frame and the weight of it all. Replays the feeling of Charles' hand on his chest, gently pushing him back, the soft but unshakeable "no" in his voice. Not a pure rejection. Just a pressing down the brakes before speeding out of the track. In a way, he's grateful for being grounded like that. Charles proved him wrong and by doing that he might have finally steered them in the right direction. There is a hint of finality hanging in the air, two people can only circle around each other for so many times before they inevitably spin away or crash into each other. Max wonders if this is the last time, for better or worse. It certainly does carry this aura.

It was fair. Charles is right. And still, Max doesn't feel defeated.

He finds a bench and sits down, elbows on his knees, fingers laced. Watches the city hold its breath before dawn. And for the first time in a long while, he lets himself feel afraid. Present. Like a wave rolling just under his skin. Fear of change. Fear of getting it wrong. Fear of stepping out of this "what if" space they keep lingering in.

He doesn't shove it away or turn it into something sharp. He doesn't tell himself to toughen up.

He just lets it sit with him. It's strangely quiet company.

The silence wraps around him like something sacred. For the first time in a long while, Max isn't staying frozen in time. He's walking toward something. And whatever comes next—he'll be ready.

//

"I need the access to the best printer in this building."

"Sure, we have a good one in the comms office."

"Does it print out photos?"

"Um, I think it does. Not sure if we have the photo paper, but we can get that in a matter of minutes. Just send me what you need printed and consider it done."

"No."

"Well..."

"No offense, I can't have anyone see this. It's peak security."

"We all have NDA's signed..."

"That's not enough. Can you connect my laptop to the printer?"

"Sure, that should not be any issue."

Of course it's an issue. It ends up stealing twenty-seven minutes of Max's precious pre-race time. Because, apparently, no amount of championship titles can grant him access to the one thing truly unattainable in this entire spinning rock of a planet—a functioning printer.

//

On the rarest of days, Max despises the world of racing. And today might just be one of them. Throughout the day, he gets progressively more annoyed whenever anyone speaks to him, because the team must have decided that today they will straight up ignore his inputs. The car feels wrong. Max keeps flashing his eyes at the obviously damp track, thinking he must be seeing things, because nobody in his side of garage seems to be on the same page about the state of the strategy as him. To be fair, he's exhausted, distracted and it's hard to keep pretending he's excited about the debacle this race will inevitably become. If he could, he's just flip everyone off, lock himself in the drivers room and stay there until the race is over. After all, he's only human – why does nobody seem to take that into account today when they frown at him giving out snarky comments? It's all slipping out of his hands. He feels like a prisoner of the job, with nowhere to run, being pulled in different direction by people who own his day. His mind is unable to stop drifting to the dinner he's dreading, to Charles, who's immune to the Singapore curse Max suffers, to Checo, who for once is giving out smile for free...And Max just wants to say "fuck you" to all of them.

The race? So awful he could have stayed home. Lock ups, drifts, anti-stall, getting stuck behind slow cars with no way of getting in front of them. Few mistakes on his part and he ponders few times whether putting the car into the wall would be seen as him giving up. He finishes P7, Checo wins and Charles is second. He is happy about one of those results.

With awful amount of sweat dripping from his face, he speaks to the reporters in short and clear sentences. Tosses his helmet somewhere in the garage and leaves as early as he can. With the weight of this awful day lifted, he can finally brace himself for the more important things on today's agenda. Getting his life in check. He ignores all the championship comments entirely. A long showers seems like a better use of his time.

//

Max arrives to the restaurant even earlier that he instructed his dad to do. All in the name of having the time to take in the scenery, getting familiar with the environment and stealing a minute to properly gather his thoughts. It's a bizarre feeling. Like he's been absentmindedly prepping for this conversation for few years now, without a conscious effort. Piece by piece, he's painting a mental picture of everything he wants to get out. His brain has been gathering info, storing it neatly and he's now about to open that cabinet and have a proper look in. He wonders whether it's all too rushed on his part, yet how can something that's been brewing behind the wall of his consciousness for years be rushed? He feels the fatigue of his body, the part of his brain focused on racing and tolerating humans is utterly exhausted, but every other part of him is ready to fire up like never before. Perhaps that's why he's so keen on having the talk right now, today. What if he chickens out like he always does? Maybe this state of mind, parts of him lost in the haze of the busy lifestyle, allows him to get it all out unfiltered.

Jos arrives, slides into the chair across from Max, probably already keyed in on what he thinks the topic will be. No greeting, no pleasantries.

"Shame we didn't close it today," Jos says immediately, wasting no time.

Max doesn't look up right away, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers. "I'll do it next week."

"That's not the point," Jos huffs, shaking his head. "Today was an opportunity. You take those when they come, not when it's convenient."

