Lucia Aniello: There is a Lady Gaga reference in the montage, a line from the Lady Gaga documentary, because you know we actually talk about that documentary a lot in general because it is such an incredible-- it's right before her Super Bowl performance, and you just see her rehearsing and practicing and you see somebody who is so talented but disciplined just like Deborah Vance, somebody who puts a lot of pressure on other people but puts even more pressure on herself and I think that's so true for Deborah.
I used my username at first and it was so tiny and then realized we're doing real names lol! Love this! I've seen it recently and didn't know there were letters in there until now!
Your turn! Enter your name here : https://science.nasa.gov/specials/your-name-in-landsat/
Note: A collab with my mallow @ravennas-milk-bath , so talented... One of the most important people to me. I love you so much, Bongish. You're the bestest. <33
The School for Good and Evil
Platonic Lady Lesso x Never!reader
TW: None
DON'T LINGER
Today was the day, the biennial Nevers ball. Truth be told, you didn't feel particularly excited about the idea of going. However, Lady Lesso had made it clear that attendance was encouraged, acting as if she would even give the Nevers a choice in the matter. This was one of the only days she could experience the closest she would ever get to pure joy. With her young graduates mingling together in a dimly lit ballroom, and the Evers nowhere in sight, how could she not feel unadulterated happiness at the many possibilities of chaos?
You would've been slightly excited too, if it weren't for your inability to arrange your hair in the fashion you desired. You asked around the evil school's dorms for help, but the only one who'd offered was Hort. You were fairly certain that it was just an excuse to get the opportunity to smell your hair all evening, so you declined.
When you had asked Sophie, you were sure that she would assist you in some way, seeing as how she prides herself with her beauty more than any other Never this school had ever seen. When you gathered the courage to ask her however, all she and her band of evils could do was laugh in your face.
That's how you ended up hiding in your dorm room. Frustration playing at your features as you stare into the large mirror mounted on the stone wall just above your vanity. You are truly tempted to just give up. Tempted to angrily rip your black, lace covered dress and wipe off your dark but complimentary makeup. No matter how much you toy with your hair, it just doesn't look right. Feeling utter defeat, you clumsily throw your body onto your lumpy bed with a groan.
Meanwhile, Lady Lesso has been in her classroom all afternoon preparing the floral centerpieces that would decorate the tabletops of the event. Black roses with their thorns still intact, wavy vines of dark ivy, and a stem or two of baby's breath. Since she has already made over half of the needed floral arrangements, she feels as though she could repeat the process with her eyes closed and her hands tied behind her back. This gives her the chance to mischievously eavesdrop on the Never's conversations without losing her focus as they chat in the nearby hall. Several passing conversations later, she hears Sophie's bright voice pass her door.
"I can't believe that pathetic little first year had the nerve to ask me for help!" She laughs loudly, her gang hyping her up.
"As if! I swear, if the entire Nevers class hadn't been invited, she wouldn't have gotten an invitation in a thousand years." Hester chuckles with a snort.
Lady Lesso's head perks from her focused gaze on the flowers she's currently arranging. Somehow, she has a sneaking suspicion about who the girls are referring to. Her curiosity piques, and she abandons her current task. She grabs her slender, black cane and makes her way to the girl's dorms.
Upon hearing a calm but clear knock on your dorm room door, all you want to do is sink into your mattress until you disappear. You don't answer at first, hoping the source of the knock will just go away with time. Then comes a second knock, followed by a voice.
"Y/N? Are you in there?" Lady Lesso asks from behind the sturdy wooden door.
Lady Lesso? What is she doing here?
Your mind begins to race for any possible answer. Have you lost track of time? Are you late? Are you in trouble? You couldn't possibly handle going to the doom room today of all days. You quickly stand, brushing the wrinkles from your dress as you shakily speak.
"Y... Yes, I'm in here." You call out softly with a slightly nervous tone.
