#is that at night when the conditions are right

[hellsslibrary]

hi so ive been binging ur works lol I love that u write for blue lock and specifically the male reader !!! Sosoo I'd love to request a shidou x mean top male reader ? Like shidou keeps acting out so reader puts him in his place?

I do three things on purpose. I make you cut onions so I don't cry, I cling to you during horror movies because you get too focused, and I bend over in front of you during training because you're a dirty dog (real quotes from my husband as titles day one).

MASTERLIST is here.

#a.n. : You two humiliating a non-existent guy for the size of his dick........ Basic Tuesday for any gays, I guess.

!!Warnings: tom!dom!male!reader, sub!bottom! Shidou, overstimulation, time before the first selection, so you fuck in a room full of other people at night..... So, humiliation of a guy for a dick actually (not in his face tho), sex on a futon, Shidou without hair gel (I heard that someone didn't like Shidou without gel and cried hyperbolically), he calls you 'cupcake' one time.

One hundred and seven times.

You've thought about killing him so many times. Strangle him. Take his head off. Castrate him. Burn him. Drown him... Anything, really. Why is this idiot even more annoying than usual? Who knows. Well, obviously not you.

Your eyes watched him praise a player again. Of course, this is not surprising for him, he is very respectful to good players, but now? Fuck, this is out of bounds.

You can see perfectly well how his hands stay on this guy for too long. And the way his eyes look at you from time to time. It's been repeated too many times today.

Does he want you to crack? But no. He's going to do it today. And it won't just crack, it will come apart at the seams.

The sound of the futon moving can be heard in an almost empty room as your body bends over his, while his face is buried in the pillow, trying not to moan too loudly. Not that he cares about it, but you do very much.

"I'm s-sorry, cu-cupcake, please—!" he exhales raggedly, clutching at the thin fabric, trying with all his might to stabilize himself and his body from your obviously not gentle thrusts, which seemed to knock his soul out of him piece by piece.

A rhetorical question escapes your lips, and an almost animal grin appears on your lips, seeing his condition. "Now we're just barking, right? You forgot how to bite pretty quickly."

Shidou just whimpers, feeling his body twitching from your thrusts inside his sloppy hole. His curls are disheveled on the bed, and some are stuck to his cheeks or neck from sweat. He just couldn't look into your eyes as usual, knowing full well that he would break even more... He dug his own grave after all.

"That guy couldn't have brought you to this state, you know? He definitely has a dick smaller than my little finger," you reason, lowering one of your hands from his waist lower, feeling the muscles of his stomach tighten as you slide over them, reaching his v-shaped line, and then his crotch. "Don't you agree?"

"Fuck, yes! Def-definitely, yes... Probably th-the same size as an a-ant," Ryusei giggles, swallowing his saliva, arching his back harder, which makes you hiss, feeling like he's become a little tighter.

Although his giggles immediately fade away when you grab his overexcited, spent cock. You immediately slap the hand that's trying to stop you, grabbing his length, making him choke on his own sob.

Tears began to form in his eyes, lingering on his blond eyelashes, and then trickling down his cheeks. He couldn't take another round! He wanted to, but probably couldn't. You're huge, you tease him, you fuck him, you humiliate someone for the size of his dick... Did I mention that you're huge? Anyway, it's fucking Hell! He's a fucking puddle under you, even though he wanted to stay under you like that, because that's actually what he wanted.

Maybe you'd be more gentle if your count of murder methods stopped at about sixty.

"Still fucking want me like this, huh? How many times did you cum?" you ask rhetorically, realizing that he won't answer, just smiling, and then slapping his ass, which makes him squeak, and you enjoy his sounds, because you can't see almost anything.

"Don't worry, I'll do it over and over again until you don't even have the thought of leaving me anymore, do you understand?" Ryusei nodded, and his cock jerked in your grip, forcing you to enter him up to the hilt, and then pull your dick out of him, which immediately turns around to look at you. "Or maybe I need to make it so that you can't stand at all without help..."

Shido pales almost immediately, sensing the sincerity in your voice, and then moans too loudly when you thrust into him again. Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his face back into the pillows so that he doesn't wake anyone up and so that he stops making silly excuses about how he wants you to pull out your dick.

He looked like a black hole right now, honestly. So he'd better not pretend to be a clogged pipe right now.

[mrsfancyferrari]

Hey I hope you've having an amazing day/evening/night. This is my first time requesting something😅, and I was wondering if you could possibility write something like what you did with my type but the reader having natural auburn curly hair, with freckles thinking that she's not his type or something along those lines.

Gold in Snow

Summary: you and lando are in a relationship but you're reserving hate comments about you being a ginger, with freckles because the fans don't think you're his type

Song: Golden Hour · JVKE

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 5.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the crowd was deafening. Another podium finish for Lando, another shower of champagne soaking his expensive suit. You watched from the relative calm of the garage, a small smile playing on your lips.

He looked genuinely happy, and that, more than anything, made the constant noise and pressure of Formula 1 palatable.

You’d been dating Lando Norris for almost a year now. A year of stolen moments, whispered secrets in hotel rooms, and navigating the chaotic whirlwind that was his life. A year of pure bliss…mostly.

The “mostly” came in the form of comment sections. Forums. Twitter threads dedicated to dissecting every pixel of your existence and comparing it to the accepted prototype of a WAG – Wives and Girlfriends – in the F1 world.

You were… different.

They’d say it with a thinly veiled, almost clinical detachment, but the message was always the same: you didn’t fit. You were too… ginger. Too freckled. Too… you.

The ginger part bothered them the most. Lando was a global superstar, practically sculpted from marble, with a smile that could melt glaciers. He was everything they wanted him to be: conventionally attractive, charming, and effortlessly cool.

And you? You were… well, very, very pale. Your hair was a fiery halo, and your skin was dotted with a constellation of freckles that bloomed fiercer in the summer sun.

“He likes the exotic look,” one comment had sniped. “She’s probably got a killer tan when she’s not hiding in the shade.”

You’d chuckled then, a hollow sound that didn’t quite reach your heart. Exotic? You’d spent your life battling sunburns and jokes about having no soul.

And killer tan? Honey, you burned so fast, lifeguards would start applying sunscreen just by looking at you.

You tried to ignore it. Lando certainly seemed to. He showered you with affection, praised your quick wit and sharp mind, and constantly reminded you how beautiful he found you, flaws and all.

But the insidious comments burrowed under your skin, planting seeds of doubt that you desperately tried to weed out.

You saw him heading towards the garage now, adrenaline still buzzing through him. His eyes found yours, and that signature Lando grin spread across his face. Your heart did that familiar little flip.

“Hey!” he said, pulling you into a hug. He smelled of champagne and victory. “Did you see that last overtake? Unbelievable!”

You laughed, burying your face in his still-damp fire suit. “Yes, I saw it. You were amazing, as always. Just try not to spray me next time, okay?”

He pulled back, his brow furrowed. “You okay? You seem… quiet.”

You forced a smile. “Just tired. It’s been a long weekend.”

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. “Well, we’re flying back tomorrow morning. We can just chill in the hotel tonight. Order some room service, maybe watch a movie?”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, meaning it. Just the two of you, away from the cameras and the judgment.

That night, as you lay in his arms in the dimly lit hotel room, the familiar ache in your chest returned. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were somehow… undeserving.

“Lando?” you whispered, the sound barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning.

“Hmm?” He nuzzled into your hair.

“Do you… do you ever read the comments? About us?”

He stiffened slightly. “I try not to. You know how toxic that can be.”

“But you do read them, right? Sometimes?”

He sighed, a heavy sound that vibrated against your chest. “Okay, yeah, sometimes. But I don’t pay any attention to them. They’re just… noise.”

“Noise that says I’m not good enough for you.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours in the dimness. “What? That’s ridiculous. Who says that?”

“Everyone. Online, anyway. They don’t think I’m your type. They think I’m… too ginger. Too freckled. Too… plain.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. “Hey. Look at me. You are absolutely stunning. Inside and out. You are intelligent, funny, kind, and you have the most beautiful smile in the world. And yes,” he added with a mischievous grin, “I also happen to think your hair is gorgeous, and your freckles are like little constellations scattered across your skin. They’re unique, just like you.”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes. “But they say…”

“They say a lot of things. People are always going to have opinions. But their opinions don’t matter. Only mine does. And I think you are perfect.”

He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, tender kiss that chased away the doubts, at least for a moment.

But even as you melted into him, a small, insidious voice whispered in the back of your mind: He’s just saying that. He has to say that.

The knot in your stomach tightened with each passing day, each new photo plastered across social media. You and Lando, laughing at a restaurant, holding hands at the airport, just being normal.

What shouldn't have been a cause for concern, was. It should have been a happy bubble of romance, but it was quickly becoming a breeding ground for anxiety, a place where your insecurities festered and grew.

Because under each picture, nestled amongst the supportive comments and heart emojis, they lurked. The whispers, the not-so-subtle digs.

"He could do so much better." "She's not even his type." "Another generic influencer." And the worst of it? "Ginger + Freckles = No."

You knew it was irrational. Lando loved you. He told you every day, showed you in a million little ways, from the way he held your hand to the way he looked at you with genuine adoration.

But the internet had a way of burrowing into your brain, planting seeds of doubt that blossomed into thorny vines. You found yourself scrutinizing your reflection, picking apart every freckle, every strand of your fiery hair.

Was it too much? Was it enough? Were you enough?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Lando's voice startled you, pulling you back from the precipice of your spiral. He was standing in the doorway of your shared flat, his racing helmet tucked under his arm, a familiar mischievous grin playing on his lips.

"Just thinking about this weekend," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. "Excited for the snow."

"Me too! Max and Steve are already counting down the hours. You're coming to the slopes tomorrow, right?"

You hesitated. "I… I have something I need to do in the morning. I'll meet you guys up there later, okay?"

Lando frowned, his blue eyes searching yours. "Everything alright, love? You seem a bit off."

"I'm fine," you insisted, forcing a smile. "Just… a doctor's appointment. Nothing serious. I'll explain later. Promise."

He didn't look convinced, but he knew better than to push. "Alright. Just text me when you're on your way. Drive safe.”

He kissed your forehead, the warmth of his touch a brief comfort against the chill that had settled within you and left.

The next morning, the drive to the snow mountains felt endless. Each mile was another step closer to the potential storm brewing in your head.

You told yourself you were being ridiculous, that you were letting faceless strangers dictate your feelings. But the seed of doubt had been planted, watered, and was now taking root.

When you finally arrived at the ski resort, the crisp mountain air did little to soothe your nerves. You walked into the reception area, the scent of pine and hot chocolate thick in the air.

"Name?" the receptionist asked, her eyes glued to the computer screen.

"It's… uh… Y/L/N, party of Lando Norris."

The receptionist's fingers clicked across the keyboard, and she looked up, a polite professional smile gracing her lips. "Ah, yes. Mr. Norris's party. You're all set. Here's your lift pass. Your equipment rental is just through those doors. Have a wonderful day."

You collected your ski boots and poles from the rental shop, the familiar weight grounding you slightly. You'd been skiing since you were a kid, practically born on the slopes.

It was one of the few places you felt truly free, truly yourself.

You strapped on your skis and headed towards the main lift, scanning the crowd for a flash of Lando's familiar McLaren Racing beanie or the boisterous laughter of Max and Steve.

The lift carried you higher and higher, the view expanding to reveal a breathtaking panorama of snow-covered peaks and pristine valleys.

For a moment, the internet, the comments, the doubts, all faded away. You breathed in the crisp air, feeling the thrill of anticipation course through you.

As you reached the top, you spotted them. Lando, grinning and waving, Max, already carving down the slope with reckless abandon, and Steve, carefully navigating the beginner trail.

You took a deep breath, pushed off, and let gravity do its work. The wind whipped through your hair, the sun glinted off the snow, and for the first time that day, you felt a genuine smile spread across your face.

You were good. Really good. You weaved and turned, carving graceful arcs in the powder, your ginger hair a vibrant streak against the white landscape. You glided past other skiers, feeling the rush of adrenaline as you navigated the slopes with practiced ease.

You found yourself on a black diamond run, moguls stretching out before you like frozen waves. This was where you belonged, where you felt alive. You took a deep breath and launched yourself into the challenge, navigating the bumps and dips with precision and skill.

Suddenly, you heard a whoop of excitement and a familiar voice. "Wow, check out the ginger ninja!"

You glanced over your shoulder and saw a couple of guys, clearly impressed by your skiing skills.

You grinned, threw them a wink, and continued your descent, the compliment a small spark of warmth against the doubt that still lingered.

The crisp mountain air bit at Lando’s cheeks, painting them a matching shade to the gaudy orange ski suit Max insisted he wear. He shifted his weight from one ski boot to the other, impatience radiating off him in visible waves.

He’d been waiting at the base of the slope for what felt like an eternity. Max was already halfway up the mountain for his third run. Steve was content to nurse a lukewarm hot chocolate and offer unsolicited advice on Lando’s form, despite the fact Lando hadn't even put his skis on yet.

"She's taking her time," Steve commented, taking another careful sip. "Probably intimidated by the black runs."

Lando rolled his eyes, though fondness softened the gesture. He knew you weren't intimidated by anything. This was more than likely your first time on the slopes, so you were probably taking it easy.

You were a natural athlete, thriving on competition, but you’d also confessed, with a sheepish grin, that skiing looked deceptively easy on TV.

He was about to tell Steve as much when Steve suddenly straightened, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, there's your girl!"

Lando spun around, instantly forgetting the cold, the wait, and Steve’s irritating commentary. He searched the throng of skiers snaking down the slope, his heart doing a little skip. And then he saw you.

You moved with a surprising grace, your skis carving effortless arcs in the snow. Sunlight caught in your fiery red hair, turning it into a cascade of glittering copper. Each freckle seemed to dance on your skin, illuminated by the mountain sun.

He knew, objectively, that you were beautiful. He saw it every day. But seeing you now, flushed with exertion and radiant with joy, took his breath away.

He froze, utterly captivated, as you approached. You navigated the final stretch with smooth confidence. “Show off,” he muttered under his breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You slowed to a stop, kicking up a spray of snow just inches from his boots.

"Hey!" you exclaimed, laughing. You pushed your goggles up onto your forehead, revealing eyes the color of warm honey. "Sorry! How long have you been waiting?"

Your cheeks were rosy, your breath misting in the cold air. Lando stared, speechless.

"Baby? What's wrong?" you asked, your brow furrowing with concern. You reached out, your ungloved hand gently touching his cheek. The cold stung, but he barely noticed.

He swallowed, his voice a low rasp. "You're beautiful."

The words were a whisper, almost lost in the wind. He hadn’t meant to say it so abruptly, so…exposed. But the sight of you, framed by the snow-covered peaks, had rendered him incapable of coherent thought.

Your eyes widened slightly, and a blush bloomed on your cheeks, a delicate counterpoint to the healthy glow of the mountain air. "Lando," you said softly, "you okay? Are you coming down with something?"

He blinked, shaking himself slightly. "No, I'm fine. More than fine, actually. You just…you look incredible."

Steve coughed pointedly beside him. Max, having apparently teleported from the top of the mountain, snickered. Lando shot them both a warning glare. They knew how self-conscious you were, especially around his racing colleagues.

The comments section of his social media had been a cesspool ever since you two became public. Hateful words about your appearance, thinly veiled as concerned opinions that you weren’t “his type,” were a constant, ugly background noise.

He knew it bothered you, even though you tried to brush it off with a laugh and a casual, "Haters gonna hate." But he saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes when you thought no one was looking.

He hated those comments, hated the people who wrote them, and hated that they had the power to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.

He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Ignore them," he said, his voice firm, his gaze locked on yours.

You looked confused. "Ignore who? Max and Steve?"

"Everyone," he said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "Anyone who makes you feel like you're anything less than perfect. Because you are. Perfect. Just the way you are."

The blush on your cheeks deepened, and you ducked your head slightly, a shy smile playing on your lips. "You're sweet," you mumbled. "But I know I'm not everyone's cup of tea."

"Good," Lando said fiercely. "You're mine. And that's all that matters." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, ignoring Max's exaggerated gagging noises.

He pulled back and met your gaze, his expression serious. "Listen to me. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're not beautiful, or that you're not good enough, or that you don't belong. Because they're wrong. They’re absolutely, unequivocally wrong. You’re amazing, inside and out. You’re kind, you’re funny, you’re fiercely intelligent, and yes, you’re unbelievably beautiful. And I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have you."

A tear, born of emotion and the biting wind, escaped your eye. "You're going to make me cry," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

"Good," Lando said, wiping the tear away with his thumb. "Let them see you cry. Let them see how real and how beautiful you are. Don't hide anything. Don't let anyone dim your light."

He knew his words were bold, maybe even a little cheesy, but he meant every single one of them. He wanted you to know, deep down, that he saw you, truly saw you, and that nothing anyone said would ever change that.

Max, surprisingly, had stopped snickering. He clapped Lando on the shoulder. "Alright, mate, enough with the declarations of love. Let's hit the slopes. Before I get frostbite."

Steve nodded in agreement. “He’s right, Lando. You can gush later. Right now, let’s see if your girl’s got what it takes.” He winked at you. “No pressure.”

You smiled, the tension easing from your shoulders. "Pressure is my middle name," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Let's go."

Lando grinned, relieved to see the familiar spark back in your eyes. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting go.

He watched as you adjusted your goggles and clicked your poles into the snow. He felt a surge of pride watching you. He knew the comments would still be there, lurking in the shadows of the internet, waiting to pounce.

