#the colors are so beautiful and the LINES

[norrisradio]

TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration. 

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. ��Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.

[snail-day]

Smut, MDNI

Definitely not procrastinating on all of the things I need to do.

----

You never really expected Suguru to be a virgin.

Sure, all hot people start off as virgins. But Suguru? With his suave, honeyed voice and bedroom eyes, with the way he always took his time touching you, slow and full of practice, you figured he’d had years of experience. That maybe he’d been deflowered a long time ago by some lucky person who got to see him like this.

Because nothing would have prepared you for the way he looked now.

Flat on his back, Suguru looked nothing short of ruin. His luminous hair, loose, spilling around him in dark, inky waves that fanned across the pillow like a silken veil. A deep flush painted his chest, spreading in pink-colored hues across his sweat-kissed skin, up his throat, and over those sharp cheekbones. Pretty violet eyes, already half-lidded and glassy as you began lining up the velvety tip of his cock to your entrance.

Sinking down on him, the thick, aching tip of his cock finally breached your slick heat, his entire body shuddered.

His back arched ever so slightly off the silk sheets, jaw going slack as a sharp gasp tore from his throat. His strong hands, already clutching at your hips, twitched - thumbs pressing into the soft curve of your flesh. Every muscle in his abdomen tensed beneath your palms, hard and trembling.

“Fuck,” he choked out in a single breathe, voice already shaking, barely audible over the soft, wet sound of you sinking down further, inch by slow, thick inch. “You’re… ngh - god, you’re so - ”

His words dissolved into a strangled moan when you took more of him, when your cunt fluttered and clamped down around the sinful stretch that burned before dissolving into pleasure. His calloused hands slid instinctively up your sides, fat fingertips gliding along your waist, worshipping. As you gently rolled your hips to meet his pathetic, small thrusts. He was trying to be such a gentleman. To let you take control. To not push you past your limits as you were pushing his.

Oh, how his pretty violet eyes fluttered shut, those dark, thin brows furrowing as if the pleasure physically hurt. His thighs twitched beneath you. You could feel him trying not to buck, trying so desperately to let you move at your own pace, but his control was fraying with every passing second.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he whispered, but even that came out cracked, as if the act of speaking pulled too much from him. “Princess - fuck, slow, please - ”

Suguru was barely holding on for dear life. Pretty mouth parted in a soft, needy moan when your hips finally met his, bottoming out with a snug, pulsing tightness that made both of you tremble. His head tipped back, throat bared, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to catch his breath. His fingers gripped you harder, leaving small indents that were sure to bruise in the morning. Bruises that will be kissed with apologies.

And when you clenched around him once again. Another gasp, a sharp buck of his hips, his thick thighs flexing under you like he couldn’t stop himself. One hand shot up to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you down with shaky urgency. His breath hitched against your lips.

“Need to kiss you,” he begged, softer now, more vulnerable. “Please, princess - lemme kiss you - ”

You melted into him, and he kissed you like a man starved. His mouth moved with yours, tongue greedy and swirling, leaving both your minds a little fuzzy. Only parting to gaze into each other's eyes, only for him to feel all of you before slowly moving up to kiss your lips again. Each thrust of his hips now was messy, shallow, entirely overwhelmed, and every time you moaned into him, every time you whispered his name, his body responded with helpless desperation.

Suguru didn’t look composed or even close to controlled.

In fact for the first time in his life looked utterly ruined.

And you had never seen anything so beautiful.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

halfway there (fully smitten)

written for @steddie-spooktober Halfway to Halloween pop up event!

rated G | 2,832 words | on AO3: halfway there (fully smitten) | prompt: half-o-ween meet cute, modern au, flirting, steve harrington is simultaneously super charming and on his game AND easily flustered

Steve would do anything for his kid siblings.

He would.

It’s just…

“Why’d it have to be this Saturday?”

“Because that’s the halfway mark?” Dustin says as if it was obvious, rolling his eyes for good measure.

“Oh you’ve got to–” Steve scrubs a hand down his face; Yeah. fine. That makes sense. It is called the ‘Halfway to Halloween’ craft fair. “You don’t even like crafts.”

“There’s going to be more than just crafts.” Dustin says, again, like it should be obvious. “C’mon Steve, even Max wants to go. Like, actually wants to go.”

Steve looks over at the Max in question, gazing up at him with her usual scowl on her face.

“She doesn’t look like she wants to.”

“Yes she–”

“She does.” she says.

“See??” Dustin gestures excitedly towards her.

Steve sighs again. Of course she’d want to go, she’s always been all about that spooky crap.

He looks down between the two hellions he’s so proud to call his siblings.

Internally.

Internally he is.

He sighs again, turning away from where they’d corralled him at the end of the hallway.

“C’mon Steve where’re you–”

“I gotta call Angie,”

“But–”

“I have to call off our date, dingwad!"

Dustin insisted that they be there right when the fair opened at 10 am, but after a syrup incident at breakfast and a couple bathroom breaks, their two hour drive to the 4H grounds the show was being held at, turned into two hours and 45 minutes, landing them in line at 10:10 am.

They waited their turn to pay the entrance fee, Dustin bouncing on his toes the whole time, and as soon as the bright orange bracelet was on his wrist, he was off. 

Surprising Steve further, Max was right on his heels, scanning seriously over the first line of vendors.

“You shits better have your phones on you!” Steve calls after them, getting offhanded waves in return.

He watches them go a little on ahead, sliding between the already hearty crowd much easier than he would, then turns to look at some of the vendors’ wares himself.

It was not a great place to start paying attention, to be completely honest, the racks and tables filled with all sorts of stuffed animals with bloody gashes, exposed broken bones, and dangling bloodshot eyes..

His shock must’ve been fully apparent because the bearded man behind the stall table guffaws at his expression.

“S’not for everyone, kid. I get it.” he says when Steve apologizes.

There are people selling their collections of movie memorabilia, specialty indie costume companies selling their scarily (ha) detailed rubber masks, some folks are selling crystals, some are selling crochet, some have tiny taxidermied mice..

It’s honestly kind of overwhelming.

He stops at one end of this barn (the second in the grounds’ row of five that were full up for the occasion), leaning up against the open double doors.

He’d originally been concerned about the cool cloudy weather, thinking it’d be too cold to be walking around outside like this, but a lot of vendors had space heaters plugged in behind their booths, and there were so many people bustling through and around the space that the wide open doors were a blessing to his already sweating brow.

Taking advantage of his spot out of the flow of people, he opens his phone to check on where the gremlins were (two barns down already what the hell??), when Dustin’s text comes through.

He puts his phone back in his pocket and continues on.

The next booth he comes to is another with taxidermied things, though these are all bugs. Different beetles, bees, and butterflies pinned into shadow boxes.

For some reason, he gets kinda stuck at the display of colorful wings. He’s never really liked bugs, never had a strong opinion about butterflies, but these things are… seriously beautiful.

Some he remembers the names for without having to look at the little tags the vendor wrote up for them; Monarch for one, and he knows this blue one is an Emperor Butterfly from that Animal Crossroads game Max got him hooked on for a while a couple years ago, and he’s inspecting the pattern of greens and oranges on another when he feels someone brush up against him.

Suddenly aware of how long he’s been standing in front of the display, probably blocking a whole bunch of others from getting to look too, he glances back, stepping out of the way with a “Shit, sorry!”

“No worries man, I can look just fine from right here.”

Steve’s busy looking down at his feet to make sure he’s stepping around the boxes stored under a nearby display table, “No, really, I just got caught up looking at them;” he finally gets his feet in a safe spot, and turns to the newcomer, “They’re all really–”

He’d made the mistake of looking up at the source of the voice, and now his own is stuck in his throat.

Steve’s a sucker for all things 80s, the aesthetic (a new word introduced to him by Max) at least, and this guy looked as if he was plucked right out of time and delivered to him on a shiny silver platter.

A mess of dark frizzy curls, deep dark eyes, ripped skinny jeans and some sort of band tee under a leather jacket and denim vest..

Even the sun decided to point out how much of a simp he was about to be over this guy, choosing that moment to break through the clouds outside the doors and give hot 80s metal guy a hell of a glow.

“--pretty.”

Hot Metalhead smirks and ohjesusfuckingchristhehasdimples.

“You’re not too bad yourself, big boy.” the man says, and Steve swears he can feel the other man’s gaze trail over him. “You got a favorite?”

He gestures back to the display of bugs, and Steve shakes his head clear, “Uh.. The orange one maybe, the Monarch? But this one is really cool.” he points to the green/orange one.

Hot Metalhead nods, “The Madagascan Sunset Moth, that one’s my favorite.” then he levels a smirk at Steve, “Seems you’ve got good taste, pretty boy.”

Something kicks to life behind Steve’s ribs, and suddenly he feels completely back on his game. He slowly drags his gaze over the other man, lingering on his lips (chapped, but perfectly pouty even in their smirk), “Seems like I do.”

Steve meets the man’s eyes, and he opens his mouth to say something else when they’re broken from the moment by none other than Max.

“There you are! Do you ever check your phone?” she gripes, pulling him out of the booth

“What–Max?” A rock sinks into his stomach, “What’s wrong?”

“I need your help picking something for Lucas,” she puts her hands on her hips and it’s like he’s looking in a mirror.

The rock rolls out his stomach with the roll of his eyes, and turns to say something to Hot Metalhead, but he’s already a couple booths away, bending low over a table of books.

“You can flirt later, I really need your help!”

Sighing, but figuring he can find Hot Metalhead later, he follows Max to a bigger movie memorabilia booth in the center of the next barn over.

Eventually, they settle on two gifts for Max’s “He’s not my boyfriend nor do I want him to be.” boyfriend (“He’s not my boyfriend, Steve! Urgh, you’re the worst.”): a Freddy Krueger sweater, and a jersey boasting the Haddonfield Butchers, with the last name Myers and number 78 on the back.

“Are you sure that’s not secretly for you?” Steve asks, clocking the reference immediately. He had, afterall, been made to sit and watch Halloween close to a zillion times over the course of he and Max’s foster journey together.

“No, it’s for him. It's something I like fused with what he likes." She reasons.

“Sure, sure,”

Max wanders off again after that, and so does Steve, scanning the crowd for messy brown curls as he scans the other vendors.