Lady Lesso slowly opens the door, which lets out a loud creak. She spots you standing next to your bed, anxiously holding your hands in front of you. At first glance, you almost appear completely ready. Then, she spots your hair, slightly tangled from the many times you've tried to rearrange it.
"You want some help?" She asks plainly, motioning her free hand towards your partially unruly hair.
You freeze in shock for a moment from her surprising offer to help. When she cocks an eyebrow at your brief silence, you nod quickly.
"I... I can't seem to get it right." You say with a touch of embarrassment.
She nods, walking up to your vanity as you pull out the nearby chair and sit in it quietly, facing the mirror.
Lady Lesso doesn’t say anything at first.
She sets her cane carefully against the edge of your vanity, the soft tap echoing in the quiet room. For a moment, all you can hear is the faint rustle of her trench coat as she hangs it over your chair.
Then she steps behind you.
Her reflection appears in the mirror before you feel her touch. Composed. Sharp. Entirely in control, as always.
"…You’ve nearly ruined it, Y/N," she mutters, though there’s no real bite to it. Her silver-manicured fingers hover just above your hair, assessing. "Too much handling. You’ve made it frizzy."
Your shoulders tense slightly at the criticism, but she doesn’t step away.
Instead, her hands finally settle into your hair. And… They're careful. Slow.
She begins separating strands with precise movements, undoing the small knots you didn’t even realize were there. Her touch is firm, but not rough, controlled in that distinctly Lady Lesso way, like even gentleness must follow her rules.
"You asked Sophie, I assume," she adds dryly, already knowing the answer.
"…Yes," you hesitate.
A quiet scoff. "Predictable mistake."
Her fingers pause for only a second before continuing, smoother now as your hair begins to fall into place under her guidance.
You watch in the mirror as she works. Her eyes were strangely soft and focused.
She gathers sections of your hair, twisting them with practiced ease, pinning them with small, precise motions. You hadn’t even seen her bring pins with her but of course she did. Of course she was prepared. Some black floral pins that matched the decorations in the ballroom.
"You…" she murmurs, almost absently.
Her hands slow.
"…should learn that asking the wrong person is not a failure. It’s simply poor judgment."
There’s a brief pause.
"But fixable."
Your breath catches slightly.
Her fingers brush lightly against the side of your head as she adjusts one final strand, the touch lingering just a fraction longer than necessary before she straightens.
"There."
You blink at your reflection.
It’s exactly what you had been trying to do.
No... Better.
Your hair falls perfectly, styled in a way that frames your face effortlessly, the dark lace of your dress now actually matching instead of fighting against it. It looks intentional. Elegant. Like you belong at the ball.
Like you were always meant to be there.
Behind you, Lady Lesso reaches for her cane again.
"Well?" she prompts, one brow slightly raised.
"…It’s perfect," your voice comes out softer than expected.
"It’s adequate," she hums, satisfied.
"Come along," she turns slightly toward the door.
"You’re not missing the ball over something so trivial," she pauses, glancing back at you through the mirror.
The moment you step into the ballroom, it feels like walking into another world.
Dim candlelight flickers against dark stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows. Black roses decorate every table, their thorns catching the light like tiny blades. The air hums with low music and quiet laughte... Sharp, mischievous, alive.
For a second, you hover at the bottom of the staircase. Uncertain.
"Don’t linger," Lady Lesso says smoothly, though her voice is quieter now. "It makes you look unsure."
You straighten almost immediately, your shoulders relax just a little.
And this time, when you step away... It’s not to hide.
You move into the crowd, slower at first, then with a bit more confidence. The music doesn’t feel as overwhelming. The stares don’t feel as sharp.
You don’t feel… Small.
Not anymore.
And from across the room, near the edge of flickering candlelight, Lady Lesso watches... The whole night.
And when, at one point, your eyes meet across the room, she gives the smallest nod... And a smile.