But he also knew that you were strong. You were resilient. And you had him.

He grabbed his own skis, a newfound confidence coursing through him. He would protect you, always. But more than that, he would celebrate you, every freckle, every fiery strand of hair, every brilliant facet of your being.

As you pushed off, gracefully navigating the gentle slope, Lando felt a lightness in his heart that had nothing to do with the altitude. He knew, without a doubt, that their love story was just beginning, and he couldn't wait to see where it would take them.

He followed you down the slope, his orange ski suit a beacon against the white snow. He caught up to you easily, skiing alongside you, matching your pace.

"So," he said, grinning mischievously. "Think you can keep up with me, ginger?"

You laughed, a bright, joyful sound that echoed through the mountains. "Try me, Papaya boy."

And with that, you kicked it up a notch, leaving Lando in your snowy wake.

He laughed, his heart soaring.

He pushed off, determined to catch up, knowing that even if he never did, he would be perfectly content just to chase you, forever. . . .

The papaya coloured dress hung on you, a vibrant splash of sunshine in the sterile white bathroom. It was Lando’s favourite colour, or so he claimed. He said it reminded him of McLaren, of speed, of… you.

But all you could see in the mirror was a canvas of imperfections.

Your reflection stared back, a stranger dissected and judged. The fiery red hair, usually a source of pride, now felt like a neon sign screaming "OUT OF PLACE."

The constellation of freckles scattered across your nose and cheeks, tiny sun-kissed stars Lando often traced with his fingertip, seemed like blemishes, flaws magnified under the harsh bathroom light.

The original plan, a simple elegance of no-makeup and loose waves, lay discarded. You'd envisioned a carefree evening, a confident entrance with Lando by your side.

Now, the thought of facing the public, the prying eyes, the inevitable whispers, felt like climbing a mountain of anxiety.

Social media had been a minefield lately. Ever since your relationship with Lando Norris became public, the comment sections had become a breeding ground for toxicity. Most were overwhelmingly supportive, celebrating your love.

But a persistent undercurrent of negativity gnawed at your confidence. The "fans," or rather, the internet trolls masquerading as them, were relentless.

“She’s not his type.”

“He could do so much better.”

“Ginger? Really? He's lowering his standards.”

The worst were the comments picking apart your appearance. The freckles, the hair, the perceived lack of "glamour." They painted you as an anomaly, someone who didn't belong in Lando's world. It was absurd, of course.

Lando loved you for you. He told you every day. But the insidious nature of online hate was that it seeped in, whispering doubts in your ear when you were most vulnerable.

Tonight, facing a McLaren party filled with glamorous personalities and industry insiders, the doubts had reached a crescendo. You grabbed a tissue from the dispenser, dabbing at the corners of your eyes, fighting back the overwhelming urge to cry.

The reflection in the mirror blurred, the colours swam, and the vibrant papaya felt like a mocking reminder of everything you weren't.

That’s when you heard the familiar click of the front door.

“Y/n?” Lando’s voice echoed through the house, a warm, comforting sound that momentarily cut through the anxiety clouding your mind.

Panic seized you. You couldn't let him see you like this, a mess of insecurities and mascara-smeared cheeks. You needed to compose yourself, to build up a façade of confidence before facing him.

Quickly, you turned the small lock on the bathroom door. The click was loud in the sudden silence.

“Y/n?” he called again, his voice closer now. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just… just getting ready,” you managed, trying to inject a lightness into your tone that felt utterly fake. Your voice wavered, betraying your true state. “I’ll be out in a second.”

You heard him pause outside the door. “You sure? You sound… different.”

He knew you too well. He always did. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears away. “Just a bit of a headache. Nothing serious.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, thick with unspoken concern. You could almost feel his presence on the other side of the door.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice softening. “But don’t rush. I’m happy to wait. Do you want me to get you some water?”

His thoughtfulness, his unwavering care, only made the guilt swell inside you. He was so genuine, so supportive, and here you were, hiding from him, consumed by the petty insecurities fueled by strangers on the internet.

“No, I’m fine,” you insisted, a little too quickly. “Just… give me a few more minutes, okay?”

“Alright,” he said, a hint of reluctance in his voice. You heard him move away from the door. “I’ll be in the living room.”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning against the cool porcelain of the sink. This couldn’t go on. You couldn't let these hateful comments dictate your life, dictate your relationship.

Lando deserved better. You deserved better.

Taking a deep breath, you turned on the cold tap, splashing water on your face. You grabbed a towel and gently patted your skin dry, removing the remnants of your almost-attempted makeup.

You looked at yourself again, really looked.

The fiery hair, the freckles, the flaws… they were all part of you. They were what made you unique, what made you you. And Lando loved you for it. He saw beauty where others saw imperfections.

He saw strength where others saw vulnerability. Why were you letting the opinions of anonymous strangers outweigh the love and adoration of the man you adored?

You let out a shaky sigh, a weight lifting from your shoulders. It wasn't a complete cure, the insecurities wouldn't vanish overnight, but it was a start.

With newfound resolve, you took another look at the papaya dress. It shimmered under the light, a vibrant symbol of sunshine and joy. You smoothed the fabric down, a small smile gracing your lips.

You unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out.

Lando was standing in the living room, fiddling with his phone. He looked up as you entered, his face immediately lighting up. He was wearing a simple dark suit, impeccably tailored, but it was the genuine warmth in his eyes that truly caught your attention.

He took a step towards you, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe. The smile widened.

“Wow,” he breathed, his voice laced with admiration. “You look absolutely stunning.”

You blushed, the compliment genuine and heartfelt. “Thank you.”

He closed the distance between you, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks, tracing the familiar pattern of your freckles.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft with concern. “You seemed a bit… off earlier.”

You hesitated, the urge to brush it off still lingering. But you knew you couldn't hide from him. He deserved the truth.

“I… I saw some comments online,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “About… about me. About not being ‘your type.’”

His expression darkened, his eyes hardening with anger. “Don’t you dare listen to those people, Y/n,” he said fiercely, his grip on your face tightening slightly.

“They don’t know anything. My ‘type’ is someone who is kind, intelligent, funny, and beautiful, inside and out. Someone who makes me laugh every single day. Someone who challenges me and supports me, even when I’m being an idiot. That’s you, Y/n. That's always been you."

He paused, his gaze searching yours, making sure you understood the sincerity of his words.

"And as for the… the physical stuff," he continued, his voice softening again. "Your hair is the most beautiful shade of red I've ever seen. Your freckles are like little constellations, guiding me through the darkness. And that little dimple you get when you smile? Drives me absolutely crazy."

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you’re not good enough, Y/n. Because to me, you are perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of relief, of gratitude, of love.

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. “I love you, Lando,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his jacket.

He held you tight, his arms a comforting embrace. “I love you too, Y/n. More than you know.”

After a long moment, you pulled back, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. You took a deep breath, feeling a surge of confidence wash over you.

Lando was right. You couldn't let the negativity of others define you. You had his love, his support, and that was all that mattered.

You looked at him, a genuine smile gracing your lips. "Ready to go to this party?"

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Absolutely. And just so you know, I'm planning on spending the entire night showing you off to everyone. They need to see how lucky I am."

He took your hand in his, his fingers interlacing with yours. As you walked out the door together, you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. And that, you realised, was all that truly mattered.

The haters could say what they wanted. You had Lando, you had your love, and that was more than enough. The papaya dress suddenly felt like armour, not a target.

You were ready to face the world, hand in hand, imperfections and all. . . .

The party was exactly what you expected: loud music, flashing lights, and a sea of familiar faces from the F1 world – drivers, team principals, engineers, and their partners.

The sheer volume of people made your anxiety prickle, but Lando kept a firm grip on your hand, navigating you through the crowd.

He introduced you to what felt like a hundred people, his arm possessively around your waist, his smile beaming. You tried to focus on the conversations, to be witty and engaging, but the whispers seemed to follow you, phantom echoes of the comments haunting your mind.

“Lando’s with her?”

“She’s… different.”

“Not exactly what I expected.”

You squeezed Lando’s hand tighter, trying to ground yourself. He seemed oblivious to the undercurrents, his attention solely focused on you.

“Having fun?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the music.

You forced a smile. “Yeah, it’s… great.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching. He knew you better than anyone, and he could see the forced cheerfulness masking your discomfort.

“Hey,” he murmured, pulling you closer. “If you want to leave, we can. We don’t have to stay here.”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I’m fine. I want to be here. With you.”

He smiled, relieved. "Okay, but seriously, if you change your mind, just say the word."

Just then, a tall, lanky figure approached, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Lando! Mate, good to see you.”

“Oscar!” Lando clapped him on the back. “Good to see you too. Oscar, this is my girlfriend, Y/N. Y/N, this is Oscar Piastri.”

Oscar offered you his hand, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

You shook his hand, trying to gauge his expression. Was there judgment there? Pity? You couldn’t tell. “Likewise, Oscar. Congratulations on your season so far.”

“Thanks,” he said, his smile genuine. "It's been... interesting, to say the least." He paused, then gestured to a woman standing beside him. "And this is my girlfriend, Lily."

Lily stepped forward, her smile warm and inviting. She had kind eyes and a simple elegance that immediately put you at ease. "It's lovely to meet you, Y/N. Lando talks about you all the time."

You blushed, glancing at Lando, who just winked. "All good things, I hope?"

Lily laughed. "Of course! He's completely smitten."

The four of you fell into easy conversation, discussing the season, the pressures of being in the spotlight, and the challenges of maintaining relationships in such a demanding environment.

You found yourself relaxing, the tension slowly draining away. Lily was refreshingly down-to-earth, and Oscar, despite his reserved demeanour, had a dry wit that you found endearing.

As the conversation flowed, you noticed Lily subtly steer the topic towards your interests, asking about your work, your hobbies, and your passions.

She seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you, not just as Lando’s girlfriend, but as an individual.

“So, Y/N” Lily said, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, “Lando tells me you’re a writer? That’s fascinating! What kind of writing do you do?”

“I dabble in a bit of everything,” you replied, feeling your confidence grow. “Short stories, poetry, some freelance journalism. It depends on what sparks my interest, really.”

“That’s amazing,” she gushed. “I’ve always admired people who can write. It’s such a powerful way to express yourself.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “It is. I’m useless at it. Give me a steering wheel any day.”

Laughter bubbled up from your chest, your earlier anxieties fading into the background. You were having a genuine, enjoyable conversation, with people who seemed to genuinely care about you.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the noise. “Lando, darling! There you are!”

A woman, dripping in diamonds and designer clothes, glided towards you, her eyes scanning you from head to toe with blatant disapproval. You recognized her as the wife of a prominent team principal, a woman known for her sharp tongue and even sharper judgment.

Lando’s smile faltered slightly as he turned to face her. “Genevieve, good to see you.”

She completely ignored Oscar and Lily, her gaze fixed on you. “And who is this, Lando? A new… acquaintance?”

You felt your cheeks flush, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You knew what was coming.

Lando’s arm tightened around your waist. “This is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “This is your girlfriend? How… interesting.” Her tone dripped with condescension. “Well, congratulations, darling. I’m sure you’re very happy.”

She turned back to Lando, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Lando, darling, you really could do so much better. Don't you want to think about your image?”

You felt your heart sink. This was it. The moment of truth. You braced yourself for the inevitable onslaught of negativity.

But then, something unexpected happened. Lando’s eyes flashed with anger, and his grip on your waist tightened protectively.

“I’m perfectly happy, thank you,” he said, his voice cold and firm. “And Y/N is more than enough. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were in the middle of a conversation.”

He turned his back on the woman, effectively dismissing her. He looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, still reeling from the encounter. “Yeah,” you mumbled. "I'm okay

Lily stepped forward, her expression fierce. “Honestly, some people are just ridiculous,” she said, her voice laced with scorn. “Don’t let her get to you, Y/N. She’s just jealous.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “She’s got nothing better to do than spread negativity. Ignore her.”

Lando squeezed your hand. “They’re right. Don’t let her ruin your night.”

You looked at them, at Lando, at Lily, at Oscar. You saw genuine support, genuine kindness, genuine acceptance. And suddenly, the weight on your chest lifted. The comments, the whispers, the judgment – they didn’t matter.

You had people who loved you, who supported you, who valued you for who you were, not for who the internet thought you should be.

You took a deep breath, straightened your shoulders, and smiled. “You know what? You’re right. I’m not going to let her ruin my night.”

Lando grinned, relieved. “That’s the spirit. Now, how about we get out of here and go somewhere more… private?” He winked suggestively.

Lily laughed. “Sounds like a plan. Oscar, you’re driving, right? I’ve had one too many cocktails.”

As you walked away, hand in hand with Lando, you glanced back at Lily and Oscar, a warm feeling of gratitude washing over you. You had found unexpected allies, people who saw past the surface and appreciated you for who you were.

You were still an outsider, still a ginger with freckles, still not “his type” according to the internet. But tonight, surrounded by love and support, you didn’t care. You had Lando, you had friends, and you had the courage to be yourself.

And that, you realised, was more than enough. The papaya dress no longer felt like armour, but a symbol of your strength, your resilience, and your unwavering commitment to being true to yourself.

You were you and you were happy. . . .

landonorris

liked by carlossainz55, alexandrasaintmleux, yourusername and 867,879 others

landonorris

Happy anniversary to my beautiful girl. Two years. Two years of laughter, adventures, and learning to love you more fiercely every single day. I know the internet can be a dark place, especially for someone as radiant as you. Don't listen to anyone who talks about you bad, especially those whispering nonsense about "types." They see a snapshot; I see the whole damn masterpiece.

Your fiery hair is sunshine on a cloudy day, each freckle a tiny star mapping out the constellation of my heart. They don't see the intelligence that sparkles in your eyes, the quick wit that keeps me on my toes, or the unwavering kindness you show to everyone you meet. They don’t see you. You are everything I could ever want, and more than I ever deserve. So, happy anniversary, my love. Let's keep painting our world with joy, ignoring the noise, and celebrating the beautiful, unique you. I love you more than words can say. ❤️

comment has been restricted

[satellite-evans]

Hi! Could I please request a one shot where Harry is sick maybe during tour and his gf has to take care of him? Thank you! I love your writing!

a/n: thank you so much for liking my work, it truly means a lot! it's a little short but I still hope you'll like it <3

sick on tour

The hotel room is quiet except for the noise of the air conditioning and the occasional sniffle from the lump of blankets curled up in the middle of the king-sized bed. The curtains are drawn, shielding the bright city lights outside from intruding on the peaceful, dimly lit space. Harry has always liked his hotel rooms cozy—candles on the nightstand, his favorite hoodie draped over the chair, and the softest pillows he could find. But tonight, none of it seems to bring him comfort.

You stand at the edge of the mattress, arms crossed, watching Harry sulk into his pillow. His curls are a mess, sticking to his slightly damp forehead, his nose a little pink from the fever, and yet—despite looking absolutely miserable—he’s still trying to convince you he’s fine.

“I can do the show,” he rasps, voice hoarse and scratchy. He attempts to prop himself up on his elbows, but the movement sends him into a fit of coughing. You sigh and press a hand to his chest, gently urging him back down.

“Baby, no. You can barely sit up.”

He frowns, brows knitting together like a petulant child. “S’just a little cold.”

“You have a fever, a sore throat, and you sound like you swallowed sandpaper,” you point out, smoothing your fingers over his clammy forehead. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Harry grumbles something incoherent and burrows further into the pillows. You can tell he hates this—hates being taken care of, hates being seen as anything less than strong. But the thing is, to you, he’s always strong. Even now, curled up in a nest of tissues and blankets, he’s still the man you love more than anything.

Tour has been brutal on him lately. Night after night of performing, giving his all to the crowds that adore him, leaving every ounce of himself on that stage. He never complains—not about the exhaustion, not about the jet lag, not about the toll it takes on his body. But you see it in the way his shoulders slump when he thinks no one is looking, the way his voice is a little more raw each morning, the way he clings to you just a little tighter when he finally collapses into bed at the end of the night.

“I can’t cancel, though,” he whispers after a long moment, his voice laced with guilt. “They’ve probably spent so much money—flights, hotels, tickets, clothes and waited months just to see me. I can’t let them down, I just can't.”

You soften, understanding where his frustration is coming from. Harry has always carried the weight of his fans' happiness on his shoulders, always put them first. It’s one of the many reasons you love him—but right now, he needs to put himself first.

You take his hand in yours, rubbing slow, comforting circles over his knuckles. “Harry, sweetheart, I already spoke to Jeff. He and the team handled everything. They put out a statement, rescheduled the show, and made sure the fans know how much you care about them Not that they need a statement anyway. They know how much you love them.”

His brows furrow. “You—”

“I took care of it,” you interrupt gently. “So you don’t have to worry, okay? The fans love you, but they love you healthy and not sticky. You can’t give them the show they deserve if you push yourself too hard now. That is not what they deserve.”

Harry lets out a slow breath, his tense shoulders easing just a fraction. He still looks guilty, but there’s also relief in his tired eyes. “You really talked to Jeff?”

You nod. “Of course. Your health comes first, baby. Now please let me take care of you."

You slip out of the room quietly and return with a damp cloth, gently dabbing it against his forehead. The coolness makes him sigh, his tense shoulders relaxing under your touch. Then, you hold up a spoonful of honey-laced tea to his lips. He scrunches his nose but accepts it, swallowing with a soft grimace.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice slightly clearer now.

You smile and brush your fingers over his cheek. “Of course, my love.”