Max lets out a quiet breath. He isn't surprised. Broken record keeps spinning. There's never any acknowledgment of what is, only what should have been better.

Jos signals to the waiter, impatient. "What are you drinking?"

"Water."

Jos snorts, unimpressed, orders a glass of whiskey for himself, before switching gears. "Anyway. Got you something." He reaches into his jacket, places a small box onto the table between them. Max doesn't move to take it. "Happy birthday."

Max eyes the box, but only for a second. "Thanks."

Jos sighs, as if he's the one putting effort into this. "Don't sound too excited."

Max picks up the box now, but he doesn't open it. The weight in his hands feels expected, something expensive but impersonal, another watch maybe, or a piece of memorabilia Jos found interesting enough to throw money at. Something that says I acknowledge your existence but not much else.

He turns it over once before setting it back down. "I asked you to come early for a reason."

Jos lifts a brow, finally taking a real look at him. "Go on, something about Red Bull?" Jos speaks, strangely intrigued, probably expecting Max to fill him in on some secret key information.

"No," Max says. He pushes the box aside, out of the way. "I wanted to talk to you, as my father. Before Christian gets here."

Jos exhales sharply through his nose, leaning back in his chair. "Alright," he says, humoring him. "So talk."

Max swallows, steadying himself. It's strange, hearing the words in his own head so clearly but still struggling to push them out. Here goes everything.

"We have a pattern of having a disagreement once and then never addressing it again," he starts carefully, " This is a conversation long overdue." He pauses, watches for a reaction, but Jos just gestures for him to continue.

"And?"

"And," Max says, exhaling, "I think I've spent too long making decisions with you in mind first."

Jos tilts his head slightly, not quite getting it. Or pretending not to. "Since when have I stopped you from doing what you want?"

Max gives him a look. "Since always. Since before I even knew what I wanted."

Jos scoffs, shaking his head, making it very obvious he does not find his words important. Max doesn't let him cut in.

"I don't blame you for that," Max says. "It's how things were. It's how you raised me. But I can't—" he stops, exhales sharply. "I don't want to live my life measuring every decision against what you'd think of it." It comes naturally to keep his tone firm and unshaken.

Something flickers in Jos' eyes now. Acknowledgment, maybe. Or just irritation. "And what decision is this about, exactly?"

The tension at the dinner table keeps rising with every word spoken. Max knows where this is going before Jos even says it.

"Please, tell me you're not about to mention one of your key rivals."

Just like that, it's like they're back in Max's apartment all those years ago, incriminating photos of Max kissing Charles still fresh out of print.

"This isn't just about Charles."

Disappoinment in its purest form settles over Jos.

While that might not be entirely true, it's all of a sudden clear as day to Max. If it's not Charles, it might be someone else one day. Ironically, it was his father, the man into who's eyes he is staring now, who drilled Max to making sure he learns from every mistake. For once, the son claiming the upper ground, is throwing that back into his face. It's a strange moment, to grow up and see your parent for what they really might be and not for what they spent your entire life trying to convince of. Max tries his best to imagine what he'd think of Jos if he's met him today, for the first time. It's strangely impossible.

He goes back to the countless sleepless nights, dull moments of spacing out on the track, the emptiness he picked up immediately after getting out of the car. Glimmer of unpleasant solitude which could have been spent shared with someone who could have made it all less lonely. All of these little snapshots pile up into one folder – time wasted. He finds himself missing what never was. Eating him up alive. It's unfair to put the whole blame on Jos. Ultimately, it was Max choosing to follow his lead after it was long past the due of him finding the ability to push for his own agenda. He paid the price for this decision. Now, he owes it to his future self to make sure he does not go through the same cycle again.

There is a clear hint of Jos not entirely getting Max's point. "So what, is there some other boy you fancy?" Same disgust rolls of his tongue as did back in the day. Progressive times clearly passed Jos by and never said "hello".

Max laughs at the confirmation that the point has been missed almost entirely. "No. That's not what I'm getting at."

"Then what the fuck are on about, Max," Jos scoffs, clearly getting more and more annoyed with each word they share. He accompanies this by an eye roll.

"I know you think this is all insignificant compared to titles, championships and world records. That what counts is what the history books will say about me. Still. I won't be the one reading those. But, I will be the one living my life until the very end. And for me, that is important. Having someone I love to share it with is important."

It does make Max feel like he sounds all too dramatic, but all he says is truly what is on his mind.

Jos shakes his head, still in disapproval, but he keeps his mouth shut, seemingly gathering his thoughts. Which already feels like a win to Max.

"Max, are we really going to sit here and talk about your feelings?" his father lands on dismissing and undermining the debate entirely. Predictable, Max figures.