Not a request or anything just a thought I wanted to share but Lady Lesso x someone close to her that struggles with selective mutism and consensually uses her powers to read their mind to see whats wrong by gently pressing her fingers against their forehead :c
Tags: @mlovelore @hecatescrystaldagger @k-mzy @astrids2th @grechkathekasha @bjoerkumlaut @whatever-lmaoo and literally anyone else who sees this and goes ‘hey i wanna do that 🙈’
This was planned as a christmas fic but I was scared lmao T.T ... Not only I haven't been writing in such a long time but it's also my first Capri fic!! Anyways!! Enjoy!!
The plot was (very loosely) inspired by the little match girl so erm... I wish y'all plenty of good luck.
Platonic Isadora Capri x student!reader
TW: Implied SA, death :D
Bring tissues !!!!!!!!!%@^#*^$(@%
FROZEN HEART
Snow fell over Nevermore Academy. The snowflakes in the sky looked like big pieces of ash that night.
It muted everything. Footsteps, wind, occasional howl of a werewolf outcast. The iron school gates were nearly invisible in the fog, and the gargoyles along the rooftops looked like frozen sculptures, their stone faces softened by frost.
The holidays had come.
Most students had gone home.
Y/N stayed.
She was thirteen years old, a first year with careful manners and eyes that never quite settled. Her dormitory was half dark, half empty. The other bed, her roommate’s, was neatly made, untouched since the older girl had left with promises of postcards and snacks.
Y/N had waved.
Now she lay curled tightly under her blankets, knees drawn to her chest, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. Her skin burned with fever, yet she shivered uncontrollably. Every breath felt too big for her lungs.
She hadn’t told anyone she was sick.
At home, sickness had never been something you were allowed to have.
When she was younger, her mother used to sit beside her bed. Y/N remembered the weight of a hand smoothing her Y/H/C hair, remembered being tucked in. That was before the boyfriend moved in. Before the house began to smell like alcohol and anger.
Y/H had to learn to stay as invisible as possible when he was drunk. To avoid him. She had to hide in her own home. She didn't feel safe in her own room.
Sometimes, when her bedroom door creaked open at night, Y/N learned to make herself very still. To stare at the wall. To float somewhere far away, where the ceiling didn’t exist and her body wasn’t hers.
In the mornings, her mother never asked questions.
“Don’t lie about him,” she’d say softly, almost pleading.
“He provides for us.”
“You must’ve misunderstood.”
Y/N stopped misunderstanding.
Nevermore had been safety in stone and rules. Professors who knocked. Doors that locked. Adults who didn’t smell like beer or demand silence in the wrong ways.
Y/N thought she was free.
The fever worsened.
Her thoughts slipped. The room blurred at the edges. The shadows stretched and twisted into shapes that didn’t belong to stone walls.
Then she heard it.
“Y/N…”
Her heart stuttered painfully.
Outside the frost-laced window stood her mother.
She looked different. Clean. Gentle. Her eyes were soft, not sharp or tired. No man stood beside her. No shouting lingered in the air.
She held out her arms.
“You don’t have to hide anymore,” her mother said gently. “Come here, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
“Mom?” she whispered, her palms on the cold window.
She didn’t question how her mother could be there. Fever didn’t allow questions, only longing.
She walked across the floor, the wood cold beneath her feet. She forgot her scarf. Forgot her gloves. Even shoes. Then opened the door.
Snow swallowed her immediately, soaking her socks, numbing her ankles. But Y/N didn’t stop. Her mother walked just ahead of her, always close enough to see, never close enough to touch, reaching out her arms.
“I was good,” Y/N murmured as she followed. “I didn’t tell anyone. I promise.”
The figure ahead didn’t answer, just kept walking.
Y/N's body began to fail her. The cold cut through the fever haze. Her legs trembled violently. Her vision dimmed.
She stumbled, then collapsed into the snow, breath coming out in shallow, broken gasps.
“Mom,” she cried softly, tears freezing on her lashes. “Please don’t make me go back.”