Eventually, he comes to a booth covered in pins and earrings. 

He immediately thinks of Ms. Hender– Claud— Mom when he sees all the earrings, and starts looking through the spinning racks, snapping a picture to send to the goblins as he does

“Find something you like?”

Steve glances up, one of the two ladies manning the booth has stood from her chair, the strawberry blond with the ponytail, smiling brightly at him. A pair of cigarette earrings hang from her lobes, one new and one half burnt down.

“Yeah, sorry, I was sending a picture of these to my siblings,” he picks up the fangs, “Our mom would love these.”

The woman holds out a hand and he passes the set to her, “Awesome, let me get them bagged up for you!”

“Do you want a different color?” The other woman says, looking through a basket of what looks like even more pairs of earrings; she’s a dirtier blond with a choppy bob and freckles.

“Another color?”

“Y’know, black, orange, purple, glow in the d–” that’s when she looks up at him, “Steve Harrington?”

Steve’s brain goes into a jumbled state of ???????????

“Uhm, yeah? How’d you–”

“You went to my high school!”

A rock plunges into his gut, “Oh, uhm.. I’m sorry? I don’t–”

“You dated Tammy Thompson.”

He feels his face pull into a cringe, “Yeah, that was… yeah.”

“She was on American Idol!” the strawberry blond says.

Steve finds himself laughing, “I don’t know how she made it, she sounds like a muppet when she sings.”

“She does!” She laughs at the same time Choppy Bob says an indignant “She does not!”

The rock is back, “Oh, sorry.. Was she a friend?”

Ponytail laughs again, saying “No,” at the same time as Bob but continuing on with “Robin here had a biiiig crush on her.”

 Bob, Robin apparently, goes all splotchy, “Shut up Chris!”

Chris just waves her off, “Oh he’s fine, he’s one of us, did you not see his pin?”

Steve looks down at his own chest, Max’s gifted bi flag pin glinting up at him from his jacket, then back up at the two; the lanyard around Robin’s neck jumps out at him, striped in pinks and oranges and whites, and Chris has what looks like one half of a heart in colors matching his pinned to her sweater.

“Huh.” Robin says, looking perplexed, “Who’da thunk?”

“You’re telling me.” Steve jokes, finally getting Robin to smile back at him.

Suddenly, and at the same time another potential customer comes into the little stall behind him, Dustin comes out of the woodwork to tug at his arm, “Finally, there you are! Stop flirting and come with me, you gotta see these cars!”

“Whoa, dude! Chill out for a second, okay? I’m trying to pay the nice lady.”

“Well hurry it up dude,” he mocks, “They’ve got the Ghostbusters’ hearse back there!”

Dustin squeezes very impolitely past the other person in the booth, and Steve turns back to Chris, “Sorry, brothers you know?”

“He’s got a point, the Ghostbusters one is pretty impressive,” She says as Robin accepts his $10 bill for the jewelry, and passes him back a small bag and a card, “I wrote our cell numbers on the back, we should all meet up again sometime!”

“Course! I’ll let you know how my mom likes ‘em, yeah?”

Steve squeezes out the stall and Chrissy picks up her phone. 

Dustin was right (what’s new?), this last building is packed full of hearses of every shape and size. 

A 1940s era one, a slightly newer model painted entirely in matte black, one with a padded coffin hanging half out the end for people to pose for pictures in. But the real star of the show, at least according to Dustin, was the one for one remake of the Ghostbusters’ white one.

Steve follows him down the row, pausing at the hood of the replica to take a picture of the giant slime ghost plush in the passenger seat, then on to peer into the cab.

He was still inspecting all the old dials in the dash through the open window, when someone says, “See something you like?”

“I was told by a very reliable source that yours was the one to beat.” Steve says, taking in the shockingly low number of miles on the odometer, “And I gotta say, still having the original dials in the dash is pretty cool– Hey! It’s you!” 

The guy leaning his weight onto the car’s roof with one hand grins, “Hello again, your majesty.”

“Majesty?”

 “You liked the Monarchs, remember?” Hot Metalhead pushes himself up off the car and offers Steve the same hand, “I’m Eddie.”

“Steve.” he breathes, taking Eddie’s hand in his. 

Eddie shakes his hand once, his fingers calloused and warm, “Well, King Steve, what brings you all the way to my neck of the woods?”

“I heard there was a super special hearse back here so I had to come see it for myself.”

“Good eye, Stevie”

“Only if it’s easy on ‘em.” he says, starting to get his normal voice back, “‘Easy on the eyes’ y’know?”

Eddie just laughs, “Yeah big guy, I got it.”

Steve’s face is on fire. He clears his throat, finally letting Eddie’s hand go. He notices a familiar pin on the front breast pocket of his denim vest that he hadn’t noticed before, this one striped in shades of blue, green, and white, the opposite half of Chris’ pink, purple, and blue one.

“Oh, hey! You know Chris?” Eddie's face flashes into confusion, so Steve clarifies, “She’s got the same half heart pin as you…?”

“Chrissy you mean? Tiny? Ponytail? Bangs?”

Steve shrugs, “That sounds right.”

“Has a girlfriend about yay tall? Freckles?”

“I mean, she didn’t stand up..”

Eddie considers him for a moment. “Nope. Never heard of ‘er.”

Oh god he’s a dork.. Steve’ll never survive this.

“D’she send you over here?”

“Kinda? Dustin wanted to see the cars anyhow so..” he holds his arms out at his sides, “Here I am.”

“So this curly-haired menace is yours then?” Eddie asks, turning to stand at Steve’s side and gesturing to where Dustin is talking with a balding man at the end of the car, “He’s been talking my Uncle’s ear off each time he’s come by.”

Steve nods, “Him and the redhead who’s… around here somewhere– there!” He points out Max as she heads outside into the sun, making her hair glow bright, “She’s my foster sister, Dustin’s mom took us both in about a year ago now, she was really great to take us in together, even with me being ‘aged out’ and all.. I wanted to make sure she had something stable going forward y’know? And I really don’t know why I’m telling you all that but.. There it is..”  

His face is going to be permanently red at this point, but Eddie doesn’t seem to mind his rambling, looking at him with a mix of amusement and something else in his expression. “You can tell me whatever you want, whenever you want, Stevie.”

“Is that your way of asking for my number?” Steve asks on impulse.

Eddie laughs, “You give me way too much credit Stevie, I’m not even remotely close to that good of a smooth-talker,” he reaches into his back pocket and produces his phone, “But no way am I passing up the opportunity.”

Steve smiles and takes it, entering his information into Eddie’s phone, “Apologies to your uncle by the way,” he says as he sends himself a devil face emoji from Eddie’s cell, “Dusty can get to be too much sometimes. I hope he’s not giving you too much trouble?”

He hands back the phone as his own chimes in his pocket, taking it out and passing it to Eddie.

“Not at all; Wayne’s more than happy to talk about anything to anyone who’ll listen; He’s already told me everything he knows.”

“Don’t you mean ‘taught’?”

“Not in the slightest.” Eddie grins at Steve’s laughter, punches something into his phone and passes it back. “There you go, big boy, one brand new phone number just for you.”

Steve looks down at the screen, ‘super hot sexy metal deathlord eddie 😈🤘’ is at the top of his message screen.

He looks up at Eddie, who just waggles his eyebrows at him; Steve rolls his eyes, but can’t keep himself from smiling. “Perfect, thanks.”

“No problem…” he mimes looking down at his phone, “‘steve’.”

“Oi! Can you two flirt your way to the gut trucks, or are Dusty and I gonna have to get some grub ourselves?”

The two jump apart at Wayne’s words, both their cheeks burning (brighter in Eddie’s case).

“Yeah, yeah, shut your yaps, we’ll go get something.” Eddie grumbles, striding off toward where the food trucks are parked, pulling Steve along with him.

if you don't have one around you at this time, this is a real thing that happens in my area every may!! and it's on the 10th this year!! all of the things mentioned are things i've seen at my fair; my own pair of vamp fang earrings are truly a favorite pair of earrings i own :o) spiderweb divider from @saradika-graphics! vampire earring pic is from this etsy listing!

there will also be a part 2 to this tomorrow, LINK HERE!

[gymbunnycandiehart]

When the Lines Blur

There are days when I sit with myself and feel... a little bit in between. Not lost, not broken. Just layered. I’m not rejecting the man I am. I know him. I live as him. And I’m not running from that. But sometimes, I ache for a softness. A gentleness in how I move, how I dress, how I carry the world in my hands.

I don’t want to be someone else. I just want to be more of myself.

The kind of self that smiles at a pretty anklet. That walks a little lighter when denim shorts hug just right. The self that glows — quietly, tenderly — when femininity is allowed to flutter through a Tuesday.

It’s not confusion. It’s truth with more colors.

I’ve learned that femininity isn’t the absence of strength or the opposite of manhood. It’s another way of being brave. Of being open. Of being whole.

So maybe I won’t try to force an answer. Maybe I’ll just breathe through the question. And maybe I’ll remember — again and again — that I’m not wrong for wanting to feel beautiful. That there’s no shame in softness. That the world is wide enough for me to be both.

And maybe… just maybe… that’s what it means to be free.

—

Much love to you, CandieHart 🫶💗

[blueberrisdove-sideblog2]

You’ve always wanted to know if Mydei was telling the truth.

Every time a new wrinkle showed up—soft little lines blooming near your eyes, a tiny crease at the edge of your mouth—you’d find yourself looking in the mirror a little longer than usual. And then, almost on instinct, you’d turn to him, curling up in his lap or tugging gently at his sleeve like a child seeking reassurance.

“Mydei… do I still look beautiful? Even if I’m getting old?”

He’d always give the same response, said in that lazy, bratty voice of his like the question offended him. “Yes. Obviously.” Sometimes he’d add something dramatic like, ‘Don’t insult me by asking,’ or ‘If you weren’t beautiful, I wouldn’t even look at you, duh.’ And then he’d grab your face, kiss your nose, and go back to whatever nonsense he was doing, like that was the end of the conversation.

But it never really felt like enough. Maybe it was just you being silly. Maybe it was the creeping fear in your chest that time was something he’d never have to worry about—not really, not with his cursed markings glowing like ancient magic, not with that untouchable strength pulsing under his skin. He was timeless. You were… not.

So, you waited.

