#just another thing to add to the to do list

[rex-rambles]

➤ THE (OTHER) COSTUME | LANDO NORRIS

pairing: lando norris x single mom!reader

summary: after lando surprises your son for his birthday, you decide to surprise him by dressing up for silverstone, only this time, it's not spider-man: milo dresses up like lando himself. 

wc: 7.6 k

warnings: none!

authors note: okay so the love 'the costume' has received has been wild?? y'all are fantastic

➤ MASTERLIST - part one

You wish orange were a more common colour for clothes. After all, it could be bright and colourful or muted and rusty, a nice warm tone to add to your everyday wardrobe. 

It totally didn't have anything to do with the fact that you and Milo had nothing to wear to Lando's race next week.

Not remotely.

"You could dress like a car?" Milo says, running his hands along a display of dress pants, much to the disdain of the shopping attendant. 

"We want to wear Lando's team colours, silly." Despite all the time you had spent with the driver, you had yet to have a real piece of McLaren merch, or Lando's, or anything even remotely F1 related. If Lando were currently in England, you fantasize about the idea that you could call him up and ask him to borrow something of his, a daydream of wearing something that he'd worn before. 

It's the kind of thought that makes you blush in the middle of the store, the ridiculousness of it all getting to you. It's a childish thing, the sort of act a teen would blush over, but you couldn't help it. Lando had returned you to a youthful, bubbly sort of romance that you had thought you'd never get the chance to experience again. Well, you hope it's a romance, at least, and not just another doomed infatuation.

After all, it was hard to call something a romance when you hadn't seen the man in two weeks.

Lando hadn't been back to England since the birthday party, which was expected of someone like an F1 driver. A race in Austria, a movie premiere in New York. You, on the other hand, were a single mom halfway across the world. You had kissed him, sure, but that wasn't anything concrete. You knew how whirlwind romances could end, what those quick kisses could turn into. 

The evidence of it was currently trying to sneak his way into a rack of coats. "Milo, I don't think we're finding anything in there." You hold out your hand, and he happily runs to grab it. "How about we try another store?" 

"Won't Mr. Norris have things for us at the race?" He asks as you lead him out of the store, and it's a fair question. Lando certainly could surprise you with merch, but seeing as you have a week until the race, and that he's off travelling the world with far more important people, getting McLaren hats and shirts for you and Milo wouldn't be top of his list. 

Well, perhaps not for you. After all, despite the connection you hoped to grow with the racer, it was obvious he already loved Milo. He'd come dressed as Spider-Man, got Milo gifts, babysat when he could, hell, he was paying for you to go to Silverstone!

Really, the fact that he kissed you almost takes a back burner to just how involved he is in Milo's life. So, who's to say he wouldn't be thoughtful enough to remember merch?

Then, just as soon as the thought arises, it leaves a strange feeling in your stomach. Lando was an unfathomably wealthy person, compared to your situation. How could you possibly want more?

Oh, you don't have something orange to wear to support him, so you need whatever ridiculously expensive merch he has? 

You don't want him for his money, and more than anything, you don't want him to think you're ungrateful. Milo tugs at your hand, breaking you out of your thoughts, and he grins so wide that for a moment, you forget what you were thinking of entirely. "Mum, look!" He says, pointing to a charity shop. "A race suit!" 

And, because maybe miracles do happen, or some parent was cleaning out their kids' clothes, there's an old Lightning-McQueen race suit costume slung over the back of a chair in the shop's display, with a five-pound note sticker attached to it.

All you need now, you think, is some black dye, some orange paint, and some white paint markers. 

-

Lando makes it exactly three weeks before he cracks. Well, that's not exactly true. He sends you an Instagram reel on Wednesday night, questions about hotel preferences on Saturday morning, train times the following Tuesday. 

However, he hadn't talked about the party, or the aftermath, or the fact that he kissed you at all, and it was sort of driving him mad. He was given a glimpse of the domestic life, of what his days could look like off the road and off the track, and it was eating him away inside. 

How do you not fall in love like that? 

Well, love might be a strong word, but Lando was feeling things for you he'd never felt this fully before, and he had no way of knowing if that was a pity kiss, or a kiss with no strings attached, or if maybe, just maybe, you did like him back, and Lando had to consider a lot of things about his future if you did. 

However, none of that mattered right now, because Lando was slightly tipsy, and he just really, really wanted to see your face. FaceTime rings twice before you pick up, looking at him rather confused. "Lando? Everything alright?" 

"M' perfect." He says, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, loosening the tie around his neck. "You?" 

"I'm doing alright," You say with a laugh, and as Lando squints down at his phone, he realizes you have a streak of orange paint near your chin. "Busy getting ready for the race this weekend." 

"Is that Mr. Norris?" Lando hears faintly, and he perks up instantly. 

"Milo! Can I say hi?" You pause, glancing down to where he imagines Milo stands by you, and something stutters in his chest. Did he do something wrong? 

Do you not want him to see Milo? 

He fully well could've overstepped some boundaries, tucking you both in like that, reading, invading your personal space. It had felt right for Lando to have been part of that equation, but it didn't mean-"You can, but you're not allowed to say anything. It's a surprise." 

"A surprise? For me?" With a slowly easing heart, you pass off the phone, and Lando laughs so hard he has to fall back on the bed. 

Milo is just covered in orange paint. It's on his hands, smudged on his face, splattered on an old t-shirt he's wearing. It was very obviously a surprise for the race, probably a sign, he thinks, and he takes screenshots as he stares at Milo grinning at him. "Hello, Mr. Norris!" 

"Hey, you muppet. Did you get into some paint?" Milo nods, turning to show him something, and your hand covers the camera. "Aw, come on!" 

"It's a surprise, sweetheart." Lando knows you're talking to Milo, not him, but god, does the name do things to his insides. "You can't show him yet." 

"Oh," Milo says, as his face returns to the camera. "Mum says you can't see." 

"I'll just have to wait. You excited for the race?" Milo nods excitedly, once again trying to show the camera something, but your hand covers it once more as you laugh, an unexpected sound. 

"Milo, what did I just say?" 

"I was just going to show how excited I am! Here." Milo steps back from the camera, and he spreads his arms super wide. Rather than focusing on the cute moment, however, Lando's gaze drifts to the background of Milo's bedroom. His McLaren Lego car box is proudly on display, however, all the Spider-Man decor is not. Or, at least some things were missing from when he tucked Milo and you in. Not that he memorized the room, or anything, but simply that he'd been replaying that memory in his head so often, it felt like he knew what the decorations should be.

"Wow, that's pretty exciting." He says, tuning back into the conversation. When you flip the camera around to show yourself, you immediately catch the furrow in Lando's brow. 

He's sure it's just from you being attentive to your own child's needs, but something is telling in the way that, just from looking at him, you know what he's thinking. "Everything alright?" 

"Where's all the Spider-Man stuff?" It couldn't have been long enough that Milo had changed interests. Sure, kids go through different interests, but Lando had got Milo web shooters, he had posters on his walls, comic books on the shelves. Now, it was oddly bare, and Lando's immediate first thought, his first fear, is that you could be moving, and he refuses to allow it to take root in his brain. 

You would have a nice and simple and not scary explanation. You had to. "He's going through a bit of a phase, right now." You explain, turning the camera back to Milo, who is still grinning up at you, gap-toothed and all. "Milo, who's your favourite hero?" 

And there, Milo says the one sentence that makes Lando wonder if he should abandon everything to fly home early just for you, and more importantly, just for Milo: "Mr. Norris!" 

"Me?" Lando squawks out, words caught in his throat. "But I'm not a hero." 

"Well, you are in this house." You'd just shot him in the heart, he thinks. He can't imagine an appropriate response, just staring at Milo, who keeps grinning. In this house, which means Milo and you. Lando was his favourite hero now, for reasons even Lando didn't quite understand. Sure, he was a F1 star, a celebrity, but he wasn't anything important. He wasn't a hero, by any means, but with Milo staring at him like that? He just might believe it. "He wants to do another birthday party Lando-themed." 

"Can Milo hear me right now?" You shake your head, and Lando dramatically throws an arm over his face, trying to cover his growing blush and crack a joke, because if he doesn't, he might cry. "So I dressed up for nothing?" 

"Lando!" You're laughing in unison now, and he wishes, above anything, that it wasn't just over the phone. Seeing you in person might ease the ache in his heart or the anxiety growing in his head. Honestly, it could just make it all ten times worse, but all Lando can think is that you had to like him back. Even if there were concerns of how Milo might fit into the equation, or his racing career, or your own past, you had to.

He was a hero in your household, anyway. 

Which meant he might be a hero to you, and really, Lando would give anything to be that knight in shining armour, whisking you away to experience the finer things in life, to give you and Milo the happiness you deserve. 

He just sort of has to get off of Facetime and into your life to make it happen. 

-

"Mum," Milo whispers up to you, "Why are they taking our picture?" 

The cameras flash around you as you enter the Silverstone track, however, even as your heart rate picks up, and the fear sets in of what Lando's world means, you know exactly why the cameras are flashing: because a little Lando Norris just walked in, decked out in a little McLaren racesuit, made as accurately as you could. "Because they love your costume, sweetheart." 

"I made it myself." Milo then says up to one of the photographers as you pass. "Mum helped." 

"I'm sure mum helped a lot!" The woman says with a laugh, and you offer her a warm smile. You're sure, if people knew you were here at Lando's request, after he dressed up as Spider-Man for Milo's birthday, they'd be acting much differently. 

But, for now, you're fairly invisible, able to walk through the paddock with Milo and enjoy the morning for what it is. Lando had told you to message him when you arrived, but had so far been MIA. It was qualifying today, so he was probably just swamped with media, or training, or getting ready to race, or more important people. 

Milo, however, very obviously notices Lando's disappearance. "Where's Mr. Norris?" 

"I'm sure he's getting ready," You say, stopping under the shade of an umbrella. It was a ridiculously hot time for England, and coming in an all-black outfit wasn't the best decision, but it was the nicest thing you owned for this kind of event. "We'll see him later, sweetheart." 

"I want to show him my suit." Milo says, tugging at your hand toward the bright orange McLaren hospitality. You were a guest of McLaren, technically, so if you were to be anywhere, you think this might be it. Milo, marching his way toward the building, draws the attention of even more cameras, and even more people. In your eyes, Milo truly was adorable, and deserved to be the centre of attention, but even this was a bit much.

"Look, it's a mini you." Someone says, and to your surprise, you look up to see the other McLaren racer standing by the doors. 

"Oh, wow." Oscar says, offering a little wave to Milo, who, for some reason, immediately hides behind your leg. You squat down to his height, gently carding your hand through his curls, as you try to figure out how he'd become so shy so fast.

"Look who it is!" You say, as Oscar approaches with even more flashing cameras, and Milo stares up at him, wide-eyed. "Can you say hi to Mr. Piastri?" 

Oscar crouches to also be Milo's height, which helps somewhat, but the boy is obviously wary. "Hello," Milo says shyly. "Mr. Pias-tri." 

"Hi there," Oscar says, holding out a hand for a high five. Much to your horror, Milo leaves him hanging. "I like your race suit." 

"It's for Mr. Norris." Milo says, pulling at the front of it. "We made it at home." 

"You must be Milo," Oscar says, and for a moment, your heart stops. Lando spoke about Milo. And, probably not just Milo, but you, and you're not sure what to do with that information. "Lando told me you were coming today. Are you having fun?" 

Milo nods, turning to look at you with a strange sort of look in his eye, and you still can't figure out why. Sure, it's not Lando, but Oscar is just as impressive! "It's okay, sweetheart. Mr. Piastri is also a pretty cool car driver." 

"Lando and I are teammates," Oscar says, and Milo shoots him an unimpressed look. After all, considering the little racing fan Milo was turning out to be, he seemed to believe Oscar was underestimating him.

"I know." He says defensively, and Oscar cracks a smile. "I saw you on TV." 

"Do you want a photo?" Someone says from above, and Oscar shifts to kneel beside Milo as you rise, giving the two of them space.

Milo finally seems to warm up to Oscar, offering a little smile, and without much thought to the action, Oscar takes off his hat and puts it on Milo's head. Milo gasps, grabbing the brim as he tries to look up at the hat, and ends up pulling it over his eyes. The small group laughs, including Oscar, who folds in on himself as he rises. "He's adorable," He says, reaching down to gently pat Milo's head. "I get why Lando loves him so much." 

Loves. 

I get why Lando loves him so much. "Oh, well, thank you," You manage to stutter out. "Milo, what do you say to Mr. Piastri?" 

"Oscar," Oscar says, extending a hand. "You don't have to call me Mr. Piastri." 

You shake his hand, and somewhere in the universe, you feel a change you can't describe, a cord unplugged from something too early. You turn to your right instinctively, where you find Lando a few steps away, out of breath and panting, staring you down, like a man who'd just spotted his lost love coming home from war. 

At least, that's what you hope that expression means. "Mr. Norris!" 

-

Lando's going to fucking die, and so far, there's at least like three potential reasons for it. He missed your text of your arrival, missed sending his attendant to gather you to bring you back to his drivers room and the paddock early, and then couldn't find you. He'd run around, probably looking a little mad, until he thought to stop by the McLaren hospitality, where he finally did find you. 