-
Isadora Capri was sitting behind the piano. She didn't play... Just sat in silence.
Until the silence was cut by a cry.
The sound came suddenly, thin and desperate.
Capri ran.
Snow fell on her face as she crossed the courtyard, heart pounding fast. Then she saw her, small, collapsed, half buried in white.
“Y/N!” Capri dropped to her knees, pulling the girl into her arms.
Y/N was frighteningly cold.
“No, no, sweetheart, stay with me,” Capri whispered urgently, rubbing warmth into Y/N’s arms, holding her close.
Y/N’s eyes fluttered open and softened.
“Mom?” Y/N breathed, relief flooding her face. “You came. You won’t let him in anymore, right?”
Capri’s heart broke.
“Oh, Y/N,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I got you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Y/N smiled faintly, the tension finally leaving her small body.
“I was scared,” she murmured. “But you’re here now. It’s okay.”
Her fingers curled weakly into Capri’s coat.
Then they went still.
Capri felt the change instantly, the awful, irreversible quiet.
“No,” she whispered, clutching Y/N closer. “Please. Please.”
Snow continued to fall, soft and uncaring, settling over the courtyard as Capri knelt there, holding the girl.
And the morning after will just be another morning.
---
(Idk what I meant with the last sentence idk I hope it makes sense)
Teacher!IsadoraCapri x Student!Shapeshifter!Reader (Platonic)
Warnings/tags: Teacher x student (platonic), Shapeshifter!Reader, Second-person POV, Shapeshifting gone wrong, Panic & fear (brief), Protective!IsadoraCapri, Peer pressure, Mild hurt/comfort, Physical comfort, Implied discipline for other characters
Snow days at Nevermore are supposed to be magical – pretty, peaceful, quiet...
The kind of gently falling wonder that softens the sharp edges of the school's gothic spires and makes everything feel like it belongs inside a snow globe.
Today, however, isn't.
You stand out in the courtyard, snow collecting in your hair and lashes, surrounded by three older girls who insist they're your "friends." In practice, they treat you more like a performing circus animal, a novelty they can prod whenever they're bored.
"Come on," one urges, bouncing eagerly on her boots. "Do the fox form again!"
"You could do that tiny deer," another chimes in, her voice sugary-sweet, coaxing. "That one's adorable."
The third nudges your shoulder, breath puffing white in the cold air. "Or the baby wolf! That one was so cute. Please? For us."
You fold your arms tightly, teeth chattering as a fresh gust of wind cuts across the courtyard. Snowflakes club against your cheeks like cold confetti, stealing your breath each time you inhale.
"Ms Capri says not to overuse my shifting," you murmur, voice thin with cold. "She said that it drains energy faster than people think..."
One of them rolls her eyes dramatically.
"Capri says that because she's ancient."
"She worries about everything."
"Just one more shift. You can handle it."
You want to refuse – really, you do. You want to take a step back, tell them you're tired, they them no. But they're smiling at you, and they were the first upperclassmen who ever paid you any attention. And there's still a part of you, small and nervous and eager not to disappoint, that panics at the idea of letting them down.
So you inhale. Gather what focus you have left. Try to pull the shift forward, coaxing your body into the familiar blur of changing limbs and rearranging bones.
It happens fast. But it's wrong this time – off-balance, like someone knocked a gear loose inside your magic. A crackle of exhaustion seizes your muscles. Everything twists too quickly.
Your coat collapses around you.
Your hands shrink into time fists.
And then–
You are small.
Too small.
A toddle-sized version of yourself, drowning inside your own coat, blinking up at three suddenly horrified faces.
"Oh my god–"
"Did she... go too far?"
"No, it's fine. Just shift back!"
You try.
Nothing.
Try again.
Still nothing.
You vision swims. The snow needles your exposed skin. Terror blossoms inside your tiny chest, sharp and overwhelming.
One girl begins to back away.
