#thiS MEME IS SO OLD I C

[darling-stardust]

I know I already sent in a request but I feel like I’m obligated to ask for my boy Willy in A3 (you absolutely don’t have to! I know he’s not everybody’s favorite lol)

holy shit like literally within minutes, these two were requested so you KNOW I had to smush them together and make a joke at a very serious and cut throat turn of events in canon LOL

This took all of my day but I am so not mad LOL

They look like a weird comic villain x henchman duo that would normally be so hot but with them.... idk... it could still be hot, whatever. Glenn like this has had me some type of way all day so I blame you two xD

Outfit art meme CLOSED ♡

[buccellato]

Vash is actually very lucky his brother is just regular evil and not Annoying Dumbass Sibling evil because he just has to deal with murder instead of having to finally give up and block his brother's phone number after a long and agonizing argument that stretched out over the past 6 months only for him to get on a bus the next day for a 14 hour ride and have everyone else's phones ding up with a message all at once which results in the other riders giving him A Look and the person sitting next to him going "erm, is this you? :/" and showing him this image

[isabelguerra]

@undeadromcom PLEASE. PLEASE SPAM MY LIVEBLOG. I ABSOLUTELY LOVE YOUR WORK

[whelpimnauthuman]

My current Clangen has had at least five murders (and I will not be surprised if we get more). Which is already wild, but then looking at the revelations I've gotten so far and then coming up for motivations is. Just. Wild

Clangen Murder Lore under the cut

I have one guy, Lupinerustle, who's done the majority of the murder (I think it's 2, maybe 3 other cats? Need to check my notes tho) He's charismatic, so finds it easy to laugh off and deflect any accusations (doesn't help that at least one of his "confessions"was a flashback/nightmare overheard by a kit who didn't understand it.) I don't have a motive yet, but at this point whenever there's a murder I'm like "ah, yeah, that was probably him".

One of them was not subtle at all, brought the guy into camp and damned him to the Dark Forest; he was an apprentice about to graduate so I imagine it was right around the assessment. Not entirely sure method or motive, but he ends up killing the apprentice (I think he name was Rapidpaw?). Debating on having Lupinerustle ambushing Rapidpaw, so he doesn't have a chance to fight back, or Rapidpaw fighting for his life.

Either way, the body is brought back to camp, Lupinerustle claims they were attacked and the apprentice ran, abandoning him and dying in the process. "In the end, he wasn't fit to be a warrior."

Second murderer is his mate, Frozenmane. She grew up as kind of the golden child; I imagine her and her sister Icystem having a relationship similar to Dovewing and Ivypool, where Frozenmane was able to get away with almost anything - sneaking out to the Twolegplace and eating their food, going missing for weeks on end, even returning with one of their collars - and still managed to graduate on time, yet Icystem was held back despite doing everything right. To add insult to injury, around the time Icystem graduated, the medicine cats received a prophecy. Frozenmane overheard it and thought it must be talking about her, and her sister wasn't exactly pleased when she went to tell her. "You couldn't even let me have this (my graduation/ceremony), without somehow making yourself special, could you?"

A few moons pass, and Icystem (along with a few other cats) are taken by two legs. Famine strikes, the old deputy dies and is replaced, and Frozenmane... Lives life as normal. She finds a mate, has kits (Icystem, ironically, returns the same moon her kits are born). Her mate dies, her kits grow, and she's just... A common warrior.

And it kills her inside. Wasn't she meant to be special? Hadn't Starclan chosen her? Wasn't she the favorite?

I'm not entirely sure her motive for killing this (seemingly random?) warrior, but I feel like it's related to that; her victim, Toadflood, was everything she wasn't: a relatively laid-back warrior who was just. Enjoying life. Didn't care about being special, or raising in ranks (I think they were actually from outside the Clan originally). They weren't holding themself to such a high standard, and Frozenmane hated it.

The murder just adds on to everything tho. There's that combination of horror and guilt, but also... Lupinerustle has killed at least one cat by now, and can recognize there's something off about her. TL;DR they bond over murder and become mates, honestly probably enabling each other? (Considering, y'know, Lupe is still murdering his Clanmates)

Frozenmane is eventually confronted by Falconheart, a younger warrior (and one of the deputy's current mates), who plans on sharing the revelation with the Clan (preferably after their mate becomes leader, as Antlerstar is on his last life, and Frozenmane is a well-trusted warrior; it's basically the equivalent of Firestar accusing Tigerclaw). Falconheart is hoping to find guilt, remorse, maybe to hear it was an accident, anything to keep from reporting this. Instead, Frozenmane simply replies "So? Plenty of cats - good cats - die or go missing all the time. Why does it matter now?"

After all, Frozenmane was chosen by Starclan, she can't be wrong. Her killing a Clanmate is 100% okay, at least, in her mind.

Final murder is Antlerstar, who's currently on his last life. He's old, and quite honestly seen a lot, being the Clan's first leader (and one of two founders remaining). He's actually lost all but one of his other lives to famine, so has no problem giving for his Clan; however, he's no pushover, having led his Clan to war as well.

He was once a wise and noble leader, but age, as well as the trials of leading a Clan, have made him more feeble and hesitant; he fears leading his Clan astray, causing more loss and pain. He's plagued by nightmares, mistakes and visions from his past. It's not uncommon for him to get lost in a memory, or awake from a nightmare unaware of when or where he is.

His murder of (*checks notes*) was accidental, having lost himself to one such memory. The realization of what he'd done haunts him, and he's mostly confined himself to his den, only being visited by his deputy, Cinderfeather, and his medicine cat, fellow founder and friend, Foxpath.

[cakemoney]

finding out that kaito and shinichi have been revealed to be cousins is like finding out there was a huge earthquake in the country you used to live in

[frostedturquoise]

guess who just found out their friend was being a flakeatron 300 because 'uwu cant taint sunshine friend with my depressed vibes' and your all 'one how the fuck did we get here and two after all that bullshit your face looks smackable because a. how the fuck did you get that and b. what the fuck and c. being depressed is no excuse for the shit you did you socially ignorant slug'

ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh To be fair im more agitated b/c it was a mix of constantly bailed on plans meets any conversation outside plans and planning being met with constantly asking for money giving very bad ideas and setting what looked like a very bad precedent.

So i honestly have no idea where fuck the miscommunication was when i was a disappointing flavour of borderline cordial the whole time when the constant disappointment wasn't making me wonder why i bother with new friends at all because most of the time they just want shit because irl they mistake me for something i am not or ge put off when they find out im not all sunshine and rainbows or get put off by the whole 'thats a human person fuckwit stop being a racist fucknuckle' vibes that i am incredibly blunt about because a civilian is still a civilian even if a different country and don't deserve this nonesense....like it even gripes at people who have known me for over twenty years ad they still fail to see why i find it annoying.

Still i was pretty bluntly unmistakable with the 'hey just say shit whenever instead of making plains you intend to bail on okay because all thats doing is making me disappointed and more likely to not bother than it is to talk more because i have one too many flakes in existing friend groups' exceot it was way more eloquent and relevant to the situation. ooohh wow whoopity do i fucking hate phone calls because the walls are thinner than a sheet of goddamn fucking rice paper here and you fucking dont like how both my neigbours can hear everything i say and do because you have BEEN HERE and yet you get all stupid and unsecure when i tell you to text instead of call if it is something that can wait was me being upront when you considtent say you want fucking privacy and or me to not tell yet talk so loud over the hone BOTH my neigbours can hear you. Like. You know. Ever occour to you that in hindsight it wasnt me making excuses eh? And more 'you realise my walls are so think i can hear either neighbour shower no matter how quiet they try to be' levels of bad and more 'this is your weekly reminder that phone calls here give zero privacy dude'

[kismate]

tag drop :)

[aastarions]

so my office is closing the last week of the year again but this time it requires us to save (3) days of PTO to make that happen which kinda stinks!!! cause that's a literal 25% of my PTO and they told us rly late but w.e. anyways!! all this to say i have one day of PTO left for the year and the desperate desire to use it soon is looming over me

[katmaibearfan]

I've noticed that some people are unaware of Fat Bear Junior, the mini Fat Bear Week bracket for cubs, so here's a roundup of the three previous winners!

in 2021, the inaugural Fat Bear Junior competition, one of 132's spring cubs was declared the winner, and its easy to see why -- 132 takes great care of her cubs!

photo credit: NPS/C. Spencer, taken September 13 2021. link to flickr page for this photo

in 2022, 909's yearling (1.5 year old) won! this was the year that sisters 909 & 910 combined their families to form The Beady Bunch, and it sure seems like having two moms really advantaged her!

photo credit: L. Law, taken September 18 2022. link to flickr page for this photo

and finally, in 2023, my beloved baby boy, 806's Spring Cub, won! i love him so much that i made propaganda memes for him last year, lmao.

photo credit: NPS, taken september 23 2023. link to flickr page for this photo

[bweirdart]

EVENT OVER! THANKS EVERYONE WHO JOINED IN U ALL DID AN AMAZING JOB <3 SEE YOU AGAIN NEXT YEAR IN MARCH FOR #mARTch OR NEXT OCTOBER (2024) FOR A NEW SET OF PROMPTS!!!!!

OC-TOBER 2023 PROMPTS!!

general tag: #oc-tober / my prompts: #bweirdOCtober

F.A.Q:

Do I have to draw EVERY DAY?

NO! I highly encourage skipping as many days as you need to avoid burnout! There are 10 main days in the event (marked with a ⭐ star) that you can focus on if you don't feel up to doing every day, or you can choose your own adventure and just do the prompts you personally like!

Do I have to DRAW?