However, you were looking at Oscar and blushing and stuttering out something before shaking his hand, and his heart turned into something he could only describe as shrivelled. You were supposed to look at him like that, like when he stopped to help you bring groceries in, or fix your wifi router, or when he held the door. That hand you were shaking, even if it was just Oscar, wasn't right. Oscar shouldn't have been the first person to greet you, it should've been him. Lando should've been here, for you, and he wasn't, and how did that show he was dependable? That he cared? 

However, all of that sort of went out of the window when he heard Milo call his name, and then his shrivelled heart exploded, because all the orange paint made sense now. 

It wasn't for a sign, it was for an outfit. Milo was stood in a perfect little replica race suit, running at him full tilt with his arms spread out, and Lando wasted no time bending down to scoop the boy up, happily holding him in his arms as he babbled on about something, but Lando was sort of too far gone to hear it. 

You had made Lando's race suit. You got all the details right, even the little sponsor names, the little British flag and the name Norris on his hip, and for a moment, Lando has the realization that if, one day, you took his last name, Milo would too. Milo Norris, he thinks, is a perfect name for a perfect kid. 

Then, Milo pulls the hat off his head, and Lando gets a glimpse of the number on it. "What! 81?" He says, taking the hat and happily tossing it at Oscar, who catches it with a laugh. "That's betrayal! That's-that's enemy territory, Milo. What number should it be?" 

"Four!" Milo says as Lando reaches up to take his own hat off his head and place it on Milo's. 

"Exactly. 81's for ass-" Well, that's certainly not a word you would approve of him saying in front of Milo. "Uh, Australians." 

"Nice catch." You tease, coming to stand beside him, and there really must be something wrong with him, there's got to be. Because with you at his side, adjusting Milo's hat, smiling at him like that? All he can picture is this one day being his, and he's only kissed you once. "Did you just come from a work out?" 

A work out? 

Oh, him being out of breath and sweating. 

"Yeah, getting ready before qualifying." Totally not because he ran here. 

Not at all. "Can mum have the hat?" Milo asks, and Lando blinks a couple times before realizing he's never given you any merch, and for a moment, he just sort of hears ringing in his ears. 

Because how could he have never given you merch? Both McLaren or his own? How could he have never seen you in his shirts, wearing his number, god, maybe even just some of his own worn clothes? It's all he can picture, of you curled up beside him, repping him, and he has to think about rather terrible things to keep his body from reacting. "You know what? Let's take a trip to my store." 

"Lando, you don't have to-" Lando holds up a hand, cutting you off, and he then beckons you to follow. 

"I hope you brought a bag," He says. "Cause you're getting everything." 

-

Lando gets it, now. 

Why the guys like having their partners at races. It's sweet to have anyone come to watch, to celebrate, but coming off third, a not-so great result, coming back to his drivers room, and coming back to you? 

Oh, it takes so much restraint not to just kiss you senseless, because you're in his jersey, grinning at him with Milo in your arms, the image of perfection. Who cares about third when you have this?

Lando gets it, now, as you wrap an arm around him in a hug, squeezing Milo between the two of you as you laugh. 

He gets why guys put everything on the line to come home to something like this. 

-

McLaren having a partnership with Hilton is, you think, maybe one of the best perks Lando comes with. Sure, there are the fancy cars and free t-shirts, but a two-room hotel suite for you and Milo? At no cost at all? 

Well, that's the sort of thing you could see yourself getting used to, and as you wrap yourself in one of the comfy, complimentary robes, the thought doesn't bring about giddiness of the future, or of Lando, but a strange unease. This was a whole new world, where things were just handed to you on a silver platter when before, you had to fight tooth and nail for the same kind of respect. You got the free merch, the complimentary food and drink, the beautiful hotel suite, and it was all because of Lando. 

Lando was out there wearing watches more expensive than your apartment, and Milo was in a charity shop jumpsuit that you hand-painted. It was a very new world to step into, and one you're not sure exactly how to adjust to. There's a soft, tentative knock on the door, and you press your face to the peephole to spot Lando with a plastic bag in hand. 

"I hope I didn't wake Milo?" He says as you open the door, gesturing to the bag. "Just wanted to drop off something." 

"I just put him down," You say softly, letting him in. "Poor guy fell asleep on the way home." 

It was also a stupid thing to get caught up on when you and Lando had only kissed once. He probably had made out with countless women and let them go in a single night. Doesn't mean you didn't value his presence, or that you didn't miss the absence he filled. The empty side of the bed, the empty plate at dinner. Lando had played that role only once, and yet it had just felt so right. It was delusion, probably. Having fallen so quickly, after a single day, but you can't forget how right it felt, how much you wanted it, how long you'd seen him with Milo before it finally tipped over the edge. 

"You're something else, you know that?" Lando says, sitting down on the edge of your bed with a grin. "For dressing him up like that. Think it might've stopped my heart." 

You come to stand between his open legs, and somehow not quite getting the message, Lando extends the plastic bag. "It was all his idea," You say, taking the bag. "He wanted to dress up like his hero, after all." 

"Oh, you can't say that!" Lando covers his face and leans back on the bed as you crack open the bag. "I'm not a hero, I'm just-" He props himself up on his elbows when he hears the crinkling of the bag. "Oh, that's for you." 

In hand is a worn McLaren sweater you're pretty sure you've seen Lando wear at least ten times, which isn't a lot, but considering how little you saw him? It was a staple piece of his wardrobe. You must turn bright red, because Lando turns a matching shade as he quickly gets up, leaving little space between you. 

"It's just-I thought it might be a better everyday colour than the...the green." He tries to take it from your hand, and you pull it away from him, much like a child refusing to share. "If you don't want-" 

"Oh, you're never getting this back now." He gave you. 

His sweater. "I thought it matched you more." Then, because saying you matched an old worn hoodie, more than you did brand new, expensive merch might not exactly be taken the best, you watch his face fall in real time. "Because you should be comfortable! And it's like, the most comfortable thing I own! I-" 

"Lando." He immediately shuts his mouth, and sits back down on the bed, and you can't help but laugh, coming to sit beside him. So maybe you weren't alone, in how new this all was, the strange territory you toed the line on. "It's very sweet." 

"You're laughing! I gave you my jumper and you're laughing." He lets out a low breath, but you can see the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting his own smile. "And to think I flew you out here." 

"We took the train, actually." You correct, folding the sweater up and leaving it beside you. "Which I never got to thank you for. All this has been...so much." And as much as you hate to admit it, you need to start being honest at some point. "Maybe too much." 

Lando pauses as he watches you, you fiddling with the tie of your robe as you wait for his response. Telling him this was too much, to his face, was probably an idiotic decision, but this was all so foreign. The glamour, the respect. People didn't just do these sorts of things for you, didn't do anything anywhere near as close. 

But Lando? He came dressed as Spider-Man, and invited you to races, and for the first time in a long time, made you feel something in a heart normally reserved for Milo and Milo alone. "I couldn't tell you the last time I went on holiday." You finally say, just barely above a whisper. "Had someone pour me champagne, got more free, fancy things than I could ever name. And I'm so grateful for all of it. For you, Lando. I just..." 

"It's a lot." Lando finishes for you, rubbing his hands together. "It's okay, if I'm too much too." 

"You?" You turn to look at him, and Lando refuses to meet your eye, staring a hole into the carpet. "I don't think I could ever get enough of you, honestly." 

"I just really want this to work, you know." Lando suddenly blurts, cheeks tinted pink from your comment. "And I don't know how to do that without just fucking going crazy. Like the Spider-Man suit, paying for you to come to a race? Who does that?" Lando Norris does, apparently. "I just...I want you, and I want that little guy at all of my races, in that little suit, cheering me on." It all sort of comes out in a tumble of a confession that just keeps going. "And not just at races. I want to come home to this, to the Spider-Man webs on the walls, reading him a bedtime story, and I want to come home to you. Wearing my jersey, or my jumper, being with me, kissing me over the backs of couches." Lando looms nearer, then, and in another life, you might grab his face and kiss him, if it weren't for that little, minuscule fear that held everything back. Your words, your future, your feelings. "I think I'm sort of going crazy about it, actually." 

"Oh." You were supposed to be confessing your feelings of inadequacy to him, not him confessing actual feelings for you, but you truly don't mind the flip in conversation. However, he looks on the edge of something, a word that he just can't quite get out. "But?" 

He drops his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his curls. 

It's something he doesn't want to say, and it's something you've had to face for the past four years. "But having that is more than just races and little orange track suits." You fill in for him this time. 

"It's a lot of travelling, and a lot of away days, but...other drivers do it?" 

"With their own kids, Lando. That's a bit different." You break slowly,  because it's the truth. 

Lando adored Milo. It's one of the things that made the man so dear to you, but there was a difference between being good with kids and being good at raising kids, between being a babysitter and a potential father. "Milo's pretty much mine, if you want him to be." Lando admits quietly. "D'you see what number he was wearing? Whose name you put on that suit?" 

There's a part of you that wants to yell at him to be realistic. His world is so far from yours, with so much more to offer. There must be models and actresses and others cut out for this, not you, not Milo. But when he says things like that? When he looks at you like that? It's a lot harder to make that argument believable. "Kids are a lot of responsibility, Lando. There's more than one heart at stake here. I need you to think about this seriously." 

"Mum?" Both of you jolt at the sound of Milo's voice, somehow having gotten out of his room without either of you noticing. You have half a mind to put some distance between you and Lando, considering how close you're sitting, but Milo doesn't seem to care, scrambling up the other side of the bed to sit near you. 

"Missing out?" Lando says, turning to sit cross legged on the bed, and letting Milo join the little huddle. It's an act that shouldn't be as heartstopping as it is, but it was Lando, and it was Milo. 

It was the realization that you could have someone else to turn to on those sleepless nights, someone at your side who accepted Milo, not rejected him. It was someone in your corner, who wanted you, and it was the first time, in a long time, that anyone's made you feel so...whole. You'll cry about it later, you decide, when both your boys aren't present. 

"You should be in bed, love." You whisper, gently pressing a kiss to Milo's forehead. "So should Mr. Norris." 

"Sleepover?" Milo asks behind a yawn, and Lando laughs softly, shaking his head. 

"We've got a big day tomorrow. We can't stay up." Lando pats the pillow at the head of the bed, and Milo crawls up to lie against it. "How's that?" 

"I'm sure it's great, stealing my bed." You tease, coming to lie on one side of Milo, tickling his stomach as he cackles with laughter. Lando falls onto the bed on the other side of Milo and looks over at you with a grin.

As much as you would like to continue your conversation, some things in life are just more important. Seemingly tired of your presence, Milo rolls away from you, and plants his head on Lando's chest. Lando doesn't move, freezing immediately as the boy curls up into his side. "Picking favourites, are we?" You ask softly, and Milo yawns into Lando's ribs. 

"I am a pretty good pillow." Lando says, shooting you a wink, and you move onto your side, your arm splayed over Milo and onto Lando's chest. Your palm flattens against him to feel his pounding heart, the movement quick enough to convince you that he'd just run a marathon, or maybe won a race, instead of lying next to you. 

It would be a more intimate moment if Milo didn't wipe his drool on Lando's t-shirt, who luckily takes it in stride. "I should take him to races more often," You say absentmindedly, stuck between watching Milo and watching Lando. "He's pretty tuckered out." 

"You can come to every race," Lando says softly, rolling his head to the side to look at you. "I'll pay for every one." 

"Lando..." The thing is, when he said things like that, you knew he meant it. You knew that this could be your future, such an opportunity for both you and Milo, but it shouldn't be yours to take. At least, it shouldn't be yours to take, unless Lando considers all the little repercussions that come with dating you. "I just want you to think about this." You peek down at Milo, whose eyes are fluttering, still fighting sleep. You move your hand from Lando's chest to gently rub at his back, and in seconds, he's finally dozing. Only when you're sure he won't wake from your whispers do you continue. "You mean more to me than you know, so if we're doing this, I don't want...I just, I need you to know that I need all of you." 

"You have all of me." Then, because he knows it's not a fair thing to say, "I'll think about it." 

As gently as you can, you pull Milo back off Lando's chest and onto the bed. Lando's face falls at the loss, and you have to steel yourself to stop from confessing something catastrophic then and there. Despite all the doubts you have, the way Lando looks at Milo stirs something deep in your heart. "Don't worry about it at the race, either." You warn, knowing how he might stew over this long enough to hurt his performance tomorrow. "Just...when you know, tell me." 

Lando leans over, and you expect him to say something, but instead, he presses a kiss to your cheek. "Trust me," He says, "You'll be the first to know. Goodnight." He then gently places his hand on Milo's head and whispers, "Goodnight, Mini-me." 

-

So, maybe Lando's love confession didn't exactly go as planned last night. He had gotten the two-room suite for a reason: Milo goes to bed, you stay up, he confesses everything he's been dying to say, maybe you kiss him, it all works perfectly. 

However, that sort of love confession wasn't realistic, and he'd ended up not beginning a relationship with you, but he did kiss you on the cheek, and got a reminder to think about the relationship, you, and Milo. Despite your warning, it's all he can think about the entire time he's in the car, which most certainly isn't helpful. 

He wanted this. 

He wanted you. And Milo. 

And despite what those around him might think, it was realistic. It could be, anyway. He was young, he was well aware, but he had the energy to be a father. Other people had kids at his age! I mean, Milo wasn't exactly a teenage pregnancy, you were both in your twenties. You could handle this. He could handle this. Or, at least, he was pretty sure he could. 