After making sure he’s warm enough, you reach for the small bowl of soup on the nightstand that you kindly asked form the hotel staff. “Just a little, H. You need something in your stomach other than medicine.”

"The fans would've probably ask for me to sing medicine tonight but they can't because I need it. The irony." He said, trying to lighten the room up with a joke but cough wave that crushed him once again.

"Drink Harry." You said sternly.

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but he knows better. You lift the spoon to his lips, and after a moment’s hesitation, he leans forward and takes a bite. A small, content sigh escapes him, and you can’t help but grin.

“You’re good at this,” he mutters, sleep beginning to weigh heavy on him.

“I'm just good at loving you lovie,” you reply simply, brushing back his curls as he lets his eyes drift shut.

His fingers reach for yours under the blanket, giving them a weak squeeze. “Love you more.”

You sit beside him, pressing a soft kiss to his fever-warmed temple. “Just rest, my love. I’ve got you.”

And with the way he sighs, relaxing into your touch, you know he believes you.

Tomorrow, he’ll probably try to argue again. Try to tell you he feels fine, that he’s ready to get back out there, to put on another show. But for tonight, he’s yours to take care of. And you wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.

[our-lord-little-toad]

Ah. I see. A scholar has arrived. A man of science. A learned individual, stepping into my humble swamp to inform me, a mere toad, that my war is unjust. That I have conflated the matters of soul and spirit, of fear and loathing, of right and wrong. That I have failed in my sacred duty of categorization.

You bring me phylogeny. You bring me taxonomy. You bring me reason. But tell me this, doctor—when I awake in the dead of night, throat dry, heart pounding, eyes burning from the image of a slick, grinning amphibian staring at me from the abyss… will your science protect me then?

I do not wage this war lightly. I do not make these claims with reckless abandon. No, sir. I have seen things. I have known things. I have looked into the wretched, lawless soul of the Anuran menace and found it wanting.

And yet, despite all this, you ask me to open my arms and welcome these creatures into my heart? You ask me to reconsider, to reevaluate my position? To, what, allow the microhylids safe passage? To grant the bufonids a conditional truce?

No. I will not. My mind is made. My war is just. My path is clear.

But I will give you this, doctor—I respect the courage it takes to stand before me and present your case. I admire your willingness to speak truth, even if that truth is fundamentally incorrect. I will take your words into consideration. I will ponder them deeply. And then…

I will continue to loathe frogs with my whole, undivided soul.

Good day, sir.

Ah. I see. A scholar has arrived. A man of science. A learned individual, stepping into my humble swamp to inform me, a mere toad, that my war is unjust. That I have conflated the matters of soul and spirit, of fear and loathing, of right and wrong. That I have failed in my sacred duty of categorization.

You bring me phylogeny. You bring me taxonomy. You bring me reason. But tell me this, doctor—when I awake in the dead of night, throat dry, heart pounding, eyes burning from the image of a slick, grinning amphibian staring at me from the abyss… will your science protect me then?

I do not wage this war lightly. I do not make these claims with reckless abandon. No, sir. I have seen things. I have known things. I have looked into the wretched, lawless soul of the Anuran menace and found it wanting.

And yet, despite all this, you ask me to open my arms and welcome these creatures into my heart? You ask me to reconsider, to reevaluate my position? To, what, allow the microhylids safe passage? To grant the bufonids a conditional truce?

No. I will not. My mind is made. My war is just. My path is clear.

But I will give you this, doctor—I respect the courage it takes to stand before me and present your case. I admire your willingness to speak truth, even if that truth is fundamentally incorrect. I will take your words into consideration. I will ponder them deeply. And then…

I will continue to loathe frogs with my whole, undivided soul.

Good day, sir.

I CANNOT BELIEVE I HAVE TO SAY THIS AGAIN.

TOADS. ARE. NOT. FROGS.

If you walk up to me, look me in my warty little eyes, and say, “Aren’t toads just frogs?”—I WILL SCREAM. I will scream so loud the swamp will tremble. The audacity. The ignorance. The absolute frog-washed brainrot it must take to utter such blasphemy.

Let me make this crystal clear for the people in the back (and for the frogs who pretend they don’t hear me):

Do frogs have warts? No.

Do frogs survive in the harsh, dry lands while their slimy cousins shrivel up in the sun? No.

Do frogs understand struggle? The weight of existence? The burden of being TOUGH? Absolutely not.

Frogs are soft. Frogs are pampered. Frogs think they’re the main characters when they’re barely side notes in the great story of the swamp.

TOADS, however? We endure. We persevere. We do not hop for attention; we WALK with PURPOSE. We are the backbone of the amphibian world, and yet we are constantly disrespected by people who lump us in with those jumping, waterlogged, algae-brained buffoons.

I am TIRED. I am ENRAGED. I will NOT be silenced.

Toads > Frogs. Forever. Do not test me on this.

# # #toadvsthefrogagenda # #toadlife #dontcompareme #geteducated #truthhurts #rant #angry #notahoppingslimeball #realtalk

[matchpointfaist]

won't you save me? ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

sheltered art x flirty reader pt ii

the second time art saw you, you were clean from your usual messy makeup, your hair pulled into a bun and a pink hoodie covering the frame he'd become uncomfortably familiar with. you had a coffee in one hand and a vape in the other, looking irritated and frazzled and not at all how he'd seen you the week prior.

he must have been too lost in thought to watch where he was going, or maybe you had him under some sort of trance, but next thing he knew his shirt was covered in iced coffee, and you were looking up at him with wide eyes, apologies spilling from your lips in record time.

"oh! oh, gosh, no, it's alright," he rambled, the cold liquid slicking his shirt to his chest. "it's my fault, i wasn't paying attention-" his breath caught as you pulled the hoodie over your head, leaving you in a lace trimmed tank top, much tighter than the pink fabric had been. just as he started to gain some composure, your hands were on him, blotting his shirt with your jacket like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

"i'm such a clutz," you laughed regretfully, wiping his shirt down, "i am so sorry," "it's okay!" his voice was suddenly hoarse, his face hot and hands shaking, "i can clean it up, don't ruin your hoodie," "i don't mind," and there it was- that smile that weakened his knees, the one he'd seen you giving all the boys at that stupid frat party, this time directed at him. and oh god, he was fucked.

"you're art, right?" you asked, pulling the hoodie away to survey the condition of his t shirt, "donaldson?" "yeah!" it came out quicker than he would've liked, "uh, yes, that's me. i didn't know we knew each other,"

"oh, i try to make a habit of knowing all the tennis boys," he could've sworn you were teasing him, "especially the blonde ones," "w-why's that?" he borderline squeaked, "do you like tennis, i mean?"

"sure, somethin like that," you grinned, and dear god, you winked at him, "cute necklace,"

and then, when art thought it couldn't get any worse, your black fingernails were on his silver crucifix, your eyes inspecting it curiously, "you christian?"

"catholic," he nearly choked out, "i- it's a crucifix, when they nailed him to the cross-" "i know what a crucifix is, donaldson," you rolled your eyes, but your smile was back; oh god, your smile.

"well i have to get to class," his heart was pounding, the tent in his sweats threatening to give him away, to expose him and all his impure thoughts and fantasies- your hand was on his arm. and he was so fucking gone.

"you should call me sometime," you said softly, your eyes all wide and sweet and your lashes were so long and oh god, there he was, thinking about your on your knees again. "i don't have your number," was all he managed, his breath stuck in his tightening throat.

"give me your phone," it was like a command, like you were controlling his actions, because before he could even think, you were typing your number into his cell and passing it back to him with another wink.

"see you, artie," you grinned, patting his shoulder, "oh, and you might wanna do some extra praying to make up for all that," you giggled as your eyes fell to his thighs, to the obvious tent, to the very thing he'd been so desperate to hide.

before he could protest, or make some last ditch excuse, you were gone, the smell of your perfume lingering enough to nearly make his mouth water.

he watched you go, each sway of your hips adding to the tension, adding to the twisted longing he felt for you.

that night, he hovered over your contact, debating what he'd even say to you. 'hey, it's art. i think i'm in love with you.' 'hi! it's art. i jerked off to you last week.' 'hey, it's art donaldson. you make me question my faith.' finally, 'hey, it's art, from earlier.'

your reply came minutes later, the vibration off his phone interrupting his nightly prayer, and he tried to ignore the guilt as he paused his talk with god to begin his arguably more important talk with you.

'hi, art from earlier.' you'd sent, 'whatcha doin?'

'fantasizing about you.' 'just getting ready for bed. you?'

'same.' and then there it was, and he felt sick, he felt restless and needy and depraved and you were on his screen, a selfie of you in your silk pajamas, your hair down just barely covering your chest and his own chest was growing so very tight, his breathing restricted, his eyes taking in every single detail.

'oh.' was all he could manage to reply, shifting uncomfortably in his boxers, his skin flushed, 'goodnight then.'

'night, artie :) hope you handled your little problem from earlier.'

oh, he'd handle it. god, he wished you could handle it for him.

[ranhaitanisbitch]

movie night with mammon

-mammon x gn!reader

cw: just sweet

synopsis: mammon invited you over for a movie marathon

a/n: hope you like it! i feel like i should make a part two of this. i'm open to suggestions, requests for other one-shots and constructive criticism. don't hesitate to reach out ^_^

word count: about 900

Mammon doesn't remember the last time his room had looked this clean. He had spent the whole afternoon picking up clothes from the floor, sorting stuff, cleaning the floor and doing stuff he had never done before. Absurd stuff like wiping the back of his bed's headboard. He knows nobody cares about the back of his headboard, but somehow he has the urge to have everything in perfect condition. After all you are coming over. Maybe he was doing too much, but he wants to impress you. Yesterday Mammon found out you had never seen a single Harrison Porter movie in your life, so of course, being the fan he was, he invited you over to a Harrison Porter movie marathon. He was excited to say the least. It's not like you had never been to his room before, but this felt more like a date than a casual movie night.

Wait- did you think of this as a date too? Or was this really just a movie night between friends for you? Of course Mammon didn't actually call it a date when he had invited you over. If he remembers correctly he said something along the lines of, "Of course a mere human wouldn't know about  stuff like that. Let the great Mammon show ya some good stuff". You had rolled your eyes at that, but you had agreed. 

Mammon takes a last look around his room and suddenly feels a nervous feeling taking over. What if you actually did see this as a normal hangout between friends and thought the cleanliness of his room was suspicious... Mammon usually never cleans his room to this extent and you know that. He opens his laundry basket and throws a singular dirty sock in the middle of the room. There, casual atmosphere restored. Now that this problem is taken care of, all he has to do is wait for you. 

There's an anxious tingle in Mammon's chest when he hears a soft knock on his bedroom door. "Come in!", he shouts and wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. As he hears your feet shuffle along the floor he turns around to face you and immediately regrets it. You're already wearing your pajamas which consist of only a tanktop and some shorts. The demon blushes and turns around again hoping you haven't noticed the red color that is now tinting his cheeks. “I brought some snacks”, you smile and sit down on the couch right next to Mammon. “Yeah, yeah… put ‘em on the table”, the demon tries to appear as nonchalant as possible, which seems to be impossible with you so close to him. Your legs aren’t even touching, but he can still feel the heat coming from your thigh next to his and he has to resist the urge to reach out and feel some more of your body heat. He decides to start the movie instead. 

A few minutes into the movie you try to get more comfortable on the couch and shift around. You end up half laying half sitting leaning on Mammon’s shoulder. What you don’t seem to notice is his breathing becoming slightly uneven while he tries to hide the fact that he is getting excited. “Damn clingy human”, is all he mutters as he wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you into him even more.

By the third movie the demon notices you getting tired when your eyelids keep falling shut. You desperately try to keep them open and pay attention since you know how much Mammon loves those movies, but the more you try to fight it the sleepier you get. You’re so focused on pleasing Mammon that you don’t even notice that he hasn’t been paying attention to the movie himself. Not one second. The only thing that occupies his mind is you, how good your body feels pressed to his and how cute you look as you try not to fall asleep. The whole duration of the three movies he sneaked secret glances at you and admired your reactions to the scenes instead of watching them himself. He gently nudges you, “hey… it’s time to go to bed.” You whine. “But we haven’t even finished the third movie yet.” Mammon chuckles at your sleepy whines. “It’s okay. We can watch it another time.” That means you two will have some more movie nights, Mammon thinks with a giddy smile. “You should really head to bed now. You can barely keep your eyes open.” You groan in annoyance, but get up anyway. The demon already expects you to head to the door when you suddenly plop down on his bed. Even though he had wished for you to stay, he expected you to head back to your room after the movie marathon since it was only down the hall. Now he thanks whoever had heard his prayer and granted him his wish. “Mammooon! I’m cold”, you whine and pull him down on the bed with you. He smiles and lets you cling to his torso like a sloth. After a few minutes your breathing becomes more even and Mammon is sure you’ve fallen asleep. He kisses the top of your head gently, “good night, human.”

[inej-ruination-ghafa]

SAVE A HORSE- R.L

Warnings: underage drinking

Summary: the one where remus looks very good in that Halloween outfit and you finally make your move towards him

Wordcount: 2.1k

You hummed, leaning up against the wall. There was something about this moment, of looking at him from across a crowded room, your eyes meeting, that lit a spark in your belly. There was something different about this night, about the tension in the air.

Remus Lupin was your crush, of course you would never mention it in front of the others though. Only Marlene was aware of your crush on the tall Gryffindor. There was something about him that you had always liked, whether it be that cheesy smile, that awkward look in his eye or his pan physique.

He was always on your mind. You would catch yourself watching him at the most mundane times, when the two of you were having lunch together, when you would be revising for a test and he would explain the spells to you, your gaze too focused on his hands movements to know what he was talking about.

And tonight, he was clad in the most perfect outfit, a brown cowboy outfit with all of the bells and whistle; a flannel shirt, a brown waistcoat, a thick leather belt, chaps, and pistols at his side. Your face was heating up just at the image of him.

From the other side of the room, Remus shot you a smile and you brought your hand up, wiggling your fingers at him. He took that as an invitation and you watched as he manoeuvred his way through the crowd of people, brushing past them and muttering apologise.

your face was heating up as he got closer. You wondered what to say, act sultry or just friendly. There was something in the air tonight, and you didn’t know if it was the way he looked you up and down from the other side of the room or the romantic setting that always seemed to come with Halloween parties.

Before you knew it, he was brushing past the last Gryffindor and stepping towards you, folding his arms as he leant against the wall to your right. You turned your body towards him and smiled.

There was a silence. Neither of you seemed to know what to say for a while, waiting for the other to make the first move. You looked him up and down, taking in the cowboy outfit from up close.

“Remus Lupin, in the flesh,” you said, the silence killing you.

He hummed, looking down at himself. He had a fresh scar on his neck from the most recent full moon and he hoped you didn’t notice, or if you did, he hoped you wouldn’t mention it, “Or what’s left of it,”

You shook your head. You had known for years about his condition, so did all of the girls, and you hated that he viewed himself as less of a human because of it, “You gotta stop being so self deprecating,” there was a jokey tone to your words but he knew you meant it.

“If I don't have that, then what do I have left,” he said and the conversation fell silent.

He pursed his lips together, like he was holding himself back from saying something. You knew that any mention of his condition was sensitive and he could be pulling away. Internally, you cursed yourself for maybe screwing up the one chance you had at getting with him.

“You having a good night?” You changed the subject, bringing it back to mindless small talk.

He shrugged, a nervousness washing over him all of a sudden, “Good enough,”

“Come on, it is fun,” you gestured around the room, looking at all of the people dancing.

There was something about these parties that were so freeing, like for a night you could pretend to be anyone else beside yourself and nobody was going to blink an eye.

“What do you define as fun?” He asked, tilting his head to the side in an inquisitive manner.

“Talking with friends, drinking, a little mindless flirting,” you said with a shrug. You realised that you had too much to drink already at that moment when the words fell from your mouth.

You had promised yourself you would drink less at these parties, you had nearly spilt your secret affection to Remus last time and now you were rambling about enjoying flirting with random guys.

“Mindless flirting?” He raised his eyebrows, not in a way to tease you, in a way that he was curious what you meant, “The you I met on the carriage to Hogwarts would never have said that,”

You scoffed at the insinuation that you had changed and were somehow a local whore, “Maybe because I was eleven,”

He laughed, “True,”

You listened to the sound of his laugh. There was something about it that always left a warm feeling in your heart. You didn’t get to hear it often enough and when you did, it always made you smile.

There had been nights that you had sat in the common room with Remus as he told you about all of the struggles that he had faced since finding out he was a werewolf so you knew how depressed he could get. Being able to see him smile like he would always made your day for that exact reason.

silence, they relish in it

He looked you up and down, eyes lingering on your chest for a moment before he looked up at your eyes, “Vampire, classic outfit,” he said, breaking the silence.

You spun around, not seeing the way that he checked you out the entire time. You were wearing a black v-neck shirt and a maroon skirt with some vampire accessories, “Of course, I am nothing if not basic,”

He laughed again at your joke. Remus was hoping that in the darkness of the common room, you wouldn’t be able to see the blush that was growing on his cheeks. You were one of the most gorgeous girls that he had ever seen before and he wondered how he was lucky enough to call you a friend.

”You look-” he shook his head, not sure what to say. He didn’t want to freak you out by saying something a little over the line, “You look good though,”

You blushed at the comment. Of course, being told that your outfit was nice by the one guy you would want to be hit on by meant that your heart was racing in your chest, “You do too, cowboy?”