NO! You can also write fanfiction snippets, repost older art that fits the theme, tweet headcanons/backstory, roleplay in-character as your oc ... genuinely anything that fits the theme is OK!!

Can I start early?

YES! I understand some people work at a slower pace and might need a head start! So long as you wait until October to post it, you can start working as early as you need!

I missed the start of the event .. do I have to catch up?

NO! Please don't stress about days you missed, you're allowed to just skip to the current prompt!

RULES:

1. MAKE FRIENDS! The community is the best part of this event .. please try to follow new people, ask questions about ocs you like, compliment people's styles, ask friends to create with you, etc!

2. TAKE IT EASY! Skip a day if you're tired, busy or just not interested in the prompt. You don't have to catch up on it later. This is supposed to be fun, not work!

3. BE KIND! Please think about the people around you - don't give people unwarranted harsh criticism, content warn for themes/imagery in your work that could trigger someone, don't create anything hateful, etc

MORE:

text version / tips and ideas on bweird.art or below ↓

star = main prompts | no star = optional

INTRO WEEK

1: FAVE OC ⭐

-Which of your characters is your favourite right now?

2: NEW OC

-Who is your newest OC?

-Design a new OC right now

3: OLD OC ⭐

-Do you remember the first OC you ever made?

-Is there an OC you haven't drawn in a long time?

4: RE-DESIGN

-An OC who has changed a lot over the years

-Take an old OC and update their design right now

 

BACKSTORY WEEK

5: RELATIONSHIPS ⭐

-Who is important to your OC?

-Do they have a partner?

-Do they have a best friend?

-Are they close to their family?

6: SYMBOL

-What imagery do you associate with your oc?

-Are there any colours, flowers, animals or concepts that symbolize them?

7: PERSONALITY ⭐

-How does your OC behave?

-What are their positive traits?

-What are their negative traits?

-Are they extroverted or introverted?

8: PAST

-What was your OC like as a child?

-Where did they grow up?

-Are there any significant moments from their past that shaped who they are?

9: FUTURE ⭐

-Does your OC have a goal they're working towards?

-What will your OC look like when they get older

-Do you have a planned ending for their story?

PALETTE WEEK

10: pumpkin patch palette

#251604 #1E3807 #5B5E1A #A2A657 #EBA00F #F3ECCC

11: hot cocoa palette

#520B13 #BB382E #E27E6D #88392C #AF5D40 #E1AFA4

12: midnight zone palette

#000007 #000049 #183885 #004D4F #0E8788 #FFF1C0

13: peachy palette

#DE6450 #DB9171 #FFC1AE #FEE1AD #FFF2E0 #D9D8D8

14: haunted house palette

#552506 #6E25AA #ED690B #F925A0 #8F8BA7 #A6C1AA

FUN + GAMES WEEK

15: MEME ⭐

-Post memes that remind you of your OC

-Draw your OC as a meme

-Fill out a character meme (classic deviantart style)

16: FOOD

-What is your OC's favourite food?

-What is their least favourite?

-Can they cook?

17: EYES-CLOSED ⭐

-Draw your OC with your eyes closed! No cheating!

-Write a scene without looking at the keyboard! Keep the typos in!

18: SWAP

-Swap the style or aesthetic of two of your OCs

-Species or gender swap AU

-Invert an OC's colour scheme

19: INSPIRATION ⭐

-Is your OC inspired by any pre-existing characters?

-Are there any particular songs/lyrics that inspired something about one of your OCs

-Do you have a dedicated pinterest moodboard for your character?

20: INVENTORY

-What does your OC carry around with them on a daily basis?

-Are there any objects that have sentimental value for them?

-Loot drop for your DnD OC

 

FRIENDS WEEK

21-25:

There's no specific daily prompts for this week, but here are some ideas you can try ...

-Art trades with friends who are doing the event with you

-Your OC interacting with a friend's OC

-Gift art for someone whose OCs you like

-Work together and collaborate on something with a friend

-Roleplay an OC scene together with someone

 

HALLOWEEN WEEK

26: FEAR ⭐

-What is your OC scared of?

-Draw one of your OCs trying to scare the others

27: MONSTER

-Do you have any monster OCs? (eg: vampires, werewolves, creatures, ghosts...)

-Draw a human OC as a monster

-Design a new monster

28: TRICK

-Play a trick on an OC

-Do you have an OC who would play tricks on people?

29: TREAT

-What is your OC's favourite halloween candy?

-Give an OC a special treat to make up for yesterday's trick

30: MAGIC

-Do any of your characters have magical powers?

-Give an OC a magical or cursed artifact

-Create a magic-using OC like a witch or wizard

27: COSTUME ⭐

-What is your OC dressing as for halloween?

[eclipixels]

i might have baby fever rn but i can’t stop thinking abt isagi and reader having a son that’s almost an exact copy of isagi in appearance nd being that one meme that’s like “nine months in my womb making me suffer and you look like your stupid dad!” 😭

Ctrl C + Ctrl V

Yoichi Isagi x Reader

[1,149 words]

      There is no way, you thought, as you stared at your few-hours-old newborn, cradled in your arms.

      Your baby looked just like your husband. Not just in the usual way that babies sometimes resemble their fathers—no, this was almost uncanny. The way the little human looked up at you with the same big blue eyes, blinking sleepily, and that same slightly clueless but endearing expression made you wonder if you had actually just given birth to a clone.

      It was almost comical. The same messy dark blue hair that refused to be tamed, the same pout when something didn’t go their way, the same chubby cheeks you had spent years pinching, the same nose that scrunched up just slightly when they yawned. Even the shape of his tiny ears mirrored Isagi’s.

      How? Just—how?

      You had spent nine long months carrying this child. Nine months of swollen feet, back pain, cravings at ungodly hours, nausea that never quite left, and nearly ripping Isagi’s arm off during labor. And for what? A miniature version of him. A tiny, living, breathing replica of your husband, complete with his wide, dumb grin.

      You squinted at your son, shifting him slightly in your arms as he let out a soft coo, his small fingers wiggling in the air. Then, your gaze flickered over to your husband, who was practically vibrating with excitement beside you, looking like he was about to explode from sheer joy.

      You scowled.

      Then back to your son.

      Then to Isagi.

      It was like looking at the before and after of a single person. One with slightly more experience in the world and the other just discovering it.

      “Nine months,” you muttered under your breath, your voice laced with disbelief and just a hint of betrayal. “Nine months in my womb making me suffer, and you come out looking exactly like your stupid dad.”

      Your baby gurgled happily, the sound strikingly familiar, and you swore you heard Isagi’s idiotic laugh echoing in that tiny giggle. That was the last straw.

      Your husband laughed at your deadpan expression, feigning offense. “Hey! You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

      You shot him a look before sighing dramatically. “Unbelievable.”

      Isagi, who had been eagerly waiting for a chance to hold his son, reached out with grabby hands. “Come on, let me hold him!”

      You hesitated for just a second—after all, this was your hard work, your baby, your little bundle of exhaustion and joy. But then, seeing the almost puppy-like expression on your husband’s face, you relented, gently placing your son into his father’s arms.

      Isagi’s grin stretched impossibly wide as he carefully cradled the baby, holding him up like he had just won the World Cup.

      “He’s so tiny,” Isagi breathed, his voice filled with awe. His hands that were almost broken a few hours ago (courtesy of you) handled the newborn with a tenderness that made your heart melt. He was so good at being a dad.

      The baby let out a soft babble, tiny hands reaching out, fingers curling toward Isagi’s face. Your husband immediately leaned in, letting the little fingers brush against his nose before pressing a series of noisy kisses to your son’s chubby cheeks.

      “I hate you.” You tell Isagi as he pouts, it looks as if Isagi was the one who gave birth, not you.

      “At least someone loves me right now,” he declared proudly as he turned to face the baby in his arms, making exaggerated kissing noises. “Isn’t that right, B/n?”

      You scoffed, but the fondness in your gaze betrayed you. “Unfair. He’s supposed to be my baby.”

      Isagi turned his wide eyes toward you, feigning shock. “Our baby, you mean.”

      You crossed your arms, pretending to think it over. “Debatable.”

      Isagi gasped in mock offense. “Hey! What are you insinuating? I thought you loved me.”

      “Not right now, I don’t.”

      Your husband let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head, ”Can you believe her, B/n?”

      Your son, oblivious to the playful banter between his parents, let out a tiny sneeze. Both you and Isagi immediately snapped your attention back to him.

      “Ack, was that a sneeze?” Isagi asked, his voice rising in pitch with alarm.

      “It was just a tiny sneeze, calm down,” you reassured him.

      “What if he’s cold? Does he need a blanket? Should I hold him closer?”

      You groaned. “He’s fine, Ichi. Babies sneeze.”

      Isagi narrowed his eyes at you, skeptical, but ultimately sighed in relief when the baby simply yawned and nestled deeper into his arms. A moment of silence settled between you both as you watched your son, his tiny chest rising and falling with each soft breath. The weight of the moment seemed to sink in fully for the first time, this was your family now.

      Your husband let out a breathless chuckle, shifting to sit beside you on the hospital bed, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. He gently pressed your son back into your arms, making sure you were comfortable before leaning in close, his chin resting lightly against your shoulder.

      “He’s perfect,” Isagi murmured.

      You sighed, glancing down at your son, tracing a finger along his soft cheek. “Of course you’d think that when he looks just like you.”

      “I don’t hear you disagreeing.”

      You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small, tired smile that tugged at your lips. “Let’s see if you still think that when it’s your turn to wake up for late-night feedings and crying.”

      He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Anything for my little clone.”

      You playfully shoved him. “Your clone? You’re not helping your case.”