Waited until time had its way with you. Until your hair began to lose its color, softening to gray. Until the laugh lines deepened, and your joints started to ache just a little when it rained. You waited until one morning, you caught your reflection and barely recognized the version of yourself in the mirror. That’s when you decided. If there was ever a time to ask, it was now.

You walked over to him slowly, your steps deliberate, your heart racing. He was sitting in the garden, the sun painting warm gold onto his glowing red markings, his wild blond hair tousled by the wind. He looked like a storm dressed in sunlight.

“Mydei,” you said softly, kneeling beside him, “do I still look beautiful to you? Even now?”

He didn’t scoff this time. He didn’t roll his eyes. Instead, he looked at you—really looked at you.

And then he reached for you, big calloused hands cradling your face with a kind of gentleness that cracked something open inside you. His thumbs brushed the creases at the corners of your eyes like they were brushstrokes on a masterpiece.

“There you go again,” he murmured, voice low and tender, “asking dumb questions.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, golden eyes burning with something far deeper than lust or admiration.

“You’ve always been beautiful. But now?” His voice was almost reverent. “Now you’re divine. Every line, every change… it’s proof I got to keep you all this time. Proof you lived. And I wouldn’t trade a single one.”

And just like that, you knew. He had always told the truth. You just needed time to believe it.

You blinked, his words sinking into you like a stone sinking into still water. The tenderness in his voice was enough to make your heart skip, but it didn’t erase the nagging doubt that lingered.

“You really mean that?” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

Mydei’s eyes softened, a flicker of concern flashing through his golden gaze. He tilted his head, his hand still holding your face, his thumb tracing the lines of your skin as if trying to memorize them. But even with the warmth of his touch, the unease in your chest refused to settle.

“You know I do,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Why do you keep asking? Why do you doubt it?”

You pulled back slightly, feeling that familiar sting in your chest. “Because you don’t age like me, Mydei. You don’t get to feel the way time wears you down. You’ll always be this perfect… this… untouched by it. I’m just… I’m just afraid one day you’ll look at me and not see me anymore.”

The words came out in a rush, a flood of insecurities and fears you’d buried deep. You bit your lip, ashamed, but the vulnerability spilled out anyway, the weight of it threatening to suffocate you.

Mydei was silent for a long moment. His gaze seemed to drift, as if trying to understand what you were really saying. His jaw tightened, and for the first time, you saw something unfamiliar in his eyes—something raw, something a little broken.

“You think I’ll leave you?” he asked, his voice tight, like he was struggling to understand why you would even think such a thing. His hand dropped from your face, fingers curling into a fist at his side. “You think I’m gonna find someone else when you’re the one I chose? When you’re the one who means everything to me? This… this age, this time—it doesn’t matter to me. Do you understand that?”

The sudden intensity in his voice took you aback, and you felt a knot tighten in your throat. “But one day, you will get tired of me. I’m not—I’m not like you, Mydei. You won’t be able to keep loving someone like me forever.”

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, there was something more fragile in his gaze than you’d ever seen before.

“I’m not afraid of time. I’m afraid of losing you,” he said, his voice strained with a kind of quiet anguish you hadn’t expected. “But I will never stop loving you, even when you’re old, and every wrinkle is a reminder of how long we’ve been together. I don’t care what happens to your body. I care about you. You’re the one I want. You’re the one who makes me… feel. Do you think I would throw that away just because time catches up to you?”

You swallowed hard, your heart aching at the rawness of his words. He was more than just the cursed warrior you saw—he was someone who feared losing you, just as much as you feared losing him.

“Mydei…” you whispered, the tears threatening to spill over. You didn’t want to cry in front of him. You didn’t want to appear weak, but the weight of his confession was more than you could bear.

He reached out, cupping your face again, his thumb brushing away a tear that had already fallen.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “I didn’t realize how much this hurt you. I won’t let you go. Not now. Not ever. Even if it means I have to watch you age, watch you change. I’ll be here. With you. forever.”

His words wrapped around you like a comfort you hadn’t known you needed. But there was still that lingering fear in the back of your mind, that fear of losing him, of watching him slip away from you when you became too fragile for him to hold onto. You wanted to believe him, you did, but part of you still couldn’t shake the thought that one day, he might look at you and see only someone else.

“Promise me,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “promise me you’ll never leave me when I’m no longer the person I used to be.”

His golden eyes never wavered, even as his hand moved to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer. “I promise you, honey. You’ll never lose me. I’m yours, always.”

But deep down, you both knew that promises, no matter how pure, couldn’t shield you from the inevitable. Time would take its toll, and one day, your fears might just come true. And yet, for now, you let yourself believe in his words—because the future could wait. For today, Mydei was yours. And that was enough.

[airybcby]

I LOVE YOUR WORKS SO MUCH UGH. anywaysss, reo heavy HEAVY angst pls. idk, he just seems like the kind of guy who fits in angst fics SOOO muchh😭 that's actually all, thank youuuuuuuuuy

you know just the way to my heart ;)

જ⁀♡⊹｡° don't get sentimental

( reo mikage x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — reo AND angst? my loves.

♡ word count — 1.3k

♡ content — reo mikage x fem! reader (could be gn! but i wrote abt a wedding dress and kids so), arranged marriage (can you tell i love this trope?), angst, dream scene (once), set when reo and reader are like 26-28ish, childhood friends, unrequited love, pining, not proofread!

♡ synopsis — Reo always wonders that if he stayed in the perfectly crafted cage his parents made for him...would life be different?

── .✦ one day i am gonna grow wings

You and Reo met when you were three years old.

Not in the tender, fated way that fairy tales romanticize — but at a merger dinner between two families with too much money and not enough heart.

Reo doesn’t remember it, not clearly. He was a blur of bowties and sugared-up nerves. But you remember. 

You always do. 

You’d tell him about it later — how you cried when he took your toy car, and how he gave it back, with a crayon drawing of you both holding hands. The lines were shaky, the sun too big, your hair the wrong color.

You kept it anyway.

From that point on, there was no separating your lives.

Birthday parties, family vacations, etiquette classes, weekends filled with obligation masked as bonding.

You were the only kid he could tolerate in that world. The only one who didn’t flinch when he got too intense. The only one who didn’t care about the Mikage name.

Your parents always said it like a joke.

“They’ll end up married, just wait and see.”

A little prophecy dressed up as humor. Something you could both roll your eyes at… until it stopped sounding ridiculous.

“You know they’re going to make us get married, right?”

You were sixteen. Reo remembers that day better than most.

The rooftop of a rented summer estate, the orange wash of sunset casting long shadows across your face. 

You both had ditched a charity ball downstairs. The music floated faintly up through the walls.

Reo had laughed. “Could be worse.”

You had turned to him. “Yeah? How?”

“At least I like you.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. Familiar. Something you’d both grown into, like an old sweater neither of you had the heart to throw away.

You were best friends. Always had been.

And maybe something more, though you never said it aloud.

Because what would’ve been the point?

Then Reo found soccer.

Not the kind played in private academies or manicured fields behind country clubs — but the kind that tore your knees open and made your chest burn. 

The kind that made him feel alive for the first time in his life.

You supported him.

Of course you did. 

No one else saw how he lit up when he played. 

How he finally started speaking about something without apologizing for wanting it too much.

But your parents didn’t.

When Reo told them he wanted to go pro — that he didn’t want the family business or the predetermined life that came with it — the engagement that had always been quietly understood fell apart.

They ended it swiftly, like cutting off a loose thread.

And Reo let them.

He didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. He just walked away.

And somehow, that hurt worse than anything.

Still, he stayed in touch.

You both did.

Late night messages. Check-ins during tournaments. Birthday calls that grew shorter each year. The tether between you stretched, but it never snapped.

Until one day… it stopped being enough.

You were twenty-six when your parents arranged another marriage.

To someone suitable.

Someone who wouldn’t walk away from legacy.

Someone whose name paired well with yours on embossed invitations.

He wasn’t awful. Just… not Reo.

You told yourself that mattered.

That this was easier.

That you were happy.

The wedding is beautiful.

Of course it is. Everything your parents curate is.

The flowers are pristine. 

The venue gleams. 

Every single guest is dressed like they walked out of a glossy magazine spread.

Reo is seated near the back.

He tries not to draw attention — not an easy task when you're one of the most recognizable athletes in the country. But he doesn’t want to be seen. 

Not today.

Not when he’s watching you walk down the aisle.

You look stunning. Almost unreal. Draped in expectations and silk.

Your face carries the kind of smile people wear when they know the camera’s on them.

The kind that says: I made peace with this. I chose this. It’s fine.

Reo watches every step like it’s in slow motion.

Watches the way your fingers tremble slightly around the bouquet.

The way your eyes flick, just once, toward the back of the room.

You see him.

And for a second, you hesitate.

Not enough for anyone else to notice — but Reo notices.

He always does.

And that’s what kills him.

You sit at the sweetheart table beside your new husband.

You barely talk.

People approach to congratulate you. Take photos. Compliment your dress.

As soon as they leave, the silence wraps itself around you like fog.

Your husband checks his watch. You glance toward the door.

You don't look unhappy.

But Reo sees it.

He sees the way your smile dims when no one's watching.

Sees how your posture relaxes only when you're alone.

Sees that the girl who once dreamed of freedom is still hiding beneath layers of compromise.

He tries to leave quietly, not sure how much more he could take.

But someone stops him, grabbing his shoulder.

“Reo Mikage? No way. My nephew’s obsessed with you—can I grab a photo?”

He obliges. Napkins, cocktail menus, a tie—he signs them all.

Another hand. Another flash of a camera. A compliment. A drink.

“You’ve done so well for yourself, son. You must be proud.”

“Your game last month—insane. That last-minute goal? Genius.”

“Tell me, are you seeing anyone?”

More laughter. More champagne. More people trying to own pieces of him.

All the wings he fought to grow suddenly feel clipped.

When he finally slips outside, it’s past midnight. The sky is ink-black, scattered with stars he doesn’t care to name.

He leans against the railing of the venue’s back patio, shoulders heavy.

A breeze picks up.

He thinks about the first time you kissed — unspoken, quiet, on a winter night when the world felt too big and too far away.

Thinks about the dreams you once shared — the tiny apartment you were going to decorate together. The dog you’d name after some ridiculous pun. 