He tipped his hat and when he looked back up at you, there was a cocky smile on his face, “Howdy,”

You laughed, snorting at the look on his face as he role played as some dangerous cowboy. He smiled to himself, his confident resolve fading as he listened to the sound of your laughter. The sound of you snorting had him laughing too, the hand that was on his hat going to clutch at his chest.

“Don’t be mean,” you hit him on the arm, the sound audible through the music and your eyes widened.

“I’m not mean,” he feigned horror, hand coming up to his arm to rub the spot that you had hit. It didnt hurt, and you knew that, but he wanted to play it off like it did.

You raised your eyebrows at him. You had known him long enough at this point to know what his emotions were. That was a gift and a curse at the same time.

“You were the mean one, you laughed at my cowboy impression,” he deflected and you rolled your eyes.

“It was shit!”

“You could’ve been nice,” he folded his arms across his chest and pursed his lips together, giving you a look like he knew that you would admit defeat soon.

He knew you just as well as you knew him. He knew that as you rolled your eyes and scrunched your nose up, that you weren’t mad “Fine, I am sorry,”

Remus smiled, he had won the argument, “I was never mad,”

“I knew that,” you replied quickly.

You did. You knew what he looked like when he was angry at someone, the way that the vein in his forehead would pop and his eyebrows would draw together until there was a deep crease between them.

There was a silence, as if you were wondering how far you could push the playful flirting between the two of you. There was a heavy tension in the air, one that you were familiar with but normally it wouldn’t last this long.

Remus had this glint in his eye that you weren’t familiar with. There had been so many times that you had caught him looking at you, during lessons, in the dining hall, during study periods. But he had never looked at you like this, with a sort of hunger.

His eyes flickered down to your lips and you wondered for a second if he had meant to do that, or if it was just a reflex. Your heart began to speed up in a way it never had before because this might be your moment with him.

You only moved away from his gaze when you heard someone call your name. Inside, you cursed that person for getting in the way of your moment.

You looked over your shoulder to see a drunken Marlene waving at you, being held up by Mary and Lily who was with a seemingly disgruntled James. If the girls had just ruined your moment to get with Remus Lupin then you would be equally as disgruntled.

“I gotta go,” you said hesitantly, almost like you were waiting for him to stop you.

Remus ran a hand over his face, slightly annoyed that the moment had been ruined. He glanced over your shoulder and shot James a look.

When he looked back down at you, you had your brows furrowed as you tried to read him, “You’re popular,”

You laughed and once again, the sound made his heart skip a beat, like a vinyl jumping and spluttering in the exact sound of your laughter, “First time anyone’s said that,” there was a hint of self deprecation in the comment and he smiled, he understood those jokes better than anyone.

“Will I see you again tonight?” He asked, a little desperate sounding.

You shrugged, shooting him a coy look, “If you’re lucky,” you wondered for a second if he could tell you were flirting with him, but then he shot you back a smile and you knew he could tell.

He laughed at the suggestion, “Whatever,”

There it was again. As the silence fell between the two of you, the tension returned, holding some sort of distance between the two of you.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest and as the moments progressed, you could feel a tug in your gut, like it wanted you to get closer to him, to close tht gap between the two of you. Your eyes flickered down to his lips, his perfectly kissable lips and you wondered if you should.

You took a deep breath. This was not the right time to do this, not here, in the middle of a Gryffindor party, “I do, like your outfit actually,” there was a hesitation in your voice, like you weren’t sure how the comment would be received.

He hummed in response, “Really?”

“Yeah, you know what they say-” you reached up, hand coming to the brim of the hat and pulling it off of his head, looking at his tousled hair underneath. You placed it atop your head and peaked at him through the brim, “-save a horse, ride a cowboy,”

You watched as his face contorted into one of shock, eyes wide as you made such a crass comment. You only stood there for a second before turning on your heel and walking away from him, the biggest grin on your face as you realised what you had done. Maybe this was the first step to getting him.

A/N, I wrote this during Halloween but never got around to finishing it. I did just get broken up with by the guy that I kinda based this around so yeah, enjoy!

[send-me-a-puffalope]

I’ve always been obsessed with the idea of Vanessa having memory loss due to trauma either post-possession in the games or post-MCI in the movies. So naturally, I’m thinking smth along the lines of Sophie Walten from TWF or Elizabeth Lail’s other movie Unintended.

Brainrot with me here: Vanessa-centric fic in which she’s been on anxiety meds since childhood and has essentially repressed most of her memories from childhood, remembering bits and pieces of the good times with her father but completely blocking out the MCI and William’s more abusive side. She remembers him as a good man who loved her, though he died when she was a teen.

Conflict starts when she runs out of her meds and she starts having weird dreams featuring children she doesn’t recognize but look familiar. They obviously know her though. They’re in a pizzaplex and she’s around the same age as them. The first night ends with her alone in the pizzeria. Something happened that she doesn’t remember but the next thing she knows, she’s awake.

She gets her meds refilled but doesn’t take them, instead looking forward to dreaming every night in hopes of figuring out more about this strangely familiar pizzeria but mostly because she feels a lighthearted, floaty joy that she hadn’t felt in years in her dreams.

She begins to start skipping work, instead obsessively sketching details from her dream she remembers because things were too familiar, too vivid to be just a dream. The next night begins much the same, except there’s a new character. A yellow rabbit. The dream ends with Vanessa sprinting to catch up to the yellow rabbit as he lures the final kid into the back room, but no matter how fast she runs, she can’t catch up. She wakes up to the sounds of children screaming still ringing in her ear.

Vanessa begins not showing up to work at all. Mike (unemployed), her only friend, shows up to her house with Abby in the backseat. He’s worried obviously since she hadn’t been answering any of his messages and he stopped by her work only to find out she hadn’t been showing up. Vanessa’s in rough condition. Disheveled, eyebags, dishes stacked up in the sink, and sketchbook papers crumpled up across the ground.

Vanessa thinks Mike won’t take her seriously because it’s absolutely insane to claim that there were murders that occurred at some secret old pizzeria by a man in a yellow rabbit costume and she knew that because she dreamt it.

But weirdly, Mike believes her. He asks if Vanessa wants to take a road trip to her old hometown and even offers to drive. Unfortunately she doesn’t remember where that is, so it’s a lost cause. Until they (including Abby) begin digging through all of Vanessa’s stuff in hopes of finding smth from her past only to find a very bare bones photo album (suspiciously empty, as if Vanessa had purposely disposed of many of the old photos because they were too painful to look back on). The magnum opus is a photograph of Vanessa’s 8th birthday at a very familiar pizzeria, labeled Freddy’s. On the bottom was scribbled an address.

The next day they set out with Abby in the backseat, singing to the radio and staring out the window, and Vanessa feeling the dread sink in. Mike noticed her spacing out and asks what’s wrong, with Vanessa responding that she couldn’t believe it took her this long to realize that she didn’t remember her childhood. She had faint flashes of memories but nothing concrete. She couldn’t even remember if she had friends, siblings, a mom. It’d always been just her and her dad. Vanessa asks him why he offered to do this with her. Mike’s response is that he’s no stranger to weird dreams and trying to change the past through them (Garrett).

The sun’s setting when they get there but sure enough, it’s Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, in all its abandoned glory. Vanessa is too shaken to move but Mike pressures her to join him in taking a peek. Abby is forced to stay in the car. Vanessa and Mike enter, trying the lights only they don’t work. Right when they’re about to turn tail, the whole pizzeria comes to life. The curtains pull back, the speakers blast 80s music, and the entire animatronic gang is on stage, jerking robotically in their horrific dance. Vanessa and Mike leave as fast as they entered, deciding it wasn’t safe and they’ll come back in the morning.

After a long, sleepless night in a local motel, Vanessa asks the owner if there was any kind of… murders that occurred around here only, to her surprise, for the motel owner to laugh and say duh. She’s surprised Vanessa didn’t know about the Missing Childrens Incident. After all, that’s all the town was really known for, even after all these years. Vanessa and Mike go back to Freddy’s. They take Abby with them but instruct her to stay in the car (she doesn’t listen). When they enter, to find, to their horror, that the animatronics aren’t on the stage anymore. Vanessa and Mike make their way through the back halls, getting to the security room and find the breaker box, turning it on and looking through all the barely working feeds only to see Abby, talking with something. She’s smiling and slowly walking towards that something. It takes a moment for Vanessa to realize she’s talking to Freddy. They sprint for the main stage to the sound of Abby screaming, hearts pounding, expecting the worst. Abby introduces the fazgang and Vanessa recognizes the names as her imaginary friends growing up. She comes to the conclusion that she came here growing up.

Hearing Vanessa’s name as Abby introduces her though, the animatronics have weird reactions. Some seem hostile, while others sad. Vanessa is taken aback. What had she done to make them act this way around her? She finds the wall of drawings. The one in the middle depicts the children from her dream. And one another little blonde girl. Her. And the yellow rabbit. Her conclusion is that she was supposed to also have been murdered in the MCI but managed to escape. Vanessa was supposed to have been the 6th missing child.

When they get back to the motel for the night, the motel owner makes a comment that makes Vanessa stop in her tracks.

“Yknow I always thought it was that handsome owner that did it.”

“Did it?”

“Killed those kids. Everyone always said Bill was too sweet of a guy to ever do something like that but it’s always the sweet looking guys people never suspect right?”

“Bill?”

“If you’re going to come around here asking about murders, at least do your research first. You’re embarrassing the locals. Yeah, William Afton. That’s the name and don’t forget it.”

“…yeah. I-I don’t think I will.”

Vanessa leaves the motel in the middle of the night. She goes to the pizzeria alone with a flashlight she stole from a 24 hour convenience store. She lingers alone the drawings again, reading names she vaguely remembered but couldn’t put a face to. Flashes of memories came coming back but they just caused more confusion. William Afton. William Afton. Her father. Her dead father who loved her. She thought harder. Her dead father who loved her… and she had no memory of how he died. She moved deeper into the pizzeria. Unbeknownst to her, the animatronics are following her, slowly encircling her and herding her further down the hallway funneling into the back rooms.

Who was William Afton? What did he do? How did he die? Did he love her? Is this love? Vanessa’s flashlight flickers and goes out. She hits it once, twice. It comes back on again, faintly. The beam of light illuminates the weathered head of an animatronic— no a springlock suit. The yellow rabbit. Vanessa held her breath. Then the eyes of the suit flickered on and the yellow rabbit jumped towards her, its gloved hand just barely missing her arm. Vanessa screams, running back into the hall only to notice the animatronics, their eyes now red, blocking the exits. She ends up locking herself into the security office, slowly unscrewing the screws of the vent to the sound of the power slowly draining and animatronics pounding on the door. She gets to the other side of the vent, escaping into the main room but being cut off from the entrance by the Yellow Rabbit, her dead father.

Behind him are Mike and Abby. Abby had noticed Vanessa was gone and the both of them convinced the motel owner to let them borrow her car because of an emergency. They’d come at a bad time however. And now they were being held hostage by the Yellow Rabbit.

His words are garbled but Vanessa can still make out what he’s saying. He repeats her name. Insults her like he did when she was a kid. Kicks her when she’s already down. He’s the one that turns the final key in her brain. She was never going to be the 6th victim of the MCI. She was the one who lured them back there in the first place. Because they were her friends. And they trusted her.

Vanessa yells back at first, finally letting out her anger and frustration. Finally (rightfully) blaming him for manipulating her into harming other people. For raising her wrong. For teaching her the wrong form of love: possession. There’s tears welling in her eyes as she stares up at her dad’s towering figure and suddenly she feels like a kid again. He grabs her by the neck and she struggles. He gives Vanessa one last chance to apologize for her insolence and her forgetting about him. She spits in his face instead and the entire pizzeria is silent as the sound of a blade tearing through skin fills the air. The Yellow Rabbit commands the animatronics to tear Mike and Abby to pieces in front of Vanessa, forcing her to watch as black fogs her vision. What he didn’t expect though, was for the animatronics to not obey him. Instead, they surround the Yellow Rabbit, looking towards Vanessa. She nods faintly and the animatronics each grab one of the Yellow Rabbits limbs, overpowering him. He yells and kicks and screams, becoming less and less coherent. Less human, more monster. A personification of agony. The animatronics begin to drag him to the back. Right before he’s dragged into the darkness, the Yellow Rabbit bellows as one of the animatronics rips off one of his limbs, showing the exposed human flesh underneath and leaving a trail of blood in his path.

Vanessa harnesses the last of her strength to get to Mike and Abby, her hands shaking too much to untie the knots so instead, because she’s thinking so clearly and assumes she’s going to die there anyways (in her head thinking, die where all the other kids died. die where i belong), she pulls the knife from her stomach and cuts the ropes bounding Mike and Abby before collapsing on the tiles.

She wakes up in the hospital with Mike and Abby beside her. Happy ending, my thumbs are tired. Abby highk did nothing this entire story, I just felt weird not having her. I did NOT realize how long this was, I just had such a distinct idea of how I wanted this to go. I applaud you for being one of like three people willing to read all of this.

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 91, Part 1

As Wildclaw moves on from grieving Clammask, she and Rattlepelt go for a walk together.

[Image ID: Rattlepelt and Wildclaw approach two black newborns. Under the leftmost kit, it reads NEW PLAYER: VALLEYKIT, 0, MALE, QUIET. Under the rightmost, smoky kit, it reads NEW PLAYER: MIDNIGHTKIT, 0, MALE, POLITE. Under Wildclaw, it reads - CONDITION: GRIEVING.]

Rattlepelt typically despised winter. The snow was beautiful, Longest Night was lovely, and she always purred when kits played in the snow. But her Clanmates had fur. They could handle the cold. The winter wind didn't sting their bodies and quickly numb their limbs. They could safely leave camp! Meanwhile, Rattlepelt stayed huddled in the artisan's den, tucked under extra leather pelts while she, Rabbitjoy, and Frostpaw fixed baskets.

The artisan's den was packed with supplies and tools; leather wraps for managing hot stoves, drums, dry ferns and grass for basket weaving, and more. All those supplies trapped heat within the rocks and brambles. There was just enough work for the three artisans to sit and do their work.

"Trust your claws," Rabbitjoy said as Frostpaw pulled twine through the stakes of her basket, weaving it back and forth. "Your claws are made to snag material like this. Let them hook the twine and treat it as an extension of your paw."

"My wrist keeps getting stuck," Frostpaw muttered. She tried to hook her paw around the next stake, but since she was repairing a hole in the side of the basket, her paw had little room to move. The twine kept slipping off Frostpaw's claws in her effort to pull it through without breaking the basket further.

"Repairing a basket is harder than weaving it from scratch," Rabbitjoy assured her. "Don't worry if you can't make it tight. Try your best."

"How do humans do this?" Frostpaw groaned as she finally pulled her thread back around.

"Malformed paws," Rattlepelt explained with a chuckle, tying off the broken base of her basket. She waved her paw, flexing her pads. "Their paws are flexible and good at crafts, but they barely feel a thing."

"They also don't have claws!" Gingerpaw suddenly stuck his big fluffy head into the aritsan's den, his maple seed necklace bouncing on his chest. Estherfern lingered behind him with a bundle of bark, but her apprentice was ignorant to his mentor's shoving. "They just have hard rocks on top of their paws!"

"Gingerpaw, go away!" Frostpaw whined. "We're working! Don't eavesdrop!" Estherfern finally knocked Gingerpaw away from the artisan's den and back to his chores. As Gingerpaw walked off, laughing, Frostpaw groaned and threw her paws over her ears. "I hate him sometimes!"

"He's just being silly," Rabbitjoy said, patting Frostpaw's back. Rattlepelt placed her repaired basket against the den wall. As she stretched her front legs, Wildclaw peeked into the den. Her amber eyes seemed brighter than they had in a few moons.

"Rattlepelt, come outside!" Wildclaw chirped. "It's finally a bit warm. I want to go on a walk."

"I should really help Rabbitjoy finish the basket repairs," Rattlepelt chuckled, snatching loose twine in her claws.

"You've been trapped in camp for ages," Rabbitjoy scoffed. "If it's warm, go outside! We only have one other basket to repair. Frostpaw and I can fix it." Rabbitjoy rolled the remnants of a broken basket toward her. Wildclaw kneaded the sand, eyes glowing. Rattlepelt purred. It was hard to resist that face.

"Let's go, then," Rattlepelt sighed, fixing her lavender-lined fox pelt onto her back. Frostpaw grumbled under her breath as she searched for fresh twine and Rattlepelt joined Wildclaw outside of the artisan's den.

Wildclaw was right; it was so unseasonably warm that the Clan didn't need a bonfire in the center of camp. Snow clung in piles along the dark and cool corners of the rocks and wood, but RippleClan could once again relax against the cool sand of their home. The land beyond camp was no longer white and brown, but a strange, gray-tinted mixture of tan and green. Though Rattlepelt's skin still danced under the soft chill, it was a pleasurable chill. It was a fool's spring, the sort that RippleClan would usually take full advantage of.

But RippleClan was not, in fact, taking advantage of the good weather. Instead, Wolfgaze, Weevilsight, Ravenweaver, and Trumpetspore hovered around the medicine den. They quietly shared tongues and muttered soft encouragement. Some of their friends and mates (Billowhaze, Anchovystrike, Brightreed, Scaleripple) comforted them, glancing into the shadows of the medicine den and quickly looking away.

"It's Mosspounce," Wildclaw sighed when she noticed her mate's confused look. "Honeybuzz just told his daughters. The infection is getting bad. They aren't sure how much longer he has."

"Should we visit?" Rattlepelt gulped.