      Isagi just grinned, unbothered, eyes twinkling with mischief before ever so softly whispering. “Maybe the next one will look like you.”

      You froze, your entire body stiffening. Your gaze snapped to him, eyes narrowing. “Next?”

      Isagi burst into laughter, clearly amused by your reaction. “Just saying, we make cute kids.”

      You groaned, resting your head against the pillow. “Give me at least a year before you start talking about ‘the next one.’”

      Your husband chuckled, leaning over to nuzzle against you and the baby. “Sorry, love, didn’t mean to scare you.”

      You sighed in exasperation, but there was no real annoyance behind it. As much as you liked to tease him, you knew, deep down, that there was no one else you would rather be doing this with. There was no one else you’d rather be the father of your child. Your baby let out a soft sigh, snuggling closer against your chest. You wondered if at least he’d get your personality if not looks. You whispered a soft, ‘I love you’ to your baby before tilting your head towards the man you were bound to spend the rest of your life with.

      “I love you, Ichi”

      “I love you, too,” Isagi replied warmly, “and you too, little one.”

A/N: Made the meme for this fic 😭

[enwoso]

lovie flash forward where she captains the lionesses to win the euros again (with any kids from the other stories that are lionesses kids) and she’s a midfielder because when she was little she didn’t want to choose between alessia and leah so she chose between their two positions she also is number 6 (for leah) and has russo on her shirt (for alessia) so it’s a mix of both of them. she’s also quite tall but the nickname tiny stuck around😭

there’s even a déjà vu moment for when they play germany and lovie is looking over a players shoulder at a note and people make it a meme along side alessia’s from years ago😭

anyway! she captains them to a clean sheet win and scores a hatrick and has a world famous celebration that’s all over the internet with kids copying her and when she’s getting interviewed after it she basically says what leah said “I can’t stop crying” and “i’m trying really hard not to swear”

and when it’s all done she’s back to celebrating and drags alessia to roll around in the confetti with her like when alessia won her first euros and she makes ella and mary knee slide with her like then too (bc ofc they came to watch) also dedicates her medal to her mum and leah during her interview🤌🏽

maybe even gets a ballon d’or nomination afterwards😎

glimpse of the future | alessia russo x leah williamson x russo!reader

to the person who requested this, i'm so sorry it took so long. i loved this request when i first seen it and wrote a whole fic in two days for it but then when i was editing it i re-read it and hated it hence why it's took so long, but i hope i've done it justice as i ended up loving making this and editing photos for this was such a fun thing to write once i got the plot right🙃

grumpy masterlist

you stood in the tunnel, your heart pounding as the roar of the crowd echoed throughout the stadium walls. taking a glance down at the armband which was wrapped tightly around your left arm. captain, you, at 23 leading england onto the pitch in the euros final. it was something four year old you dreamed about.

the weight to deliver tonight was almost overwhelming. but your focus went to your family who was in the stands.

your mum, leah all decked out in england merch, shirts, flags face paint everything they could get their hands on as they were surrounded by your uncles gio and luca as well as your grandparents who had been there throughout the entire tournament as well as your mum's former teammates.

you could imagine your mum's excitement vividly - alessia painted in england colours, a scarf tied around her neck despite the warm weather and her england shirt with 'russo' #11 adorned on the back.

alessia had spent the last three weeks telling anyone who would listen about how proud she was leading to you being the subject of endless teasing from your uncles and your mum's friends even if was a little annoying you knew it all came from a good place.

"you've got this lovie" alessia whispered to herself, adjusting her shirt a little, the iconic number 11 gleaming with pride. your number being that as it was the famous number 2,3 for your mum and 6 for leah combined.

as you walked onto the pitch with your team, the thunderous cheer filled your body with energy. the match beginning and you were in your element. england were dominating possession, moving the ball with so much flare.

so in the 24th minute a perfect through ball found you in space as you cut inside, steering clear of the german defender as you slotted the ball into the bottom corner - the stadium erupted. your team mates surrounding you with head taps and hugs.

by the time halftime had rolled around, you had already bagged a brace having been set up perfectly each time by your teammates. england were flying and looking likely to win it but you knew better than start and get comfortable knowing the momentum could easily change.

in the 70th minute of the second half, the germans made a substitution. your sharp eyes caught a glimps of a substitute carrying a folded piece of paper.

wandering over as you strained to see it over the players shoulder, but it was all in german and dotted with cryptic numbers. you mum walking with a big grin as it was a straight parallel of the same thing she had done int he 2022 euro final.

"focus lovie" she muttered to herself as she felt leah's hand rest on her knee to stop it from bouncing up and down. the game getting its self back underway.

the game wearing on, the german tightening their defence but you weren't finished. in the 78th minute you found yourself once again on the edge of the box.

a clever one two with your centre forward, left you one one one with the keeper. seeing an open goal you chipped the ball delicately over the outstretched hand of the keeper.

GOAL!

you knew once it had left your foot it was going in, your celebration was instinctive. rushing over to the corner in a sleek knee slide as you cupped your hand to your ear — staring into the stand as you soaked in the noise.

you way of silencing the doubters, for those who had said you'd never be half the player your mum was. you feeling nothing but satisfaction when you proved them all wrong time after time.

the referee's whistle cut through the air finally after six minutes of added time — sharp and definitive. and for a second you froze. then it hit you, you had done it. your three goals had done it. england were european champions, once again.

you knees buckled and you collapsed onto the grass, your hands covering your face as the tears started to fall. the noise around you was deafening, a cacophony of cheers and screams echoing throughout the stadium. 

you tilting her head back, staring at the sky as you tried to catch your breath — your chest heaving up and down.

feeling hands grab at your shoulders and turning to see your teammates rushing towards you, all screaming with joy. a blur of england jerseys surrounding you as you were pulled into a massive group hug, lifting you off the ground as if you were the trophy.

you laughing through your tears of joy, unable to stop the huge grin on your face as they chanted your name, loud and proud.

"russo scoring goals galore! captain fantastic!" your teammates shouted, ruffling your hair as you took in every single ounce of the moment.

back in the stands with your mum, alessia was in her feet. tears falling from her eyes as she clutched onto leah's arm. "that's my baby, that's my lovie!" she shouted her voice cracking.

alessia's scarf all askew, her face paint all smudged from the tears streaming down her cheeks in joy, but she didn't care. she could be prouder of you and she wanted all to know.

leah was beaming beside your mum, clapping furiously as her voice was hoarse from cheering. leaning in close to alessia as she rubbed a hand up and down the blondes back.

"you right here that, you know. she's you out there — maybe slightly better" leah nudged alessia as she playfully rolled her eyes at the teasing comment.

"don't say that!" alessia half laughed, while half crying through the pride radiated from her, "but also — maybe"

your grandparents, carol and mario were on their feet waving flags and cheering loudly. mario clapping a hand over his heart as his face etched with emotion, “she’s incredible” he said to no one in particular more just thinking aloud.

“runs in the family” gio chimed in as he grinned nudging luca slightly.

luca had been on his phone recording the celebration, well trying to. “this is going on every family group chat. i’m never letting her forget this!”

as your mum’s former teammates — ella, mary, lucy and lotte were just as loud as your family. they may not be your family by blood but they were definitely your chosen family. they’d watched you grow up with their owns eyes being there for you when you needed.

mary was hollering, “that’s the russo legacy right there!” as lucy waved her england scarf above her head like a helicopter.

as you back in the pitch, you’d managed to peel yourself away from the group hug as your eyes scanned the stands, looking for your family.

finding them quickly, your mums attire dressed in full england merch from head to toe was a dead giveaway, and when your eyes met your mum’s you lifted your arms and pointed towards her.

“for you mum!” you mouthed, tears were still streaming down her face in pure pride. alessia bringing a hand to her mouth as she nodded the tears continuing to spill over again.

you turned back to the field, it being moments away from the trophy celebration, as you wiped your eyes as the reality of the moment was really starting to settle in.

you’d dreamed of this as a little girl, you’d watched your mum win it in 2022 amongst some of the most decorated players in the words which your adored.

now it was your turn. your fists clenching as you breathed in the moment. the weight of history pressing in your shoulders — but not as a burden but as a crown.

the crowd hadn’t stopped for a single moment since the final whistle, chanting and cheering as the team relished in the celebrations for their hard word over the past few weeks.

as you lined up watching the german players receiving their medals first, as you congratulated each one. you’d dreamed watched as your teammates, their joy mirrored your own. a sense of profound sense of gratitude — not just for the win, but also for the journey.

the germans had received their silver medals, it was now your turn as the announcer roared their names through the speakers.

you stood at the end of the line watching all your teammates received their well deserved gold medal, the captains armband still snug around your arm, still trying to process what had just happened.

your cheeks were damp with tears, your hands trembling with adrenaline and emotion.

the first few medals had been handed out, you watching in with pride as you could hear their laughter, their shouts of disbelief. every step closer to the podium felt surreal — as if she was walking through a dream.

it was now your turn, the official draped the gold medal around your neck, the cool weight of it grounding you. you touched it lightly then turned to the cheering fans lifting it high. the roar from the crowd was deafening.

you’d shook hands with all the officials lined up, your heart pounding as you were left to lift the trophy. your heart was pounding. the trophy was gleaming under the stadium lights and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from it.