He had already cornered Max in the Red Bull Motorhome to annoy him with enough questions about being a step-dad that the man now refused to answer his texts. He had done the research. He'd seen Milo in that race suit. He knew how his own father raised him, the kind of kindness that he couldn't believe others never received. 

That was enough. You were enough. And, as he overtakes Max, he hopes you know that. He hopes that you delaying this wasn't coming from your view of yourself, because he knew what the media could be like. You weren't what most people might expect from him, but that didn't make it wrong, didn't make you any less of a partner. Milo was a glorious part of this, not something for you to ever feel ashamed about. 

He had meant it, when he said Milo was his. He might not know exactly how to be a dad, but he knows how to be himself, and everytime he is himself, around you, around Milo, it feels right. It feels like he belongs, like that kid was always supposed to be his, like you were always supposed to be his. 

Mr and Mrs Norris, and Milo Norris. 

As he pits, he wonders where you're watching from, if you'll get to the Parc Ferme in time, or get to the barrier. It's cocky to think of, halfway through a race, but he can't help it. It's his home race; he might die if he loses, especially now that you're here. His mind drifts, as he takes off, wondering if he'll get to kiss you.

Then, as Lando gets back out on the track, weaving his way back to first, he lets himself wonder, just once, if this is the right decision. 

Because what if he did make a mistake? What if he screwed up? What if he messes up Milo? If he messes up what you have? He'd never forgive himself. A child is such a large commitment, and honestly, if he ignores Milo, a very hard task to do, you're a big commitment too. Lando's not sure what happened to you in the past, to leave you with Milo and no one else, but he couldn't fathom hurting you further, seeing you hurt at all.

God, if he fucked this up, he could never-

"Message for you, Lando." A voice cuts through his earphones as the worst of the thoughts spiral, giving him just enough of a branch to cling onto. 

"Mr. Norris?" Milo says, "There's a-what is it? Oh, there's rain expected in ten minutes." 

Lando has to suck in a breath to respond, his mind going blank. "Yeah?" 

"If you win, will you give the trophy to mum?" And there, on the Silverstone track, Lando realizes he could never screw up. 

Not with Milo or you on the line. Not with this. He might be young, and this might be new, but he knows he'd give everything up in a heartbeat to have this at every race. 

To have someone to give his trophies to, to have someone to come home to, to have you, and Milo. To have a happily ever after that didn't depend on a race car, or winnings. One that simply depended on you saying yes in a white dress someday. And, long before that, of you meeting him at the barrier after this race. "Of course, you muppet." 

-

When Lando wins, because of course Lando wins, Silverstone goes ballistic. It's the sort of celebration you'd never witnessed before, all the mechanics, all the orange staff, all the fans in the stands, they all erupt in cheers and hugs, a morphing, crushing mob that rushes towards Parc Ferme with a speed that forces you to pick up Milo to avoid him getting trampled.

"The trophy!" He says, smacking against your shoulders as you join the rush, jogging to keep up. "He promised you his trophy!"

"I think I'll keep it in the kitchen," You say with a soft laugh, taking off your earmuffs to let them hang around your neck, settling nicely against Lando's jumper. It might not be the prettiest of things to wear to an F1 race, but who else could say they were wearing Lando Norris's clothes when he won his home race? "We can serve pasta out of it."

"Or sweets!" Milo says, trying to get up out of your arms to see over the crowd as you approach. "Or apple juice!"

Lando stands on top of his car, and for a moment, you regret not keeping the earmuffs on, because the screams around you are deafening, your own included. It's the sweetest possible sound of victory, Lando jumping up on his car and shaking his fists in the air, a ball of energy that belonged there.

He makes his way around the crowd, throwing himself at mechanics and other staff, embracing family and friends, celebrating like he deserves to. As he takes off his helmet, you watch him pause, jumping up on the tips of his toes to try to scan over the crowd, and it's Milo who figures it out before you do.

"MR. NORRIS!" He screeches, startling the few people in front of you. They awkwardly shuffle to the sides to let you and Milo through, and Lando is instantly reaching for the boy, swinging him over the barrier and hoisting him on his shoulders.

It's the sort of view you don't think you could ever get tired of. In fact, it's the sort of memory you want burned into the back of your eyelids to see every time you blink, or sleep, or dream. It's Milo and Lando, matching suits and curls and grins, stretched from ear to ear. The crowd keeps chanting, hollering at the two of them, but all the noise sort of fades as you watch.

That, you think, is how you want Milo to look at a man, at someone who might be your partner. That's the kind of care you want your partner to have, holding Milo like his own, spinning around in circles as the cameras flash and the world applauds them. At least, you think, the world sees your boys as you do.

Absolutely perfect. Lando catches your stare as he ends his celebratory dance, stopping a few feet away as he watches you right back. And that smile, that ridiculous, contagious smile, only grows.

"I thought about it!" He has to shout, words barely heard as he approaches.

"What?" You ask, leaning against the railing to try and make out the meaning.

"I said," He repeats, ducking forward to hover just above you, "I thought about it."

His lips are on yours before you can even react. To some, it probably isn't the most pleasant kiss in the world, with the sweat and the heat and the crowd crushing in, but you find there's not a single thing you could ever complain about as your hands come up to cup his cheeks. It's Lando, in the clearest declaration you've ever seen, calling you his, in front of Silverstone, in front of everyone, in front of Milo, in front of you. It's not a soft thing over the back of the couch in a Spider-Man costume, but it's so much more real, heavy and yet somehow lightening all the weight on your shoulders, all the worries preying at the edge of your mind.

This is how it should feel when you kiss someone. This is how it feels when you know it'll last, when that love extends past you and into the boy resting on Lando's shoulders. It's how it feels when you know, and he knows, and there's nothing else to say about it. "You won!" You say against his lips with a smile, and he pulls back to practically cackle at you.

"I won!" Later, when you tell him there were tears in his eyes at this moment, he'll deny them, but you watch the way they shine, all that hard work and effort paid off. "I've got my good luck charms with me. Now you have to come to every race."

"Oh, we'll be there." Lando reaches over the railing to pull you somehow closer into him, bending his head to press a kiss to your cheek, and whisper something without the world to hear.

"Thank you," He says, almost choking on the words. "I'll make this work, I promise."

"I believe you, Lando." You say, and you'd say more, but the moment gets interrupted by a certain someone.

"Mr. Norris!" Milo says, pulling softly at Lando's hair. "You kissed my mum."

Lando freezes, realizing that, as much as you might be happy about this relationship, Milo might not be. "That okay?"

Milo thinks for a moment. "Can I get your trophy?"

"I'll give you all my trophies from now on," Lando says, letting the boy down and back into your arms. "Do we have a deal?"

"Deal." Lando laughs, a pure, bright thing, and heads back to do whatever it is he does after a race, and you let reality settle in. There are cameras, and people staring, and questions to be asked, but you find that they don't quite matter, because you can't stop grinning like an idiot.

This, you think, was how it should feel, being in love. 

It's the way your heart calms, watching Lando get up on that podium, accept his award, knowing he deserves it all and more. It's you screaming until your lungs are raw in celebration, watching him spraying champagne, holding his trophy high, beaming down at you.

It's the Lego trophy that's in Milo's hands mere minutes after it's given to Lando, who, in his post-race celebration, hoists the boy back up on his shoulders, looking more proud of the boy above him than he was to win. They match, in their outfits, and their trophies, and their smiles, and their curls, and the way you're so utterly smitten for both of them. 

It's the sort of joy you hope will never fade, and after it's all done, and the fans go home, and the energy wears off, you doubt it ever will, as you discover Milo and Lando passed out together in his little en-suite room. The man had insisted on coming over to read Milo a bedtime story, but it seems the two never got that far, the book still open in Lando's lap.

Without much thought to the action, you press a kiss to Lando's temple and Milo's forehead, close the book, and turn off the light. 

It's this sort of love you hope to experience every day for the rest of your life.

a/n: i tried so hard to balance cute and realistic in this one, so i really hope i did them justice <3 (also i rewrote the ending eight times.)

[sacr1ficialang3l]

𓉸 I'm bad, he's worse. 𓉸 (we're already dead)

SUMMARY: dean never thought he'd ever enjoy killing, until his dark queen showed up and made blood taste like a goddamn aphrodisiac—quite literally. 4.9k

WARNINGS: death!dean. smut (mdni). blood and gore. explicit violence. unprotected piv. disgusting sex. very literally. they're gross, and insane. mentions of cannibalism (i'm sorry). depictions of torture.

NOTES: take this offer as a late 800 followers celebration. ⛧playlist

Dean never expected to become a horseman.

He already had enough on his plate—being a hunter, Michael’s vessel, and apparently the chosen one to fight every single big bad villain and apocalypse that threatened the earth. He didn’t need to add another thing to the fucking list.

But then Sam had gone to the cage, and there were only two beings in this world who could save him. God, of course—and another creature just as ancient and powerful, if not more: Death.

Dean still had the ring, the small silver hoop burning in his pocket, calling to him. The Pale Horseman had never reclaimed the artifact, and Dean would be damned if he let such a valuable object out of his sight.

It was hard to decide whether he should use it or not. There was no guarantee the ring wouldn’t make him combust the moment he slid it on—or that it would summon Death, who would then make him combust. It was risky, dangerous, and, like everything he did, incredibly idiotic.

But there wasn’t a single thing in this world Dean wouldn’t do for his little brother.

So Dean Winchester—the boy who had died and come back more times than he could count—became Death.

He brought Sam back. Every part of him. His body, and heart, and soul. But when he tried to take off the ring—eager to get away from the electricity running through his veins, the hypnotic whisper of the shadows all around him—it wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard the brothers tried, no matter how many spells Bobby gave them or how much lube they used—

“Ew, Dean. Don’t you have something else we can use?”

“Do you wanna get this off me or not, Sammy? Suck it up. Plus, it’s blackberry flavored.”

“You’re so fucking disgusting.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk. Now stay still before I decide to just chop off your finger.”

It just refused to come off.

And Sam had, actually, tried to chop off his finger. They summoned Castiel—the angel reassuring them, “Yes, Dean. I will regenerate your finger if you decide to amputate it.”

So Dean had drunk almost half a bottle of whiskey in two long sips before placing his hand carefully over the wooden desk in Bobby’s study, forcing himself to stay stoic as Sam quickly lowered a machete toward his finger.

But before the blade could even make contact, Sam and everyone else in the room except Dean were flung across the space, slamming into the walls—a bright, pale halo of light erupting from the ring and shielding Dean from harm.

The next morning, the scythe appeared beside the guest bedroom at Bobby’s house.

It was obsidian black, and seemed to draw in the shadows, fog pooling around the heavy silver. When Sam tried to pick it up, he couldn’t move it an inch. Bobby tried, then Castiel, and then all three men at once. The fucking thing wouldn’t budge.

But the moment Dean wrapped his hand around the long handle, it felt as light as a feather.

So, just like he always does when weird shit happens to him, Dean took a deep breath, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and rolled with it. He picked up the scythe, went out into the salvage yard, and started to practice with his new abilities. He let the instinct in his chest—that same pale light burning inside of him—guide him. And because he’s Dean fucking Winchester, he got the hang of it in a few weeks.

Something had begun to settle in him—slow, relentless, vast. It wasn’t evil. It wasn’t even angry. It was ancient. Inevitable. Like frost creeping over glass, or flesh rotting under rich soil. It moved through him not with malice, but with purpose. And Dean realized, with a kind of reverent dread, that it was Death. Not just the concept—the force. As real and raw as the blood in his veins, as steady as the air in his lungs.

Everything that lives has to die. Everything that starts has to end. That’s the way it’s always been.

Death isn’t wicked. It isn’t cruel or violent. It simply is. It’s not punishment—it’s gravity. The final hush. The closing of a door. Eternal rest.

Dean doesn’t fight nature anymore. He doesn’t recoil at blood, or shy away from righteous violence. He doesn’t pretend he’s something he’s not. The shadow inside him has a name now, and he’s not afraid to speak it. He wears it like a second skin. Understands it down to the bone. It’s not heartlessness. It’s balance.

And whatever tattered, mortal understanding he once had of life and death—of right and wrong—has been torn wide open and replaced with something colder, older, and far more honest.

He doesn’t flinch when he kills anymore. He doesn’t hesitate. He knows.

And if the monsters used to be afraid of him… they should be fucking terrified now.

Yes, having to kill some people—the innocent ones, the sweet and pure ones—still makes him feel a little sick. And reapers aren’t exactly the best subordinates—always either too brown-nosing or defiant as fuck. And now Crowley thinks they’re coworkers or some shit. But this might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to Dean.

Because now Sam will never die again—and if he does, Dean will bring him back with a snap of his fingers. Because this power that he can’t even begin to describe—one that ignites every cell in his body and turns everything in him to light—means he’ll never feel insignificant and helpless again. Because now Dean can kill a whole fucking den of werewolves with a touch of his fingertips, not even bothering with silver. Because now he’s almost invincible. And finally, he has enough power to do more good than bad.

Because the scythe is fucking badass.

Because he had met you.

It’s another day at the office—no hunting today, just Death duties. Dean is going through a long list of people he has to touch and let die, wait for a reaper to show up and guide them to their resting place, and then repeat. It can get tedious sometimes, but he manages.