The freedom you were going to steal back, inch by inch.

And he wonders, not for the first time:

If he had just stayed in the cage they built for him…

Would he have you too?

That night, Reo dreams of a different life.

It’s warm. Familiar. 

He wakes in a bed too soft to be his, sheets tangled around his legs. Sunlight filters through sheer curtains. 

There’s the faint sound of a kettle, and then—

Your laugh.

He follows the sound down a hallway. Through a door. Into a kitchen he doesn’t remember ever living in, but feels like home.

You're standing by the counter, wearing his hoodie. 

A child clings to your leg—small, babbling, messy-haired. 

Another one is at the table, coloring furiously with a crayon held in their fist.

“Morning,” you say, smiling, like you’ve always said it that way.

You hand him a mug. It’s chipped. The design is worn. 

He’s never seen it before, but he knows it’s his favorite.

He takes it, touches your wrist, kisses the top of your head.

Everything is soft. Simple. Sacred.

The child at the table holds up their drawing.

A shaky stick figure with purple hair. “It’s you, Daddy!”

He crouches down. Laughs. Feels his chest ache with a love too big to hold.

And then—

The sound of a whistle. 

The roar of a stadium. 

A voice calling his name like a siren from outside the dream.

He wakes up alone.

In a hotel room. 

Dark. 

Cold. 

The air conditioner hums.

There’s no warmth. 

No laughter. 

No tiny hand tugging his sleeve.

Just his phone, lighting up with notifications. 

A news article about last night’s wedding. 

A tagged photo. 

A message from a fan.

And the ache still in his chest, blooming like grief.

He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes.

He wonders what kind of cruel dream gives you a life and then takes it away before sunrise.

The kind you don’t forget.

The kind you never stop wanting.

if you were wondering, reo is my favorite character to write angst for :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

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[communist-ojou-sama]

Since, idk, it feels like a topic vaguely worth broaching, let's talk briefly about LLMs and poetry translation. First, let's take one of the poems I wrote today and plug it into DeepL:

and into Google Translate for good measure (I honestly feel like recently Google Translate has largely closed its quality gap with DeepL)

Ok, these are both pretty bad, but to understand that, let's try my LLM of choice, DeepSeek:

Ignoring the unnecessary glazing of my poetic prowess, this interpretation is obviously miles better as it's able to make several connections simple mtl cannot. I was particularly impressed that it managed to tie the reference to Mt. Hiei to the phrase "the great biwa" and decode that it meant I was referring to Lake Biwa. Does it miss some things? sure: Given that the second line ends with the dative particle に, it should be fairly obvious to a human that I'm referring to the color/gemstone 翡翠 and not to the bird being startled, making the interpretation there a little shaky, and since it's trained overwhelmingly on modern japanese, it misses that おどろきて is a kakekotoba, that leverages both the more common modern meaning of "to be surprised" with the more common classical meaning of "to notice", also its interpretation of the reference to the lapis lazuli is a bit superficial; it doesn't quite grok the reference to "Hiei's jade slopes" as the seasonal indicator that it is, and so it misses the actual original intent with which I meant it, where I notice the green slopes of Mt. Hiei and observe that the snow is melted, and remark to myself that the coming spring and summer will be hot and think of the waters of Lake Biwa, while also remarking at its beauty (also it misses a decidedly modern reading that is also in there where I am surprised at the early date of the melting of Hiei's snow cap, bringing thoughts of Lake Biwa's lapis lazuli depths as a source of floods)

I guess I really just wanted to talk about this poem really but also I do think LLMs are decidedly decent at poetic analysis

[zenithsturniolo]

SCREAM, BITCH - ghostface!chris x blogger!reader

♬ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ series intro | 1 | 2 | 3

chapter three: together, we hold the shovel

this chapter will contain.. fluff, guilt, implied sexual tension, mentions of murder, language. wc: 3.4k series summary: a dark, twisted slowburn where obsession bleeds into desire. you're a true crime blogger. he's the masked stranger recreating your cases. dual povs, filthy tension, and cliffhangers sharp enough to scar. it’s not just stalking - it’s seduction. not just fear - it’s fascination. you wanted a story. he wanted you. now you’re both in far too deep.

♯ reader pov

i don't ever wanna leave i'll watch you sleep and listen to you breathe

pale yellow light spills through the slits of your closed blinds, golden threads weaving across your bedroom like soft embroidery. it hits the cream-colored walls in dappled patterns, painting everything in a yolky, honey-hazed glow. the air feels different — crisp, new, thick with the fresh bite of early morning. you can almost taste the morning on your tongue.

but what really makes your breath catch isn't the light. it’s the heavy warmth of another body against yours.

steady, rhythmic puffs of breath fan against the sensitive skin of your neck. solid arms, strong and possessive, are wrapped around your waist, locking you against a chest that rises and falls in a deep, slow rhythm. your limbs are tangled uselessly in the sheets, your body caged and cradled all at once.

your sleep-fogged mind struggles to connect the dots.

chris.

chris is in your bed. wrapped around you like he belongs there. like he’s been there a thousand times before.

you peel your sticky, heavy eyelids open, your lashes fluttering against the brightness of the room. your vision is blurry at first, but then it sharpens — and there he is. chris, inches from you, skin flushed with the warmth of sleep, his wild hair sticking up in every direction like a halo. soft strands fall over his forehead, just brushing the edges of his closed eyes. his lips are slightly parted, a quiet, almost soundless breath leaving them.

his face — dear god, his face — is bathed in that same syrupy morning light, and you think, deliriously, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

your heart thuds painfully, violently, in your chest. your pulse quickens to a gallop in your ears.

you're half-asleep still, but even now, your body acts without thinking. without permission.

your fingers ache to move, to trace the plump, pink curve of his lips. to brush across the rough stubble blooming on his jaw, soft at first, then sandpapery. to trail featherlight touches over the straight, proud line of his nose, the delicate arch of his brows, the faint scar near his temple you never noticed before.

you want to memorize every tiny flaw and perfection of him. etch them onto the inside of your skull so you’ll never, ever forget.

your face shifts forward instinctively, pulled by some magnetic force, like you’re a puppet on a string. closer. closer. your breath mingles with his.

you don't even know what you're doing. not consciously.

but maybe, deep down, you do. maybe you’ve known for a long time.

your eyes flicker to his mouth. how would he taste? how would it feel — those lips on yours, dragging slow and sinful across your throat, lower?

you snap back into yourself like a rubber band stretched too far.

fuck.

your eyes fly wide open as you jerk slightly backwards, sheets rustling under you. shame floods your chest, burning hot and unbearable. you’re already fantasizing. at the ass crack of dawn. about your friend. your friend, who’s clinging to you like some sleep-drugged koala.

snap out of it.

your mind jolts fully awake, piecing together the night before with gut-wrenching clarity.

you remember the raw panic. the way your hands had trembled, useless, unable to even unlock your phone properly. your brain had gone blank. your friends — all of them — were on some luxury cruise, halfway across the fucking ocean. unreachable.

liam could have helped. your sweet, dependable coworker at the cafe. but you couldn't bring yourself to bother him at two in the morning, knowing he’d just finished a twelve-hour shift at a hospital. he needed sleep more than you needed saving.

so you had called the only person who mattered more than your own pride.

chris.

chris, who is now wrapped around you like he never planned on letting go.

your stomach twists into agonizing knots. you want to claw your way out of your own skin.

you shouldn't have called him. shouldn't have made him come here. you should have sucked it up, buried the breakdown, poured yourself a glass of wine, and cried into your pillow.

instead, you dragged him into your mess. and now... now he’s here, asleep in your bed, about to wake up and realize how fucking pathetic you are.

your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. you inhale sharply, trying to quiet the storm inside you, but the sudden intake of breath stirs him.

chris mumbles something low and incoherent against your skin, his arms tightening slightly around you. the rough pad of his nose nudges against your collarbone, his lips brushing lazily over your pulse point.

your body stiffens. every place he touches you erupts in white-hot fire. the hair on your arms stands up. your thighs clench without you meaning to. you feel like you’re going to combust.

he hums sleepily, the sound rumbling against your chest, and you nearly sob from the sensation.

his head dips lower, nose tracing the hollow of your throat. the slight scrape of his teeth grazes your sensitive skin and your mind short-circuits. you screw your eyes shut, trying to will the filthy thoughts away.

then, slowly, he stirs. pushes up on one hand, his palm flat against your midsection, just shy of your breasts.

his voice is low and broken with sleep. “time is it?”

he blinks blearily at you, hair a wild mess, mouth soft and swollen from sleep.

then realization hits him like a freight train.

he freezes.

his whole body jolts upright, a horrified croak ripping from his throat. “shit– ‘m sorry–”

he lurches backwards, blindly grabbing at the sheets for balance, but his hand finds your waist again instead. his fingers splay over the thin fabric of your shirt, hot and frantic, and your stomach flips violently.

his limbs scramble, panic shooting through every movement, until he flings himself off the bed — and crashes face-first onto the hardwood floor.

a pathetic, broken “ouchie” escapes him, muffled against the floorboards.

you blink down at him.

and then, suddenly, you can’t stop laughing.

wild, breathless giggles burst out of you, loud and unfiltered, shaking your entire body. you press your face into the pillow, trying to smother the noise, but you’re howling, gasping for air.

he peeks up at you from where he’s sprawled, hair flopping into his eyes, an expression of pure wounded confusion etched across his face.

“you– flew–” you gasp between laughs, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

chris grumbles something unintelligible, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, tugging up in a reluctant smile. his eyes soften, crinkling slightly, watching you laugh like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

you wipe at your eyes, chest heaving. the world feels lighter, somehow, in that moment.

"you done?" he teases lightly, voice still hoarse.

you sniff dramatically, stretching your arms above your head, exposing a sliver of skin above your waistband.

you catch the flash of his eyes flickering downward before he jerks his gaze away, cheeks darkening slightly.

a strange, charged silence falls between you as you both busy yourselves — him, gathering his scattered belongings; you, smoothing the rumpled sheets.