"and now, your captain, y/n russo, will lift the trophy!"

the crowd erupted as you moved towards your teammates moving into the middle of the group as you gripped the handles of the trophy tightly. pausing for a moment as the weight of the moment hit her.

then with a deep breath, you hoisted it high above your head. confetti cannons exploded, showering the team in gold as the stadium roared with joy.

you closed your eyes, tilting your head back to feel the confetti rain down on you. you could hear your teammates screaming behind you, their hands slapping her shoulders in celebration.

in the stands, your mum was a mess of tears and pride. she clutched leah’s hand tightly, “that’s our girl, le” your mum yelled bouncing on her toes as you lifted the trophy.

gio was shouting your chant, “midfield magic, hear the crowd roar! russo’s scoring goals galore!” as luca waved a giant england flag above his head.

back to you on the pitch, the trophy remained being passed about high above peoples head as you laughed on, before an interviewer found you amidst of the celebrations.

“how does it feel y/n?”

“i-i can’t stop cryin’ and i’m trying really hard not to swear” you admitted, a small laugh falling from your lips as your voice shook.

"what does this all mean to you and the team?"

you took a deep breath. "i speak on behalf of all my teammates when I say this is for everyone who doubted us, who told us we shouldn't play because we're women. well, look at us now. european champions. who's got the title—us or them?"

you paused, your eyes glancing over to the stands where your family was, “and for me, well this isn't just about football. i've been able to do this because of my two biggest fans—my mum and le. this is for you both. i love you so much. and gio," you added with a teary laugh, "you were right—this is way better than chocolate!”

you laughed, knowing when gio and the rest of your family saw the interview would get the reference from when your mum first won the euros. you thanked the interviewer as you made your way to the sidelines where you would finally be able to enjoy the moment with those who mattered most to you.

when you made it to them, you effortlessly jumped over the barrier, being engulfed by your family. your mum throwing her arms around you, sobbing for the thousandth time today.

“mum! we did it” you whispered, your voice breaking.

your mum hugging you tightly as a hand run down your back before she pulled away, “no, you did it lovie.”

leah joined the hug, wrapping both your mum and you in her arms, “we are so proud of you, angel” she smiled softly her own eyes filled with pride.

as you turned to your grandparents who had been watching the sweet moment between your mums as they beamed with pride.

your nonno, mario pulled you into a tight hug, “you’ve made this family so proud kiddo” he smiled his voice thick with emotion.

“thanks nonno” you said, your voice trembling as you held back the tears.

your uncles, gio and luca, of course broke the emotional moment with their teasing. “did you have to score three? what a show off!” gio grinned, a wide smirk on his face.

you laughed, rolling your eyes playfully, “remind me how many you’ve scored in a euros final?” you quipped back. gio just laughing as he pulled you into a headlock as you laughed.

you’d posted for photo after photo, finally making your way to your mum’s teammate that had made the journey, mary was first to give you a massive hug ruffling your hair. “hat trick in a final! you’ve got your mums genes that for sure!”

“probably better actually” ella added with a wink as you scoffed with a laugh.

“ok, ok let’s not start that argument, again” you smiled as you catch up with the girls your cheeks already flushed from the sheer amount of attention being placed on you.

the celebrations felt endless and carried on all night long, you not being sat in a function room. having danced the night away with not only your teammates but also your family.

but you still had one thing left to do, the medal which hadn’t left your neck. moving your way over to your mum who was sat leaned up against leah.

you without saying a word took the medal from around your neck, placing around your mums as a confused look flashed across your mums features.

“lovie? what- what are you doing? this is yours” your mum asked as she moved to take it from around her neck.

your quickly shaking your head, “no it’s for you, without you, and leah i wouldn’t be half the person i am today”

and there came the tears again as alessia beckoned you to sit down next to her as the tears spilled again.

“oh not again, angel i had just managed to get her to stop cryin’!”

-

months later

you were sprawled out on the couch having a rare weekend off you’d came home for to spend some time with your mums.

you quiet morning however was ruined when alessia walked in, holding her phone. her face was lit with excitement.

“lovie, you’ll never guess what!” your mum paused as you nodded your head for her to continue, expecting for her to tell you about some gossip she’s found from the neighbours while putting the bins out, “you’ve been nominated for a ballon d’or!”

you nearly choked on your water as you shot up, your eyes going wide, “what? are you having my life?”

your mum shook her head, “you’ve heard me!” she beamed, “i always knew you’d do something special but this-“

leah then appeared in the doorway clearly having already heard the news as she shook her head with a bright smile, “told you less, she’s better than we ever could have imagined”

you groaned from the compliment, though you were grinning, “mum, le- stop your embarrassing me”

but as you hugged them both, you knew you wouldn’t trade their pride or their love for anything in the world.

from ‘tiny’ to towering greatness — quite literally — y/n russo had lived up to the legacy and had created a one for her own in the process.

[obvithe-bestsoph]

Hiiii I was the one asking for the Pedri big brother fic. I somehow couldn't reply to your message, but to answer your question I don't mind if it's a second episode of a hug from home or a totally new fic. I'll leave it up to you ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Ps: Love your writing ❤️😍

a ghost in a house full of people.

masterlist requests word count: 6.6k

a/n: very similar vibes to my fic a hug from home. if you enjoyed that! genre: mostly angsty then comfort. this ended up way longer than i originally expected lol. warnings: reader has not the best mental health. mentions of periods. forgetful/slightly neglectful family. they're all kind of accidental dicks until the end. one swear word i think.

summary: caught between games and family chaos, you write your loneliness in a journal that your brother discovers, forcing everyone to face what they've been accidentally ignoring all along.

You start writing things down in May.

Not poems. Not secrets. Just facts. Dates. Moments. Things that happened. Things no one else noticed.

It starts with the skirt. That awful pale blue one you have to wear for school, the one that definitely wasn’t designed with dignity in mind. You bleed through it on the ride home. Hoodie tied around your waist. Bag held in front. You pretend it doesn’t matter. You text your best friend a meme and don’t tell her what just happened.

At home, the house is quiet. Mamá and Papá are in Valencia for Pedri’s match. Fer’s out. You put the skirt in the laundry basket under your hoodie and run the machine before anyone gets home. No one asks why. No one even realizes you did laundry.

That night, you take a cheap notebook from your schoolbag, one of those spiral-bound ones you bought for chemistry and forgot about, and write:

May 3rd – my period started. hid the skirt in my closet. mamá gone.

That’s it. You don’t even know why you do it. You’re not trying to keep a diary. You don’t write in full sentences. You just… log it.

Like it happened. Like it mattered. Like someone saw.

It becomes a habit. The house stays quiet most of the time. There’s a match in Bilbao. A press event in Madrid. A midweek flight to Sevilla. Mamá goes to all of them now. Papá too. They always send photos. Sometimes videos.

“Look, he waved!” “Look at this goal!” “So proud of our boy 💙❤️”

You double-tap. You comment sometimes. You don’t tell them about the things happening back here.

May 7th – made dinner. didn’t tell anyone it was the first time i didn’t burn it.May 22nd – failed my maths test. told them i got a C. actually got a D.June 1st – got called pretty by someone i liked. didn’t say it back.

It’s not all sad. Some of it’s funny. Some of it’s nothing. But they’re yours. The small, sharp, quiet moments.

And no one else seems to notice any of them.

You eat a lot of meals standing up in the kitchen now.

When Mamá is home, she’s in rush-mode, reheating leftovers or asking if you’ve eaten already, even when the answer’s clearly no. Papá is always planning their next trip. Next flight. Next stadium. “Maybe we’ll do San Sebastián next time, eh? Could be a weekend thing.”

You nod, even when they’re not talking to you. You stir soup. Put two slices of bread on a plate. Pretend you don’t care that it’s just you at the table.

You don’t resent Pedri for it. You can’t. He worked hard. He deserves it. But sometimes, late at night, when the house is dark and you’re brushing your teeth with the fan on to cover the silence, you wonder what it would be like to have a family that didn’t orbit around him. Just for one week. One day. One dinner.

You brush until your gums hurt. You don’t write that one down.

School ends, and the days blur.

You stay up late watching random TV shows on mute. You go through your old clothes and make a bag for donation. You walk to the store and buy a face mask and a bag of crisps with your own money.

You text Mamá to say you’re okay.

She replies five hours later with:

“Hope you’re okay!!”

You are. Technically. You write:

June 22nd – mamá texted. didn’t ask why i was quiet. i was not okay.

You don’t reread the pages. You just add to them.

Sometimes Fer comes home.

When he does, it’s chaos - loud music, video calls on speaker, people coming in and out. He ruffles your hair and calls you “pequeña” even though you’ve asked him not to. He asks how school’s going but never listens past the first answer. He calls you “bossy” when you ask him to clean up after himself.

He’s still your brother. You still love him. But it feels like you’re auditioning for his attention now, waving from across the room and hoping he looks up.

You write:

June 26th – fer called me sensitive. again.

You try to talk to someone once.

It’s your friend Marina. You’re on FaceTime, and she’s talking about some boy who got her name wrong on purpose. You’re only half-listening when you say, “I think I’m sad a lot and I don’t know why.”

She blinks. “What?”

You shake your head. “Never mind.”

She doesn’t ask again.

You hang up early. Put on music. Stare at the ceiling. Write:

June 27th – tried to say it out loud. didn’t work.

You start bringing the journal everywhere. Not because you need it, but because it feels like a tether. Something real. Something that belongs to you and only you.

You don’t have locks on your door. But you figure no one cares enough to snoop.

Your bed’s always made. Your grades are mostly fine. You don’t slam doors or break rules. You’re not dramatic.

You just… drift.

And no one seems to notice you’re floating.

You wake up late the next day. No one notices. No one texts.

There’s a note on the kitchen counter in Mamá’s handwriting. The kind she always writes in a rush, all caps with too many exclamation marks.

GONE TO BARCELONA FOR A FEW DAYS!! PEDRI’S GOT MEDIA STUFF, MAYBE STAYING FOR THE WEEKEND!!! LEFT MONEY IN THE JAR 💋

You read it twice. You don’t react.