“Uh… we should–”
“–go get help?” another suggests weakly.
“–run?” the third finishes, eyes wide.
And before you can even make a sound, all tree of them bolt – leaving you small and helpless in the snow. The cold bites instantly, numbing your fingers, your cheeks, your too-small feet. You try to call after them, but all that comes out is a high, frightened wail swallowed by falling snow.
The world blurs white.
Nobody comes.
Until–
A shape cuts through the storm, moving with a purpose so sure and urgent it sends a shiver through the air itself. A silhouette tall and sharp-edged with worry, coat snapping behind her in the wind, curls wild like she left her room mid-thought.
Isadora Capri.
Her wolf instincts had screamed at her to move – something was wrong, one of hers was hurt, go.
She sees you. Her breath catches in a sharp, pained exhale.
"Oh, puppy..."
She's on her knees in an instant, arms scooping you out of the snow like you're something fragile and precious. Warmth envelops you – her sweater, her coat, the solid heat of her body. You cling instinctively, tiny hands curling into the soft knit at her chest, nose burrowing against her like she's the first fire you've ever known.
Isadora's heart shatters and knits itself back together in the span of a single breath.
"Easy, sweetheart. I've got you. You're all right."
Her voice is soft, but her pulse is furious – wold-deep, protective, ready to tear into anyone who put you in this state and left you there.
She rises, shielding your little body from the wind, and carries you inside like something sacred.
---
Inside her office, the world thaws. The glow of warm lamps softens the edges of the furniture; the faint scent of pine and cinnamon drifts from a little lantern on her desk.
Isadora sinks onto the couch and settles you in her lap with careful precision, one hand supporting you while the other tucks a blanket around your tiny form. You immediately make a grab for her sweater again.
She lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“Yes, I remember you like this one.”
You burrow into it. She melts a little more.
Your ears are still red, trembling from the cold. Her thumb traces gentle circles over them, coaxing the warmth back into your skin. Her wolf is no longer just awake – it's pacing in circles inside her chest, growling for answers.
You whimper.
"Shh, I know. You're tired... an you're stuck, aren't you?"
Your tiny head dips once, miserably.
Her jaw tightens. Sharply.
“Which means someone pushed you.”
You clutch her sweater harder, sensing the shift in her tone.
A low trembling growl rumbles through her chest.
"No one hurts my students," she murmurs, voice deadly-soft. "Especially not you."
---
Fifteen minutes later, the three older girls stand huddled in her doorway, pale-faced and trembling. Isadora does not shout; she doesn't need to. She stands with you asleep against her chest, one of your tiny fists still knotted stubbornly in her sweater. Her composure terrifying.
"You pressured a first-year into repeatedly shifting," she says, tone sharp as a blade. "On a day where she was already exhausted."
"W–we didn't think she'd get stuck–"
"You didn't think." Her eyes narrow. "You didn't listed. And you left her outside. Alone. In the freezing snow."
They flinch in unison.
"Do you understand how dangerous that was?"
"She said you warned her but–"
"She did?”
The quiet pause that follows vibrates with restrained fury.
"And you ignored her. You ignored me."
She draws in a slow breath, steadying herself before her wolf can speak for her.
"She is a child. You are not. And you will not come near her again until you aren the right to do so."
Her voice drops to a lethal whisper.
"If she had shifted any smaller, or if I had not found her when I did...”
A beat.
“You would be in far deeper trouble.”
The girls flee.
Isadora exhales shakily and sinks back onto the couch, holding you closer than before.
You stir, immediately seeking her warmth, nose burrowing back into her sweater.
Without thinking, she presses a kiss to your hair.
Then freezes.
Then pretends she didn’t...
---
When you wake, blinking up at her in a bleary fog, your hands instinctively reach for her sweater again.
Isadora softens in real time.
“Is that the only word in your vocabulary right now? Sweater?”
You babble something that sounds suspiciously like:
“Mine.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
A pout flickers over your small face, eyes swelling with tears.