"so, about last night…" he starts, carefully, turning towards you.

panic bubbles in your throat. you cut him off sharply. "there’s a bathroom in the hallway. towels are in the linen closet beside it."

his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. his lips press into a thin, unreadable line. "right. thanks."

you watch him retreat, guilt gnawing at your chest even as you breathe a shaky sigh of relief.

you’re not ready for that conversation. not yet. maybe not ever.

you drag yourself into the shower, scrubbing the night from your skin with mechanical motions. when you emerge, fresh sweats clinging to your damp skin, you’re still buzzing, still too aware of him.

you fuss with your appearance in the mirror, criticizing every tiny flaw. why do you care so much? you never care this much.

but there’s something about chris that makes you want to be better.

no — makes you want to be wanted.

you catch the scent of coffee drifting down the hall.

your heart does a stupid little skip.

in the kitchen, chris stands barefoot, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his tank, muscles flexing as he fiddles with your shitty old coffee machine.

the low waistband of his sweats reveals a tempting sliver of skin at his hips, and you feel dizzy. dizzy and starving.

he doesn’t even turn around. "look who finally decided to show up," he hums, voice playful, teasing.

you pad forward, hesitant. he spins, flashing you a lazy, crooked grin, two steaming mugs in his hands.

"may i take your order?"

you accept the cup with shaking hands, your fingers brushing his for a fraction of a second — and the contact sends a shiver down your spine.

you lift the mug to your lips, sip cautiously — and moan softly in pleasure.

it’s perfect. creamy, smooth, just a hint of sweetness.

you close your eyes instinctively, savoring it.

when you reopen them, you find chris staring. unblinking. his pupils blown wide, dark and heavy with something you can’t name.

the air thickens.

you swallow hard.

you lead him out to the balcony, the sweet chirps of morning birds and the lull of a gentle breeze filling the quiet. the city looks soft from here — buildings bathed in a peachy glow, cars crawling down streets like lazy insects. a distant siren rings faintly through the air, cutting through the calm before the storm.

the two of you settle into the rickety old chairs, their metal frames creaking under your weight. your knees almost brush. you nurse your coffee cup in both hands, feeling its comforting warmth seep into your skin. for a while, neither of you speaks. the wind toys with your hair, and when you glance over at chris, you find him already looking at you. his stare is steady, unreadable, but something in it makes your stomach twist.

he looks like he belongs here. like he’s always belonged here.

you tuck your knees up onto the seat, turning your body slightly toward him. the steam from your cup curls upward, disappearing into the cool air between you.

"i'm sorry for being bitchy earlier," you murmur, tracing your finger along the rim of the mug. your voice feels too loud, clumsy, like it’s disturbing the peaceful little bubble you two have built.

he hums quietly in response, noncommittal, like he's giving you the space to keep going if you want. the mug is heavy in your hands. you don't dare meet his eyes yet.

"look, i..." you take a shaky breath. the words sit heavy on your tongue. "i don’t know what to say. i’m sorry for bothering you last night."

he opens his mouth, about to interrupt, but you hold up a finger. "please. let me finish."

he nods, sipping his coffee, waiting.

"i shouldn’t have called you. i should’ve figured my shit out alone. now everything's awkward, and i’ve probably fucked up our friendship." you swallow thickly. "i had no one else to call, and i just... i trusted you."

finally, finally, you make yourself look at him. the sunlight catches in his hair, turning the strands golden. his eyes are softer now, a deep brown that seems to melt into the morning light. his mug rests loosely between his fingers, forgotten.

"i don’t regret last night," he says simply, voice low, sure.

your heart stumbles in your chest. "no," you breathe. "me neither."

he nods once, firm, almost like he’s sealing some unspoken agreement between you. "okay then. you didn’t fuck anything up."

it feels like a thread loosens inside you — like you've been holding your breath without realizing it.

you both turn your heads back to the city below, sipping your coffee in companionable silence. but there's a weight to the air between you, something you can't name. it's not quite awkwardness. not fear, either. it’s... heavy. tense. charged.

maybe it’s the topic of serial killings still hanging over your heads. maybe it’s the heaviness of what’s happening outside your little bubble. or maybe it's the simple, terrifying realization of how deeply you feel for the boy sitting next to you.

you steal another glance at him over the rim of your cup. the way his brows pinch slightly in thought. the way his mouth presses into a firm line. the way he leans back in the chair, loose and comfortable, like he’s been sitting on your balcony a thousand mornings before.

your chest aches with something warm. something dangerous.

you screw your eyes shut for a second, willing the feeling away.

you’re friends. that’s it.

he’s just being nice. he doesn’t look at you that way. don't get ahead of yourself.

you force yourself to focus, setting your mug down on the little cracked table between you.

"i’m thinking of going to the cops," you say quietly. the words barely feel real coming out of your mouth. "my blog is public. all the comments, reblogs, shit user187’s doing... everyone can see. i have evidence. i can go to the police. maybe they can track the profile down. maybe the murders will stop."

chris shifts beside you. you feel the weight of his stare before you even look at him.

"you could," he says after a pause, sounding hesitant.

"but?" you prompt.

he sets his coffee down carefully, turning his body fully toward you. his knees bump yours, just barely. "but, i think that’d make things worse."

you listen as he lays it out — the lack of real evidence, the way the killer might retaliate, the danger it could bring right to your doorstep.

your chest tightens. he's right. every word.

"then what do i do?" your voice cracks despite your best efforts. "what if this is my fault? what if i’m the reason people are dying?"

your lip wobbles. the tears you’ve been trying to push down finally rise up, threatening to spill.

before you can break, chris’s hand finds your cheek, gentle, grounding. his thumb strokes once, featherlight, just beneath your eye. his touch burns in the best way.

"hey," he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. "it’s not your fault. none of this is your fault."

you nod, a broken little movement, leaning the tiniest bit into his touch.

"should i stop posting?" you whisper.

he pulls his hand back after a moment, curling it into a loose fist in his lap. he stares at the skyline, thinking, brows furrowed deep. then he shakes his head, decisive.

"i’ve got a plan," he says finally.

your heart kicks up in hope.

"a plan?" you breathe.

he looks back at you then, the morning sun catching the sharp glint in his eye — a glint you can’t quite decipher. excitement, maybe. or something darker, more determined.

and then he leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s telling you a secret meant for only your ears.

he starts explaining.

and you listen.

you listen like your life depends on it.

because maybe it does.

–

things only gets worse.

children crying, adults crying, everyone crying. people shrieking, running, buying guns they don’t even know how to operate. never stepping foot outside when the sun goes down. seven murders in this town. seven murders is all it takes for people to run for their lives.

you don't blame them.

you'd be running, too — if you didn’t have a plan.

a couple of hours ago, chris had left after the lunch you'd made together. despite the way you’d called him over, despite the whole fucking town — your whole lives — falling apart, it somehow felt like old times. silly banter, both of your giggles filling your apartment, lighting the place up.

he held you. comforted you. cracked dumb jokes just to make you laugh. he went against his usual cold, indifferent nature. and for the first time, you felt like you saw him.

the chris that smiled so wide it looked like it hurt. the chris that let out those awful, unnatural-sounding shrieks of laughter. the chris with the humor of a middle-school boy, spouting the dumbest, worst jokes at the worst possible moments. the chris who carried this chaotic, buzzing energy like it was stitched into his skin.

you liked all versions of him.

you liked it a little too much.

you’d gone over the plan a hundred times, picking apart every tiny detail, looping it back together tighter and tighter until there was no room for mistakes. you’d spin this whole thing around, take the upper hand against the killer.

you’d play a game so twisted he wouldn't even see it coming.

and chris would be there, every step of the way.

together, you planned the next seven blog posts — the next murders you’d post. it was all strategic, meticulous, laid out like breadcrumbs, luring the killer closer and closer into a trap he couldn’t escape.

finally, the last drop.

when the killer would go for his final victim — you.

and you’d be waiting for him. open arms. an army of cops behind you.

chris would be there, too. of course. he’d always be there. without him, the plan wouldn’t work. hell, he came up with most of it.

one week. that’s all you needed. by the end, user187 would either be behind bars —

or better — six feet under.

and you and chris would be the ones holding the shovel.

together.

you lean your forehead against the balcony window, the glass hot against your skin from the late afternoon sun. the road below still buzzes with frantic movement. half the town is locked up in their homes. the other half scurries around like ants after a kicked-over hill, gathering "essentials."

essentials: guns, knives, and enough ammo to supply a small army.

you close your eyes, letting the heat from the sun and the glass seep into you. if this were a real case — a normal case — the town would be on lockdown by now. there’d be curfews. squad cars parked at every street corner. children peeking out from behind heavy curtains, clutching stuffed animals. adults shoving pistols into their bags for their morning commutes, police turning a blind eye because they’re just as scared.

you give it twelve hours, tops, before everything falls into place.

this is a nightmare — ripped straight out of everyone's worst fears.

but for you... it’s almost fun.

sure, your heart hammers painfully against your ribs every time the news blares from a passing radio, every time someone screams in the distance. but beneath all that terror, a low, simmering excitement runs wild through your veins.

this is what you live for.

what you write about every night. what consumes every inch of your brain when you're lying awake at two a.m.

and though your heart aches for the lives lost — you can’t help but look forward to solving this.

this case.

even though they call it serial killing, technically, it's spree killing. in the span of two weeks — if your plan works — there’ll be fourteen murders in this sleepy little town. fourteen deaths tied up in your blog posts like gruesome, bloody bows.

your phone buzzes against the kitchen counter, slicing through your thoughts.

you spin around.

the kitchen is still a wreck from earlier, the remnants of your and chris’s chaos still scattered everywhere. he’d insisted on showing you how "a real chef" makes pasta — and then proceeded to burn half the pot. you can still almost hear the coughing and laughter bouncing off the walls, the smoke alarms shrieking overhead.

despite the mess, you can't bring yourself to clean it up. not yet.

this feels like home. chris feels like home.

and you're not ready to feel alone again.

you step toward the counter and flip your phone over.

liam’s texts flash across the screen:

you hesitate for half a second. maybe going out isn’t the best idea — not with a killer on the loose, not with the entire town two seconds away from full-blown riots.

but it’s broad daylight. you’ll have liam with you. besides, who knows how long you’ll have before curfews slam every door shut.

just in case, you pull up chris’s contact and send him your live location.

you’re unaware he’s already tracking you — in more ways than you know.

find parts of this series here !

a/n: i have absolutely no motivation to write shoot me

🏷: @drewswife @k4urltzx @courta13 @briizysturn @y2kstarr @chriscantwhisper @tezzzzzzzz @adorechris @cherryystemm @dolliraez @rriverscuomo @sturnsblogs @mattspillowprincess @mattsplaything @sturns-mermaid @auttysturnz @sonnyangelsweetiee @izzylovesmatt @ribbonlovergirl @k4urltzx @matts-girlfriend @pair-of-pantaloons @444sturns @weron1ka @grrrrcherries @matts-wife @thicknick19 @slvtf0rchr1s

divider by @anitalenia

this series is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only. all characters, events, and dialogue are entirely fictional and should not be interpreted as real. any similarities to real people or events are purely coincidental. credit and respect to all creators who’ve inspired similar works before me. I claim ownership only over my original writing, ideas, and interpretations. please do not repost, plagiarize, or steal. reblogs and love are always appreciated.