There’s a twenty folded under the salt. You grab it, put it in your hoodie pocket, and drink juice straight from the bottle. No one’s here to tell you not to.

You keep thinking maybe you’ll cry. But you don’t. You just… move.

That afternoon, you walk to the park with a notebook in your backpack and your earbuds in, even though you’re not playing anything. You sit on the grass in the shade and people-watch.

There’s a girl your age showing her mum something on her phone, giggling. Her mum throws her head back laughing like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all day. You look away.

You open the journal. Flip to a blank page.

Then stop.

You stare at the last entry for a while.

June 27th – tried to say it out loud. didn’t work.

You underline it. Not hard. Just once. Just to make it feel real again.

That night, you make pasta. Too much, but you plate it anyway, like maybe someone will walk in and say, “Smells good, is there any for me?”

They don’t.

You eat on the couch. You watch two episodes of a show you don’t really like. You scroll TikTok and like things without watching. You turn your phone off without replying to anyone.

You fall asleep in your clothes. Dreamless.

The next morning, the house is still empty. You sit on the edge of your bed and look at the notebook on your desk.

It’s not hidden anymore. You stopped bothering.

You almost reach for it. Almost write:

June 30th – started to forget what being full feels like. not food. just… full.

But you don’t.

You think if you write that one down, it might become too real.

So you don’t write anything.

You pull the covers back over your head. And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel lonely on purpose.

You wake up to Nilo’s cold nose nudging your hand. The black lab’s tail thumps against the bedframe like a drumroll. It’s Christmas break. For once, everyone is home. Mamá is in the kitchen humming, Papá’s unpacking bags by the door, Fer is scrolling on his phone, and Pedri’s half-dressed in Barça gear, trying to untangle headphones.

The house smells like cinnamon and pine needles. You like that smell. It’s sharp but soft at the same time, like everything is both fresh and familiar.

You stay under the covers longer than usual, listening to the noise. Nilo snorts and settles by your feet. You reach down and scratch behind his ears. He leans into you.

Breakfast is a chaotic blur. Mamá insists on making too many pancakes and burning some of them anyway. Papá laughs as he juggles opening presents and telling stories about his work trip to Barcelona. Fer complains that the Wi-Fi is slow and drags everyone into a heated FIFA debate. Pedri laughs too loud, teasing Fer about a missed goal, and Nilo jumps up, barking like he wants in on the game.

You sit mostly quiet at the kitchen table, nibbling on a burnt corner of a pancake, the sticky syrup sliding down your fingers. You watch everyone but don’t really join in. You text Marina a selfie with a forced smile, and she replies with a string of emojis and a “looking good!” but you don’t feel like answering back.

Later, Pedri comes over and sits beside you on the couch. He’s scrolling through his phone, showing you videos of his latest match. You watch the screen, nodding, but your mind drifts to the empty spot on your desk where the journal usually sits. You didn’t bring it out today.

Fer leans in from the other side and tosses a cushion at you, making you jump. “C’mon, you gotta get in the game,” he says with that half-smile that means he’s trying to be nice but also annoying.

You laugh softly but shake your head. “Not today.”

Mamá calls from the kitchen, “Who wants hot chocolate?” Her voice is warm and thick with tiredness. You get up, Nilo following close behind.

You pour the hot chocolate slowly, watching the steam curl upward. It’s sweet and comforting, but there’s a tightness in your chest that the sugar can’t fix.

You sit back down, cup in hands, and glance at the family again. They’re loud, messy, and alive. And you wonder if they can see you here. Not just in the room, but really see you.

You take out your phone and open the journal app, the one where you sometimes type when you don’t want anyone to see the notebook. Your fingers hover over the keys but don’t type. You close it.

Nilo nudges your hand again.

You pet him, a little smile slipping through. It’s not much, but it’s something.

The living room is chaos by afternoon.

There’s wrapping paper everywhere, bits of tinsel stuck to Nilo’s fur, and an opened box of Ferrero Rocher slowly being emptied from every side. Fer’s lounging on the floor in a hoodie that’s technically Pedri’s. Mamá’s trying to get everyone to pose for a photo. Papá’s telling Pedri to take it seriously for once.

You smile when the camera’s on you. Tilt your head, give the nice daughter grin. And then it clicks, and you’re off the hook again.

Pedri grabs Nilo around the middle and lifts him for the next picture. The dog wiggles like a toddler, tongue lolling out, and Fer yells, “Caption that: Pedri and his only real teammate.” Everyone laughs. The camera flashes.

You step away. Quietly. No one notices.

You walk to the kitchen and rinse your mug. Your fingers are sticky from the chocolate, and you scrub harder than necessary. You don’t know why it bothers you that no one asked where you went. But it does.

You lean against the counter and scroll through your camera roll. Selfies. Food. A blurry pic of the tree you took last week when the house was empty and dark, just the lights on. You scroll further back. More photos no one else saw. A birthday cupcake you bought for yourself last month. Your report card screenshot. A mirror selfie in the bathroom before school when you actually felt pretty. Just for a second.

“Hey, there you are.”

You don’t jump, but you do slip your phone back into your hoodie pocket fast.

Pedri’s barefoot, leaning on the doorway with a cup in hand. Nilo pads in beside him, tail going steady like a metronome.

“Thought we lost you.”

“I was just rinsing my cup.”

“You’ve been gone, like, twenty minutes.”

You shrug.

He walks to the fridge. Opens it. Closes it again. You watch him, unsure if he’s about to say something else or just go back to the others.

But he just refills his glass, nods at you, and disappears down the hall with Nilo trailing after him.

You stay a moment longer, blinking at the fridge like it might say something instead.

Eventually, you go upstairs. You tell Mamá you’re tired, and she kisses your forehead like that makes up for everything. Maybe it does. You don’t know anymore.

Your room feels too quiet with all the noise downstairs. Like you’re holding your breath up here while the rest of the house breathes normally.

You sit at your desk and look at the notebook. You flip it open.

You write:

December 23rd – i was in the kitchen. pedri said he thought they lost me. no one was looking. i don’t know what’s worse – that he said it like a joke or that he meant it.

You underline meant it twice.

Nilo scratches at the hallway door a few minutes later, probably out of habit. You hear Fer yell at him to chill out. You don't answer either of them.

You flip the page. Keep writing.

December 10th – got my first 90% in physics. printed it. left it on the table. papá moved it to wipe crumbs. didn’t ask what it was.December 14th – mar told me i look thinner. not in a nice way.December 17th – christmas assembly. didn’t tell anyone i was singing. they wouldn’t have come anyway.

You close the notebook.

Your throat feels tight. Not crying-tight. Just pressure, like holding something in your mouth too long and it starts to ache.

You pull your sleeves down over your hands and sit on the edge of the bed. The lights from outside your window blink red and white. You can hear laughter from downstairs - Mamá, probably. Fer and Papá arguing about who cheated at charades.

You used to love nights like this. Before it started feeling like you were fading out of them.

You curl under your blanket. Pull it over your head.

You think: maybe tomorrow someone will ask how school’s going.

You think: maybe tomorrow they’ll notice I’m not laughing.

You think: maybe tomorrow I’ll stop needing them to.

But you don’t write any of that down.

Not yet.

The house is dim when he wanders upstairs.

Fer’s crashed on the couch mid-video game, controller still in hand. Mamá and Papá fell asleep halfway through a holiday movie. Nilo’s curled up under the dining table, paws twitching every so often like he’s dreaming of chasing birds.

Pedri’s phone is dead. His charger, the long white one with the frayed edge that always works better than yours, is missing again. He sighs and heads toward your room, fully expecting to find it plugged into your desk like always.

He knocks once. No answer. The light under your door is off.

You must already be asleep.

He pushes the door open slowly, careful not to wake you.

Your desk is a mess of pens and paper and one of those candles you’re technically not supposed to have in the house. Your blanket is pulled all the way over your head like it usually is when you’re trying to disappear.

He smiles a little. He doesn’t mean to be nosy. He’s just looking for the charger. He spots it, half tucked under a notebook near the edge of the desk.

He grabs the cord.

Then pauses.

The notebook shifts slightly. Opens just enough for him to glimpse his own name written in the corner of a page.

He shouldn’t read it.

He knows that.

But the way it’s written, not in a heading, not even in a sentence, just his name in lowercase at the edge of the margin, makes something uneasy curl in his stomach.

He flips it open.

Just one page.

Then another.

And another.

His mouth goes dry.

There’s no decoration. No doodles. Just simple lines. Fragments. Dates.

may 3rd – my period started. hid the skirt in my closet. mamá gone.june 1st – got called pretty by someone i liked. didn’t say it back.june 14th – got an A+ on my english paper. left it on the counter. no one noticed.november 6th – pedri was home. didn’t ask how i was. didn’t notice i cried in the bathroom.

He keeps reading.

Not fast. Not slowly either. Like someone walking barefoot over glass, every step careful, and somehow still hurting.

Your name is never written once.

Just “i.” Lowercase. Quiet.

Like you wanted to vanish even from your own story.

He swallows hard and shuts the notebook. Gently. Like it might shatter if he uses too much force.

He unplugs the charger. Stares at the wall for a second too long.

You shift under the blanket, mumbling something in your sleep.

He turns around and leaves the room without a sound.

The notebook stays exactly where it was.

But something in him doesn’t.

It takes him ten minutes to come back.

He paces the hallway for a bit first, barefoot and quiet, like he’s afraid the floor might tell on him. Nilo watches from the stairs with his head tilted, sensing something’s off but not sure what.