"Later," Wildclaw quietly promised, heading for the camp exit. "The walk might give me time to think of what to say." Rattlepelt watched as Honeybuzz trailed out of the medicine den, merging into the small crowd. Trumpetspore scrambled into the medicine den as Honeybuzz spoke softly to Wolfgaze, Weevilsight, and Ravenweaver. Rattlepelt dipped her head, allowing her fox pelt to cover her eyes. She ignored the rest of the Clan and pressed into the false spring.

The birds hesistantly tested the warm weather, chirping their questions to one another, as though their fellow feathered friends could provide an answer. The mid-morning light offered the land a chance to stretch and feed itself before the explosion of frost and snow that would mark the remainder of the year. Twigs and branches, reminders of summer's rich foliage, rubbed against Rattlepelt's fox pelt. Her paws sank into the wet earth. Wildclaw strolled beside her, quiet, her ever-present guardian.

The silence stretched on for longer than Rattlepelt expected. The pair journeyed deeper into the forest, simply basking in the light. At one point, they spotted Tallowheart and Splashtuft, going over a few tales. Wildclaw raised her tail in greeting and passed them by. The two mates wandered over boulders and roots. All the while, Rattlepelt thought and thought and thought.

A twig snapped deep within the trees. Rattlepelt froze, eyes locking on the sound. A great buck stared at Rattlepelt and Wildclaw. Its magnificent crown of antlers snagged leaves that refused to fall from their trees despite the pressure of snow and time. Its brown coat blended into the forest. It flicked a round ear at Rattlepelt, blinking thoughtlessly.

"Wonder if it thinks you're a cat or a fox," Wildclaw hummed. The buck slowly lost interest in the two cats. It bent back down and chewed on a twig just beginning to bud, tricked by the heatwave. Rattlepelt took a deep breath. Her chest still hurt from the shock.

"We should go home," Rattlepelt suddenly said.

"What?" Wildclaw scoffed. "We're barely past mid-morning. Why turn back now?" Rattlepelt couldn't answer her mate. Did she even have an answer?

"Do you ever have a feeling that something bad is about to happen?" Rattlepelt asked. She jumped onto a large, mossy rock and spun in circles, trying to get comfortable among the limp leaves.

"Define 'something bad' for me," Wildclaw said. She joined Rattlepelt on top of the rock.

"We've had a lot of good in our lives lately," Rattlepelt groaned. "You've been a great mother to the toms."

"Now that I don't have a death wish anymore?" Wildclaw chuckled.

"You still get into some good scraps," Rattlepelt hummed, gently bunting her mate. "No, I just mean that even with… what happened with Lemmy, the two of us, we've been alright."

"Don't tell the rest of the Clan this," Wildclaw muttered, batting at the wet leaves under her, "but I get where Lemmy came from with killing Achilles and everything. It all spun out of control for her. I feel bad for her, even if she killed our Clanmates."

"It just makes me think," Rattlepelt groaned, "is it our turn next? When am I going to suffer some major loss again?"

"What do you mean?"

"When will tragedy strike the ones I love? Will one of my moms die? Will something happen to Shrewflame, or Whitepaw?" Rattlepelt pulled her fox pelt off. She was almost panting under its heat. "I feel like something's standing right behind me. Like I'm going to ruin everything."

"Is this about the Shardling? We keep telling you that wasn't your fault. It's not like you wanted to be possessed."

"It still happened, Wildclaw. It nearly broke me. Something's telling me that it will happen again. I know I sound crazy—"

"You don't sound crazy." Wildclaw leaned against Rattlepelt. "It's been a hard few moons. You've been stuck in camp. You're stressed. Why do you think I wanted to go on a walk with you?" Rattlepelt sighed. She forced the ripping, anxious itch in her chest out with her breath.

"You're right, you're right," Rattlepelt groaned.

"I always am," Wildclaw chirped.

"Don't gloat," Rattlepelt chuckled, shoving Wildclaw's muzzle down. Rattlepelt dragged her fox pelt back over her sensitive skin as a breeze made the bare branches dance. Rattlepelt could still smell the deer on the wind, but she smelled something else too, something pungent and stranger than any deer.

"Humans?" Wildclaw muttered, tasting the air. "Oh, those are definetely humans. Yuck." Wildclaw sneered at the smell.

"I hope they aren't setting more traps," Rattlepelt gulped. "Frostpaw almost stepped in one last moon!"

"Let's see if they are," Wildclaw suggested, hopping off the rock. "Keep low, alright?" Rattlepelt nodded. She and Wildclaw crept through the twigs and leaves, letting their noses lead them closer to where the WheatClan and AshClan borders met. As they pushed deeper into the forest, the humans soon became audible. There were two of them, with gangly meows that wavered in pitch. Rattlepelt kept low, the tail of her fox pelt dragging on the undergrowth. Wildclaw, nimble as ever, slipped silently closer to the noisy humans.

The two humans stomped around the corner of the three Clans. They were young from their size, with the tight-fitting leathers that typically marked males. Rattlepelt marveled at the leather's bright colors and strange patterns, unlike anything artisans could achieve. The smaller of the two held his front limbs close to his chest, keeping two small forms steady while his taller friend followed and yowled.

"I've never seen humans fight each other," Wildclaw muttered as the smaller human hissed at his companion. The black masses resting in the human's embrace shifted. Tiny mews broke through the human screeching. Rattlepelt held her breath when two sets of baby blue eyes peeled over the leather. The small human had two black kits!

The storyteller in Rattlepelt imagined what the humans could be doing. Were they yowling about the kits? Who were the kits? Did the humans take them from their mother? Did they even know their mother? Rattlepelt's anxieties slipped away, overshadowed by overwhelming curiosity focused on the strange unknowable creatures called humans.

The small human suddenly made a quick, snappy hiss at his companion. His strange eyes focused on the undergrowth… the undergrowth where Rattlepelt and Wildclaw lurked. The pair stayed utterly still, eyes locked on the smaller human. The small human slowly crouched, still staring at the two mollies. He made a soft, mouse-like chirp that drew all of Rattlepelt's attention. It made her stomach growl, as though she spotted a mouse shuffling through the leaves. Her ears turned straight on to the human. Rattlepelt caught herself before she slipped a paw out of her hiding spot. Whatever strange magic the human was wielding, Rattlepelt could not give in!

The human continued making that alluring sound as he carefully placed the two kittens on the ground. They couldn't have been more than half a moon old. The kits crawled on top of each other, stunned by the sudden lack of warmth. The human crept back like a hunter. He crouched at the side of a tree fox-lengths away from the kits.

"Is this some type of trap?" Rattlepelt asked.

"What kind of trap uses kits?" Wildclaw muttered. "I think… they want us to take the kits."

"I thought humans loved kittens."

"Maybe they don't want to take care of them."

"So they leave them in the forest? How cruel."

"But they aren't, they see us. I think they're looking for Clan cats." Did the humans know about the Clans? Did they know about RippleClan?

The tall human snapped at his smaller friend and grabbed his shoulder. The human spun and shoved him off, sneering. They yipped and growled at each other, with their mangled paws waving wildly at the kits. Rattlepelt steadied her jaw. She crept out of the undergrowth. The nose of her fox pelt touched the light first. Wildclaw snuck alongside her. The humans no longer noticed them.

Rattlepelt snatched the scruff of the bulkier kit, a tom with a slight smoky pattern across his pelt. Wildclaw grabbed his brother, who looked nearly identical. As soon as they had a good hold of the kits, Wildclaw and Rattlepelt ran. The two humans startled, finally aware of what the cats were up to, but they had no chance of catching them.

Rattlepelt and Wildclaw only slowed down when the ocean peeked between the trees. They skidded up to a sandy beach and dropped the kits. Both toms were shockingly quiet, merely huffing at the sudden stop and trying to get their bearings. Rattlepelt panted hard. Wildclaw groaned, stretching her hind legs.

"Well," Wildclaw huffed, "I think we found your bad feeling." She waved a paw at the kits.

"You know this isn't what I meant," Rattlepelt muttered. She sat beside the two black kits. Her fox pelt slipped off from all that running. The tail floated on top of the kittens' heads. The bulky tom's permanently unsheathed claws snagged one of the dried lavender petals woven into the fur. So much like Shrewflame.

"I don't know about you," Wildclaw hummed, slipping next to her mate, "but this feels like one of those moments StarClan designs just for us." Wildclaw dipped her paw in front of the smaller black tom, who instinctively crawled to it. He latched his tiny muzzle onto Wildclaw's toe. "The next step seems pretty clear to me. Ready to be a mom again, Rattle?"

Wildclaw was right. The next step was very clear.

(Rattlepelt: 74, female, artisan, thoughtful, leather artist)

(Rabbitjoy: 127, female, artisan, charismatic, master weaver)

(Frostpaw: 7, female, artisan apprentice, strict, lover of stories)

(Gingerpaw: 7, male, cleric apprentice, childish, curious about humans, moss-ball hunter)

(Wildclaw: 83, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor, good fighter)

(Midnightkit: 0, male, kit, polite)

(Valleykit: 0, male, kit, quiet)

Mosspounce died of an infected wound.

[Image ID: Ravenweaver, Trumpetspore, Washington, Wolfgaze, and Weevilsiht crowd around Mosspounce.]

---

"Lemmy better get here soon," Mosspounce muttered. His bandaged, sightless eyes gazed out of the medicine den. "She'll be… very upset if she misses this."

Mosspounce laid in the back of the medicine den, surrounded by his daughters and Trumpetspore. The other clerics all left the den, giving the family their privacy. Washington was still there, though; Mosspounce had insisted the old tom not leave. The glow of a yellow sunset dripped between the thin gaps in the wood, dappling Mosspounce's pelt. Trumpetspore practically laid in the nest with Mosspounce, curling around him. She whimpered as though he had already died. Whenever her voice rose to a cry, Weevilsight had to close her eyes and push back her sudden rage. She couldn't even think about her father. All she wanted was for her aunt to shut up.

When Mosspounce made his comment, Ravenweaver looked ready to join Trumpetspore in her pre-mature vigil. Wolfgaze's hazel eyes tightened. Weevilsight stuck her nose into Mosspounce's ear. For a moment, she was just a cleric again, checking on her sick patient. Mosspounce's ear burned.

"If she wanted to be here she wouldn't have…" Wolfgaze growled.

Wolfgaze bit her tongue, however, when Ravenweaver quietly snapped "She's still our mom, Wolf." Wolfgaze paced around the empty nests of the medicine den, keeping her supernatural gaze off her father. Ravenweaver crawled to the edge of Mosspounce's nest and rested her head by his sickly-smelling wounds. Her lavender crown fell onto Mosspounce's head. Mosspounce shifted just enough to nose Ravenweaver's forehead.

"Your old molly's just off hunting, Mossy," Washington suddenly coughed from his nest. "She's on her way." Mosspounce purred softly and groomed his daughter's head, unable to lift his own and properly share tongues. All the mollies in the den stared at the old gray tom.

"I don't know if we should lie to him, Washington," Wolfgaze muttered, squirming under Washington's wizened eye.

"He can't understand what's happening anymore," Weevilsight quietly explained. "He's too far gone."

"Don't say that, stop saying that," Trumpetspore whimpered. She buried her face in Mosspounce's back.

"It's happening, Trumpetspore!" Weevilsight suddenly hissed, the petals in her fur fluttering out as she turned to her grieving aunt. "And… and there's nothing else we can do for him." Weevilsight stepped back, forcing her sneer off her face as Trumpetspore wailed again. Trumpetspore clawed at the edge of Mosspounce's nest and shook so hard that Mosspounce moved as well. A painful buzz filled Weevilsight's chest and made her limbs ache. Her head burned with too many thoughts. There was nothing she could do. Not for Mosspounce, not for Lemmy. She was losing both of them in less than a moon.

"I'm not trying to intrude," Washington croaked, shaky paws pushing out from his nest, "but could you help me close to him?" Weevilsight took a while to move, even as Washington groaned under the simple yet mountainous effort of standing. Washington's groaning mixed with Trumpetspore's moans in a painful chorus that threatened to undo Weevilsight's remaining sanity. The tortoiseshell cleric slipped beside Washington and supported his large weight. With Weevilsight under him and his broken leg stiff and splinted at his side, Washington limped to Mosspounce's nest.

"You're a funny old flea-feast," Mosspounce whimpered as Washington fell next to him.

"I'm glad I could make you laugh," Washington purred, "even if we haven't known one another long." Washington set his paw against Mosspounce's shoulder. "I'm sorry to see you go. But this is a good death, in my eyes."

"A good death?" Wolfgaze huffed, marching in front of Washington. "What would be 'good' is if my father wasn't dying at all!"

"But he's dying with his family around him," Washington groaned, waving at the mollies crowded around Mosspounce. "That's more than many get."

"Hi again, Tempest," Mosspounce muttered, lifting his head slightly. "Have you met my mollies? They're good kits." Weevilsight's paws inched toward the exit. She needed to stay, she had to stay, yet her body pushed her outside. Still, she stayed long enough to catch her father's last words.

"Lemmy and I made some good, good kits…"

(Mosspounce: 52, male, caretaker, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Trumpetspore: 52, female, warrior, nervous, makes the best pottery, good storyteller)

(Weevilsight: 26, female, cleric, daring, deep StarClan bond)

(Wolfgaze: 26, female, codekeeper, thoughtful, connection to StarClan, great speaker)

(Ravenweaver: 26, female, artisan, den builder, very clever)

(Washington: 219, male, elder, nervous, good mediator)

Mitespark and Wolverineheart have grown closer over time, relying on one another through the recent chaos. They decide to become mates. Wolverineheart’s littermates celebrate with the pair.

[Image ID: Mitespark speaks with Wolverineheart while Boughfur, Thundergale, and Brightreed stand behind their sister in support. Under Mitespark, it says + MATE: WOLVERINEHEART. Under Wolverineheart, it says + MATE: MITESPARK.]

(Mitespark: 33, female, artisan, charismatic, great mediator)

(Wolverineheart: 23, female, warrior, troublesome, student of science)

(Boughfur: 23, female, historian, righteous, great climber)

(Thundergale: 23, female, teacher, adventurous, great hunter, good speaker)

(Brightreed: 23, female, warrior, righteous, student of art)

Moontide and Cobaltchaser don't move in time to avoid a large fir tree falling right on top of them. A patrol doesn't find them until they've both moved on to StarClan.

[Image ID: Moontide and Cobaltchaser are both StarClan spirits. Moontide says, "We need to see our sisters."]

(Moontide: 26, female, teacher, playful, excellent teacher)

(Cobaltchaser: 21, female, codekeeper, righteous, good cook, prey cleaner)

[deadpresidents]

Bill Clinton is remembered as a great orator but I can't think of one speech of his that stands out, can you?

President Clinton was a great communicator, but I never thought of him as a great orator with the soaring rhetoric that you got from the best speeches of President Reagan or President Obama (and Obama could be very hit-or-miss at times, to be totally honest).

What Clinton was incredible at -- possibly better than any politician of my lifetime -- was explaining things. Obama once called him the "Secretary of Explaining Stuff" (although I made that joke first when I wrote that Clinton was the "Explainer-in-Chief" and think Obama totally stole it from me) and memorably brought Clinton into the White House Briefing Room one time to help lay out some of Obama's economic policy. That's why Clinton was always so good as a keynote speaker at Democratic National Conventions (except when he nominated Michael Dukakis in 1988 and infamously bombed so badly that the arena full of Democrats cheered when he said "in conclusion"). He had a folksy -- but not dumbed-down -- way of defining policy that was otherwise uninspiring or complicated and connecting it to the everyday lives of the average American. It was the skill that made him such a successful campaigner.

To be sure, there were some excellent speeches that he gave. I think his best might have been the speech he gave at the memorial service following the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995. He actually only spoke for about nine minutes, but it was a moving speech that was universally well-received. There was a commencement speech at Michigan State University he gave shortly after the Oklahoma City speech that has just as powerful of an impact today as it did then when he challenged the far-right anti-government militia movement that had helped breed someone like Timothy McVeigh and now has direct influence on the current Administration and Congressional majority:

"If you treat law enforcement officers who put their lives on the line for your safety every day like some kind of enemy army to be suspected, derided, and if they should enforce the law against you, to be shot, you are wrong. If you appropriate our sacred symbols for paranoid purposes and compare yourselves to colonial militias who fought for the democracy you now rail against, you are wrong. How dare you suggest that we in the freest nation on earth live in tyranny! How dare you call yourselves patriots and heroes! I say to you, all of you...there is nothing patriotic about hating your country or pretending that you can love your country but despise your government."

Another one of Clinton's great speeches was the 1999 State of the Union Address. He delivered that speech to a Joint Session of Congress at the height of his impeachment process -- a couple of weeks after he had been impeached by the House of Representatives and just a few days after his impeachment trial had begun in the Senate. Yet, Clinton went to the Capitol and absolutely delivered. It was like a pitcher playing Game 7 of the World Series in the other team's stadium under the worst possible conditions and then he not only threw a perfect game while torching everyone with 100 mph fastballs all night but also hit a grand slam. It was remarkable. He should have just dropped the microphone in the lap of the Speaker of the House and walked out of the Capitol with his arms raised victoriously.

Do any of my fellow old people remember others that I'm forgetting? His eulogies for Richard Nixon and Yitzhak Rabin are probably pretty high on the list. There was also a speech in Memphis in 1993 where he wondered about the things Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. would have approved of or been disappointed by if he was there that day. It started off slow, but when Clinton got rolling he got the whole church going.