“No, no!” the guy in front of him screams, hands shaking and body curled in a small, pathetic ball against the brick wall of an old building.

In reality, it’s not. His body is still lying in that dank back alley, unmoving and slowly cooling. Dean can see it under the last few rays of sunlight, just a few feet away—the guy’s black suit and perfectly gelled hair, the bloodstain on his crisp white shirt already drying where it lies, right over his heart. His now-empty wallet—real leather, limited edition—thoughtlessly discarded beside the corpse.

A robbery gone wrong.

“Please, I have a daughter! Have mercy, please!”

Oh, how Dean hates it when they beg.

He’s just leaning in, ready to brush his fingers against the man’s temple and put him out of his misery, when everything suddenly stills.

“Wait.”

The air gets colder, and there’s suddenly a faint scent of black satin dahlias and clove—something citric like blood orange mixing with incense and graveyard dirt. The world around Dean darkens, and there’s a buzz under his skin that he can only describe as instinctual.

There’s a slow, deliberate tap of footsteps getting closer, and Dean sighs in apparent aloof resignation as he keeps staring down at the man—who now looks a hell of a lot more confused than scared—but there’s an undeniable flutter in his heart and a string of murderous affection tugging at his chest.

“What are you doing here, darlin’?”

That’s when you finally walk into view. Your skin glows like the moon, your dark hair framing your face like the midnight sky. There’s a wicked smile on your lips, and your black dress looks as if it’s made of shadows—hugging every curve of your body before melting into nothingness at the hem, showing off chunky black heels that make the ground shake with every step you take.

The flowers blooming from cracks in the asphalt darken around you—they don’t wither, they look more alive than ever, but their colors shift to deep shades of red and purple. You fix your gaze on the phantom of the man still trembling on the ground before turning to Dean, and he sees that unhinged glint in your dark, fathomless eyes.

“Are you not happy to see me, my love?” you pout, your words as sharp as knives and smooth as silk.

Dean gives you a deadpan look—one that keeps his Death image up for the public, but you know it really means, of course I’m happy to see you, gorgeous. But what the fuck are you doing here? 

Still, he leans in and kisses your cheek reverently.

You sigh, roll your eyes, and turn back to the man. Your lips reset into that crazed smile, and the poor guy shivers—both from fear and lust.

Dean doesn’t blame him. But he’ll kill him for it anyway.

“I’m here, my Lord—” Dean wants to roll his eyes at the nickname he’s told you to drop a hundred times, but he can’t deny the way it makes something inside him heat up. “—because I’m feeling… playful.”

You kneel in front of the guy, grinning as you pinch his chin between your thumb and pointer finger, studying his face with sadistic amusement.

You had first shown up one random day during Dean’s first week as Death.

It had been a normal day—a vampire nest cleaned out before doing some reaping. Dean had just been learning how to teleport without hurling into the nearest trash can, and he was sending off a reaper when the air stilled and that scent of grotesquerie and eroticism filled his nose. He turned around, scythe in hand, ready to slash you to bits.

But you just laughed, circled his dumbfounded form with confident, cheerful steps—and disappeared into the shadows again.

Ever since, you started showing up at reapings, hunts, and even in the backseat of Baby. You’re not a reaper, and none of Dean’s subordinates know who or what you are. At first Dean thought you’d be a problem—some maniac goddess trying to steal his position or simply cause chaos.

But he was wrong. Not completely—but still wrong.

You do live for the chaos, and you are maniacal and utterly insane, but you’re not after the Horseman job. You started helping on hunts, saving Sam’s ass more than once when Dean was too distracted trying to master his new powers. You’d occasionally help with research—spitting out half-assed facts before melting into the night. But mostly, you showed up to rile Dean up and then disappear with a cackle.

Between snarky remarks and teasing words, you taught Dean how to handle his abilities. You slid your hands up his arms, nails digging into his skin as you positioned his grip on the scythe. You whispered in his ear—glossy lips brushing his lobe—how to make a death fast and painless or slow and agonizing. You laughed at every insult he threw your way and replied with something just as venomous.

You liked to play with the dead—mostly the bad ones. Drawing shapes on their skin with knives, licking their splattered blood off your lips, threatening them with grotesque medieval tortures Dean had never even heard of—and he called you a monster for it every time.

But then, one day, Dean had been late for a reaping—too busy hooking up with some occult chick thrilled by the sight of his scythe—and he found you already there.

It was a little girl. Small, young, with dirty clothes and blue lips. She was malnourished, clearly neglected, and left for dead in the backyard of some filthy old trailer park. Her heartbeat was faint—even Dean could barely hear it—and he knew the body was just waiting for his touch to finally shut down. The spirit was nowhere to be seen. Probably scared. Hiding.

At first, Dean was afraid you were desecrating her corpse—but then he saw what you were doing. Your hand brushed her cold cheek delicately, and your lips moved in a silent prayer. A send-off. A blessing. All the dirt and bruises disappeared from the girl’s skin, her clothes freed of their tears, and her hollow cheeks filled out slightly.

You moved your hand again, and flowers bloomed all around her. Dark red and purple blossoms tangled in her curls, formed a bed beneath her. A bouquet grew between her hands, folded gently over her chest, and you leaned down to kiss her forehead before murmuring something in what sounded like an ancient dialect of Latin.

A second later, the phantom of the little girl appeared beside you, her sad gray eyes focused on your face. You picked a soft lilac flower—contrasting gently with the wine-colored blooms—and tucked it behind her ear before pointing at Dean.

The kid turned to him, and with one last encouraging nod from you, she approached. Dean offered a soft smile, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Immediately, her body gave out—and a reaper appeared to guide her away.

Dean stayed frozen, staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

You rose to your feet, your expression bittersweet but still formidable. You wouldn’t look at him directly. You stared down at the little girl’s body instead.

“I’m not the monster you think I am, Dean Winchester,” you muttered.

Then you vanished—only to reappear a week later in a Washington basement, studying the torture chamber of a psychopathic wraith Sam and Dean were hunting. You floated around the moldy room, picking up every ancient tool and laughing like a lunatic when the wraith (still alive) started sobbing the moment you suggested using them on him.

That day, Dean took in your devilish grin and felt nothing but twisted, macabre fondness. Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

“You know I don’t like when you interrupt reapings, doll,” he lies through his teeth.

He loves it when you show up. When you curl around his side as he sends off some poor soul. When you offer to help him relax after a hard day. Every time, his imposing façade crumbles, and he feels a little like Cerberus when his owner comes home. Suddenly, souls and duties and the natural order mean nothing—the only thing that matters is the swing of your hips, the press of your mouth, the gleam of your blade.

He tries to keep his nonchalant expression, but he knows he’d evaporate every ocean and implode every planet if you asked—if you looked at him with those starry eyes and your sharp teeth biting down on your lip.

You don’t even dignify his words with a response, still carefully studying the man in front of you. 

“Your guy here,” you murmur, gripping his jaw a bit harder, “doesn’t deserve a quick death.”

Dean sighs, rolling his eyes, but an enamored smile still creeps across his face. He was hoping this would be a quick gig—snatch the guy’s soul, hand it off to a reaper, then go home to fuck his girl on a bed of bones and velvet.

But he recognizes that look in your eyes. Whatever you’ve planned, it won’t be quick.

Dean’s eyes follow you carefully as you rise from the ground, the way one can’t keep their eyes off of a shooting star. And when you get within reach, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against him.

You giggle—and it would’ve made him smile if you didn’t immediately smack his hands away and step back. He grunts, reluctantly letting go.

You have him wrapped around your blood-stained finger.

“Our dear Isaiah was a supposed man of God, weren’t you, Isaiah?”

You circle Dean until you’re behind him, your hand crawling up his arm as you stare down the almost-dead man.

Isaiah nods frantically, pressing himself back against the wall, trying to escape your gaze.

“Yes! Yes, of course!”

Wrong answer, Dean thinks. Dumbass.

“But you had a special… appetite, didn’t you?”

Your face is tilted down, eyes hooded and seductive in that way he knows is only caused by bloodlust. Your lips settled in a pout, hand resting possessively on his shoulder.

Dean wonders how mad you’d be if he killed the guy now and teleported you to a motel.

Isaiah’s face pales, and he tries to run. Dean snaps his fingers—his eyes never leaving your gorgeous face—and the man is slammed back against the wall.

You laugh against Dean’s back, and it makes him smirk. You glance at him—eyes vicious and undeniably horny—then kiss him.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. Sudden, messy, violent. Your tongue slides into his mouth and Dean lets it. You taste like pomegranate and carnage. One of his hands leaves the scythe and grips your nape—but you pull away.

He growls, chasing your lips, but you just laugh and turn back to the guy.

Right. The guy. He’s supposed to be killing that guy.

The bastard looks more terrified than ever.

“Our boy here liked to sink his teeth into girls and consume them—quite literally.”

Dean’s brows raise. His eyes snap back to the man.

“P-please,” Isaiah begs. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me—”

“Is that how they begged, Isaiah?” you murmur, your grin as sharp and cruel as ever. “The girls you ate. Is that how they pleaded to go home? For you to stop?”

He sobs, you ignore it. But it all fades to nothing when your lips brush Dean’s ear.

“He deserves some punishment, don't you think, my Lord?” you whisper, like the snake whispering in Eve’s ear. “Let me make him bleed a little, hm?”

As if Dean could ever say no to you.

And you know it, you know just how irrevocably devoted he’s to you, because you don’t even wait for an answer. You already have your dagger. Dean just watches.

From there it’s laughter, slashes, bloodshed.

You carve him up like a banquet. Every slice accompanied by a wicked giggle. Every plea met with a kick of your heels. Every sob answered with a threat pulled from some unspeakable era.

His body will show no signs. But his soul will remember.

Dean stays back, observing like he’s watching the rise of a goddess—fascinated, bewitched, worshipful.

Your blood-splattered face is the most beautiful sight he’s ever witnessed, the way your tongue curls around every insult you callously throw at the cannibal is hypnotic, the way you lick your dagger clean after you're finished is the most erotic thing in this and every universe.

Dean doesn’t even flinch when your blade finally stops moving.

What’s left of Isaiah is unrecognizable—just a twitching, oozing echo of the son of a bitch he was. You stand over him, chest heaving, the blade slick with viscera and your eyes glassy with something holy. Or unholy. Maybe both.

“All done,” you whisper sweetly, wiping your knife on what’s left of his slashed-up tie.

Dean exhales, low and long. “You always make such a mess, darlin’.”

You turn to him slowly, your teeth and hands still stained crimson. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy the show.”

And he did. He thinks he never really understood desire until he saw you rip your way through a body like this.

But something in him wants more. Something deeper. Something filthy.

With deliberate slowness, Dean steps over the broken pieces of Isaiah and kneels beside the wrecked corpse. He presses two fingers to what used to be a chest, his hand ghosting over shattered ribs and pulped lungs. Then—

With a grin full of sin, he digs his hand into the man's chest cavity and rips out what’s left of his red, mutilated heart. It's barely hanging together, still warm and dripping between Dean’s fingers.

Your chest heaves, and your pupils dilate until all Dean can see is black.

“Oh,” you mutter, eyes wide and shining like a dying star, “do it again.”

Dean’s head tilts back with a laugh that sounds like thunder and hunger. He swiftly gets up from the asphalt—then crushes the heart in one hand.

You lick your lips slowly, lewdly, and take a few slow steps toward him.

Your hand finds his waist, then slides down, further south until you grip his clothed cock. Hard, rabid, almost painful.

“Have I corrupted you enough that killing makes you hard now, my Lord—?”

A snarl is torn from his throat, and then he’s shoving you against the wall, your heel digging right into the man’s eye socket.

Dean’s hands are everywhere on you—your thighs under your shadow dress, squeezing your perfect fucking tits, wrapping around your neck. His tongue digs into your mouth, tasting nothing but metallic and you. His teeth bite down onto your lip until your blood mixes with Isaiah’s between your tongues, and he moans at the taste, his hands ripping your dress half-off until it’s nothing but a bunch of magic fabric bunched around your waist.

You’re not wearing anything underneath, of course.

His touch is brutal—but you’re right there beside him. You pull at his hair until he groans, your hand cups his jaw until his face is smeared with blood and gore, your long nails leave angry red lines all over his chest as you tear his black long-sleeve shirt open.

In a smooth movement, Dean’s hands slide under your thighs, and he pulls you up until your legs wrap around his hips and he has you completely entrapped between his body and the brick wall.

“This,” he presses his clothed cock against your bare cunt—glistening under the slowly rising moon, fucking dripping with need. It makes you throw your head back, and Dean takes the opportunity to fill your long neck with his teeth marks. “Isn’t because of him, doll. This is all because of you.”

You moan, crashing your lips together again. Your hand finds his pants and quickly unbuttons them with the expertise that only comes from being in this same exact position almost every day.

You pull his dick out, fisting it with such ferocity Dean hisses. “Always so fucking hard for me, baby,” you laugh against his lips, sharp and almost mean in a way that makes him twitch. You start to move your hand up and down, the slide wet with the man’s blood. “Fuck, I need your cock inside of me.”

Dean grunts, his chest stuttering with how bad he wants it. It doesn’t matter how many times he fucks you—it feels like paradise every time. His movements are desperate as he aligns his dick with your entrance, and you laugh—arrogant and downright pornographic.