Pedri’s heart’s still racing. Not fast like a match. Not adrenaline. Just heavy. Like everything he just read is pressing against his chest, page after page after page.

He waits until he hears Fer snore downstairs. Mamá coughs once in her sleep, then silence.

Your room is still dark.

He pushes the door open again, slower this time, even though it’s already wide enough. The moonlight spills through the window just enough for him to see you haven’t moved. Still curled under your blanket, back to the wall. Still small.

He doesn’t look at you long. He doesn’t want to risk waking you.

He crosses the room in two quiet steps and picks up the notebook. He holds it like it’s fragile. It feels heavier than it did ten minutes ago.

He leaves just as fast.

Door shut. Hall crossed. Bedroom door closed.

He sits on the edge of his bed and opens it again.

Not to the first page this time.

He flips through randomly, stopping every few entries.

october 1st – got ghosted. never told anyone i liked him anyway.october 3rd – dinner alone again. they were at the match in madrid. left a plate in the fridge.october 9th – fer forgot my birthday card. mamá said it’s okay, he’s busy. i said it was okay too. it wasn’t.

He closes his eyes and exhales.

He remembers that week. He’d been exhausted from training. Mamá and Papá had flown out for the game and asked if you needed anything. You’d said no. Of course you said no.

He flips another few pages.

november 23rd – told marina i think something’s wrong with me. i think she thought i was joking.december 2nd – watched my old dance video. don’t know when i stopped wanting to do that.december 5th – feel like a ghost in a full house.

He rubs a hand over his mouth.

He didn’t know. No - he didn’t ask.

And it’s not like he never cared. He does care. He just… assumed you’d come to him if something was wrong. Like you used to. When you were little. When he brought you stickers from training and you used to draw on his arms in marker. When he mattered to you in a way that felt obvious.

But he hasn’t made it easy for you to come to him lately. He’s been gone. Distracted. Caught up in everything else.

He flips to the most recent page.

december 23rd – i was in the kitchen. pedri said he thought they lost me. no one was looking. i don’t know what’s worse – that he said it like a joke or that he meant it.

His throat burns.

He sets the notebook down on his bed. Runs a hand over his face. He doesn’t cry, not yet. He just feels it. In the way his stomach tightens. In the way his fingers curl against the sheets.

He looks at the door like maybe it’ll give him a solution.

But it doesn’t.

The room stays quiet.

He stays awake long after midnight, sitting on the edge of the bed with your notebook in his lap.

He reads every single page.

Not fast. Not slowly. Just enough to finally listen.

He sneaks the notebook back into your room and goes to bed.

The morning comes slow.

Pedri doesn’t sleep much, just lays there with your notebook still on his nightstand, spine dented from being held too tightly. He gets up early, throws on a hoodie, pulls the hood low. Says something about grabbing milk.

No one really hears him.

It’s cold outside, but not freezing. That perfect winter air that’s all bite and no breath. He walks the long way to the shop, hands in his pockets, head down, trying not to think. Failing completely.

The shop’s mostly empty, just the usual corner clutter, a radio playing reggaetón too loud, and a woman with a screaming toddler by the bread.

Pedri grabs the milk. Starts to head for the counter.

And then-

“Pedri?”

He turns.

It’s Marina.

Hair braided, phone in one hand, coat dusted with glitter. She’s surprised to see him. Not starstruck, she’s been around the house since you were in primary school, but surprised. Like he doesn’t belong in this context, hoodie and all.

“Hey,” he says, awkwardly. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

“Me neither.” She laughs lightly. “Milk run?”

“Something like that.”

There’s a beat. He should just say goodbye.

But he doesn’t.

“Hey… uh-” he scratches the back of his neck. “You and my sister. You’re close, right?”

Marina blinks. “Yeah. Why?”

“Just…” He hesitates. Looks down at the milk like it might help him find the words. “Have you noticed anything off with her lately?”

She tenses. Not visibly. But Pedri’s watching now. He sees it.

“I mean,” he adds quickly, “I know she’s quiet, but… I read something. I think something’s wrong. I just don’t know what.”

Marina shifts her weight.

“She doesn’t tell me much anymore,” she admits, softer. “Not about real stuff.”

Pedri nods. “Same.”

Another pause. Then:

“She told me once she thinks she’s too much. That people don’t want to hear her problems. She always shrugs it off. But I think she really believes it.”

Pedri’s throat tightens.

“She said that?” he asks.

Marina looks at him, expression serious now. “Pedri, she thinks no one’s listening. That she’s invisible in her own house.”

He swallows hard. The milk feels heavy in his hand.

“She’s not invisible,” he says quietly.

Marina raises an eyebrow. “Then prove it.”

Pedri can’t answer.

Not yet.

He just thanks her, pays, and walks home, a conversation waiting for him, and a hundred things finally starting to make sense.

You notice it the second you wake up.

The notebook’s been moved.

You keep it tucked sideways under your bed, pushed back between a loose floorboard and the wall. But this morning it’s closer. The corner sticks out. You feel it before you even see it.

You sit up slowly. Stare.

Your stomach turns.

You pull it out, flip through it fast, fingers trembling. Every page is there. Uncreased. Unmarked. But you know. You know.

Someone read it.

No, he read it.

Because the charger you borrowed? It’s sitting on your desk. Perfectly wrapped. Like it was placed there carefully.

Your heart hammers.

You shove the notebook back. Don’t say anything. Not at breakfast. Not at lunch. Not when Fer asks if you’re feeling sick because you’re quiet. Not when Mamá calls you mi cielo and tells you you’re glowing.

You just keep moving. You don’t know what else to do.

But Pedri watches you all day. Not obvious. Not heavy. Just… different. Like he’s seeing you properly for the first time.

You know the knock is coming before it happens.

It’s been building all day, in the way Pedri watched you over breakfast, in how his laugh never really hit full volume, in how he walked past your room three separate times and didn’t say a word.

And then finally: rap-rap-rap.

You almost don’t answer.

You almost pretend to be asleep or gone or something in between.

But then you hear him shift his weight, like he’s about to walk away, and it stings in a way that shouldn’t.

“Come in.”

The door creaks open. Pedri steps inside, hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. He looks tired. Not just physically. There’s something in the way he moves, careful, uncertain, like he’s expecting you to throw him out before he even speaks.

“Can I…?” he motions toward the bed.

You don’t say yes, but you don’t say no either.

He sits. Perches, more like. Like if he breathes too hard, he’ll knock something over.

You don’t look at him.

He doesn’t speak right away.

“I read it,” he says.

You blink, eyes fixed on the smudge of nail polish on your thumb. “I know.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You finished it, though.”

That lands hard.

He shifts. “Yeah.”

Silence.

You count your breaths. Try to keep them even. Try not to shake with the rage and embarrassment building under your skin.

“It was private.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you keep reading?”

His voice is so quiet. “Because I couldn’t stop.”

You clench your jaw.

He goes on anyway. “Because I didn’t know it was this bad. I didn’t know how invisible you felt. I thought-”

“You thought I was fine.”

“Yeah.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course you did.”

Pedri flinches.

“You know what’s crazy?” you ask, still not looking at him. “You read every single thing I’ve been too scared to say out loud. And even now, sitting here, you still don’t really see me.”

“I do-”

“No, you don’t. You feel bad. That’s not the same.”

He falls silent again.

You wipe your sleeve across your cheek when the burn behind your eyes gets too sharp. You’re not crying for him. You’re not.

“Do you know what it feels like to watch our whole family fly around you like planets?” you ask. “To be the one thing that doesn’t orbit anyone? To go to bed in an empty house and wake up in an empty house and still be expected to smile because at least you’re part of the picture?”

His breathing changes. Sharper. Shaky.

“Do you know what it’s like to sit in a room full of people you love and still feel like a ghost?”

Pedri doesn’t answer.

You finally look at him.

He looks gutted.

Good.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m really, really sorry.”

“I know,” you say. “But that doesn’t fix it.”

He nods. Looks down at his hands.

You let the silence stretch.

“I needed you,” you say finally. “For a long time. And you didn’t even know.”

Pedri’s voice breaks when he says, “I wish I’d seen it sooner.”

You shrug. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“Of course it matters.”

“No,” you say, more tired than angry now. “You can’t un-lose years.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Because he knows you’re right.

You pull your knees to your chest.

He gets up, slowly.

Stands in your doorway, like he wants to say something else, something better.

But he doesn’t.

He just nods once.

And leaves.

It’s quiet in the house again.

Papá and Fer left just after lunch, heading to visit some friend of Papá’s out in the next town over. Something about a new vineyard and free wine. You stayed in your room. Said you were tired. No one pushed you.

Pedri watched you walk down the hall and shut your door without looking back.

He didn’t eat much after that.

Mamá’s in the kitchen now, humming to herself while peeling oranges, soft flamenco guitar playing from the speaker she keeps on top of the fridge. It should feel peaceful.

But Pedri’s shaking.

He leans against the doorframe, watching her hands move. He opens his mouth once, twice, nothing comes out. Then-

“Mamá.”

She turns. “¿Sí, mi amor?”

He swallows.

And breaks.

“I messed up.”

Her hands still. The orange peel dangles in a spiral from her fingers. She gives him that look, the one that’s half concern, half calculation, like she’s trying to work out if he’s hurt, or in trouble, or both.

“What’s happened?”

Pedri doesn’t sit. He paces once, rubs his palms against his jeans, exhales hard.

“She’s not okay,” he says. “My sister. She’s not okay.”

Mamá frowns. “What do you mean? She seemed fine yesterday.”

“She’s not.”

“Pedri-”

“I read her notebook.”

Rosie’s eyebrows lift. “You what?”