"If we don't have this talk, there might not be much talking for us to do in the future. Your call. I'm barely twenty-five and I already catch myself thinking I had a time machine. That's not a pleasant way to live."

He hopes, prays, that it all eventually gets through Jos. Losing him over this is a price he's willing to pay, but would much rather avoid.

Anger level visibly rises in Jos and it alerts Max on a primal level. He's grateful for the public setting. Jos' hands curl into fists and he bites his cheeks.

"I'm going to go outside for a bit to calm down," Jos says, surprising Max. He just nods back, adjusting to this new situation.

As Jos pushes back his chair and walks out, Max watches him go, but doesn't move. He doesn't feel relief, there's too much history in the air between them, and it doesn't just clear out because one of them steps away.

He leans back, exhaling through his nose, fingers pressing against the edge of the table. The exhaustion settles in now, creeping up his spine. This was always going to be difficult, but he hadn't expected the sheer weight of it. The finality of saying it all out loud.

He glances down at the unopened box, still sitting between them like a placeholder for something that will never quite fit. Jos will come back. Or he won't. Either way, Max has said what he needed to say.

The thought should be freeing. It isn't. Not yet.

He presses his lips together and shifts his gaze to the entrance, watching as Jos stands outside, shoulders squared, one hand on his hip. A lifetime of discipline, of control, of knowing how to push Max into a mold. This is the first time Max has ever truly rejected it, not in defiance, not in rebellion, but simply because it doesn't fit him anymore.

Max shakes his head down, fingers absently tracing the condensation on his glass. His mind drifts, not to today, not to this dinner, but to the beginning of the year.

March. The boycott.

He remembers sitting in the back of the car on the way to the airport, the city lights of Jeddah blurring past the window, his phone pressed to his ear. Jos had called the second the news broke, his voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of the engine.

"You're not racing?" "No." "Who's decision was that? Who is dumb enough to sabotage your racing for some cheap PR?"

Max had gritted his teeth, eyes locked on the glowing numbers of his flight confirmation email, as if that would somehow ground him. "It was a team decision," he'd tried, voice neutral, controlled. 

He'd heard the scoff through the line. "Bullshit. You should have raced anyway. It's not like they can ban you from the paddock." He then goes on to proceed naming every single important person he has on call in Red Bull, checking whether they'd signed off or if there is still a chance for Jos to sway this. Max lets him speak and confirms every single person he mentions. Eventually, it shuts Jos up. 

Max had let the silence linger, because what could he say? That he wanted to stand for something but hadn't been brave enough to put his face to it? That instead of taking full ownership, he'd let PR clean up the mess, spin a digestible narrative so the fallout wouldn't land entirely on him?

Jos had sighed, voice lowering, less angry now, but far from understanding. "You don't get these chances forever, Max. The world moves on. The team moves on. Are you stupid? You think this matters? You think it'll mean something five years from now?"

Max had gripped his phone a little tighter. "It matters to me."

"Then own it," Jos had snapped back. "Stop hiding behind other people and pretending this isn't your choice. We both know it's because it's fucking Leclerc," he uttered that name like it was poison. In Jos' mind, it probably was and still it. 

Max hadn't answered. He'd just stared out the window as the lights streaked by, listening to the sound of his own breath.

That was the moment. The moment he could have said it, could have drawn the line, but instead, he let it pass. Another thing left unsaid.

Jos probably smartly figured if he had gone to investigate the move more, it would only uncover something he himself fought the hardest to keep buried. So, they never spoke of it again.

His father steps back into the restaurant, expression on his face unreadable. He sits, slower this time, reaching for his drink, keeping casual comments to himself. Max waits. If they're going to have this conversation, it has to come from Jos next.

"You understand this could redefine your career," Jos finally says. It's not a threat. Not an attack. Just a fact. So Max does not respond with aggression, does not point out the fact that Charles is still being mainly described as a racing driver, not as a gay racing driver.

Max nods. "Yes."

Jos taps his fingers against the glass, studying him. "Sponsorships could pull out. Media will twist it, turn it into a circus. You might not get the protection you think you will."

"I know," Max says, calmer than he thought he'd be. Lighter.

"And you still want to do this?"

Max exhales. "I've thought about all of that. I'm not planning on letting this dictate my existence. I'm not going to "come out" tomorrow. But when the right time arrives, I am not denying anything."

Jos shakes his head, but this time, it's not pure dismissal. It's more like he's processing, adjusting.

He leans back in his chair. "Well," he mumbles, running a hand over his face. "At least you're finally being honest about it."

Max watches him closely, waiting, hoping –just a little– that maybe, somehow, that means something more. But then Jos sighs, shaking his head again, firmer this time.