[goldenarmyofficial]

🏆 SUPER BOWL SHOWDOWN: GOLDEN KNIGHTS VS. EMERALD TITANS – THE ULTIMATE BATTLE FOR SUPREMACY 🏆

An Exclusive Pre-Game Analysis by Gridiron Insider

This is it. The moment we’ve all been waiting for.

After a season of blood, sweat, and bone-crushing plays, the Golden Knights and the Emerald Titans are set to collide in a Super Bowl matchup for the ages.

Both teams have trained harder than ever, pushed their limits beyond expectation, and forged themselves into titans of the game. Every pass, tackle, and strategic move has led to this moment. Now, under the blinding lights of the superbowl stage, they will battle for the right to be called the greatest team.

Two elite teams. One historic night. No second chances.

Captain Xander and Captain Brody are ready to face each others

Who will seize victory and who will crumble under the pressure?

Let’s break down the starting lineups, team strengths, and key matchups in what promises to be a legendary clash of unstoppable forces.

🔥 GOLDEN KNIGHTS: THE RELENTLESS WARRIORS OF GOLD 🔥

The Golden Knights arrive with one of the most disciplined and physically dominant squads in Super Bowl history. Under the guidance of Captain Brody Gold (#11), the team is a perfect blend of precision, aggression, and brotherhood.

Gold's Defense : Trevor, #52, Eddy #73 and Brock #46

What sets the Knights apart is their unity and execution. With Maximus fully integrated into Football Drone Mode, every player is a piece of a flawless machine, moving with surgical accuracy and ruthless efficiency.

🔨 Strengths:

✔ Unbreakable Offensive Line: Led by Maximus (#70), the Knights' protection unit is impenetrable—a fortress of gold and black standing between Brody and the Titans’ relentless rush. ✔ Defensive Destruction: Hercules (#28) and Ares (#29) are twin wrecking balls in the linebacker corps, ready to crush anything in their path. ✔ Strategic Genius: Brody’s ability to read defenses and adjust on the fly will be key to unlocking the Titans' defensive schemes. ✔ Fan Power: With Milo, Drone-Pup 151, rallying the Golden Army, the Knights will have one of the loudest and most energized stadium presences ever recorded.

⚠️ Challenges:

❌ Overcoming Titanus: The Titan defensive wall, led by Damien Raines (#97) and Marcus Vaughn (#54), will be the toughest front line Gold has faced all season. ❌ Handling the Titans’ Speed: The Titans' elite offense, fueled by Jalen Carter (#4) and DeShawn Holloway (#22), will push the Knights' defense to its absolute limit.

⭐ Key Players to Watch:

Maximus, #70, during his football drone training

🔥 Maximus (#70, OT) – The Indestructible Engine

The perfect football machine. No fatigue, no hesitation—just execution.

Every block, every push, every adjustment will be flawless.

If the Titans can’t break him, they can’t win.

🔥 Hercules (#28, MLB) – The Gamebreaker

The commanding force behind Gold’s defensive wall.

If Herc dominates the midfield, the Titans will struggle to get any offensive momentum.

🔥 Brody (#11, QB) – The Field General

The brain of the operation.

He’ll need to read the defense fast, stay cool under pressure, and take calculated risks.

🔥 Ares (#28, OLB) – The Chaos Bringer

Explosive, violent, relentless.

Will attack Xander Malone all night, trying to force bad decisions.

The Linebacker trio : Twin Herc (#29) and Ares (#29) taking the new Linebacker Roman (#30) under their wing.

🔥 Brock (#46, Defensive Safety) – The Guardian

The last line of defense.

If the Titans break through, Brock must shut them down.

🔥 Eddy "Tamerlan" (#73, DE) – The Strategist

His mental conditioning of the team has pushed the Knights beyond their normal limits.

His presence ensures the Knights maintain focus and unity.

🔥 Trevor (#52, DT) – The Immovable Wall

The anchor of the defensive line, ensuring the Titans’ running lanes stay sealed.

🔥 Grayden (#84, WR & Head Mascot) – The Wild Card

Can strike when least expected.

If the Titans ignore him, they’ll regret it.

💚 EMERALD TITANS: THE UNYIELDING GIANTS 💚

The Emerald Titans have revenge on their minds. After their last defeat at the hands of the Knights, they have trained with a singular purpose—destroying Gold and reclaiming their throne.

Led by Xander Malone (#12), their precision offense and suffocating defense make them a formidable opponent.

🔨 Strengths:

✔ Elite Quarterback Play: Xander Malone is one of the most efficient passers in the league and has the weapons to carve up Gold’s defense. ✔ Lightning-Fast Receivers: Jalen Carter (#4) can outrun nearly anyone—if he breaks into open space, Gold is in trouble. ✔ Crushing Defense: With Raines (#97) and Vaughn (#54) leading the charge, Brody will have to work for every yard.

The offensive powerhouse of Emerald Titans : Jalen (#04), DeShawn (#22) and Travis (#76)

⚠️ Challenges:

❌ Breaking Through Maximus: If Maximus holds the line, Brody will have time to pick apart the Titans’ defense. ❌ Surviving the Golden Army's Hits: The Knights’ linebackers play violently. Malone will need to make decisions in a split second. ❌ Stopping the Momentum: If Gold builds energy, Milo and the Golden Army will amplify it to an unstoppable level.

💀 KEY PLAYERS TO WATCH – EMERALD TITANS 💀

🔥 Xander "X-Factor" Malone (#12, QB) – The Precision General

Reads defenses like a machine, never rattled under pressure.

Deadly accurate passer—if given time, he will carve through the Golden defense.

Has a perfect connection with Jalen Carter (#4), a combination that has destroyed defenses all season.

🔥 Jalen "Blitz" Carter (#4, WR) – The Untouchable Speed Demon

Explosive acceleration—faster than anyone on the field.

A deep-ball nightmare—if he gets behind the defense, it’s an automatic touchdown.

If Brock can’t shut him down, Gold is in trouble.

🔥 Damien "The Fortress" Raines (#97, DT) – The Unmovable Object

A 6’5, 330-pound monster who commands the defensive line.

Demands double-teams, freeing up linebackers to attack.

If Maximus can’t handle him, Brody is going down.

🔥 Marcus "Ironclad" Vaughn (#54, MLB) – The Titan Commander

Leads the Titans' defense, calling adjustments mid-play.

Has a knack for making clutch tackles in game-changing moments.

Will be in a constant war with Chevy and Brody.

🔥 DeShawn "Tank" Holloway (#22, RB) – The Unstoppable Runner

Runs through defenders like a wrecking ball.

If he finds gaps in the line, he can wear Gold’s defense down over time.

Darius (#02) snatching another interception

🔥 Darius "The Phantom" King (#2, CB) – The Shadow in Coverage

Elite at shutting down receivers and snatching interceptions.

Always a step ahead—quarterbacks beware.

🔥 Travis "Titan" McAllister (#76, OT) – The Living Fortress

Massive, immovable protector of Xander Malone.

If he holds, the Titans’ offense thrives.

🔥 Corbin "The Sentinel" Cross (#31, FS) – The Last Line of Defense

Hard-hitting, fast, and always lurking deep.

Any risky throw could be a trap.

⚔️ MASCOT SHOWDOWN: SYMBOLS OF DOMINANCE ⚔️

🔥 GOLDEN KNIGHTS’ TRIO

🛡️ The Golden Knight: The embodiment of honor, resilience, and football glory. 🐅 Dorado, The Golden Tiger: A ferocious beast prowling the sidelines, ready to strike. (@leander-gold-88) 🐕 Milo, Drone-Pup 151: The tactical cheer commander, ensuring Gold’s fans are louder than ever. (@polo-drone-151)

Mascot face-off : Titanus vs The Golden Knight

💚 EMERALD TITANS’ TITANUS

🛡️ Titanus, The Indomitable Colossus: A towering, emerald-armored behemoth, embodying Titan strength and endurance.

🏆 FINAL VERDICT: WHO TAKES THE TITLE?

🏆 Will Gold’s precision and unity prevail? 🏆 Or will the Titans’ raw power and speed prove unstoppable?

One thing is certain: this game will be a war. Legacies will be forged. One team will rise, the other will fall.

🔥 LET HISTORY BE MADE. THE SUPER BOWL BEGINS NOW. 🔥

🔥 GOLDEN KNIGHTS ROSTER 🔥

🔥 Offense – The Golden Sword 🔥

Brody (#11) @brodygold– QB & Captain

Ezan (#1) @polo-drone-001, Grayden (#84) @polo-drone-084– Wide Receivers

Chevy (#33) @chevy-gold– Running Back & Punt Returner

Leon (#35) @leon-gold– Fullback

Maximus (#70) @polo-drone-070, Hans (#69) @polo-drone-069 – Offensive Tackles

Briar (#50) @polo-drone-050, Michael (#53) @michaelgold53– Offensive Guards

Christian (#55) @polo-drone-055– Center

🛡️ Defense – The Gold Shield 🛡️

Hercules (#28) @goldenherc9– Middle Linebacker

Ares (#29) @goldengod-ares10, Roman (#30) @roman-golden-68 – Outside Linebackers

Trevor (#52) @polo-drone-125, Declan (#57) @declanthedefender – Defensive Tackles

Brock @brockgold(#46), Xavier (#39) @polo-drone-039 – Defensive Safeties

Eddy "Tamerlan" (#73) @polo-drone-073, Kaspar (#90) @kasper-90-golden– Defensive Ends

Kai (#9) @kai-gold-99, Hudson (#8) @hudsongold08 – Cornerbacks

⚡ Special Teams – The Knights' Edge ⚡

Daniel (#16) @danielgold-16– Kicker

Robert (#12) @robertgold12– Punter

Isaac (#45) @isaac-gold-45– Long Snapper

Ross (#10) @polo-drone-110– Kick Returner

💚 EMERALD TITANS FULL ROSTER 💚

The Emerald Titans have built a powerhouse team with a balance of raw strength, elite speed, and defensive grit. They are out for revenge, and every player is ready for war.

🔥 Offense – The Emerald Strike Force 🔥

Xander "X-Factor" Malone (#12) – Quarterback & Captain

Jalen "Blitz" Carter (#4), Malik "Flash" Deveraux (#17), Wallace "Swifty" Dayton – Wide Receivers

DeShawn "Tank" Holloway (#22) – Running Back

Marcus "Mack Truck" Owens (#33) – Fullback

Travis "Titan" McAllister (#76), Elliot "The Tower" Grayson (#79) – Offensive Tackles

Bryce "The Bulldozer" Langley (#65), Joaquin "Iron Grip" Santiago (#67) – Offensive Guards

Nathan "Stonewall" Pierce (#58) – Center

🛡️ Defense – The Emerald Wall 🛡️

Marcus "Ironclad" Vaughn (#54) – Middle Linebacker

Dwayne "Brickhouse" Harper (#47), Terrence "The Butcher" Gates (#44) – Outside Linebackers

Damien "The Fortress" Raines (#97), Emmanuel "The Wrecker" Cross (#94) – Defensive Tackles

Khalil "Havoc" Beckett (#91), Tyrell "The Steamroller" Ward (#99) – Defensive Ends

Darius "The Phantom" King (#2), Isaiah "Lockdown" Reed (#5) – Cornerbacks

Corbin "The Sentinel" Cross (#31) , Omar "The Hitman" Wells (#25) – Defensive Safeties

⚡ Special Teams – The Emerald Precision ⚡

Connor "Sniper" Jennings (#9) – Kicker

Rafael "Boomstick" Vargas (#19) – Punter

Derrick "No-Fumble" Benson (#43) – Long Snapper

Trey "The Jet" Simmons (#3) – Kick Returner

The match itself should arrive soon. Results have been tallied and photographs selecting their best pictures for the highlights.

To join the Gold, remember to contact @brodygold, @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-001.

[merrybloomwrites]

Walk Through Fire For You

Summary: When a post-show party takes a bad turn, your bandmates are there to keep you safe.

Word Count: 1.9K

CW: reader getting drugged

AN: Stress wrote this during the first half of the Super Bowl. And I’m posting from my phone so I’m sorry if it’s formatted weird. Liam’s tribute at the Grammys last week made me want to write a protective comforting 1D x reader story so that’s where this came from.

———-—————————————————————

It’s rare that you and the other members of One Direction go out and party after shows, but occasionally, it does happen.

Tonight is one of those times. You’ve just finished night 2 of 4 at Madison Square Garden, and you have a day off tomorrow before doing it all again the following two nights. You’re all so pumped, this being your first time performing at the iconic venue. Management allows you to go out to celebrate, knowing you and the boys need to let off a little bit of steam.

There are strict rules to follow when you all go out, and while it seems annoying, you know that it’s really for your safety. While management doesn’t necessarily care about you all as actual people, they do need you safe so you can keep performing and making them money. So it may not be the best intentions, but you have to admit, they’re good rules.

Well, mostly. As the only girl in the band, you have a few extra conditions to follow. You need to maintain an innocent appearance, so no getting wasted, no wearing skimpy clothing, and absolutely no going home with anyone. And while you would hold yourself to those standards anyway, it’s annoying that you’re being forced to by these old men. Or well, middle age you guess. But old to you.

You’re in the middle row of the van with Niall and Liam, while Harry, Louis, and Zayn are in the back. You’re all still feeling the high of the performance, and are being quite loud and rowdy. The diver is definitely relieved when he arrives and the six of you file out of the car and into the club.

You all start with a round of shots to loosen up and get the night going. As always, you and Louis opt for vodka drinks, and the other boys each grab a mixed drink as well. Hitting the dance floor, the six of you stick close while enjoying the vibes from the rest of the people there.

Finishing your first drink you lean over to the others and say, “I’m gonna go pee, be right back.”

Without waiting for a response you make your way through the crowd. You’re relieved when you get to the hallway, and take a deep breath of air. There’s a bit of a line so it takes a few minutes, and you start talking to the girls around you. They’re fans of One Direction, but surprisingly chill. It’s always nice to meet fans, especially when they just have a normal conversation with you.

Finally it’s your turn so you do your business and then stop at the bar. The same girls are there so you talk to them a bit more while waiting for the bartender to get you your drink. Once you have it you make your way back to the boys. Each of them has clearly found a partner in your absence, so you slowly sip your beverage and dance with the people around you.

After some time, you start to feel a bit dizzy. You assume it’s because of the drinks, but you really haven’t had that much. You know you can handle your liquor. And it’s not a normal tipsy feeling either. Your heart starts racing, and your hands begin to shake. Everything around you starts getting fuzzy.

The boys are still dancing, and you don’t want to bother them. You decide to leave, just get back to the hotel and sleep off whatever this is. You pull out your phone to call your driver as you stumble through the crowd towards what you assume is the front door.

You get turned around, and find yourself back by the bathrooms. It’s taking everything in you to concentrate and get yourself out of here.

“Hey, you okay?” Looking up you see a guy, roughly your age and seemingly harmless.

“I’m fine,” you attempt to answer, but your words are slurred.

“Woah, you don’t seem fine,” he says, his hands moving to your waist to steady you.

Your instinct is to step away, and you try, but you stumble and he remains in your space.

“Let me help you,” he says.

“No, I’ll just find my friends,” you try to say.

“You can barely walk. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

Your mind is screaming at you to get away from this man, but you can’t get your body to cooperate. You want to get back to the boys, and you wonder where the hell security is. And then you realize, your security guards are definitely stationed around the building. If you can get outside they can intervene and help you.

“I need some air,” you say.

“Okay, I’ll get you outside.”

He wraps an arm around your waist and you fight the urge to shove him off of you. While he seemed safe at first, you no longer trust him. The only boys you’d trust right now are your bandmates. As this strange man leads you through the main room, you try to find them. Finally, you lock eyes with Zayn. He sees the look on your face and immediately gets the rest of the guys.

The five of them surround you, and even though they’re all tipsy themselves, they stand firm.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going with her?” Louis asks.

“She wants to come home with me,” the man answers.

“Like hell she does!” Niall exclaims.

“Let go of her,” Harry says. He steps forward, standing right in front of this stranger, towering over him. The man finally listens, his hands leaving you and causing you to stumble. Luckily Zayn is there, and you lean against him as he wraps a protective arm around you. Liam stands beside you as well and says, “C’mon, we’re going.”

The six of you make your way outside, now also surrounded by your security. You file into the van, and you're now in the second row with Zayn and Louis on either side of you.

“Are you alright?” Zayn asks.

After taking a few deep breaths you manage to squeak out a “No.”

“Did you have a lot to drink?” Niall questions from behind you.

“No. Just the shot and a drink. I sipped a second one but only had a little,” you explain through slurred speech.

“And that’s when you started feeling bad?” Harry asks, and you nod yes.

“Shit. Shit! We need a hospital,” Harry shouts out to the driver, causing you to wince at his raised voice.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Liam asks.

“She’s been drugged,” Harry states.

“Oh, shit,” Niall exclaims.

“That’s what I said,” Harry murmurs.

Louis wraps his arm protectively around you, and you willingly melt into his side. He’s always been like a big brother to you, and right now you need the comfort that he can give you.

“You’re okay, love. We’ve got you. You’re safe.” Louis remains calm and holds you close, and you focus on the beating of his heart.

The world continues to spin around you, and you keep your eyes closed since you get nauseous every time you open them.

“C’mon, let’s get you checked out,” Zayn says beside you as you arrive at the hospital.

“Don’t wanna. Just want to go to bed,” you mutter.

“I know, but we just need to make sure you’re okay,” Liam adds.

Louis helps you out, Paul walking with the two of you, and you’re confused why the rest aren’t following.

“But. Where? The others?” you manage to ask.

“Only two people can go with you,” Louis answers your broken question.