“…Fine. Yes. For now.”
She shifts you higher against her shoulder. Your tiny legs tuck neatly against her side; your face presses into the knit like you’re trying to merge with it.
She strokes your back, fighting a smile.
“Of all the things to imprint on, you choose my least flattering sweater.”
You smack her collarbone. She pretends it hurt.
---
Hours later, your body grows hot – too hot – and begins trembling with the familiar prelude of a shift.
“Easy,” Isadora murmurs, securing her arms around you. “Let it happen. I’ve got you.”
The world glows – stretches– unfolds–
---
You return to yourself slowly, drifting through warmth and the faint sensation of someone stroking your hair. A voice reaches you through the haze:
“Please don’t shift mid-nap again – I only just got you to stop chewing on my sleeve.”
Your eyes fly open.
Isadora Capri sits beside the couch, arms crossed, looking exhausted and profoundly unimpressed.
“I did not chew on your sleeve,” you croak.
“You tried,” she says dryly. “Very determinedly.”
“I… I’m back?”
She gives you a slow, assessing look.
“Indeed. Fully sized. Fully clothed. Miraculously quiet.”
A pause.
“Shame.”
You blink. “…What?”
“I said ‘welcome back.’”
You are 90% sure she didn’t.
You swing your legs off the couch – and something soft slips off your shoulder.
Her sweater.
Your whole body freezes.
Isadora watches you notice, a wolfish curl at the corner of her mouth – the look of someone who has undeniably won.
“You, um… put this on me?” you squeak.
“You insisted,” she lies.
“I was a baby!”
“Mm. A very persuasive one.”
You bury your face in your hands. “Please tell me I didn’t cry.”
She inhales dramatically.
“Ms. Capri!?”
“You sobbed as though the universe had wronged you personally,” she says. “And clung to me like a starfish. My arm went numb.”
“Kill me.”
“You also called me ‘Miss Capwee.’”
You briefly consider leaping out the window.
“In your defense,” she adds gently, “it was… admittedly adorable.”
You groan. “I hate everything.”
“And you kept patting my sweater like a small, enchanted raccoon.”
She gestures at the sweater that you're now wearing.
“Hence… this.”
“I was cold,” you mutter.
“You were feral.”
You’re saved only by the office door flying open.
Principal Weems (I KNOW IT SHOULD BE DORT BUT HE CAN KINDLY F OFF) peeks in. “Oh good – you’re not a toddler anymore.”
You whimper.
“She is recovering,” Isadora says smoothly.
Weems nods, as though this is commonplace. “I’ve assigned the three responsible students to shovel the entire east courtyard.”
Your jaw drops. “Why?!”
“Twelve inches of snow,” Isadora replies.
“With spoons.”
“Ms. Capri!”
She shrugs. “They endangered you. Let them reflect.”
Weems sighs but doesn’t argue. “If you’re feeling up to it, you may return to your dorm. Rest. Hydrate. Don’t shift for at least forty-eight hours.”
When she leaves, you move to remove the sweater.
“At least keep it until tomorrow,” Isadora says lightly. “You’ve already drooled on it; it feels wrong to take it back.”
“Why are you like this?”
She steps closer – warm, wolf-soft, annoyingly gentle.
“Because,” she murmurs, brushing a curl from your forehead, “you make it very easy.”
Your heart stops.
She turns toward the door.
“Come along, little shapeshifter. Before you shift again.”
“I am not little anymore!”
“Hm. For now.”
You groan and stomp after her.
She hears it.
And smirks.
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This fic is dedicated to my first and best Tumblr friend @hxzxrdous Thank you for being such a bright spot in my corner of Tumblr and for always hyping my writing, requesting such cute fics and generally being one of my fav little disasters 😭💙
Merry (day 2 of) Caprimas 🎁
All likes, follows, comments, reblogs and requests are very much appreciated - I love hearing from you guys!