"Doesn't mean I think it's the right call."

Max doesn't flinch. He expected that. Worse actually.

"You don't have to," he says simply.

Jos sneers, like he finds the whole thing ridiculous. "Right. Because that's how this works. You say your piece, I disagree, and we just move on?"

Max shrugs. "We'll figure it out."

Jos lets out a dry laugh, but there's something behind it. Frustration, maybe, or something closer to a broken ego than actual anger. He drains the rest of his drink and sets the glass down with a deliberate tap. Grabs the boxs from Jos, still not opening it.

"You were always a stubborn one," he mutters.

"Wonder where I got that from," Max fires back, deadpan. Then, he a small smile appears on his face for the first time this evening.

Jos looks at him for a beat, then exhales. "Whatever happens, don't come crying to me when it gets messy."

Max's lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close to understanding. There is a strange comfort in hearing that. Some things won't change and even though it's probably not the most healthy approach, it's one he's used to. "Wouldn't dream of it."

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything still thick between them. It's not a resolution. Not even close. But it's the first step.

Deep breath. "Dad, I know this is going to sound rude, but there is something else I have to do tonight. So, no dinner. You and Christian don't need me anyway. Tell him I feel tired and that I said hi."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't think you want to know."

-------

@chezmardybum @biancathecool @aykxz98

[canmom]

oh this is fascinating! I'd not heard that specific language used, but it immediately made intuitive sense to me why cheng might consider the long complicated opaque proof of Fermat's last theorem as not being moral, and the logic of many of her other examples, like the quadratic equation being moral to derive from completing the square but not substitution.

her 'morality' seems to have a lot to do with 'good pedagogy'. i get the impression what she calls a 'moral' reason is one that gives you real understanding of the broader picture around the thing you're investigating. it makes me think of 3blue1brown's various 'why is there pi here' videos, where he tries to find a route reveal how a circle or sphere enters into a problem in some not immediately obvious way. it's not enough to present a valid proof: a really good argument must feel satisfying and revealing, not obtuse and arbitrary.

cheng's comment about mathematical beliefs existing mentally in a non-symbolic fashion is also really interesting - comes back to stuff I'd been thinking about the 'embedding' translation from symbol strings to latent space vectors in neural nets, and the corresponding process that happens in our brains to translate signals into internal neuron-excitation oscillations. (see: analogistically). it's fascinating to consider that applied to mathematics where symbol-manipulation is so central. but it makes sense: even if we're manipulating expressions we combine it with an intuition for what the expressions represent, and what it would be sensible to do with them. there's a reason they encourage us to always roughly plot it out, figure out where the poles and zeros are. why visual proofs feel particularly satisfying.

i feel like a lot of thinking must involve (invoking some of my favourite metaphors, watch out) repeatedly mapping something between different representations to do different manipulations to it and allow it to evolve. e.g. a string of algebraic symbols, and a mental representation of the shape those symbols, different terms as little clumps to poke and prod. or a vague intuitive idea and a spelled-out sentence. this is why writing is helpful for working out thoughts: the process of translation from the mental representation and linguistic representation and back is somehow clarifying, perhaps exciting other related connections in the process.

my favourite metaphors tend to be physical/computer science ones: the feedback loop, the dynamical system, the state space, the instability, the self-organising structure, the mapping from x-space to y-space, the nth-order approximation, the evolving population, the compression algorithm, the cellular automaton, the fractal structure, the soliton, entropy. as far back as 2018 i was conceiving of gender transition's relation to society as akin to bubbles in a fluid.

i like to spice it with some more occult stuff now and again, the egregore in particular (used in preference to similar, more atomic concepts like 'meme' or 'semiotic sign' or 'stand alone complex' mostly because i like the vibe) - but that's a flavour of occultism that suits this habit of thought, isn't it? a notional abstract entity that emerges from the dynamics of a complex system, such as multiple minds? i view magic mostly in this light: a human tool for apprehending the large scale behaviour of humans. as such my go-to examples of egregores are things like 'countries' or 'organisations' or even 'gender'.

anyway i don't think this is a bad way to look at the world, i think it often leads to interesting left field approaches to subjects, but just because i invoke all these sciencey concepts does not actually entail any rigour. I'm operating on the level of analogy and i don't want to pretend otherwise. i try to be careful to keep the technical definition in mind, but it's not like I'm writing differential equations down, or even that you could in a lot of cases... and i tend to dislike the rhetorical invocation of mathematical concepts when other people do it, i am kind of a hypocrite lol

[elumish]

I saw something a while ago about paranormal romance/why choose books being basically trad wife fantasies, and I have so many thoughts about that