Louis stays by your side the whole time. They do a blood test to confirm what’s in your system, and the police show up to take a statement, but luckily they work quickly. There isn’t much they can do for you, just some IV hydration to get you feeling a little better, and then you’re discharged.

The rest of the boys are still waiting in the van outside, and you feel calm when you’re surrounded by them once more. It’s a quick drive back to the hotel, and the whole group heads up together.

Everyone stands awkwardly outside the door to your room. They’re all waiting to see what you want.

“Stay with me?” you ask, not looking at anyone.

“Who?” Liam questions.

“All of you. Please.”

“We’re here. We’re not going anywhere,” Niall states.

“I’ll have them send up a couple of cots,” Paul says. “And I’ll be right outside, all night.”

The six of you file into your room.

“I want to shower,” is the first thing you say. You grab your pajamas and head into the bathroom, and take a hot shower, scrubbing your skin raw. You dry off, get dressed, and do your bedtime routine. When you get back to the room, the boys have all changed and gotten ready for bed as well.

“How are you feeling?” Liam asks.

“I’m okay. My head hurts. And I just feel weird. You know, violated in some way.”

“Here, this will help with the headache at least,” Niall says. He hands you water and painkillers as well as your favorite snack food.

You sit on your bed and eat your snack so you can take the medicine. The others are all watching you closely so you say, “Guys, I’m good.”

“Are you?” Harry questions.

You take a moment to think and reply, “I am. It was scary, but I’m okay. Nothing bad happened. I’m okay.” Your voice shakes at the end as you think of what could have happened if you didn’t have the boys there to protect you.

Louis sits on the bed with you and wraps you in a warm hug. His gentle touch seems to open the floodgates, and you begin to cry. Within seconds, the others surround you, holding you and giving you time to feel your emotions.

“I hate this,” you finally say as Zayn wipes away the last of your tears. “I hate that this happened, and that people are so shitty and scary.”

“Men suck,” Niall deadpans, making you laugh for the first time in hours.

“That they do,” Liam agrees.

“You guys are men,” you point out.

“Nah, we’re you’re bros,” Zayn says.

“Oh my gosh, never say that again,” you reply with another laugh.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Liam says, noticing how heavy your eyelids have become.

He and Zayn move to the other bed, and Niall gets comfortable on one of the cots.

You don’t release your grip on Louis, so he knows to stay put. Harry doesn’t try to move either, and you notice the way he’s holding on to you, and how worried he looks.

“Can I sleep here?” He asks and you quickly reply, “Of course.”

They settle on either side of you, holding you tight like you’d disappear if they let go. It’s clear that this has shaken everyone. You sleep restlessly, and each time you wake up you notice one of the boys is up as well, checking on you.

You absolutely hate that this all happened, and you’ll forever be grateful for these boys who protect you and care for you. With them by your side, you’ll always be safe and loved.

———-—————————————————————

AN: Thanks for reading and I hope you have a good day!

[ubemango]

commission 6: friends-to-lovers!Hoseok

note 1: for Miss Sam!!!!!!!! Thank you for your help back in November!!!!!!!!!! I hope sexy sexy brother’s best friend/f2l!Hoseok is Good To you!!!!!!!!!!! Mwah!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰💕💕💕💕💕😁😁😁😁😁

note 2: a little background--the premise for this story did not come easy to me. Like At All!!!! I was struggling--AGAIN--with Exposition and you know what I learned? in medias res never fails me. Truly she is God. I love her. Anywho, Keyword(s): Talking to your dog for emotional support! Tension! Mutual pining!!!!!!!!! Being so close you don’t know what to do with yourself anymore!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Word count: 4.5k. Class is in session!

note 3: a big big biiiiiiiiig Thank You to @b1usides and @angelguk for helping me out with this ;_; Truly would not have come out with this without you I love you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Thank you for ur input and insight and interest and MWAH !!!

(note 4: I wrote all those previous notes back in 2020. GOOD LORD IT IS 2025. This is not a come back I just wanted to post this because I wrote so much of it and I’m tired of thinking my writing is too ugly to post. It can be ugly but also exist on this blog. Yay!!!!!!! Mindset mindset! I wuuuvvvv youuuu my friends I hope you’re doing well!!!!)

“Now?”

“Now,” Yoongi says, “and don’t come up with excuses about being busy because I know you’re doing your dalgona shit right now.”

You slide the bottle of instant coffee a little closer to your chest for protection. He probably overheard you talking to your mom about your plans in the kitchen last night. “You’re evil.”

“Whatever. Just–come, please? Everyone’s busy and Hoseok won’t finish unpacking today if we don’t get the help.”

Hearing that name sends electricity down to your toes. “What’s in it for me?”

“Being a nice sister–“ Yoongi’s breath is stifled with effort, probably from lifting a box– “and helping my best friend move into his new apartment?”

“I just got home–“

“I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important. The air conditioning here hasn’t been turned on yet,” he baits, and you hiss at that. “You know what that’s like.”

You do. The sun is unforgiving in the throes of late spring, and even you’d been contemplating holding out on your move back to avoid the heat. You’d made sure to finish unpacking last night, the loom of today’s plus-twenty weather with humidity heavy on your shoulders. Yoongi’s strangled tone tells you Hoseok’s got a billion and one things to unpack.

“Fine,” you concede. “Just text me the address.”

“Don’t take too long.”

The line cuts. You get the text in three seconds.

You stare forlornly at the whisk and bowl you’d gotten out, watching your phone screen light up with Yoongi’s text. To think you’d be hauling ass with cardboard boxes instead of making frothy coffee. What you thought would be a little welcome-back activity now that you’ve moved back home with your family instead lies toppled since you’ve been voluntold for other plans.

Plans to see Hoseok for the first time in years.

Immediately, you hold your breath. Maybe if you restrict your airflow then things won’t be so real and sudden, and why couldn’t Yoongi have called Namjoon, or something? He’s ten times as strong as you are. He lives in the city, too. You feel cheated. Older brothers don’t like taking things into consideration.

Your lungs burst into a yelp when something furry brushes against your leg, which, thankfully, stops you from contemplating all of Yoongi’s wrongdoings with revenge. You realize you’ve got your fist tight around the whisk.

“Girl, you scared me!”

Boppa stares at you with her long eyelashes and sits down at your feet. She’s the picturesque prettiness of a ten-year-old cockapoo. It’s kind of insulting looking at her sometimes.

“Boppa, I think my life’s about to fall apart and it’s all Yoongi’s fault,” you tell her.

She offers no response. You drop the whisk, reach over for her treat jar, and pop the dried meat into her mouth. Just a reward for the anxious rambling you’re about to dump on her pretty little head.

“Remember senior year, Boppa, and I couldn’t do my calculus homework because I missed too many classes? So Hoseok helped me out with all the problems I didn’t get?” You don’t think she does. She just pants, watching you put your mise-en-place away. “Or when he helped me make soup for Yoongi when he had the flu that one time?”

In your head, a dam breaks, and it all comes roiling back.

The way you remember Hoseok is different every time. Little disjointed moments throughout high school, college, and it starts with junior year, when he’d come over after a music council meeting with Yoongi. He’d walked past the living room, caught sight of your puffed face from crying over Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds; so startled by your hiccuping that he’d offered you a coupon to the pizza place near school and told you to get lunch with it the next day. Because pretty girls don’t deserve to cry, and Yoongi slapped his neck for being too nice to his little sister and dragged him upstairs to practice for their sectional.

It’s who he is, has always been. The kindness that never wavers, always there when you need help–carrying groceries into the kitchen when your mom complained about bad knees, patiently waiting for you to work through a difficult log function, walking Boppa when Yoongi was too lazy to do it. College Hoseok disappeared for a bit, busy with obligations and social circles. But like all strong currents, he came back with a force, seeking refuge on your couch after an overnight stay at school. 

(You’d made him a snack, that time. He gave you the prettiest smile ever. When you’d settled into bed, you could hear his snoring from your bedroom.

You slept so well that night.)

“Boppa, why,” you wail. “Why is this all coming back. I just got home.”

She blinks. You toss her another treat. She eats it well.

“I’m not in love with him.” Affirmations, affirmations. It’s good to air out your grievances, especially since no one is home to hear them. “I’m not!”

Boppa looks at you as if to say, I haven’t accused you of anything, so why are you so strung up?

“I don’t know what’s going on!” You shriek, slamming your palms on the counter.

Logically, you’re correct: you aren’t in love with Hoseok. He was just so overwhelmingly good. Attachments formed. Hoseok came to your home all the time. And home is a permanent fixture you could never get rid of, and you’d been away for two years, living in the western side of the city, forgetting you had a life back here, learning new intersections, knowing where to touch fruits to see if they were ripe, seducing the hot pharmacy man into a spicy romance (and subsequently dealing with the heartbreak), living, accomplishing, and these things end. Some parts of life end so you come back home, and Hoseok is home, you’re home, and the one thing about all of this is that it’s all Yoongi’s fault!

You close your eyes, feel the rush of your entire life come to a halt right at this very moment. You wanted coffee, not an attack on all your senses.

“Boppa,” you say, realizing something else. “I need a housewarming gift.”

You hear her get up, and you watch her stop where you’d left your extra bag of rice from unpacking. She lies down in front of it.

“Do you think that’s a good gift?”

She yawns. You google the meaning of offering jasmine rice as a gift for new homes.

“Abundance of love and food,” you say from your findings. It’s good. “Smart girl.”

She makes a grunting noise when you carry the bag away from her, and accepts the kiss you leave behind her ear as your goodbye for now.

She’s due for her mid-afternoon nap. You’re due for a reality check.

The drive over to the apartment is short, and you’re thankful because your seat belt scorches you when you shift the wrong way,  and suddenly your mood is sour all over again. But your parallel parking, though–it’s so immaculate you almost start crying. The balance of good and evil in your life makes you tired. The giant bag of rice almost makes you tip into the asphalt of the sidewalk.

Security buzzes you in with the code Yoongi sent you, and no later than 20 seconds pass when you find yourself in front of unit two-eighteen. You knock, and steel yourself.

The door opens.

“The fuck is that?” Yoongi snorts.

You heat high in your cheeks at the interrogation. “Boppa told me to do it.”

“Our dog told you to bring rice?”

“It’s a gift,” you seethe, “and our dog is a magical dog.” (It’s the truth. Somehow when Boppa howls, your mom will suddenly come up with cryptic news. The last time, an old auntie died.)

“I like it,” a voice says, and suddenly Hoseok is nudging Yoongi out the way. His entrance freezes you in your spot. His fingers brush against yours when he takes the bag from your hands. “Really. My mom brought rice for when my sister moved out–means abundance, or something.”

“Exactly,” is all you can breathe out, and he smiles–just as you remember–and then he disappears into another room. Never one for grand gestures; he comes and goes. Maybe it was just a ghost who happened to look like Hoseok and really liked lifting rice into the netherworld.

The slam of the grain against what’s probably the kitchen counter interrupts the thought. Yoongi makes a disgruntled noise, which more or less means come in before I start insulting you.

“We’re fixing the bed frame right now,” he explains, the door squeaking shut under his hand. “It’s already super hot in there so just–don’t come in.”

“Man sweats?”

“You know how meat smells when you’ve left it out on the counter all day?”

You recoil automatically. “I–? Ew.”

He’s joking. Probably. But it’s enough to make you stay away from that part of the apartment. The living room space is comfortably small; enough square feet to classify as cozy, not cramped. The linger of heat is a silent threat–you can already feel yourself starting to get sticky under your collar. They’ve got a mini-fan propped on one of the many boxes littered on the carpeted floor, though, whirring through little bursts of air.

There are so many boxes. The thought alone is making you sweat more.

“Thank you for the help.” Hoseok pops in again. Brushing his hair away from his sticky forehead, and you’re almost offended at how suave that move was. The audacity of good-looking people to do good-looking things unprovoked. “I really appreciate it.”

You could never refuse him. This is the truth you’ve always known. “It’s no problem. I didn’t think you’d have this much stuff.”

He flounders with a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I didn’t think I did either, but I had a whole nest of shit that I had back home in my closet and I didn’t want to throw anything out.”

“So for nostalgic purposes you’re risking heat exhaustion, is what you’re saying,” you joke.

“So mean.” Hoseok puts his hand over his heart. “You really wound me, you know?”

Yoongi interrupts with a cough. “You guys are boring, I’m going back to the bed frame.”

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Hoseok calls after him. He stands rigid for a second, gathering his thoughts. Probably just avoiding responsibility for a few precious seconds because going back to the proclaimed Meat Room sounds like a painful thought. “Um–I would catch up more but I just–I really need this done before we actually pass out.”

“It’s okay. Really.” He nods his gratitude. “Where should I start?”

“We’ve already done the bathroom, so… you think you can start with the kitchen?”

You nod. Hoseok sighs another “thank you, again,” and takes two steps backwards, as if to keep that soft gaze on you for as long as possible. He spins away before you can think too hard about it.

The kitchen is separated from the living room by the sink, and this is where all the goodies sit. One box is labeled with nothing on the side. Another has nothing but a picture of a smiling plate, a tiny fork and spoon holding hands. But the most enticing one is the box that says MUGS, SO MANY MUGS! MOM CAN’T FIT THEM ALL!

His mom’s loopy handwriting is so cute. You start with this one. In the bedroom, Yoongi screams.

“Are you okay?” You yell out, ripping at the tape with your nail, sorting the bubble-wrapped mugs by… colour? Shape? Who even owns a mug made out to be a literal octopus? The suction cups are so weirdly detailed. You put that furthest in the cupboard above your head, and pop a couple bubbles of bubble wrap to feel better.

“‘M fine,” he calls back. “Hoseok almost hacked off my thumb.”

“I did not!” Hoseok responds passionately.

They stay silent, save for more banging on wood. You organize to the clipped rhythm of the fan swaying back and forth.

It barely dawns on you that you’re in Hoseok’s new kitchen, voluntarily fixing his stuff. And if you thought about it, he would absolutely do the same for you. The symbiotic relationship of being nice just because. It’s the only way you know how to interact with each other. Someone gives, someone receives.

(You missed home. You missed Hoseok.)

It takes half an hour to sort through all the kitchen essentials. The plates and the bowls are stowed away neatly, cutlery in the first drawer below the counter. All the cleaning supplies are safe under the sink. The bag of rice sits heavy in its spot where Hoseok had left it. You’re sweating.

Not as badly as Yoongi and Hoseok are, though. They trudge in the kitchen, breathing hard, eyebrows wet with their effort.

“We’re done with the room,” Hoseok greets. Yoongi ignores you and goes straight for the handle of the fridge. He reaches for two water bottles, and hands the second one to Hoseok. “Wow, you cleared this fast.”

The compliment should not be as hard-hitting as it should be. Your giddiness is silent. “It was easy. Also your octopus mug really freaked me out so I put it, like, as far away from reach as possible.”

“I got him that mug,” Yoongi complains.

“You couldn’t have gotten him a nicer mug?”

“No?”

“You’re ugly,” you retaliate. Yoongi scrunches his face, and drinks his water angrily.

“I like the mug,” Hoseok inserts, brushing past you to open the drawers, eyeing your work, “but yeah, it is kind of. Uh. Out there.”

“Am I being insulted right now?” Yoongi asks.

“It’s an ugly mug,” you say.

“And you got him an ugly bag of rice.”

“I told you Boppa told me to do it!”

“How’s Boppa?” Hoseok interrupts, checking where you’d put the medicine, the first-aid.

“She’s–“

“–good,” you and Yoongi say at the same time. The look he sends you is venomous.

“Stop copying me.”

“You’re ugly,” you say again.

“You guys need to stop giving me whiplash every five seconds,” Hoseok complains. You know he’s used to it, though. Banter that toes the line of actual hurtful words. It’s a common conversation. He inspects the cupboard above the sink next, making little approving noises. “Ooh, bowls on top of the plates. Very nice.”

“I taught her that,” Yoongi says. Which–yes, he technically did, but now you’re just annoyed because he ripped the compliment right from your nose, and now he’s smiling because he knows you’re pissed.

The fan sings its mechanical song. Fighting Yoongi burns up so much energy you fear you’ll collapse once it comes down to fixing up the living room.

Except.

Your brother opens his stupid mouth again, and announces, “I need to leave.”

Hoseok whips around from where he was inspecting the cleaning supplies. “What?”

“Shit. I had to pick up mom from the station.”

The green-lit time on the stove says it’s five till seven. You picture your sweet little mother waiting behind the doors to the passenger pick-up parking lot, and confide in the thought that she’ll probably smack Yoongi once he pulls up. “You’re gonna be late.”

“Oh really,” he mocks. “If I get pulled over for speeding you’ll bail me out, right? Yeah? Cool. I’m sorry. Good luck. Don’t die. Hoseok, take care of her. Or–whatever. It was fun.”

Before either of you can respond, he bolts out, and slams the door behind him in a spectacularly hard fashion.

“Well,” Hoseok says.

“Huh,” you comment.

You make a mental note to kill your brother. Preferably by means of limited gore, maximum pain. Because now you’re alone with the bane (boon?) of your existence in the kitchen with too many thoughts in your head again and again it’s Yoongi’s fault and you wonder why your breakdowns always have to happen in the kitchen.

Calmly, you drink your water.

“So, uh…”

Hoseok fidgets with the empty mug box on the counter. His ears are bright red.

“You wanna–get started with the living room?” You attempt to save the conversation before it gets too awkward.

“Yes,” he agrees quickly, and scurries out with the same swiftness as Yoongi’s departure.