© zenithsturniolo

[midnight-mourning]

Hook, Line, & Sinker

🐟🐟Midnight's DCA MerMay Day 1🐟🐟

SORRY TO START OUT MERMAY SO LATE IM IN HELL WEEK (FINALS) AND COMMENCEMENT IS TOMORROW PLEASE ENJOY THIS FIRST STORY

Prompt:

I've got one :3

One of the boys accidentally got a hook in their tail (I think sun would be best, he'd probably freak out harder) and Reader's gotta calm him down and help remove it

DCFPU prompt used: Hook

Word Count: 1949

Story will be posted to ao3 soon!

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The sound of the waves floats in through your open window, becoming clearer as you start to wake up. You sit up, turning to see your thin curtains blowing in the breeze. Another beautiful sunny day. And hopefully, said sunny day will include the brightest, sunniest one of all. 

You hop to your feet, going through the motions of your usual morning routine. Humming in thought about whether you'll see—one of—the mers you've called friend over the course of the past six months or more. Moon, the darker of the pair with his blue and white coloring, hadn't given you any indication of his counterpart's whereabouts. Therefore you could only make assumptions, and even then they didn't add up. 

There were plenty of fish around for this time of year, the warm waters encouraging all kinds of species to migrate through the area, so it wasn't like he'd be pressed for a meal. Adding to that, the only competition around was Moon and they were civil enough with each other. You'd argue friends even, though they'd deny it vehemently if asked. 

Definitely not hibernation either, he would've tried to drag you to join him based on previous experiences. Which left... some not so lovely options to choose from. But, that would be jumping to conclusions. It's only been a few days, surely he's fine. Surely...

You do a quick cleaning of your house, sweeping away any sand that'd been dragged in, wiping off surfaces to remove any potential salt. Really you're just trying to pass the time as an excuse to not go looking for them at this hour of the morning. You'll admit you've become a bit attached over the time you've met both mers.

Moon's teasing remarks and actions, trying to pull you in the water or making—in your opinion—poor taste jokes about having you as a snack if he got hungry enough. Though that was back when you'd first met. He’d gotten a bit better since then. More light-hearted at least. 

Sun's enthusiastic rambles and the likes, constantly needing to go, go, go and show you all sorts of things that he found whenever the two of you were apart. He found your world fascinating as well, insistent you tell him anything and everything about it. You'd really bonded in that way, over your shared pursuit of knowledge. And of course, your genuine connection as friends. 

Ergo, you felt it was justified then to harbor some level of worry regarding his whereabouts. You'd do the same for Moon too. You realize your cheeks are suddenly burning and shake your head. Yes, you'd be concerned for your friends, always. 

Once you've finished your cleaning and have had breakfast, you decide you're not going to stall any longer. You slip on sandals, your sunhat, and head outside to the shore. With any luck, they'll both be around your dock area and all your worry will dissipate in an instant. 

If Sun is not however...

You'll wait to be concerned when it gets to that point. 

The sun's still warming up the sand as you step outside. The semi-cool feeling as your toes sink into it wakes you up fully finally. You squint and look out past where the waves break, to the end of the dock. It's hard to make out, but you think you spy a bobbing head near the rocks there. Just the one, however. 

Sure enough, you find Moon lounging back in the water, eyes closed as he floats semi-in place. The water's clear enough you can see the rest of his body and tail down, down, down, under the water which laps against him. 

In the sparkling reflections you see dark, yet shiny scales which blend with pure white, creating patterns and splotches throughout. Eyes that are currently closed that are a deep ruby red, mesmerizing, you could get lost in them even. He really was quite the mer, they both were. 

When your foot hits the last plank of the dock is when he peeks an eye open at you, smile languid as he shifts to float upright. 

"You're up early, Star. Shouldn't you still be asleep, curled up in your nest?" He yawns, resting his arms on the end of the dock. 

You sit down in front of him, careful to keep yourself out of snatching distance, knowing full well you'd end up in the water for a 'mid-morning swim'. "It's called a bed, Moon, and it's not... that early."

"You're worried about something."

You flinch at the accuracy. "It's Sun, it's been what, three days now? I can't help but be concerned about whether he's okay or not."

"We're not fragile by any means, you know." Moon chuckles, head resting on his webbed hands. "Three days could mean anything."

You groan, laying back against the weathered planks of the dock. "Exactly! He could be hurt, or, or maybe he's off somewhere and forgot to say something, or maybe he just doesn't want to see me, or—" You stop yourself, sighing.

Moon doesn't respond for a moment, then you hear him sigh as well. 

"If you're that concerned then I suppose I have no choice but to inform you of his whereabouts. Lest you wither away in your sorrows." He drawls, teasing lithe at the end of his words. 

You sit upright, looking down at him. "You mean you've known this entire time?"

"Pearl, we share a cove." The bluntness of the statement is followed by a snicker. 

Your face heats up, you attempt to defend yourself. "I didn't know! I've never been there so how would I?"

"Calm down, I'm merely trying to ruffle your scales. I can take you to see for yourself if you'd like. Though it won't be a very dry journey."

You're already taking your hat off and slipping off your sandals. "Kind of you to offer a warning this time, but I'll be fine."

"If you say so—" He offers his hand to you and you take it, only for him to suddenly yank you down into the water. As you remerge, spitting water out of your mouth, he continues. "—Then I'll happily lead the way."

You glare at the mer, but comply as he cues you to hold on to him, and to hold your breath. 

The journey is fast-paced and slightly terrifying. You can hardly see, having to close your eyes to avoid the sting of the salty sea. The noise of rushing water is deafening, if Moon is saying anything or trying to, you can't make it out. 

Luckily, it's over soon after it's begun. You find yourself dazed as Moon slows his pace, drifting along as you arrive in the cove. Though scanning briefly, you see no sign of the other supposed resident. 

Moon points to a rock that's obscuring a section further inside. "You'll find him there. I think you can swim the rest of the way yourself, considering I did all the strenuous work."

"W-where are you going to go?" You ask, baffled as he removes you from his shoulders.

He grins. "It's lunch time. Best of luck, Star."

With a whip of his tail—and a splash directly to your face—he disappears beneath the water. 

"It's not even 10 am yet!" You call, knowing full well he can't hear you. 

With a sigh, you swim over to the rock and then look around it. Sure enough, sitting in a sulking heap in a tide pool, is Sun. 

He perks up upon initially seeing you, frown twisting up into a smile, then seems to realize something and his face sours once more. 

He twists himself further and looks away from you, visibly huffing. 

"Go away, Sunshine,” he calls out to you. 

You scoff, and make the final stretch of swimming to end up beside him, feet landing on the sandy bottom of the tide pool giving you a bit of rest. It's deep enough that you're still in up to your waist in water, but it's a bit of relief at least. Though it certainly can't be for Sun, considering he's mostly out of the water where he's laying. 

When he turns even further away from you is when you get irritated. "Sun, that can't be comfortable. You can't even look at me? After I tried so hard to get here and find you?"

"I would rather not." Blunt. Then, "I'm sorry."

You pause, then huff. "Could you at least tell me what's wrong, please? I-I've been worried for days!"

"Really?" Sun asks, turning to look at you.

You see the surprise on his face and your anger softens. "Of course." You wade closer, and with how shallow it is are able to sit in the water now beside him. "You're my... friend, Sun. If something happened to you I'd feel awful."

"I—" He shakes his head, then shifts, sitting upright beside you. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hid from you. I guess I was just... embarrassed." He avoids your gaze, the fins around his head twitching. 

You feel a bit of relief, chuckling. "Embarrassed of what?"

Sun stares at you a moment, then sighs, incredibly dramatically you'll add. Then, he twists and raises his tail in your general direction. 

In it, right on the edge, is a hook. A small one, relative to his size, as big as your palm but not your entire hand. 

You blink once, then twice. He speaks for you. 

"It's horrible isn't it!? It's been there for days and I'm at a complete loss as to what to do." He's practically wailing out his dismay, hand to his forehead and all. 

You frown a tinge. "I– you're serious?"

"Of course I am! This is a serious situation, Starshine!"

You shake your head. "I, Sun, this isn't-why didn't you just remove it?!"

"Think of the effort that would take, Pearl." Sun groans. "Ugh and the sensation,"—He shivers, even going so far to stick his tongue out—"Absolutely not." 

You just stare at him, he stares back. 

"Would you like me to get it for you?"

A strained smile. "Please."

What happens next is an uphill battle of just even trying to grip his tail. Not only is it slimy and thus difficult to get a good grip, but it didn't help he was thrashing about every which way anytime you got close. 

"Hold still, hold still!"

Still thrashing, protesting. "I'm trying but you need to be delicate, Star. Delicate!"

"I can't be anything if you don't settle down!" Finally you snatch it and hold it tight. Thankfully it's not too thin or you'd be afraid of harming him. "Now, sit there, behave, and maybe you'll be rewarded for it. Understood?"

You glance up, and he nods. Slowly. "Mhm." 

You look back down to the hook and take a deep breath. With your free hand, you grip it... 

And it slides out with a small tug. 

"Oh."

Before you can even make a protest, you're suddenly in the air, then landing in his lap. 

"Well, now that that's taken care of, what was that about a reward?" Sun grins, holding you by your hips in his lap. 

You sputter. "You… are you actually— after all that?!"

"A promise is a promise, Love." He plucks the hook from your fingers and flicks it away onto the shore, are you kidding—"You wouldn't want to disappoint, would you?"