But it’s quickly turned into a moan when Dean buries himself all the way to the hilt with one swift thrust, your head thrown back with a loud bang against the wall, your nails digging into his shoulders—deep enough to draw blood.

“Fuck, Dean. You’re so fucking big,” you moan, your lips wrapping around the words obscenely.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, hips pistoning against you with feral frenzy. His head gets fuzzy at the way you feel around him—so fucking warm, so goddamn tight. His lips latch onto one of your nipples, one of his hands finding the other, rolling it between his fingers. He sucks and bites devotedly, leaving purple bruises all over your sweet skin. His.

“So deep, Dean—I can feel it in my fucking soul.”

When Dean looks up at you, your eyes are rolled back in your head. Your mouth is parted open, and when Dean slides his fingers—previously wrapped around Isaiah’s heart—between your lips, you mewl and start sucking all the blood off like it’s the sweetest of elixirs.

Your tongue brushes his ring, the one that marks him as a Horseman, and you grin at the taste of silver. At the taste of Death.

“You like it, darlin’?” You nod, throat contracting around his long fingers. Dean keeps his ruthless pace, the sound of his hips slapping against your thighs echoing through the alleyway. “You fucking love it when I fill you up? When you can feel me in here?”

His hand moves from your mouth to your stomach, pressing. It makes you gasp, spine shooting up. Dean presses harder, and you spasm around him in a way that makes him groan. Your whole body shakes with the force of your climax, and your smart mouth is fucking useless as it hangs open, drool dripping down your chin.

It’s then that a reaper shows up. Dean can barely feel their presence over the way you’re wrapping around his cock, fucking dripping like crazy, the little noises leaving your mouth the most beautiful song he’s ever heard. He fucks you through your orgasm, not paying his subordinate any mind, and it’s goddamn sacred.

The reaper doesn’t say anything, only stares for a second too long at the crude scene—their boss and his lover, slick with sweat and blood and viscera, fucking like rabid animals—before dragging what’s left of Isaiah away quietly.

You laugh at the sight—breathless, but still fucking wicked. Dean’s thrusts become erratic, pounding into you like sin. He can’t keep his eyes off of you—your sharp teeth glistening with blood, your eyes glossed over and dark, your hair all messed up and cheeks flushed, your perfect body under his hands. It’s too much. You’re too perfect. And Dean craves you.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he grunts, licking a stripe from your collarbone to your jaw. You taste ambrosial. “Prettiest fuckin’ sight when you’re all fucked out. My perfect little psycho.”

Every thrust is so deep that he’s pretty convinced he’s hitting your cervix—hitting that spongy, glorious spot inside of you every time. It’s almost too much. The way you kiss him—all tongue, spit, and blood. The way your heels dig into his ass, pulling him impossibly closer. The way you whisper against his lips.

“Fill me up, my love. Make me yours. Mark me inside and out.”

Dean growls, cock throbbing inside your raw cunt. His fingers find your clit, rolling the small nub between his calloused fingertips. You cry out, loud and sanguineous, and you come again. You bite down on his neck, cunt spasming around Dean’s cock, thighs trembling around his middle.

Dean can’t hold back anymore, and with one last roll of his hips that leaves him nestled right against your insides, he lets go. His cock twitches as he fills you up, painting your walls with hot, thick cum.

You mewl at the sensation, clenching around him, sending shockwaves down his spine and making him hiss. He wraps a hand around your throat, squeezing slightly in warning. Don’t.

You look at him through hooded eyes, skin glistening under the moonlight and that godforsaken smug smirk. What are you gonna do about it, my love?

Nothing. He would do absolutely nothing. Because you could stab him with one of your many knives, and he’d throw himself further down the blade just to be a little closer to you.

Still inside of you, refusing to pull away from your warmth, Dean nuzzles into your neck. You smell like blackberries and red roses and vice. He kisses over every bruise, he licks over the blood now drying on your skin, and he chases your lips like a feral dog chasing a bone.

“I adore you,” he murmurs against your bloody teeth, keeping you rightfully plastered against his chest. And your expression softens up. “You’re the best goddamn thing that has ever happened to me.”

Dean loves every version of you—the unhinged psycho killer, the ungodly sex goddess, the melancholic dark angel. But this one has to be his favorite.

When Dean says just the right thing—when he compliments a part of you you consider way too rotten, when he notices the small things you try to hide from everyone, when he makes you feel loved, actually loved—you melt.

Like right now, when your cheeks flush underneath all the gore, and your eyes turn almost heart-shaped, and you hide your face against his chest because you don’t like being vulnerable like this.

Still, Dean knows. Still, Dean loves you.

“Just take me home, my love,” you murmur against his naked chest, before biting the skin there—right over his beating heart. “We can wash this asshole’s blood off of each other, and then I’ll suck your soul out of your fucking body.”

Dean laughs, pressing you harder against him with one arm as the other reaches for his scythe. He starts summoning his powers, willing them to take you home—or what Dean eloquently calls his own personal Batcave.

Dean knows you could just teleport yourself with your powers—you’ve been using them a lot longer than Dean. You could be snuggled in bed in the blink of an eye. But you’ve told Dean you like when he does it.

“It feels like we’re melting into the shadows—melting into each other, intertwined together.”

You played with his fingers as you spoke that night, fidgeting with his ring as you two lay in bed.

“I like when I can’t tell when I end and you begin.”

Dean almost cried that day. Instead, he fucked you so hard you passed out—which is basically impossible, with your powers and all.

“La petite mort,” you grinned up at him minutes after, boneless and satiated, eyes shiny with adoration. “Parfaite pour mon roi de la mort.”

So yeah, maybe Dean doesn’t know why you even know French. He doesn’t know the extent of your powers, or even exactly what you are.

But he knows who you are.

And that’s all he needs—to know he’d follow you to the deepest pits of the underworld. To know he’d fucking die with you. Die for you. Kill for you.

To know that he loves you.

His beautiful fucking psychopath.

NOTES: this is for all my perverts out there, I love you all<3. I still cannot write smut for the life of me, but pls appreciate the fact that i'm trying. I know this isn't an amazing celebration for 800 followers but I wanted to at least ut something out. Thank you for all your love and support, I ADORE you guys<3

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @mimiimmii @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[harpsinfinity]

OPPOSITES ATTRACT - PART III

→fratboy!jock!Chris X nerdy!reader (afab, fem)

CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III (current)

→ After getting a small glimpse of Chris' softer side, you start noticing his presence lingering more often. Although things quickly get heated when you call him out for his behaviour.

→ other characters featured in this chapter: Claire Redfield, Jill Valentine, Leon Kennedy & Piers nivans.

→ taglist: @cassiecasluciluce

→ notes: a warning of bullying reader (from Chris, I'm sorry it needs to get worse before it gets better)

→ word count: 2.8k

→ THEMED PLAYLIST

Ever since the last rugby practice you were forced to attend, you'd begun to notice Chris' presence.

Outside of practice.

And almost every time he'd spare you a quick glance— just as you expected— passing you if you were nothing more than a stranger. Though you'd notice that was when he had his usual flock of cocky jocks and giggly cheerleaders were around.

But every once in a while he'd spare a second to say hello. It was quick, but it was a surprise. This often happened when he was by himself, it had you wondering if he put up a front whenever he was around his friends.

And there would be times where the moment would drag out longer, especially if Claire or Jill were with him. They'd always have something to talk to you about, whether it was any assignments due or normal small talk.

Occasionally Chris would have some input, it was like he was different around them. Less cocky and arrogant.

It was actually quite nice. Though you still had your heart locked tight for the occasion Chris would try something he should with you. — to play you like you were some gullible cheerleader— you weren't going to let yourself be added to that list.

. . .

Today was another similar to that.

The familiar sound of your locker clicking shut rang through your ears. You were collecting the textbooks you needed for your upcoming lesson, just minutes away from the bell ringing.

This meant the hallways were empty, the perfect time to get your things. It was a routine; get there before everyone else and promptly arrive early to your class.

That was going according to plan, until you heard a voice. One that was recognisable to you. A call of your name and a wave.

You turned around and the two familiar girls came into view. The ponytail and red jacket,the other girls swept to the side bob.

Jill and Claire.

“Hey Jill, Hey Claire.” You greet them, a small smile on your lips. You were never short with them, you didn't have to be.

“Hi.” Jill returned, a gentle expression on her features.

“We just wanted to stop by,” Claire spoke up, her cheerful demeanor unchanging. “We've got the same class together!”

Claire and you shared the same class together, English. Jill didn't though.

“Oh yes, we do.” you reply, holding your books against your chest.

She nods, a smile on her face “yeah, so let's get going. I know you like to be early!”

You hide the coy smile that plays on your lips, Claire always remembers the little tidbits of information you'd drop every so often.

“Alright, let's go” you add, watching Claire say her goodbyes to Jill. The two of you now walking down the hallway together, which was now slowly starting to fill up now that every student's lessons was probably seconds away from starting.

. . .

“Alright class, please open up your text books to page 38.”

The teacher droned on. Even though you were at the top of your class, you really couldn't help but be bored during the lesson.

Sure, Shakespeare was interesting.

If it was your first time reading one of his works.

You'd seen his plays so many times you knew the lines like the back of your hand. And you knew you were going to ace the test, so why pay attention?

You hear a ‘psst’ come from next to you, turning your head to see Claire trying to get your attention. You were too bored not to indulge in a small distraction.

“Hey, I heard you're the first aid for the rugby team this semester?”

Oh. That was what she wanted to talk about. Your position as a makeshift nurse was something you were trying to forget about, not talk about.

“Yes, not willingly though. One of my professors recommended me to the coach for the position.” you replied in an equally hushed tone to Claire's.

Your face makes it obvious to her that you weren't exactly happy with the outcome of your situation.

“I feel for you, I wouldn't want to be around my brother that much either, and I have to see him everyday.” she joked, a playful expression on her face.

You huffed, a small grin on your lips as you propped your face upon the heel of your palm.

“He told me you helped him out last week, when he hit his head real hard.”

“Just doing my job.” you reply with a sense of sarcastic enthusiasm.

Claire hides a snicker, not to alert the teacher during their monotonous lecture.

“Seriously though, thank you,” She had a tone of gratitude towards you.

“For taking care of my brother as well as putting up with him.”

“No worries, it is my job after all.”

She flashes you another quick smile,

“The team's next practice is this afternoon, right?”

You nod, confirming her question.

“Well, good luck. The competition is coming up so they're trying extra hard. Might mean more injured soldiers for you.”

You almost grimaced at the thought, having to tend to so many injured players as if you were their personal Florence Nightingale.

“Thanks, I'll need it.” You exhaled, pushing up your falling glasses with your index finger.

And with that, the both of you returned just in time to catch the end of the teacher's lesson.

The bell rang shortly after.

“Class is dismissed, good job today.”

. . .

After returning your things to your locker and swapping it for your medical kit, you started to make your way outside. Preparing yourself to deal with whoever got injured.

How were you preparing for this? By walking to the sports block as slowly as possible. Maybe, just maybe, if you dragged your feet slowly enough you'd miss the entire game and the coach would be so furious that you didn't show up that they'd pick someone else as first aid.

You regretted that decision as quickly as you decided it.

You're attention being directed to the two people just up ahead of you; Chris and the cheer captain.

It was obvious she was infatuated with Chris, happy to have his attention. While it was even more obvious that he was just using her. Another girl in his system of Hook, Line and Sinker.

“C'mon pretty girl, don't go yet” He begged, arms wrapped around her waist as she giggled and gave into his affections so quickly.

“Chris, I've got class!” She had a giddy expression.

‘poor girl’ was all you could think. She thought it was going somewhere. You'd give it a week before Chris got bored and dumped her like the asshole he is.

You were glad you didn't catch them sucking faces, or you'd have been sick.

After what seemed like eternity, they parted ways. Chris watched her strut away with a over confident smirk.

You prayed that ‘love’ like that would never come your way.

As if to make matters worse, Chris then noticed your presence not far from him.

“smarty pants!” He darted by your side, purposly bumping into you with his shoulder just to annoy.

“i see you have the cheer captain wrapped around your finger.”

you spoke, the tone of irritation and contempt barley hidden. As much as you needed to bit your tongue, you couldn't. His actions really struck a nerve.

“Don’t tell me you're jealous.” He goaded, a toothy grin flashed your way.

That seemed to snap something inside of you. Making you want to push further and really get under his skin how he got under yours.

“Jealous? Jealous of what? Being used and then tossed away when I'm not longer entertaining enough for you?”

Your tone began to border on anger, anger for all the girls who'd fallen under his spell.

Chris scoffed, rolling his eyes as he took began to feel irritation. He'd never have someone question him like this; he didn't like it.

“Oh please, a little bookworm like you would be lucky for that kind of attention from me. Infact, you're lucky I'm even walking beside you right now”

Your jaw ticked, features scrunching up in clear digust and vexation.

“Lucky?! If I'm lucky for anything I'm lucky to not be so gullible as the girls you choose to mess around with!”

Chris growled in frustration, shoving you by your shoulder and swiftly planting a hand on your chest to shove you against the nearby array of lockers, your medical kit slipping from your hand and clattering onto the floor with a metallic thud.

It was quick enough that it happened before you could even process he was touching you, let alone being rough. It knocked the air out of your lungs.

“I know your type: bullied, quiet, always keeping to themselves and abiding by the rules.” He bared his teeth as his fingers gripped the soft material of your cardigan.