Did he not want to be close to you? Did you smell like meat, too? You put your deodorant on this morning. You sniff at your armpit secretly while Hoseok chooses a stack of boxes to open, and conclude that it is not your good-smelling sweat that’s driving him away, but something else you’re not aware of.

“Honestly, there’s not much here to unpack, a lot of these are just like–winter jackets, the electric cords for the TV…”

“Why don’t we start with the bookcase?”

It looms with emptiness, tucked away into the corner. The dark oakwood that housed all the precious things he said he couldn’t throw away. It feels a little personal, knowing it contains his accomplishments. His secrets? His school yearbooks? A family picture, maybe, stuffed toys he might’ve won from a carnival. For a second you imagine how it would feel, unpacking your things and his things in your own shared space.

“Sure,” Hoseok decides.

You pick the biggest box to open first. The tape has ripped at the corners, sides bulging slightly from the things crammed inside. Some dust flings off when you whip the top open, and inside is way too many books. Elementary school yearbooks, a massive cookbook, the entirety of A Series of Unfortunate Events.

“I didn’t know you read,” is the first thing that comes out of your mouth.

Hoseok startles into laughter. “Uh..?”

“I meant–oh god you know what I mean.” You blush at the slip-up. But Hoseok pays no heed, just laughs even harder.

“It’s fine. It’s–yeah. Back in high school. Found the first book in some second-hand store and ended up buying the rest.”

That explains why the first one is so much more worn down than the others. Loved, flipped through. You heave the box onto the floor, sit down next to it. Criss-cross applesauce. You begin sorting through it one by one.

“So how are you? Now that you’re back home, and all.” Hoseok handles something that clinks slightly–pots of succulents. He staggers on his tip-toes to fit them pretty on the top shelf. You think back to your brief crisis of identity in the kitchen at home.

“I wanted to make the dalgona coffee today but I had a change of plans.”

Hoseok sighs. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“All good. But to answer your question…” There was no exciting answer to impress him with. You’re back for convenience, lack of work. Ordinary reasons. You don’t want to entertain lengthy stories in the fog of this heat, anyway. “It’s… I’m just back. That internship was all I had going for me, so I’m still on a job hunt.”

“That’s really cool, though. I remember your sketchbooks. And when you built that seat to look like a huge-ass Converse shoe.”

It was one of your projects for junior year. “Yeah, it… I don’t know where that is now, probably stuck in the basement somewhere.”

“Sell it on eBay.”

“Like anyone would pay for that shit.” It literally was a giant wooden slab made to look like a shoe, soft enough for reclining. “It’s ugly.”

Hoseok shrugs. “It wasn’t. But keep thinking that, silly, go ahead.”

“It’s just–I can’t believe you know I built that. Like you remember that? I don’t even remember building it.”

He contemplates. “I’ll always remember you,” he answers, very simply, and for a while he lets it linger, like it hadn’t just gotten your heart racing so fast.

The silence is scary. Maybe he’s trying to read your mind. Maybe if you made a loud noise in your head, he’d be startled. You start thinking about the most obscene moaning noises, straight out of soft, amateur pornography that you see floating on your timeline sometimes. But Hoseok doesn’t budge. 

Damn. He just continues on.

“Do you still cry when The Proposal comes on?”

“Oh spare me,” you beg, itching to slap his leg. He shudders with his laughing. “How about you? You still cry when someone talks about the White Lady?”

You think back to a 16-year-old Hoseok sleeping over at your house once, so vexed by Yoongi’s searches on horror forums that night he’d made sure Boppa slept in the room with them. “You’ll curse my apartment!”

“I’d have to say the name three times, you know.”

He watches you from above with frightened eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

Hoseok should know better than to trust his best friend’s sister. Right as you taunt him with the first syllable–(“Whi…“)–he tucks the last succulent away on the shelf, drops down on his knees, and shoves a hot hand over your lips.

“I will actually, genuinely, really, reallyreallyreally hate you forever,” he threatens.

Well.

You wouldn’t want that.

He is devastatingly close, his gaze so frenzied you’re starting to feel bad. The heat comes in waves: the stifling living room, the pathetic blows of wind from the fan. Hoseok’s body. Proximity you haven’t known in forever. He just stares.

You garble from behind his mouth. “Sto’ wooing ame.”

“What?”

You slide his palm off your wet lip. “Stop looking at me,” you repeat.

“I can’t just look at you?”

Oh. He –?

“You – !” You swat at him like he’s a pesky mosquito, warding off the thirst for your embarrassment. He sits next to you, laughing. “I’m sweaty and my concealer is creasing.”

“You look fine.”

“To you.” You pat under your eyes. “I’m ugly to me.”

“Me is stupid,” he counters.

“Me will kick you if you don’t finish clearing this shit out!”

Hoseok relents, careful to test your aggression. He’s sweating, too. He wipes at his neck, sighing into straight posture from creaky knees. “We can just finish this then call it a night,” he offers. “Are you almost done with that box?”

You lug the cookbook into the remaining space of the shelf. “It’s done.”

“Cool. Then could you just–” he gestures to the cardboard near his feet with one hand, arranging more succulents with the other– “grab that for me?”

You reach over with a grunt, gentle in your hold of the pot. It’s a money plant. “From your mom?”

“I don’t even like plants,” Hoseok complains. He looks to the side of the bookshelf, realizing there’s no space to accommodate the larger pot. Dejected, he just leaves it where he stands. “I’m fixing this tomorrow, I don’t care. Let’s go outside.”

Outside is the balcony, which isn’t as oppressively hot as it is inside but still has you disappointed that it’s, well, hot. There’s no escaping it. Hoseok has to use his entire body weight to slide open the glass doors. “Shit fucking doors. Do you think Yoongi carries WD-40?”

“Probably. Tell him it’s his welcoming gift for you.”

He snorts. “I’d feel guilty. He already did a lot, building the bed with me.”

You follow him to where he leans on the railing. His unit faces west. Perfect for this time of year, when the sunsets are longer. It bleeds low behind the fading bricks of the faraway houses, the inner city high-rises, and if you angled yourself correctly it’s almost as if they lean on the sun itself. 

“This is the real reason why I chose this place,” Hoseok says. “Saw this sunset and knew.”

“I didn’t know you were so sappy.” You scrunch your face like you’ve been fed something sour. He laughs. 

“How else do you think I get all the hot ladies?” He teases. You stop at that. It suddenly occurs to you that Hoseok is a man who’s lived a million lives just as you have, and just as nothing stopped you from trying to date around (re: hot pharmacy man), the same laws should apply to him, too. 

You aren’t hurt, but it does cut a little. And before you can stop yourself, you ask: “Are any hot ladies coming over anytime soon?”

He sounds like he chokes. “God no.”

“Oh.”

“I – it’s boring stuff. Just. No. Maybe there could have been, but no.”

In your heart of hearts, you believe he’s stuttering because he’s embarrassed. But a part of you wishes he’s trying to appease the part of you that’s bristling, like he knows it’s not information you want to hear. It’s almost like a puppy nipping at their owner for forgiveness, though why would he want to be apologizing?

(Unless.)

“Okay,” you say. You try not to think too hard. “Sorry. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Your top lip is sweaty. Every crease in your body is sweaty. You’re also very much aware that Hoseok is looking at you like he wants to say more, but he just hangs his head low. “Thanks. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You know.” He wipes his brow. “Anything, really. Plans for the summer. Hot men to woo. Or hot ladies, I don’t know.”

You watch the sun set lower. It’s cooler now, and the cicadas are humming loudly. “I… no. I’m not really… I don’t know.”

Good lord. You have the strangest feeling to cut open all your guts and let Hoseok see you for everything you are. He does it so easily, to you. This is the universal truth that’s defined your existence since he entered your life.

“Ugh. I’d offer you beer to cheers for being lonely but you’re driving.” He pouts. “Fuck. Sorry. I don’t want to keep you any longer than you want to stay.”

“I don’t mind.” And because you like to torture yourself, you add: “Not if it’s you.”

(You can almost hear your brother’s voice. You’re so easy. The you in your head gives him a sucker punch and says: Well maybe I like to be easy! The Boppa in your head also kicks him in the shin. You think she’d be cheering you on.)

Hoseok’s eyes widen. “Really.” It’s not a question but a reaction, and Mind-Boppa gives you a fist bump.

“Yeah. Or you can tell me if that was weird. Like. Really. You can.” You’re about to ramble more but Hoseok interrupts you.

“No!” He says this a little too loudly. You flinch. “Sorry. No. No. That wasn’t weird.”

For the umpteenth time today you almost burst into tears. It’s everything sweet and bad and hot pressing in on you, and is Hoseok smiling? He’s laughing. You’re about to spontaneously combust and he’s cackling like he’s cracked the code of something. You must look horrified, because he starts to flounder.

“I’m–sorry. I’m sorry. Please. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just gonna ask you something, and I want you to walk out on me and forget everything I’m about to say if you choose to. Does that sound good?”

You think: it’s hot when he takes initiative.

You say: nothing.

You: nod for him to continue.

“Can I please treat you to dinner for fixing my kitchen for me?”

Catholics say the universe was created in seven days. Hoseok bursts and collides five hundred of them with one question.

“Will you pay for me?” You ask.

“Yes.”

“Do I have to look pretty?”

“You’re always pretty to me,” he says.

“What if I say no?”

“Then I’ll pretend I never asked you and you can go woo another hot person. But I prefer you don’t.”

The sun has set. There’s pink in the sky, and there’s pink in your eyes. You wonder if your pupils have turned heart-shaped. 

“Then my answer is yes,” you decide.

.

.

.

When you sit in the driver’s seat, you think about Hoseok’s smile and what you’d do to keep it there. Then, you declare to your driving wheel, “I’m going to kill Yoongi,” then pull off into traffic.

.

.

.

Hoseok closes the door behind him, and slides down with his back against the wood. “Yoongi’s going to kill me,” he says to himself.

[skye-charmer-writer]

Shayla

Shayla Perkins was moaning in pain while seated in the living room of her grandparents' house in the rural town of Springfield, Delaware. She had come to this place to attend the funeral of her granduncle, who had passed away at the old age of 78 years from a drug overdose. She was going to attend the funeral today but fate had something else in store for her. The 24-year-old was in the last month of pregnancy. And her water had broken a little earlier today. In spite of her precarious condition, her family found that leaving Shayla home alone to fight her contractions and going to the funeral was the best thing to do. Her mother, already disappointed at her for becoming pregnant so early in her life, had said to Shayla's face that she would ruin the atmosphere of the funeral. After all, funerals were the exact opposite of what she was going through at the moment.

This situation would not have occurred if she had not allowed her boyfriend, 29-year-old Yasuke Saito, into her apartment one night ten months ago. She currently was very much regretting doing that. She wished she had her boyfriend to support her today. This was not possible as Yasuke had committed suicide after learning of Shayla's pregnancy. Shayla had blamed herself for his death when it had happened.

When her waters broke, she was wearing a black dress meant for attending the funeral. The downpour of bodily fluid from her cunt had ruined that dress, causing her to be slapped by her father. Now she was dressed in a white tank and a pair of grey sweatpants. Her swollen feet were in a pair of flats. Shayla held her crotch as another contraction struck her body. She knew she would have to give birth today.

But she did not want to ruin her grandpa's beautiful green couch by birthing her baby in it. She needed to move someplace else for the birth. A thought came to her mind. “What if I give birth in the bathtub? I can drain the water later,” the laboring 24-year-old thought. It was not wrong to think that way as births were known to be a messy affair. That is why Shayla decided that it would be best if she gave birth in the bathtub.

“I gotta get up,” she said to herself. Getting up from the couch was not going easy for her as she was very much in active labor right now. Luckily, she would not need to walk much because the bathroom that had a bathtub was near the living room. All she needed to do was get up and turn the tap on to fill it with water. But it was not going to be an easy feat for her to do, especially in her current state.

“You can do it, Shayla. Just think that Yasuke is with you,” words of encouragement came out of her mouth as she tried to assure herself that the spirit of her deceased boyfriend was watching over her. He had always been supportive of Shayla during their relationship that's why his act of suicide had come as a surprise to her.

As she began to stand up to head to the bathroom, the baby began to descend through her birth canal. She cried out, “Fuck!” Then she fell back on the couch. With each contraction, the baby's head was making its way through the opening between her legs. She said while trying to calm herself between the contractions, “Gotta breathe! Gotta breathe! I can do this! Ow!”

A particularly strong contraction of her muscles ripped through her lower back and with it came out the baby's head. Only problem was that she was still wearing her sweatpants which would not allow the baby to breathe. Thinking of this, Shayla quickly straightened her back for a few seconds to pull down her pants. “It's going to be okay, baby. Mom's here. Ow! Oh! Fuck!” She was able to successfully bring her pants down to her knees and that's when she saw the head of the baby sticking out from her body. She was fortunately not wearing any underwear, because the one she was wearing earlier had been soiled when her waters had broken.

She carefully placed her hand under the head of the baby to support it. She began to tear up as her hands touched the soft skin of her child. But there was still a long way to go. She needed to get the rest of the baby's body out her uterus. Luckily for her, contractions were effectively doing their job and she did not feel a need to push on her own. Once again, a contraction struck Shayla and she cried out, “Oh God! Oh Jesus!” The shoulders of her child crossed through the opening in her body with ease. All she needed was to bear a few more contractions and she would be in clear.

She was panting from tiredness as the process was physically very strenuous for the young woman. Another set of contractions hit Shayla in quick succession. “Oh my God!” She took the name of lord. “I gotta push. I definitely gotta push. I want this to be over,” Shayla said as realization dawned upon her that pushing on her own would help get the rest of her baby out quickly. She caressed the forehead of her baby and said, “Mom's got this! Don't worry, sweetie, I got this! Oh fuck, it hurts so bad!” She concentrated all of her strength toward her pelvic area and began to push aggressively. “Oh God! Goodness gracious! Jesus! Give me strength! Ow! Ow! Fuck!” The golden pale skin of her stomach moved awkwardly as she pushed.

She looked down at the baby to see her progress. The baby's hands and torso were out of her body and only the legs were still inside the body of Shayla. “Not so long now. Okay, I can do this,” she assured herself as she prepared herself to push for the last time. She took a deep breath and thrusted her pelvic muscles outward. The baby finally popped out of Shayla's birth canal with organic matter covering its body.

She pulled the baby, who was still attached to Shayla via the umbilical cord, up to her chest and attached it to her chest through the tank-top she was wearing. She looked at the baby. It was a boy. The 24-year-old Shayla Perkins had given birth to a male child. “I think I am gonna call you Holden Saito-Perkins,” she said to her child, showing her absolutely terrible creative ability to come up with a respectable name.

“Or maybe not, I am not so sure,” she said as she began to realise that naming kids really wasn't up her alley.

End

[flowers-that-sing]

cw for psychosis things (mostly in tags)

yesterday, while hallucinating, i came up with what i thought was a genius idea for my fanfiction.

...yeah

[s0fter-sin]

soapghost circus au

ghost’s an extreme motorcycle stunt performer - globe of death, riding on his back wheel along tightropes, that sort of thing

soap’s a fire breather/dancer. he’s a roaming performer; he just finds empty spaces or bored people and starts twirling

he pretends not to notice the way he always wanders towards a certain tent every night to watch a certain masked daredevil defy gravity. he thinks he's slick and that ghost won't notice him in the crowd, completely forgetting that he's carrying something that happens to be on fire

ghost couldn't miss him if he tried

one day off, soap's trialing fire whips; he loves the loud crack and the way the flame licks through the air and maybe he's a little too impatient to practice with non flaming whips first, even though he's never used one before

he's covered in soot and fine welts where the tip of the whip keeps flicking back up at him, cutting through his shirt and stinging his skin but he doesn't let that stop him. it starts to stick to him, damp with sweat and blood and he's quick to strip it off; throwing it to the side to keep practicing

when soap finally gets a few good cracks in a row and breaks to celebrate, he almost jumps out of his skin when he sees the masked rider leaning against a trailer watching him

of all the times he's wanted ghost to talk to him, this is not one of them

he wanted to impress him, dance for him with his flaming batons and be mesmerised by his fluidity and skill

not catch him filthy and struggling with something as basic as a whip

he's ready for ghost to ream him out for not having control over the whip - he's known throughout the circuit for expecting utter perfection in his routines - but when ghost finally does speak, it's only to ask if he's done for the day

soap falters for a moment. he wanted to get some consistency with the whip before he stopped, but he's starting to feel the hours of practice; muscles aching and skin blistered with minor burns

he says he is and ghost pushes off the trailer, nodding his head to make soap follow. he brings him back to his trailer and tells him to clean up then takes out his personal med kit to treat the grazes on soap's skin

soap's shocked; for all that he loves to watch ghost perform, they've never really talked before

part of why he joined the circus was so he wouldn't be a burden on anyone, the oldest in a family with too many mouths to feed and not even time to nurture, and here he is taking up ghost's valuable practice time bc he wasn't good enough to handle his own discipline. he tries to brush him off, downplaying the burns and tries to leave before half them can be treated but ghost just glares and orders him to sit back down

ghost does expect perfection from himself but it isn’t out of any malice or ego; it's bc he knows if he isn't perfect, he could very easily die. he’s picked a dangerous profession and he gives it the respect it deserves. there isn't any shame in being a novice or failing at something; he thinks there's a lot of beauty in having the courage to get back up again and again

so every day he watches soap practice and bullies him into his trailer to put him back together bc he knows he won't do it by himself

and every night soap wanders over to ghost's section of the fair grounds, in awe of his skill and wishing he could be worthy of the care he gives him