“I didn’t mean to. I was looking for my charger and I saw it and- Mamá, I didn’t know. I didn’t know she felt like this.”

“Felt like what?”

He stops pacing. Looks straight at her.

“Alone.”

The word hits the tile like a dropped glass.

“She writes everything down,” Pedri goes on, voice low, like if he says it too loud it’ll echo. “All the things we’ve missed. The stuff she didn’t tell us. It’s- Mamá, she thinks we don’t care.”

Rosie’s face tightens. “That’s not true.”

“I know it’s not. We know it’s not. But she doesn’t. Not really.”

He sits down hard at the kitchen table. Runs both hands through his hair.

“She wrote about bleeding through her school uniform and doing the laundry herself so no one would find out. About getting awards and hiding them. About singing in the Christmas assembly and not inviting us because she knew we wouldn’t be there.”

Mamá’s face goes pale. She sinks into the chair across from him.

“She thinks she’s invisible. In this house. In this family. And she’s right, Mamá. We didn’t see her.”

Rosie presses her hand to her mouth.

“She thinks I only notice her when something’s wrong,” Pedri says. “And she’s right about that too.”

“I… I didn’t know she felt that way.”

“She told Marina she didn’t think anyone wanted to hear her problems. That she didn’t want to bother anyone.”

Rosie’s hand trembles.

“I read her words, Mamá. She was screaming in lowercase.”

That’s what finally cracks it.

Rosie pushes her chair back and covers her face with both hands. She doesn’t sob, not like in the movies, but her shoulders shake.

“I thought we were doing enough,” she says, voice thick. “I thought being proud of you and Fer… I thought if we were happy, she would be too.”

“I think we left her behind without meaning to.”

Rosie wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Why didn’t she say anything?”

Pedri doesn’t answer.

They both know the reason.

Because she did. Just not with her mouth.

Pedri leans forward.

“I want to fix it,” he says. “But I don’t know how.”

Rosie nods, still blinking fast. “We will. We have to.”

“She doesn’t want us to fix it for her. She just wants us to see her.”

Mamá nods again. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Pedri exhales. Sits back. Feels like his ribs might finally loosen.

But there’s still that ache behind everything.

Because seeing her now doesn’t change the fact that no one saw her then.

You only came down because you were hungry.

Not for food, really, just something. Some kind of feeling. Some kind of noise. The silence in your room was starting to feel like drowning.

But then you walk into the kitchen and stop cold.

Mamá’s got her hands pressed over her eyes. Pedri hunched forward at the table, face pale, mouth tight, like he’s holding something back and losing the battle. There’s a half-peeled orange between them. The smell is sharp. Sickly sweet.

They both look up at the same time.

You don’t say anything. You just stand there in your hoodie and socks, frozen like the child they forgot they had.

Pedri opens his mouth. Closes it.

Mamá speaks first. Her voice cracks on your name.

You swallow. “Is this about me?”

No one answers.

So you ask again, louder this time. “Is this about me?”

“Yes,” Pedri says, without hesitation. “All of it.”

You laugh, but it’s ugly. A sound made of disbelief and exhaustion. “You wait until I’m practically a stranger to figure out I’m in the room.”

Mamá steps toward you, but you take a step back.

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t come near me and pretend this is new. I’ve been like this. For months. Years.”

Her voice shakes. “We didn’t know-”

“Because you didn’t look.”

That lands.

Hard.

Pedri covers his face with both hands. Mamá sits down again, shakily, like her legs won’t hold her weight.

“I got my first period and washed it out alone,” you say, voice trembling. “I sang in a school assembly and watched other people’s parents clap for me. I won an award and left it on the counter and no one said a thing. I grew up while you were watching Pedri play football.”

Tears slip down your cheeks, fast and hot. You don’t wipe them.

“I needed someone,” you whisper. “And you were always gone. Or tired. Or proud of someone else.”

Mamá’s crying now. Fully. Her shoulders are shaking. She reaches for you again, but you flinch, and it breaks her in half.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know you were hurting. I didn’t know-”

“You didn’t want to.”

The words are cruel, but they’re true.

Pedri stands, eyes glossy. “Please don’t say that.”

“Why not?” you snap. “You got everything. The cheers, the trips, the dinners out, the plane tickets, the framed shirts, the texts that said ‘we’re so proud of you.’ What did I get? A cold kitchen and a plate in the fridge.”

He walks closer. Not too close. Just close enough that you feel it.

“I read what you wrote,” he says. “And I can’t unread it. I’ve never felt like a worse brother.”

You stare at him.

Good.

“Everything in there,” he continues, “was a punch to the gut. But I needed it. I needed it. Because you were screaming so quietly and I still managed not to hear you.”

He looks at you like he’s drowning.

“You don’t have to forgive me. But I need you to know: I’m listening now. I see you now.”

You blink, and the tears fall harder.

Mamá stands too, voice shaking. “You deserved better than what we gave you. You deserved parents who noticed. I don’t know how to fix that yet, but I swear to God, I’m not letting this go.”

You stand there for a moment, chest heaving, heart so loud in your ears you can barely think.

Then you whisper, “It’s too late to go back.”

Pedri nods. “I know.”

“But maybe,” you add, barely breathing the words, “it’s not too late to start again.”

He looks at you like that one sentence just gave him air for the first time in days.

Mamá sobs behind her hand.

You walk forward.

You don’t hug them.

But you sit at the table. Pick up the half-peeled orange. Break off a piece. Eat it.

And that’s enough.

For now.

The kitchen is warm from the late afternoon sun slipping through the window, casting long gold stripes across the table. The oranges Mamá peeled are gone now, their scent lingering faintly in the air.

You sit at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with your fingertips. Pedri is beside you, quiet, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances at you every few seconds. Mamá is nearby, clearing the dishes slowly, her movements deliberate but gentle. None of you speak. Not yet.

The silence feels different now - not heavy or sharp, but expectant, like the calm before the first step.

You break it, voice soft but steady.

“Can we… try to do better?”

Pedri looks up, meeting your eyes.

Mamá sets a plate down and sits beside you, wiping her hands on a towel.

“We will,” she says, voice small but certain.

The words float between you all, fragile promises without a map.

You shift in your seat. “I don’t want us to pretend it never happened. I don’t want us to act like everything’s fixed because it’s not.”

Pedri nods slowly. “I don’t want that either. I want to actually see you. Not just the quiet version or the angry one. All of you.”

You blink, surprised by the tenderness in his voice. “I want that too.”

Mamá’s eyes soften. “Maybe we start with small things. Little check-ins. Dinner together without distractions. No phones, no screens.”

You think about the last dinner you actually had like that, months ago, maybe longer.

“I’d like that,” you say.

Pedri smiles faintly, and for the first time in a long time, it feels real. Not forced or shaky, but honest.

“You know,” he says, “I was so scared that if I asked how you were, you’d just say you were fine and close off.”

You laugh, low and tired. “Yeah, I’m good at that.”

“Maybe we just have to keep asking,” he says, “even when you say you’re fine.”

You look at Mamá.

She reaches out, squeezing your hand gently.

“We’re not going to be perfect,” she admits. “But we’re going to try. For you.”

You feel something warm rise in your chest. A crack in the armor you’ve worn for so long.

“It’s not about being perfect,” you say. “It’s about being here.”

The sun slips lower, bathing the room in soft orange light. Nilo pads in, tail wagging, nudges your hand with his nose.

You reach down to pet him, feeling a little lighter than before.

Pedri leans back, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to see,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

“It’s okay,” you reply, voice breaking just a little. “But don’t wait so long next time.”

He nods.

Mamá smiles through tears.

The three of you sit there for a while, no grand gestures, no big speeches, just breathing the same air, sharing the same space.

And in that quiet, imperfect moment, you start to believe that maybe, just maybe, things can be different.

Days pass, and the house feels a little less empty.

Dinners happen more often, sometimes with laughter breaking through the silence.

Pedri starts asking about your day, small questions, no pressure, just checking in.

Mamá leaves notes in your lunchbox, little reminders that someone’s thinking of you.

Fer notices too. He’s still distant sometimes, but when he does walk by, he gives you a nod or a smile.

It’s not perfect. Some days, the old feelings crawl back in, heavy and unwelcome.

But now you know you’re not alone.

One evening, you catch Pedri practicing his shots in the backyard.

You stand at the door, watching.

He sees you.

Smiles.

“You watching or waiting for me to miss?” he teases.

You laugh, the sound light, almost free.

“Maybe a little of both.”

He kicks the ball toward you gently.

You catch it, feeling the connection, not just to the ball, but to him, to your family, to something you thought you’d lost.

And as you stand there, the sky darkening with stars, you realize healing isn’t a destination.

It’s the small steps forward.

Together.

[kanohivolitakk]

Honestly, for as much as the Masks of Power situation sucks, what frustrates me the most has to less to do with the project itself and more how this could impact future Bionicle-related fanprojects down the line.

So for a bit of background context, I'm a life-long Nintendo fan, and if you know anything about Nintendo you know that they're rather...draconian when it comes to copyright. In particular, they tend to be rather harsh with fangames, taking down games left, right and center. This has led Nintendo to gain a rather infamous reputation amongst transformative content creators: every time a notable Nintendo-related fanproject comes out people make "witty" comments of how said project will be C&D;d. Watch out, the Nintendo ninjas are going to get you, that sort of thing.

Thing is though, for as much as we meme on Nintendo being trigger-happy when it comes to fangames...that isn't exactly true. DGMW there's definitely precedent for this with how they have taken down notable projects such as AM2R, Pokemon Uranimium and Pixelmon, but said takedowns aren't as common as the reputation may lead you to believe. Nintendo doesn't take down every single project that may exist, they only take few and far in between.