Your own teeth were bared, your form now slightly disheveled from Chris' actions.

“And I know yours: stuck up, popular only because of their looks. You put up a front to cover up and justify your bad actions!”

The scowl Chris had didn't budge, slamming you against the lockers once more and bringing his face dangerously close to your own.

“Let me give you some advice; keep your mouth shut before you land yourself in a world of trouble.”

And with that, in a surge of anger, he gave you a final rough push against the hard locker and snatched your glasses off you. Rendering your vision blurry as he tossed them far down the hallway.

“Go fetch, smarty pants.” He sneered before sauntering off.

Your heart was pounding. Throughout your time of receiving harsh treatment at school, it never seemed to get any better. You'd still feel the fear, the dread building up in your stomach.

The sting of tears in the corners of your eyes.

But you had to stay strong, blink away the tears and keep your head up.

Now you had the task on your hands of searching for your lost glasses. And paired with your poor vision it was sure to be a challenge.

. . .

By the time you'd found them, they were scuffed up and scratched from skidding across the floor. You could still see with them, but multiple scratches got in the way. They'd have to wait until you could get a new pair.

You certainly didn't like Chris, especially now you'd seen his true colours.

It was crystal clear that your words had gotten to Chris, someone was calling out his behaviour for once. You'd affected him and he was frustrated by it, and you just happened to be the nearby source for the outlet of his frustrations.

Maybe, in some way you'd gotten through to him.

. . .

The door to the locker rooms slammed open, revealing Chris’ tense and angry form stomping through.

“What's gotten into you, man?” Piers comments, immediately noticing his friends attitude.

Chris shook his head, gritting his teeth.

“That little fucking nerd,” he hisses “not as quiet as she looks.”

“What did she say?”

“Saw me with the cheer captain and decided to give me a piece of her mind.” He rolled his eyes, lip curling in vexation when he looked back on the whole thing.

He all but ripped open his locker, pulling out his gear for practice.

How his temper flared up when he shoved you into that locker, holding your cardigan tight enough until his knuckles turned white.

All Chris could tell himself was that you deserved it, you fucked around and found out.

“Seriously? What did you do?”

“Gave the little overachiever a piece of my mind.” He huffed, shoving his jersey over his head.

“As you should.”

Chris grunted in agreement, coming to his helmet as he held it in his hands.

Looking at the crack along its front, from when you'd helped him the other week. It made his expression soften the most miniscule amount.

Remembering your advice, your treatment of the concussion he had.

How you were almost like a breath of fresh air for him. Just for a second, — a little pause— he wondered if it was worth it. Treating girls the way he did.

Wait, no. What was he thinking? You weren't right, and you certainly deserved his treatment of you earlier.

Chris Redfield was a player, a heartbreaker. He didn't soften for nerds with stupid pink glasses and an honoury in every class.

. . .

He wasn't shocked when you didn't turn up to watch over the practice match. The coach mentioning that you told him you suddenly fell sick.

It didn't bother him, it wasn't supposed to. He just kept playing, to get better for the upcoming competition.

“Hey, where's first aid?” Leon inquires to Chris, coming up beside him before the match was about to start.

“Had too much to say, so I scared her off” Chris replied with much arrogance and smugness.

Leon had a look underneath the heavy helmet that Chris couldn't see, he wasn't fond of his answer to the question.

Leon knew about his player behaviour, but couldn't bring himself to call out his friend. He guessed you did what he couldn't and got poor treatment.

The blaring whistle of the coach rang through the field, followed by a:

“Start!” Yelled by the coach.

With everyone in position they started the game.

Throughout the game, people got injured. More of them had to sit on the sidelines because first aid wasn't there. The team was losing.

Deep down, Chris knew it was his fault. He was too caught up in his ego to realise how his actions affected others. And now, it was affecting something he cared about; his sport and the team.

When you were around, as reluctant as you were, you were on it. As soon as someone got injured you were there with whatever they needed.

Ice packs, bandages, water, even antiseptics if needed.

A small seed of guilt borrowed its way into his stomach. A seed Chris decided to bury deep enough into the depths of the emotions that he could forget.

He'd kept up his reputation for so long, he wasn't going to let it all spill over now.

. . .

Meanwhile, after composing yourself you holed yourself up in your usual corner of the library. Your head stuck in your textbooks once more.

You just kept yourself busy, reading until your eyes hurt and writing notes until it felt like every muscle in your wrists were tense and spasming.

You were doing everything in your power to forget what happened. Usually you managed to keep your composure, but it shook you. Chris shook you.

The flaming anger that bore into his eyes in the moment seemed to bore into your own memory. The right grip he had on your cardigan, how you were worried he might rip the fabric. He'd mange to stretch the knitted fabric from how tightly he held it in his fist.

A reminder of the event.

You buried your head in books until the final bell of the day went off, forcing you to leave the temporary safe haven of the library.

You quickly carried yourself down the corridor, not wanting to encounter that asshole again, bag secured— and full of books— on your shoulder.

Though you quickly felt someone's presence by your side, making you tense up.

“Hey.” The person spoke, watching as you visibly relaxed to find out if was Leon.

“Hi.” You choked out, voice wavering.

“I know what happened earlier, I saw it.”

He saw it? What happened between you and Chris? Your eyes were wide with disbelief and worry.

He must have been here to give you an earful, a part two to earlier.

“Let me apologise on his behalf, I know what he's been doing.” Leons voice was neutral, but it soothed you a little. Doused the fire of anxiety burning within you.

“I know you must have been scared, Chris is an intimidating guy. But someone had to call him out for his bullshit.”

You were rendered speechless. Leon was on your side, he agreed with you that Chris' behaviour wasn't acceptable.

“I guess..Someone had to say something.”

“Yeah, you've done what I couldn't.”

You nod, looking ahead of you with your eyes trained on the doors Infront as you moved.

“I think you've gotten through to him.”

“I…I have?”

“Yeah, only because he noticed how the team was falling behind without you. You're a huge asset to us.”

Leons words resignated within you, knowing that you were infact appreciated within the team. Even if if was silent.

“Come to the next practice. We need you with us.”

Claire's words from this morning echoed in your mind:

‘The competition is coming up so they're trying extra hard. Might mean more injured soldiers for you’

The team needed you, and you weren't there for them.

The breath you were taking was stuck in your lungs. The fear of Chris struck you. But, these people depended on you.

You never got anywhere by wallowing in your fears, only facing them head on.

“I'll be there.”

[rosesonbreeze]

"I know you do, baby. I'd be surprised if you didn't." Because Aiden may be aloof to some, cool to most. But where it counts, he's perhaps the most loyal and impassioned. Bravery begat by a heart that cares, that's who Aiden is. Yet, she'd be remiss not to catch that word of worry. Her finger in the spot between his brows, a reassuring look. "Nothing's getting between us. You, Fitzgerald, are stuck with me. Hot bum and all." Anna gives it a little twerk, his palm still flush against her. Not as good as Aiden's moves, but she'll just have to add it to their training list.

"Pub? I want my parents to meet Esther." The tough-as-nails, sixty-something bartender from Northern England who can talk about Chelsea and molding the future generation. The perfect new friend of her football-loving father and workaholic mother. "Plus, maybe we can leave them there. Make it round two and three." Just enough to make it happen for them, without completely exhausting Aiden.

"Let's get you back out there." But first, she kisses him. Long and certain, not looking for more than just to be. A playful tug on his ear as she pulls away. Aiden's hand in hers, walking back through the tunnel they once stormed through. "You got this." One last kiss for good luck and measure, waiting a beat before she turns back. Stopping when she hears another set of doors open. It's Leo, sweat on his forehead and clearly in the middle of another fit.

Christ -- it's a wonder the team gets anything done.

He stops, and it occurs to her; it's the very first time since their break up that they've been alone. No press or crowds to play up for. History and resentment, wrapped up into a sour taste in her mouth. Except, Anna feels... Well, nothing but contempt and pity. Before he can fill the silence with false charm, or indignant rage masquerading as a 'wounded star player.' She finds herself speaking first, interrupting his parted lips and sleazy eyes;

"You don't have to say anything, Leo." Anna speaks up, and whether she means the last few years or the latest in cruel comments. It's all the same, isn't it? "I'll just assume it's more of the same." And before he can get another word in, she's already walked away. Back to the important things - her family in the stands, and her man on the pitch.

"Nah," he shakes his head, "not always." And he doesn't just mean to call Leo a Giant Ass Loser. Sure, it's the cold, hard truth, but the deeper reality is that, "He doesn't win where it matters the most."

His face might be plastered all over London and the rest of the world, but don’t most of those images end up torn and washed away into the gutters? It’s the same as with the team, a bond forged with blood, sweat and tears— yet he walks in with a paid entourage and leaves every practice alone. Aiden knows for a fact that the old group chat without Leo gets far more replies than the one with. Then there’s the other part that Aiden would argue is the most important. It’s right there in his hands.

Literally.

“I want to do it for you.” Plain and simple, plus a gentle squeeze for good measure. Anna is at the very list of what Leo can’t have, and every reason why is also at the top of what makes him so pathetic. Still, Aiden would be remiss not to add, “I’m doing it for me, too. For everyone.” Because there’s far more at stake than what a record-breaking deal can cover.

"I'm not gonna let him ruin a good thing." Chelsea's record this season and its hard-earned, golden reputation... And most importantly, this. The way Aiden slides his hands forward and wraps his arms around Anna, how he pulls her into an embrace and holds her firmly. Anyone else might say it’s a strange sight, seeing The Robot be so affectionate, so vulnerable, but it’s the hardline truth that Anna brings out the unseen parts of him. Such as,

“Sexy enough to guarantee ‘round two’ tonight?” It’s a joke. But also maybe not. He definitely won’t complain if ‘it’ happens. “You sure you guys don’t need anything else?” One palm slides back to that ‘happy spot’ from earlier. “You’re right that this’s the perfect temp.” He’ll stay on it for just a little longer. Wouldn’t want her getting cold. “Still gotta figure out dinner plans. I dunno if you feel confident enough to flex that pasta recipe we saved, or if you wanna show ‘em the pub.”

[powerfulkicks]

so many tips for budgeting/being frugal are just twice as hard when you have a disability

"meal plan!" idk if i'll be feeling well enough to cook every day so it's hard to plan for what to eat

"cook in advance!" i can't cook meals for a whole week at once and plus i can't count on that because again idk if ill feel okay to cook at the same time every week

"use cloth napkins and towels!" those need to be washed and folded, i already have trouble doing my laundry

"delivery is expensive, always shop in person!" going to the grocery store can wipe me out for the day.

"base your food shopping on whats on sale that week!" one, allergies are a thing and some people don't have that luxury, two, that's a lot that you have to prep for and that takes energy.

"DIY!" takes time and energy. maybe i could do it by myself but would it be worth all the time i need to take to recover?

i mean none of these are bad ideas or trying to exclude people. most of it is cutting out conveniences. but for disabled people, something that's a convenience for someone can be a necessity to others

[bleue-flora]

Thought in light of my playlist with all of the Tommy lore, (btw if I missed anything let me know and I’ll try to find and add it) I’d also share all the playlists I have saved that could be useful to people watching lore or making their own playlists. There are also some other ones on my channel that you can check out if you want to, some of which I’m still working on (marked *). I have also posted lore resources before [here] and [here], which mention people like @spit-bite-glitch and @Wishdreamerx on youtube who have playlists by month.

{Also, I am trying to put together a dream playlist, which since he mostly doesn't have his own pov and sticks his head into everything, is quite a challenge, so if you are currently going through lore or something and come across the green boy it would be a big help if you would let me know, no need to provide time stamps or anything just a link, or even like just informing me of maybe some smaller lore you know he shows up in. I'd really appreciate it<3}

Timeline Playlist Links:

<> - <> - <> - <> - <> - <>

Anyways, this one is probably one of if not the best playlists I found. It does a pretty thorough job and includes lots of povs, it is understandably missing a few small things, but it’s really good and can definitely help you get a good view of the timeline too:

Characters:

Awesamdude - <> - <>

Sam Bucket*

Badboyhalo - <>

Dream*

DreamXD*

Eret

Eryn

Foolish - <>

Fundy

George

Michaelmicchill - <>

Niki

Philza

Ponk

Puffy

Punz* - <> - <>

Purpled

Quackity

Ranboo - <> - <>

Sapnap

Seapeekay

Skeppy - <>

Techno

Tommy

Tubbo - <> - <> - <> - <>

Wilbur - <> - <>

Arcs:

Disc Saga

War for Independance

Exile

Egg - <> - <>

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DSMP Map Coordinate Archive

[devilscheck]

A steady gaze to him as he put his fingers into his mouth, teeth ran over her bottom lip. There was a heat of envy, the desire to feel and taste him between her own lips that she knew wasn't the focus at the moment, another thing to add to the ever growing list of things to experience together. That idea was a lucky one too, to feel SO comfortable with someone nothing felt embarrassing or hard to articulate. It only made moments like this all the better, learning and putting into ACTION what the other one wanted so easily.

An immediate moan dropped from her lips to the way he felt against her thigh, the feeling of his marks only made the growing heat inside of her grow. The way his lips felt against her, whether pressed to her own or skin, always dizzied her. It made her head become clouded by a growing LOVE for him she couldn't speak so easily out loud. He had to be able to tell in somehow, especially in her attempted hush noises.