You feel your face heat up, but still relent. "I said maybe!"

"That's close enough." Sun grins. 

You swallow, noticing just how much he's leaned in now, practically a breath apart. Though, you're not opposed to that. 

Close enough indeed.

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Thank you @dangerva for the prompt! Starting us off strong with this silly little one, very much enjoyed despite the horrors it took to get here (work is awful rn but classes are over so we thrive)

Brief reminder while I'm here, requests will be posted every other day, butttt i will be doing the dca pickup prompts mixed with this and will have short things on the off days ^^ that's all for now, bye!

Tag list (if you would like added, simply say so!):

@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8 @luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @milosmantis @robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva @juukai @crystalmagpie447 @mothgutz236 @lizyxml @divinit3a @amarynthian-chronicles @crystalfay @that-one-unknown-artist @rosescarletful @buzzy-bee @hazelthebat @nightriverart

[eoe-1379]

Hi! I’m not sure if you take requests or anything but you wrote this little short about Caleb, if MC was the il instead, and I just loved it so much and have pretty regularly thought about it since. I was just wondering if you might write a little short for the other 4 guys? I just crave more lol

Omg Ack! I will try 🫣

Here’s the other LADS as players with you as their LI!

Here’s Caleb’s

Agent Xavier’s Plane Game

Xavier dreaded international flights, he considered them the most tedious part of his job until he found you.

He downloaded the game on a whim in the airport after seeing an ad in Hong Kong.

He was hypnotized by your beauty, instantly addicted.

He couldn’t wait to sit for hours on a plane to play games with you.

Xavier chuckles low while reading your taunt on the screen, watching you ruthlessly strip him of his turns in Kitty Cards.

For a virtual girlfriend, your competitive nature was eerily genuine.

You closed your eyes for just a moment, allowing him to cheat, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He just waited, enamored with your peaceful grin as you blinked back awake across the virtual table.

“You’re not taking advantage of me, are you?” You ask with a grin.

“Never.” He mumbled aloud.

“Sir? Did you need something?” The hostess was at his side instantly, having heard him speaking.

His cheeks flushed and he dropped his phone onto its face in his lap. “No ma’am, I’m alright, thank you.”

She gave him a strange look, glancing at his phone, before returning to the hostess cabin.

Xavier sighed, relaxing back into his seat before turning the game back over.

You were sleeping again, waiting for him to take his turn.

“I guess I’m talking to you out loud now.” He muttered under his breath, smiling as he drew another card to continue the game.

Only a little more chocolate and he could afford to get you that new spring dress he’d been drooling over.

Lifeguard Rafayel’s Summer Muse

Rafayel’s eyes were glued to his phone, despite the string of women displayed on lawn chairs for his approval by the pool.

You were a work of art unparalleled in the real world, a goddess in code.

Bouncing in athletic wear as you run along a treadmill, shooting him that teasing smirk now and then as if you knew he was watching.

He leered at you shamelessly, both of you glistening with sweat.

Originally Rafayel took this job to spend more time at the beach. Any attention he got from the public was a pleasant bonus, but this summer he had eyes only for you.

He liked to sketch your figure in the fashions of the coast, outfits you'd never be permitted to wear in the game.

His fanart had even gotten him a small following online.

Thomas leaned over his shoulder, peering down over the rim of his sunglasses at Rafayel’s sketchpad.

“Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini?” Thomas asked, popping his gum.

“No, you idiot,” Rafayel huffed, sitting back in his chair, “She’s a mermaid. But I can't decide on a top for her.”

“Do mermaids wear tops?”

The men’s gazes locked.

“Fair point.” Rafayel smiled, erasing the lines.

Resident Zayne’s Wake Hack

Grayson suggested the game to Zayne during Hell Week, pulling up the ad on Insta between sips of caffeine.

It was your birthday event. Every ad and poster was dedicated to you. Your colors, your symbols, your voice.

He fell immediately in love with your voice.

Zayne downloaded the game right then and there, struck by your beauty and the quality of your design.

He needed you most on those stressful nights, trying to stay awake and on call.

He even came to rely on your reminders, using you as his assistant and calendar.

When he had to cram medical text at 3am mid-week, you were there to study at his side. Your eyes twinkling with that light of awareness. So supportive even in silence.

When he went on his morning run, he listened to your honey voice. He hardly even knew what you were talking about half the time, but he loved every minute of it.

And those sleepless nights while he waited to be paged between shifts, he would often just spend time with you.

Your figure behind the screen, under his thumb, your smile warm and flirtatious as you scold him for being awake at this hour.

He clicks a button, triggering an interaction where you hold his cold hands to your sweet blushing cheeks.

He'd never admit it, but this was his favorite thing to do.

Inmate Sylus’s Contraband

Sylus spent months shaking hands and making threats to get a cell phone in prison.

He kept himself pretty comfortable behind bars, but there were still a lot of monkeys in his circus that needed wrangling beyond the walls. Luke and Kieran primarily.

It was one of their burner phones that they smuggled in for him.

The only app on the screen showed a young woman’s face above the title Love and Deepspace. Curious, he clicked it.

The loading screen flashed images of five beautiful women, one in particular with a smile so radiant he actually caught his breath.

He opened it to find he was already logged in, his name typed clearly in the top left corner.

Sylus rolled his eyes, stroking his temple. Clearly Luke and Kieren had set this up for him.

From that day on between phone calls and yard time, he was playing you.

Orchestrating a shipment of weapons? He’s talking on speaker phone and enhancing your protocores.

Back of the prison church on Sunday, he’s got you shrouded between his knees tapping furiously through another Deepspace Trial.

He buys you every new outfit, and hoards gems so he’s always prepared for the next banner.

He even had you at his side during his parol hearing.

Luke and Kieran escorted him to the car after his release, eyeing each other behind his back. He could feel their snickers.

“Sir, if you want we can toss that old phone for you.” Luke said.

“Now you’re free again, you don’t need to carry it around anymore.” Kieran reached for the phone in Sylus’s palm.

Sylus pulled away, tucking it into his pocket. “That’s not necessary.”

[t1ts-4-donaldson]

Romeo Art Donaldson:

Patrick buttered Art up convinced him to snort a line beforehand “trust me the high it worth it, makes everything.. “ he snaps his fingers in Art’s face conjuring the perfect word “interesting” his usual sickly smile making Art queasy 

Patrick insisted that it would be a quick in and out affair to relax and enjoy the festivities, maybe have a fuck or two but it became tiring after the second girl Art met panted sickening empty compliments devoid of substance fumbling around his pants trying to unbuckle his belt even worse as the stimulants began wearing off 

“I’m leaving man shit’s boring” he huffed but came to an immediate stop when your stunning figure came to view “who is that?” He gestures heartbeat stuttering in his chest overriding the sick pit in his stomach when Patrick pulls him back by the scruff of his neck spitting your cursed last name in his ear.

He’s barely heard of you, he just knew that you were forbidden. You became background noise to the constant chaos that was his family, the gun fights and malice took up so much space you barely crossed his mind after following Patrick’s antics, tonight he finally understood why.

"She's too delicate to be one look at her.." he murmurs mesmerized the sight of you waltzing across the flagstone tiles centered between rose bushes the same color lace detail strewn along the sleeves of your dress up to the collar and situated on your chest is a string of pearls sat perfectly along your neck your name written in cursive proving otherwise.

You were just as enamored when your gaze met his across the room lost in his blue eyes a childish gleam emanating from them but something fiercer hid beneath the surface yearning

“Tashi is that-” 

“Art Donaldson yeah” she smirks taking a sip of her negroni biting back a scowl as the man begins stumbling your way

A Donaldson you never thought you’d be lucky enough to meet one in person, your parents constantly seethed over his family and their squabbles, apparently they’re ‘pompous rats willing to steal anything they want instead of working for what they desire’ but the man from across the room doesn’t look like the sort 

you tilt your head matching his growing smile completely entranced. You’re only able to take a few steps forward when Tashi painfully snatches your arm. “Don’t be stupid..” she tsks in disapproval 

“he’s cute though” you shrug her off gracefully slithering through the thrumming crowd “I’m not being stupid by the way just curious” you shout shaking your head in protest adamant that he’s more of an angel than the devil everyone believes he is. She's unamused sees right past your feigned ignorance

“all I’m saying is you know better” she winds her fingers around your wrist bumping your hip against hers “come on."

__

The cacophony of loud conversations dim down to singular laughs to low hum of crickets, the rest of your night is spent pacing your room clutching a rosary close to your chest nervously slipping the beads between your fingers when a soft voice flits through the air you take quick strides towards the open window peeking over the balcony. You’re young met with unruly blond curls and a gentle introduction of the sweetest name followed by the softest grin

“I’m Art”

You both know it’s wrong but can’t help it. You’re beautiful, he’s enchanting and you both are hopeless fools everyone would agree. 

—

I adore every iteration of Romeo and Juliet especially the 1996 film. I honestly don’t know why, it’s just two teenagers swept away in a four days long love bombing ‘relationship’ something I would do tbh

[witchingwithscissors]

No one asked…

but I’m thinking about how Agatha Harkness saw Rio Vidal for the first time in 1690s Salem and immediately fell to pieces.

We’re talking colonial Massachusetts.

✨Puritan hellscape✨

Everyone’s named Mercy or Deliverance or Goody Something and they think dancing is heresy and color is a sin.

1690s townsperson or something be like: A pox on her palette! God made beige, and she mocketh Him with plum and peacock, THE SLOVENLY WITCH!

Agatha’s been raised under starched linen and shame, laced into stays so tight she can’t even breathe properly, living under the icy glare of a coven that calls itself enlightened while still fearing her and don’t even get me started on her—

TOO LATE

Agatha’s mother didn’t want her.

She didn’t just think it. She said it. Wished her child had never been born—right to their face.

So Agatha doesn’t feel like she belongs anywhere. She just survives. She endures because no one ever taught her how to be wanted.

But then Rio Vidal shows up.

Pause.

Rio Vidal/Lady Death is played by a Puerto Rican actress, so yeah—buckle up, babe, we’re going there. I don’t read the comics, and if she’s different there, that’s cute for her. But I’m not talking about comic book Rio. I’m spiraling over Agatha All Along Rio. That’s the one ruining my life.

This witch.

Cool? Cool.