But even if Nintendo's banhammer is greatly exgarrated, that doesn't lessen the impact it has in the minds of people. Whenever a notable project such as AM2R or Uranium gets C&D'd it sets the precident for other fangame developers. This could be happen to you if you aren't careful. Is it any wonder then thatt so many Nintendo fanprojects eventually shed their skin to become something original, as they fear the wrath of the big N taking away their hard-earned work.

So, with LEGO C&D:ing Masks of Power I dread it setting a similar precedent for Bionicle fans as it has for Nintendo fans. Heck, I already have seen people making Nintendo-comparasions in spite of the fact it is the first time something like this has happened regards to LEGO (there was the whole Duckbricks situation but I'd consider that it's own separate thing). So with that I wonder...could this kill the ambitious projects as whole? If something like this can happen to Masks of Power, arguably THE biggest and most popular fanproject, what abou any other project that reaches it's level? What does that say of other ambitious projects like The Mangai Project or Illiad, could they encounter a similar fate? What about projects that haven't beeen made yet, will this diccourage them from being made? It is a scary thought how this one situation could demotivate creators both old and new and that is scary. Especially since unlike with (most) Nintendo IPs that have been C&D'd in the past, Bionicle as an IP is pretty much dead. Ambitious fanprojects are one of the ways we keep it alive and if we stop making them, that will seriously damage the community down the line.

Of course you can just do what many nintendo fans have done, shed the Bionicle IP and do something original: the ex MoP devs are planning to do just that with the Rustbound project born of MoPs ashes. And I think there's merit for that, there's good in original spiritual succesors as there is with fanprojects honoring the legacy of the old. But that can't be the only way. Again, fanprojects are what keep Bionicle alive, and without it, the series is as good as dead, especially given how uninterested LEGO seems to be to revive it. That hole is something only fanprojects can fill, not spiritual successors.

There's also the fact that...not everything can be turned into an original story, no matter how much spiritual of a successor it is. Projects such as the Mangai Project, Illiad or Ide's Journey rely on the fact that they are transformaive fanprojects and can't be erased from tthose roots. Their core identity and appeal comes from their connection to Bionicle and how they play with that IP. Shredding those ties would just make the whole project pointless and lose a lot of it's depth and nuance, especially with the more intertwined or metafictious projecs. So while the "remove serial numbers and turn it to an original IP" may work for some projects, it may not work as well for others.

Admittely this whole situation scares me. One of the major reasovs I love the community as much as I do is how we keep Bionicle alive through these high-effort fanprojects. And for years, LEGO seemed if not supportive, at least neutral to our existence. So to have hat peaceful co-existence be broken could spell the end of the Bionicle fandom as we know i and I really don't want tht to happen. I love this community for being as ambitious and passionate as we are, and I don't want that passion to go away like it did (to an extent) with Nintendo fans.

[a-sock-in-a-sandal]

What is happening in Czechia right now - heavy rains and floods

So as a Czech citizen I felt like saying something about it here so here you go, it's mostly my experiences and some official data.

For context, the first week of September 2024 (2nd to 8th) in Czechia was a burning hell - the temperatures were around 30°C or even above for the entire week. Some schools even ended their classes earlier because of the hot weather - they usually ended before afternoon when the weather was worst. So when we found out that everything will stop the next week, we got happy. We were told the temperatures are gonna get under 20°C, sometimes above, but usually under, it's gonna rain and it's gonna get windy.

All of it happened. The first few days of this week (plus maybe the weekend of the previous one) were chilly, windy, and cloudy - it did sometimes rain, but usually only for a few hours a day. Sooner it started to rain more, for more hours a day, somewhere even for the entire day.

But then the Czech government scheduled an emergency meeting because they were worried about the rains - and they had a reason to. Such rains could cause major floods that already happened in Czechia twice. So they didn't want to waste any time on preparing.

The weather progressively got worse - in my region, it rained the whole day for like three days and it is still raining now. The wind is strong and cold and the temperatures are very chilly. I live right next to a stream at the lowest part of my village in lowlands and the water has risen a few meters (like 2 or so).

The worst situation is in Moravia, which is where I live, but where I am it is still good, only heavy rains and the water levels rising but not as much as to cause a trouble - however there is a few places in my village where it is completely underwater, but not anyone's house or cellar. But Northern Moravia/Silesia is flooded, especially parts like Jeseníky and Opava. The more it gets on west the better it is, mostly a few regions on the north-west are the safest ones. It is usually the Karlovarský/Ústecký and maybe a piece of Plzeňský kraj that is safe.

Most events got cancelled and/or delayed due to bad weather and flood warnings. However the schools are still opened, and it's kind of a meme between students that "we're gonna kayak into our schools on Monday!" Electricity stopped working at many places, including my village. When I woke up today there were firefighters in my street but nobody knows why but I heard that someone's cellar might be flooded.

Our Czech subreddit r/Czech is "flooded" (I couldn't help myself) with maps of flood situation and tips on what to do in case you have e.g. an animal in floodplains. If you switch on the news channel ČT24, you get 24/7 segments and reports from different parts of Czechia, interviews with meteorologists, politicians talking about it and such. Most channels stream as normal but there are some emergency broadcasts. Social media is filled with it.

However, there is a group of mostly older people who are those old conspirators and are strongly against our government because their favourite politician isn't the prime minister (the situation is more complicated but that's enough for this), and they claim that all this is fake and "it's actually to keep people at home before elections (there are ones to happen soon) so they can't meet and talk about the politics", or that "it's a punishment for sending help to Ukraine" (Czechia has sent a lot of help there and these people are mad for some reason) and such. It makes me sick because some people already died and many are injured and many homes can be destroyed.

Czechia has already had two major floods in the near past - in 1997 there were ones in Prague and in 2002 over the entire Czechia. They were catastrophic, people died and were injured and lost homes. So that's why everyone is scared and the government tries very hard to keep us safe.

I already shared my experience, but I just talked on a group chat with my friends from different villages in my region so here goes what I found:

Electricity is out on most places because it is flooded near some important place for electricity

Plenty of places are flooded with like 10-20 cm water, people can still walk in it and some cars drive in it

A football pitch right next to a stream in my village is completely flooded, only the nets are visible

Plenty of bridges are closed and plenty of them are also underwater

We're debating whether or not our school is gonna be closed since most of us take bus to school and we don't know if it would be able to arrive, plus electricity isn't working in the town where we have school, but we'll still see, we didn't receive any news about the school closing

It's starting to get clear (less cloudy) as I'm typing this but I hope it'll get better, the rain is not as heavy as it was

I just hope it's gonna get better ❤️ I'll update you tomorrow or even today if anything major happens

[7-deadly-cats]

■ worst song ever | 1

// bf!rafe cameron x former!directioner!reader // // headcanons / drabble

■ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ■ swearing, rafe being tortured by teenage boys singing, subtle jealousy, fluff though

■ A / N ■ found my old one direction cds and then i had to chuckle bc i thought of rafe having to listen to them while driving and yeah, somehow i ended up doing this (kinda self-insert lmao). will probably do a part 2.

■ rafe couldn’t stand them. a fucking boyband that had spent a couple years topping charts, worshipped by teenage girls. what worse nightmare could there be for someone like him?

■ “they're just a bunch of twinks in skinny jeans. i’m not listening to that shit.” rafe was not impressed the day you climbed into his car with a handful of cds stuffed in your bag. honestly, he probably wouldn’t have even let you ride with him if you weren’t his girlfriend.

■ you’d found the cds while cleaning out your room, hidden in some random drawer. everything was in there: from up all night to made in the a.m., plus eps and special editions. literally the whole discography.

■ it instantly threw you into a fat nostalgia bubble. one direction in their prime, those dumbass unfunny memes with kevin the pigeon and liam’s spoon, the ships, the DRAMA, and god—the posters covering your room. floor to ceiling.

■ you were cringe but you were happy. and a few minutes later you found yourself blasting the albums on repeat while sorting through old boxes.

■ “stop being so dramatic. one cd won’t kill your fragile masculinity.” and without waiting for his response, you shoved the cd into his car stereo. oh, rafe loved you, but this? this was playing with literal fire.

■ midnight memories. for his sake, you started with the one album you thought he might tolerate the most. and then the first track started: best song ever.

■ spoiler: it wasn’t. it was the worst fucking song ever. rafe wanted to vomit, cry, jump out of the car. it was torture. and he hated the idea that one of those skinny-jeans-wearing fuckers had once been your favorite. posters with his face everywhere, probably reading some disturbing fanfic at a way too young age and FUCK—

■ long story short: rafe was jealous.

■ he didn’t want to know which one had been your favorite, and he was goddamn relieved they’d broken up years ago. no tours, no concerts, no “please come with me to a meet and greet, baby” kind of shit.

■ and when don’t forget where you belong came on, all he could think was don’t forget WHO you belong to.

■ and even though rafe wanted to drive straight into the next tree, he let the cd play, because hearing your pretty voice sing along to those godawful songs actually made him kinda happy (even if he sat there with the most dramatic frown known to man).

■ the worst part wasn’t that he had to focus on driving through this hell, or that he knew he’d now be forced to hear this garbage every time you were in the car—it was the fact that during happily, his fingers started drumming on the steering wheel. on beat.

■ and that made the biggest shit-eating grin spread across your face but you kept your mouth shut. nah, you'd wait patiently till he'd sing along to one of the songs, and THEN you'd have a whole lot of fun riling him up.

■ and rafe? poor guy had no idea you were about to drag down two more idiots with you on this hell.

M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M | P A R T T W O (soon)

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