"Andy-" a gasp of his name escaped her, the notion to stay quiet began to falter the moment she felt his tongue. Her hand shifted to find an anchor in his hair, twisted fingers lightly pulled onto brunette locks. There was no mistaking the way he could take direction well, a fact Jennifer had learned the night they met. That was yet another reason she felt an undeniable pull to him, to be seen and heard so easily without question, a want she had for as long as she could remember.

"Just like that," another moan, louder than the last. The hums that escaped him only brought on another wind of pleasure, the added heat of his breath building up the sensation of his tongue. Naturally, her hips began to rock slowly to his own rhythm, one leg moved ever so slightly to rest her heel on his shoulder. "You're doing so good, baby." words to assure him as she caught his gaze, fingers tightened in his hair before her head dropped back.

"Show me I'm yours-" she breathed out, tone airy compared to the confidence she had before. So easily she could find herself unravelling around him, the walls she had for everyone else came tumbling down. "Try spelling your name with your tongue."

"Sounds like a complaint," he utters. It's her own fault for teaching him how to properly use his hands on her. She had planted that seed on the first night together, multiple seeds in fact. How to use his hands, how good it feels to be instructed, how arousing it is to receive praise for doing such a good job and make her feel as good as she looks. All of which would never be on his mind- not specifically- if she hadn't been so comfortable their first night together. He can't be faulted for wanting to use every trick at his disposal to make his girlfriend feel good.

Kiss returns, moves down to her cheek and neck as he pulls her into his chest tighter, fingers rest splayed in her hair as he moves precise. Slowly, the begins to regain ability to speak and once she does, heat wells in him with each new instruction. Slow nods, simply listening to what she has to say, how she prefers it done. The picture she paints so vividly- ice cream, that dripping, sweet metaphor it was- walks him through it perfectly.

Fingers are removed from her slowly, brought to his own lips for a taste as eyes rest on hers, and without so much as a word, he falls back to his knees before her. Heart had lulled, but quickly it returns to the mile a minute speed the close her got to her. Easing in, his arms come beneath her thighs, hook to splay fingers over her stomach to keep her close- something he'd seen done in porn, and assumes it's proper protocol. Perhaps even the most comfortable. It certainly is for him.

His head cants , lips press kisses to her thighs, tongue runs line up skin before teeth catch in a little bite. As promised before, lips seal to the softness of inner thighs, teeth gentle in leaving love bite after bite scattered over pale skin. Small moans as he does so, enjoying it just as much as she should, favoring right side up until his head is burried deep between her.

Moment of nerves flood him, but to stand now would be more embarrassing than to not try at all. With her instruction, he's certain it's clear, but overthought could potentially kill the joy that the idea brought him.

Where you hand is... not to hard; not too quick.

And so he tongues, tongue meets her, taste just as good directly as she does on fingers. Slow, focused movements just as instructed, gentle runs of tongue mimicking hand- and getting in to the rhythm proves easier than he had assumed. It's a great thing he did not overthink this, or he would be punishing himself. Involuntary hums leave his throat, rumble against her skin as he helps himself to move closer with eyes hazed in lust flitting up to her face to ask ━ am I doing good?

[cacodaemonia]

is it just me, or is anyone else sick of all the new SW shows being about how the space fascists have a point, actually? 😑

[marlynnofmany]

Monkey Chase

I stepped off the loading ramp and got a good view of the reason why we’d landed in the wrong part of the spaceport. A giant cargo hauler lay on its side, broken and bent — had a ship crashed into it, or had the engine exploded? I couldn’t tell from here — and large slabs of spaceship insulation gel sprawled everywhere. The hauler’s cargo, clearly. As I watched, three people with a hovercart tried to shove one aside to no effect, and another slab as big as a cross-section from my old apartment on Earth slowly peeled off from inside the remains of the hauler. It hit the ground with the squishiest thud I’d ever heard - the thing was the color of smoke, but dense enough to make the ground vibrate from here.

I whistled, then regretted it when the tentacle alien on the ramp beside me scrunched up at the sound. “Sorry,” I told Mur.

“Ow,” he said, uncurling his blue-black tentacles. “Was that a human swear? It’s sharp.”

“More of a ‘wow-look-at-that’ kind of noise,” I said. “But swearing would sure be appropriate. What a mess.”

“You said it. Glad it’s not our problem.”

Captain Sunlight came down the ramp to join us, regal as ever in the bright yellow scales that had given her the name. “Our client isn’t answering,” she said. “I’ve put in a request at the local medcenter to see if they’ve been injured in this crisis, but haven’t heard back yet. Anyone interested is welcome to join me in walking over to where their ship was meant to be parked.”

Three other crewmates followed her out of the ship: Blip and Blop in their flowiest silks that both matched their fin colors and also showed off their biceps, and Zhee with his purple exoskeleton as shiny as always. They all made quiet noises of dismay at the state of the spaceport.

(Well, Blip and Blop seemed dismayed. Zhee was looking down his nonexistent nose at whoever had been careless enough to cause such a mess.)

Mur waved a tentacle. “Lead the way,” he said to the captain. “Here’s hoping the ship isn’t buried under all that.”

“Yeah, it looks heavy,” I said as we moved out. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a little ship could be crushed under that, especially if it also took damage from whatever kaboom happened in the first place.”

As we got closer, I made several observations in a range of importance. A medical shuttle was zipping off toward the city center while another appeared to be waiting around just in case; the medics were standing there chatting instead of tending to anyone. The gel slabs couldn’t be pushed, though they could be lifted with a big enough gravity platform. There was only one of those here. Cleanup was going to take a while. The slabs covered a large area of ground as well as a couple ship-sized lumps, turning the spaceport into a sea of smoky gray translucent rubber.

A small creature bounced around on it. People were shouting about that.

“What’s going on over there?” I asked.

Captain Sunlight sighed deeply and sped up. “I really hope that’s not our cargo.”

“Our cargo’s an animal?”

“Yes, among other things. I thought I told you, but I guess not; it was a last-minute addition to our load. Someone’s exotic pet.” She looked up at me with concern on her lizardy face. “How are your animal-catching skills?”

“Depends on the animal,” I said, squinting at the fast-moving thing. I was the critter expert on the ship, but I didn’t want to promise anything. “What species is it?”

“I’ll bring up the description in a moment,” Captain Sunlight said. “I think I see our client over there.”

She was right. The slender Frillian with a leash and an exasperated expression did turn out to be the person we’d come to meet, and the various spaceport officials on the scene had no any easy answers about how to catch his pet.

“Normally he comes running for food!” the client exclaimed. “But he’s got plenty to pick from here!” He pointed accusingly at the spill of fruit from a truck smashed open by a slab of gel.

“Oh, like that’s my fault?” said a Heatseeker who was busy gathering fruit. “Half my stock is ruined! Go catch your little menace and stop complaining.”

This led to a rant about how impossible the menace in question was to catch when he didn’t want to be — giving him a bath had to be done by trickery — and he was never going to come down from this playground full of food, and oh the man should have just paid for a transit that allowed him to bring pets.

Zhee muttered agreement at that last, but I don’t think the guy heard him. Spaceport officials offered calming words and a reminder that nets had been sent for.

Captain Sunlight asked one of them, “Is there an animal-handling service anywhere nearby?”

“Nowhere close,” was the answer.

She looked back up at me. “Any bright ideas? Here, I’ll show you the description.”

While she unfolded a screen and brought up the information from this particular courier gig, I watched the jumpy creature carefully. He was close enough for a good look now, since he’d come back to snatch another alien citrus off the ground, making the owner yell after him.

My first thought was “monkey,” followed by “frog.” The animal was long-limbed and green, though with velvety fur instead of an amphibian’s shine, and had a tail that could hold fruit just as well as his hands could. Pointy nose, round ears, and the biggest eyes of anyone here except for Zhee. He could probably see a person sneaking up from behind. He was fast. And he was clearly having a great time jumping from one bouncy surface to another, making chattering noises and spitting citrus peel everywhere.

“It’s called a treeleaper,” Captain Sunlight told me. “Warmblooded, diurnal, omnivorous, and ‘a bit of a troublemaker.’”

Mur snorted. “Sounds like your species,” he told me.

“Just with a tail,” Zhee added.

“I wanted a tail as a kid,” I said absently, thinking hard. I’d just caught sight of a shipful of humans disembarking nearby, on the other side of the biggest pile of gel. They looked like they were in pretty good shape. One was already walking on the gel and laughing about the bounce.

I had an idea. “Excuse me, Captain. I think I see reinforcements,” I said, then ran off toward my unsuspecting kinfolk. When I got close, I took great pleasure in yelling, “Hey humans! Who wants to help me chase a monkey across a trampoline??”

They were all smiles and questions, then when I led the way to where they could see the monkey-frog jumping around with stolen fruit, they volunteered immediately.

“I’ll get the small cargo net!”

“Do you think the big gravity wands will slow it down?”

“Bet you a cleaning shift that I can grab it in a towel.”

“You’re on!”

I told Captain Sunlight that I had successfully recruited some animal-catchers, and she didn’t bat an eye, just suggesting that our crew gather similar tools from our own ship. Zhee and the twins rushed off while Mur stayed to yell suggestions.

The other humans were already venturing into the bounce zone. I hurried to follow, grabbing a fist-sized lime thing from the ground as I did. We made a wide circle before closing in.

The treeleaper saw us coming, of course. Threw a half-eaten fruit at one person and made a rude noise at another, then sprang up to ricochet between surfaces like an unholy pinball.

Thus began a merry chase.

It brought back memories of bouncy houses and birthday parties at the trampoline gym. The gel was tough enough to take an impact without doing more than denting briefly and launching a person hooting into the air, to rebound off another surface and hopefully not smack into anyone else in midair. There were a couple close calls. But that just made everything funnier somehow.

I jumped off one gel wall with and hit another with my shoulder, making the monkey-frog turn a 180 back towards a pair of guys with gravity wands. He tried to spring away to the side, but I threw my lime to bounce off a surface nearby, spooking him enough to change direction yet again. Somebody slid down a gel slab like a rubbery playground slide, yelping as that turned into a wild tumble. The animal didn’t know what to make of all the flailing and laughter. His hesitation was enough for the gravity wands to lift him partway off the gel, then when he stuck a leg out far enough to jump free, he was immediately bagged by a grinning lady with a cargo net.

Everybody cheered.

The treeleaper growled and tried to scramble free, but no luck. Somebody else caught up and helped tie the net off with a scarf. Everyone settled down to minimal bouncing, and many hands worked together to carry the bundle of ropes and disgruntled animal back to solid ground.

“You got him! Is he okay? He didn’t sprain anything in that net, did he? I hope he didn’t eat too much fruit. He’ll do that if given the chance, you know.” The owner was grateful and worried and relieved and talkative.

Eggskin had arrived from our ship with a medical scanner, and thankfully they could put everyone’s mind at ease about the state of our animal cargo. The treeleaper was fine. It had a stomach full of fruit and a bloodstream full of adrenaline, but all it needed was a nice nap in its carrying cage.

I considered asking why it hadn’t been in the carrier before, when the rented shuttle got its windows smashed, but I didn’t.

A small hand patted my back, as far up as it could reach. “Earning your keep once again,” said Captain Sunlight.

I laughed. “That was my pleasure.”

Another human lingering nearby asked, “Is there anything else that needs catching? That was great.”

“Yeah, you should sell tickets to this!” agreed another.

A Frillian in a port uniform said, “No, but thank you.” She paused, then added, “Hm. I wonder if that’s worth suggesting to the owner of all this insulation. It’s useless for its intended purpose now that it’s breached the sanitation shielding.”

I smiled. “It still makes an excellent trampoline even with footprints all over it. Lay those out in an empty field and charge people entrance, and they could make back a decent amount of money. You get plenty humans through this port, right?”

The woman who’d caught the treeleaper said, “We’re here early for a family reunion before the big festival, then there are three or four sporting events in a row. Let us know if that does happen, because we can get you a lot of humans interested in jumping on this stuff.”

I had to leave with the animal cargo back to our courier ship, so I didn’t hear how the rest of the conversation went, but I saw the official bring the representative of the hauling group over to meet the humans. He looked very interested in what the spokesperson had to say.

I grinned at the scene as I walked away: the intense conversation in front of the vast playground of bouncy surfaces. I wondered if we’d get a chance to come back for a visit when they got it set up properly.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!