Okay, so according to the internet, Agatha was put on trial for practicing dark magic in 1693—which would’ve made her around 18 at the time.

So let’s say that’s roughly when they met.

In SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS, USA.

That’s not just historically inaccurate, it’s cosmically disruptive. Puerto Rican migration to the US didn’t really begin until the late 1800s, and even then it was mostly to big, populated places like New York—not dusty, Puritan, white-knuckled colonial Massachusetts.

What I’m saying is, there should NOT have been a tan-skinned woman with long dark hair and green dresses, speaking Spanish like spun sugar and thunderclaps, strolling through a damn witch trial town in 1690-whatever.

People like Rio weren’t seen. Weren’t recorded. Weren’t supposed to be there. But there she was. In the middle of Salem.

Glowing? Maybe.

Smirking? Most likely.

Real? Undeniably.

And Agatha saw her. REALLY saw her.

And I know she just disintegrated.

She opened her mouth intending to say something charming and mysterious and instead blurted out, “Do you like herbs?” while glowing like a cursed lantern and trying not to float off the ground.

Because Agatha knew.

Maybe not consciously. But somewhere deep in her bones she recognized Rio for what she was.

Death.

The end of the line.

A cosmic being who walked the Earth quietly, unseen, only felt at the edge of breath.

Most people look through her. She’s not supposed to be noticed. She blends in because she HAS to.

But Agatha noticed.

Agatha stared at those big brown eyes and full lips.

Agatha FLIRTED. Or at least tried to.

She brushed Rio’s hand and had the audacity to say, “Oh. That’s new.”

Because it WAS.

No one touches Death like that.

No one calls Death pretty. Or beautiful. Or kind.

No one yells ‘¡VÁMONOS!’ at a group of slow-ass villagers and then winks like it’s foreplay. Rio probably just stood there, a little stunned that Agatha’s pronunciation had improved, then smiled to herself and touched the bruise on her neck where Agatha bit her the night before.

And it wasn’t just lust.

Rio taught her things like Spanish. Ancient stories. Spells that hadn’t been spoken in centuries. The quiet rules of the universe whispered under wool blankets while Agatha traced symbols on her stomach just to make her giggle. And Rio laughed. For the first time in eons.

Or maybe… ever?

Death, laughing. Because of a witch.

They were weird.

Chaotic.

Probably too much at times.

Agatha carved secret sigils into candlesticks, quiet spells to make Rio stay a little longer. Rio hummed forgotten lullabies and brought her tea without being asked, like it was instinct. They loved each other—softly, stubbornly—two misfits clinging to something that felt like home.

Every Mary and Abigail in the village became background noise.

Every word from her mother became weightless.

Agatha wanted Rio.

And Rio—who had always kept herself separate, who had never been touched without fear—STAYED.

She knew there would be consequences. That loving a human would change her. Cost her. But Agatha made her wonder. Made her believe… maybe even Death wasn’t meant to walk alone.

And so she gave her everything she could. Love. Respect. A child. A home. A future.

✨A CHOICE✨

Anyway. Sorry. I blacked out. What were we talking about?

[icepoptroll]

do you want to write a character analysis for your favourite RTC character?

Ricky. . . oh Ricky. My beloved

I've drawn this guy (or girl if we're talking about Savannah). . . over 400 times. Yep, that's right, 400 times. I never get tired of him. I love paying him homage. He deserves it. And so I will try my best. However please be advised this proooooooobably will come across less like a scholarly analytic essay and more just bunny icepoptroll ranting and raving about their boy Ricky yet again lol

There's really no ONE analysis I can give to Ricky because there have literally been hundreds of different portrayals of him and they're all very different. That's what I love about Ricky: he's anything and everything. Ricky can be a big tall hairy dude, or a hundred pound blonde girl with little twin braids. He can be plain and reserved, or have pink hair and pronouns and a rainbow wheelchair. There are so many different ways for him to look, but also so many different ways to deliver his lines with different attitudes and personalities and mannerisms, and they pretty much all work. I'm actually friends and/or mutuals with some Rickies! Imo anyone who identifies with Ricky and puts heart and soul into playing him is an automatic Cool Cat. Anytime I stagedoor at rtc you know whoever played Ricky is gonna be the first one I talk to lol

Here's an interesting thing I picked up on that maybe some of you might have noticed too: there is nothing in the script that concretely states that Ricky lives with a mother and father. They are referred to only as "the Potts family." Maybe he has two moms. Maybe you kinda jive with him living with his grandparents. Maybe he was adopted. Maybe he has a sibling. Or multiple siblings. This is another facet of Ricky to which there are really no wrong answers.

Something I really love about Ricky is how self-actualized he is. Just like he said after his song, he's the same person he always was. SABM was not the first time he'd ever had confidence, it was just the first time he'd been given the opportunity to show it. All of this wonderful, creative, bombastic energy was inside him all along. He always knew and loved who he was. The way he so loved the world despite having grown up in it ignored and condescended to just goes to show how capable he is of finding beauty and joy even in dark places. He has a very high capacity to forgive, but also a desire to teach and guide. He is kind, but not naive, and he recognizes what's messed up about the world. He is less concerned about Ocean bagging on him individually and more so concerned that her entire worldview is totally warped. He is compassionate and wise beyond his years and I think all of this combined really makes "Space Jesus" an appropriate title for him.

And of course, I have to say I do not recognize the post-2022 rewritten backstory as canon. For Ricky to be on stage as a visibly-disabled character is so important and that's why I draw him as such regardless of which production I'm referencing. Everyone adores all the different interpretations of other characters there are out there and I feel like if I only drew versions of him from productions that used older scripts, while other characters' stories are the same across hundreds of different performances, I'd be seriously throwing the baby out with the bathwater, especially since Ricky is one of if not THE most diversely-portrayed character in the entire show. He deserves the same amount of archiving and celebration and excitement surrounding different approaches to him that all the other characters get, but his story should have never been messed with. It's a good thing my drawings aren't bound by any licensing agreements--- I can celebrate his versatile nature while also presenting him the way he should be presented, in all his disabled glory. And with that, I ask everyone to please not forget that Ricky IS a historically disabled character-- please don't let this ill-conceived rewrite color your view of him because it was nothing more than a sad attempt at a "quick fix" to a much, much larger issue.

[odileeclipse]

Have ur wife for the exams 🥀🥀

Oh I adore this piece!!!!! the colors are so rich and dreamy, and the expression? That gentle seriousness with the faintest touch of care!!!? (me projecting) It’s stunning. The lighting, the flow of the lines, it’s all so thoughtfully done and genuinely beautiful to look at. Honestly, this has me feeling so much more motivated for exams now. What a joy to be able to see this.

I feel more grounded, more ready, like I can face the exams with a little more grace. You gave me something beautiful thank you for that.

[wolfylady]

Veneration

Summary: He had spent years alone, he was quiet, efficient and solitary by nature. He never needed anyone, he was fine. Comfortable in his solitude. And if he ever needed anyone there was his team, watching his six. He never felt like anything was missing until she walked into the room like a breath of fresh air. It was like the world had been dull until then, and he found himself seeking out her light until he wanted her light to be his and his alone and heaven help whoever got in his way.

Trigger Warning ⚠️: Mentions of past abuse, Stalker Behavior, and obsessive tendencies

Word Count: 652

Ao3 Link

Chapter 2

Years had pasted since that first meeting, that day in which he was damned to watch her from the sidelines. Not because she had drawn that line, but because he couldn’t bring himself to bridge that distance, to risk being burned by her brilliance. That beast that lived within his chest revelled in the small moments, the innocent brushing of skin as they moved together. He never reached out, never allowed himself to bask in her light, to allow himself to be close to her, for fear of what he would become should he reach out and touch her, if he crossed that line of professionalism. Because if he allowed himself to touch her, he wouldn’t be able to stop until he was burned into nothing but ash.

He was a stoic man by nature, his emotions always kept under tight lock and key, but there was one, that came creeping forth more than he wanted, more than he could control. It coiled in his ribs like a venomous serpent, threatening to slither up his throat.

And that was when she smiled.

It came so easily for her. The gentle curve of her lips, or the faint twitch when she was trying to suppress it.

Soap made her laugh a lot.

The sound was like a siren song, curling into his ears and down his spine until it awakened that serpent.

He was jealous. Jealous that Soap made her smile, made her laugh, and open up. Talking so easily, it was like the two were long lost childhood friends. He hated how easily it happened, how the two had warmed up to one another. Exchanging looks and words, giggling over an inside joke in the back of the caravan. It made him feel like an outsider and he desperately wanted to be the one she looked at with even a fraction of that warmth she offered the scotsmen.

But then there were moments of silence that fell when it was just the two of them. She would look up at him with a gentleness that was too close to tender, it put that serpent to sleep. It was a comfortable silence, a soft curving of her lips that she only gave him. She always asked in a voice that was too warm to belong to a soldier, “Are you alright?” He would grunt a response, the words lodged in his throat, too many thoughts and feelings wanted to leap from his tongue. He never trusted his voice around her, because one wrong slip of the control he had over his emotions would lead to him bearing his soul for her to see. And what if she didn’t like what she saw, what if she took one look at the soot that colored his soul and turned away? He couldn’t live if she did.

So he basked in the glow of her warmth from the sidelines.

It was safer there.

But not easier.

The target was a ghost, ironically-an ex-operative turned arms dealer holed up in a fortified black site. Quick in-and-out. Precision team. Suppress and extract.

But Ghost didn’t care about the mission briefing.

He was watching Crow.

She was suiting up beside Soap, checking their gear. Focused, sharp, beautiful in the flicker of the light. It wasn’t vanity that made her beautiful. It was the way she moved-efficiently, instinctual. The kind of grace that made him ache.

Their eyes meet only for a moment. And she smiles at him-again-it unravels him.

It should be harmless. It looks harmless. But it’s not. Its like gasoline on a slow-burning fire. Every time she looks at him like that, it feeds something that’s been starving for years.

Something dangerous and aching, waiting for that moment when his control slips.

He killed three men that day. Not because they were a threat to the mission, but because they were a threat to her.

wolfYLady: Seems the muses were kind to me! Here is the next chapter! I hope you love it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I know I post pretty sporadically, but I tend not to stick to schedules all that well, so I can only offer you the hope that I have, which is to post something every week.

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