[ungraceds]

he   speaks   ,   and   she   listens   ,   and   tries   not   to   overthink   every   single   thing   that's   coming   out   of   his   mouth   .   is   so   quick   to   misjudge   or   distrust   ,   and   it's   her   least   favorite   attribute   .   "   okay   ,   so   you   don't   like   that   girl   and   you   met   her   once   after   a   show   ..   "   says   slowly   ,   reiterating   what   he'd   just   explained   ,   "   you   got   some   crazy   fans   ,   you   know   that   ?   and   you're   only   performing   at   bars   ..   imagine   how   much   crazier   they're   gonna   be   once   you're   headlining   massive   stadiums   .   "   is   trying   to   lighten   the   mood   ,   to   ease   the   tension   that   had   taken   over   the   car   and   hung   like   a   dark   ,   storming   cloud   over   their   heads   .   "   and   you   only   want   me   ,   "   she   adds   after   a   beat   ,   tonguing   the   inside   of   her   cheek   as   hues   bounce   between   the   road   and   him   .   he's   so   adamant   about   that   ..   about   her   .   doesn't   know   what   to   make   of   it   ,   or   what   to   say   ,   so   she   focuses   on   the   ex   -   girlfriend   situation   .   "   your   ex   sounds   like   a   cunt   ,   "   murmurs   bluntly   ,   "   and   an   idiot   .   "   her   jaw   clicks   at   the   thought   of   another   woman   deciding   he   wasn't   enough   and   finding   solace��  in   somebody   else   .   julian   appeared   to   be   a   rarity   :   a   loyal   ,   trustworthy   man   ..   those   are   a   hot   commodity   these   days   .   she's   glancing   down   at   the   map   on   the   phone   screen   and   taking   the   next   right   ,   flying   past   houses   and   bakeries   on   their   way   to   his   place   .   you're   saying   you   don't   find   me   hot   and   that   you   don't   want   to   bone   me   ?   her   head   is   snapping   to   look   at   him   ,   lips   parting   before   a   surprised   laugh   tears   past   her   throat   .   "   oh   ,   shut   up   !   "   she's   reaching   over   to   shove   his   shoulder   ,   shaking   her   head   as   her   cheeks   turn   a   furious   ,   beet   red   .   "   you're   pushing   it   .   one   more   word   and   i'll   steal   your   car   ,   and   leave   you   on   the   side   of   the   road   .   "   she's   joking   ,   obviously   ,   a   smitten   smile   pursed   onto   her   lips   .   but   it   falters   at   the   press   of   his   palm   on   her   thigh   ,   eyes   cutting   from   the   red   light   to   his   hand   ,   and   lifting   to   find   his   gaze   .   "   friday   ?   "   brows   pinch   and   then   she's   sighing   dramatically   ,   "   guess   i'll   have   to   clear   my   calendar   ,   then   ...   me   and   all   my   not   -   dates   had   soooo   many   plans   .   "   smirks   to   herself   ,   ensuring   the   light   is   still   red   before   she's   abruptly   leaning   over   the   console   and   brushing   her   nose   to   his   ,   their   lips   only   centimeters   apart   .   "   it's   a   good   thing   i   put   hot   musicians   at   the   top   of   my   to   -   do   lists   .   "   and   then   ,   she's   pulling   back   and   the   light   is   turning   green   ,   and   she's   continuing   towards   his   place   .

“   i   wouldn’t   lie   to   you   .   ”   wants   to   make   it   clear   ,   that   he’s   honest   ,   that   he   wouldn’t   tell   her   a   different   story   and   hide   the   truth   from   her   just   to   keep   her   around   .   honesty   ,   loyalty   ,   both   things   mean   a   lot   to   him   .   “   and   it   is   your   business   .   ”   because   she   means   something   to   him   ,   he   wants   more   than   whatever   they   are   right   now   ,   more   than   two   people   getting   to   know   each   other   .   “   she’s   nothing   .   i   don’t   even   remember   her   name   .   she   introduced   herself   once   after   a   show   and   –   and   that’s   it   .   i   genuinely   don’t   know   what   she   thought   she   was   gonna   get   with   that   .   ”   and   by   that   he   means   pretending   that   they   ever   were   more   than   strangers   .   “   i   don’t   like   other   girls   ,   i   don’t   want   to   hook   up   with   them   or   kiss   them   ,   or   whatever   else   you   think   i   might   want   to   do   either   .   i   only   want   those   things   with   you   .   ”   needs   to   make   it   clear   ,   to   push   his   point   ,   but   actions   spoke   louder   than   words   .   perhaps   opening   up   would   help   his   case   ,   so   as   she   begins   backing   out   of   the   parking   lot   ,   and   drives   down   the   street   ,   julian   does   exactly   that   ,   “   the   only   girl   i   have   history   with   is   my   ex   and   she   –   she   doesn’t   even   live   in   this   town   .   she’s   …   far   away   from   here   ,   and   it   ended   badly   .   i   got   cheated   on   ,   and   i   have   no   interest   in   getting   back   together   with   her   –   so   ,   i'm   serious   ,   arielle   ..   when   i   say   that   i   only   want   you   ,   i   really   mean   it   .   ”   gaze   tears   away   from   her   now   ,   fixating   on   the   windshield   .   a   part   of   him   wonders   if   she’d   believe   him   –   or   if   the   encounter   with   the   other   woman   would   make   her   doubt   him   ,   if   perhaps   it   all   seemed   too   fucking   strange   .   his   jaw   aches   however   ,   feels   his   pulse   thudding   where   knuckles   had   collided   with   his   cheek   .   he   hasn’t   seen   himself   in   the   mirror   yet   ,   but   the   swelling   is   bad   ,   doesn’t   have   to   have   a   look   to   know   .   it   hurts   that   badly   .   she’s   revealing   something   he   doesn’t   expect   however   ,   i   wanted   to   be   the   one   to   take   care   of   you   .   confession   has   his   head   snapping   to   look   at   her   ,   caramel   hues   wide   as   he   takes   her   in   .   she   wants   to   be   here   with   him   ,   she   wants   to   take   care   of   him   .   and   she’s   adding   to   her   sentence   that   …   she’ll   give   him   her   number   .   it   has   his   lips   curling   into   the   widest   grin   ,   cheeks   dimpling   ,   “   so   wait   …   you’re   saying   you   don’t   find   me   hot   ?   and   that   you   don’t   want   to   bone   me   ?   ”   taunts   her   ,   lips   curling   into   a   smirk   .   he’s   obviously   kidding   ,   tries   to   make   light   of   the   situation   .   hand   shifts   however   ,   lands   on   her   thigh   ,   “   i'll   text   you   the   time   i'm   picking   you   up   on   friday   .   ”   says   ,   “   and   i'm   calling   it   a   date   ..   whether   you   like   it   or   not   , arielle .   ”  

[marinsawakening]

LOZ Fic Recs

Deciding to use my hobby of autistically crawling through AO3 tags for good. I'm prioritizing fics with less than 50 kudos. None of these are ship fics, most don't have any romance. All of these are completed one shots, most under 10k words.

Skies, Surfaces, and the Hero Chef That Can't Actually Cook by greatduwangs

Summary: Link's cooking sidequest in Skyward Sword, which goes about as well as you'd expect. Or, the missing ingredient was a home all along, or whatever.

Why I recommend it: 4.5k of Link eating things he shouldn't. Very funny and very cute!

Big Dark by phlyarologist

Summary: Character study of Mido as the events of Ocarina of Time change him, worldbuilding the Kokiri and examining what it means to grow up.

Why I recommend it: Contender for the best LOZ fic I've ever read. Brilliant worldbuilding and characterization, and a fantastic understanding of childhood and its nuances that you rarely see outside of fiction aimed at children.

loop - synonyms: coil, noose, ring, circle by MidnightBunnyy

Summary: Fi gets stuck in a timeloop and is very... well, Fi about it.

Why I recommend it: Excellent Fi characterization that leads to a very funny take on a time loop scenario while still being a serious story.

Notes: Restricted work, only available to AO3 users.

A Legacy Cast in Stone by sagittamoth

Summary: Pre-Skyward Sword Sheikah worldbuilding following an OC who works with the robots and timeshift stones in the last days before the war.

Why I recommend it: Does a great job with worldbuilding, creating a vibrant world that slots neatly into the greater Skyward Sword canon.

missing by fandomsandshit

Summary: Drabble exploring Zelda's time in the dungeon.

Why I recommend it: Does a brilliant job painting fear and an oppressive atmosphere, with stellar Zelda characterization.

Growth by herohelio

Summary: Two connected snippets of Malon in the adult timeline, meeting Link again.

Why I recommend it: Adorable Link and Malon friendship and great Malon characterization, with very effective hints at what living under Ingo had been like.

Because each time we live by grainjew

Summary: Follows Link through ALTTP, written through the lens of the reincarnation theory with a focus on connection to the wider LOZ series.

Why I recommend it: Author described it as a 'mood piece', which it absolutely is and is very good at. I like the surreal and blurry way reincarnation is portrayed in this fic, and it has a great take on the maidens.

Blind and the Bunny by justAPassingThought

Summary: A character study of Blind the Thief through his defeat in the Thieves’ Hideout Dungeon.

Why I recommend it: Excellent exploration of the Dark World and the way its transformations work, and I really like Blind's view on Link's Dark World form.

Litany of Betrayal by RawLiverAndCigarettes

Summary: A foreign warlord swears fielty to the king of Hyrule. Impa knows what the stranger truly wants. She has seen it before. She can still taste the ash.

Why I recommend it: Fantastic character study of Ganondorf and Impa in Ocarina of Time. Everyone is horrible and I'm thriving. Incorporates Hylia into the OOT canon in a way I find actually interesting. Fascinating worldbuilding in general.

Notes: Prequel to a novel-length fic I have not read (I'm terrible at reading long fics rip).

that gentle hubris by cassiopeian

Summary: Zelda bares her soul at the Spring of Wisdom, but the answers she seeks do not come from a goddess.

Why I recommend it: Mipha and Zelda friendship, a fun take on Zora mythology and I always love mortals forging their own paths in worlds where gods are objectively real.

Hunger by Anonymous

Summary: Sequel to Grace, where Zelda struggles to reckon with perceptions out of her control. Link is there to help point out what she's missed. Can be read as standalone.

Why I recommend it: Autistic Zelda, queerplatonic zelink, and a great portrayal of the hunger that comes with trauma.

Notes: Sequel to a fic that is also very good.

As Above, So Below by Mothlight_Witch

Summary: An exploration of the Depths and Hyrule's cosmology.

Why I recommend it: The other contender for 'best LOZ fic I've read'. Astounding atmosphere and worldbuilding, incredibly unique and all-around breathtaking. Lives in my head rent free.

What is your wish? by AdeptArcanist

Summary: Character study of Vaati connecting him to Link's Awakening and Majora's Mask.

Why I recommend it: Very weird and unique take on LOZ lore and I'm so incredibly here for that.

Linner (Link Dinner) by waterglider

Summary: An adaptation of one of Zelda's diary entries set after the "Blades of the Yiga" memory. After a very irritating person saves her life, Zelda has developed a theory-- one she plans to test.

Why I recommend it: Zelda is kinda mean and Link is a monarchist bootlicker. I adore this take on pre-Calamity Link, he's genuinely insufferable and I love that. If I ever end up writing pre-Calamity Link I'm so stealing this characterization.

Notes: Sequel to another stellar fic, prequel to an in progress novel-length fanfic that I have not read (again, terrible at reading longer fic).

[kheprriverse]

More doodles of the fire dragon variety :D

More details ab him and just general dragon behavior. And also a silly little doodle at the bottom right.

[nemmet]

i can’t believe that be cool scooby doo is a show that actually exists (/pos)

[magentagalaxies]

KITH related things in my room that just make sense

bc i just got done cleaning/redecorating/etc. and i think it's hilarious that i have multiple framed photos of the kids in the hall

My entire closet door

which is of course home to the iconic "buddy cole timeline" (recently updated since i just realized i hadn't put anything since march 2024) but also this meme i made and printed out right when i finished watching the show the first time

and beneath it a display featuring a production still from "terriers", a fan-letter asking if they're ever bringing buddy cole back after his first appearance, and the first page of a never-aired sketch called "recruits" (which includes the typo "mark and scoot")

2. "Buddy Babylon" and "One Dumb Guy" on my bookshelf

(Buddy Babylon is also autographed by Scott and Paul)

3. Two different copies of Bruce McCulloch's book "Let's Start a Riot" (my mom got me the paperback for my birthday the year before I met Bruce, and the first time I met Bruce he gave me an autographed hardcover so now I have doubles lmao)

4. Autographed vinyl of the Mouth Congress EP "Ahhhh the Pollution" displayed on my wall with a printed out quote from Buddy Babylon

4. Autographed vinyl of Mouth Congress's first album "Waiting for Henry"

(I do not have "Valley of Song" on vinyl yet but I'm sure I will soon, I'm just waiting to see if they're pressing it on color-vinyl bc the WFH vinyls are gorgeous)

5. Various KITH related photos and other mementos on my corkboard

(I listed them all but the paragraph was so long so I'm leaving it as an iSpy mystery lmao. But I will shoutout @ofkithandmckinney for the lovely drawing and letter in the top right)

6. A framed photo from "Brain Candy" next to my antidepressants

7. And last but certainly not least, a framed production still of Tammy sucking on a pickle in front of the Queen of England

(not pictured: the fake-knife I got from the citizen kane sketch and six different binders filled with KITH-related scripts (one is an original draft of brain candy, one is a mix of sketch scripts and materials for directing the buddy cole documentary, two are 100% sketch scripts, and two are different drafts of a screenplay scott wrote. all these items are on shelves in my closet tho so they count as item number one)

[arinsanity]

hey y'all! so y'all remember this funni little pre-trial lonely wiz design i featured in that one drawing?

(this just made me realise how cool this drawing looks vertically...)

i don't rlly have a name for em yet.. cuz like, lonely wiz in the game doesn't have a confirmed name unlike goobert and amber. plus, i don't just wanna call them "lonely"..

i thought of names for them (with a bit of struggle cuz i'm uncreative with names) and so far i think the name i like the most is Nox !! so yea, that's what i'm goin with :]

[ghostieblotts]

I need to learn more about Polari