#Not used to writing these kind of stories

[meo-eiru]

Since I'm busy working on a valentines day drawing I thought we could do something different until I'm done with that. Trivia night! I'll be writing what's basically a compilation of fun facts we've already established or haven't learned yet. We will also learn more about their backstories.

For tonight we have Silas

Silas has a mom and dad but isn't close with neither of them

As a child he was quite needy compared to other elven kids

Elves almost never stray too far away from the elven village but Silas liked to play in the depths of the forest

He learned about humans from a story book he found while playing in the forest

He was amazed by the colorful imagery and the familial relationship depicted in the book and wanted to have the same, which kickstarted his human hyperfixation

He's currently the most knowledgeable elf in humans within the village

His house is located quite far away from the village, he can still reach there by walking but it's not somewhere where the other elves can just stumble upon

He likes sweet things like fruits or honey but dislikes the taste of meat so doesn't feed it to you much as well

He, just like the other elves, while natural with most other living things, hates all demonic creatures

He's very nice and sweet with you but wouldn't glance twice at other forest creatures and is actively hostile towards demons

Of course he would never let you see him make that kind of face

He thought of using magic to make you live as long as he does but it feels like tempering with your humanity so if you die he's planning to die with you

He's actually not that good at magic compared to other elves, he just knows the basics and relies on books for the rest

He's average height for an elf

He doesn't like leaving bite marks or hickeys on your body because it feels like dirtying your perfect form

But he really likes it when you mark his skin, whether they are hickeys or wounds

While more compassionate than other elves, Silas does have a bit of a superiority complex like them

For example, unlike other elves he does see the intelligence of humans but would still say elves are smarter

He doesn't have any ill intentions with it, to him it's just like saying a unicorn is be better than a horse

He doesn't like eating carrots because he thinks they look like elf ears

He loves learning more about you but dislikes hearing about your family

He doesn't want you to have pets, only the two of you are allowed inside his house

He does have a bathroom in his house but it's just a replica of what he saw in books and isn't actually that functional

If you want to use the bathroom for your baths instead of the river like he does, he just carries the water from the river to his house then uses magic to make it rain on you like a shower head

Even if you don't allow him inside the bathroom he still watches from the window

He has a diary where he writes everything you do in a day, from what activities you did to how many times you blink on average

If you offered to live in a human city with him he would refuse, while he likes humans you are his utmost priority and it's better for you to be inside his house away from everyone's reach

[frenkensteinscreature]

this might seem weird, but i kind of take it personally when people use AI to write. writing is one of my favorite things and has saved my life multiple times. i put a lot of time and tears into each story, and the near universal urge in so many different cultures to create written language is fascinating to me. writing is what preserves humanity, when we are all gone the only thing that will be left is our words. writing is the manifestation of the human desire to create, but most of all, to be remembered. and when people use AI to write its just shitting on all of that, and it makes me upset. when you are writing you are taking part in something ancient and so, so human. take pride in it.

i literally dont care what your excuse for using AI is. if you didnt put your own effort into making it im not putting my own effort into interacting with it.

[pennyellee]

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗𝐈𝐑 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰

title: ELIXIR pairings: mafia hoseok x female reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s, arranged marriage, childhood friends to lovers word count: 22K/tba release date: 02.18.25 beta read by one and only @chaoticpuff17

prompt 1: "And I won't be satisfied till we're taking those vows" prompt 2: you were apparently promised to the heir of Jung's criminal empire since birth, not that you ever took that ongoing inside joke seriously. You grew up alongside the said man, yet your mind is conflicted about upholding your part and saying I do until one drunken night reveals a lot more than you'd like.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | explicit language, hurt men's ego, mild yandere behaviour (warnings were reduced to avoid spoilers)

author's note: ionoiafhoianfoaif, yalllll, I was writing this like foreveeeeerrrrr. So this is where it all basically started in my head when I created the retelling of what happened around the year 1996. Still, somehow Champagne Confetti and Anubis got out first, mainly because I will continue them, but this is one shot exclusively (I'm open to filler tho). Why? The story of Princess and Hoseok never dies throughout both the fics that are already out and those that will only come. Mainly with Anubis' chapters, you'll get to see them. I'm just as nervous to put this out as I am with every fic but very excited to throw Elixir in the world. I'm simultaneously working on my MA diploma thesis so bear with me when I'm radio silent, but I love you all! I appreciate you reading my stuff my good little fairies ♥ I'll see ya at Hobi's birthday! ♥ Enjoy!

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, bloodshed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, and old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

main masterlist 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗𝐈𝐑

Winter 1995 You spotted Hoseok seated at the table, a serene picture of composure, his fingers curled around a steaming cup of coffee he enjoys in the mornings.

He looked up at your approach, his eyes locking onto yours. There was no trace of anger on his face, no sharp edge to his expression. If anything, he seemed calm, almost disarming.

"Hobi—" you started before he quickly interrupted you.

"Sit down," he said a bit more firmer than he'd want to, gesturing to the seat across from him.

You hesitated for a moment before lowering yourself into the chair, acutely aware of the weight of the moment. A plate of food sat before you, untouched. Your stomach churned, but the thought of eating felt impossible.

"Are you?—"

"I'm not mad, no," he cut you off gently, surprising you, as if he knew what you were suggesting before you even managed to let those words roll on your tongue.

"So?—" you echoed hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper. You didn't know what to expect now. Maybe it would be better if he'd be mad and you knew that you have to make it better just like it used to be, instead he is not showing any kind of position in this situation and that was making you uneasy beyond comparison.

Hoseok leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply.

"You're still here. That's what matters to me for now." He began, his tone measured. For now. Hoseok was always skilled at this—at saying something that sounded kind but felt like a command.

"I panicked," you admitted softly, the honesty slipping out before you could stop it.

"I know, baby, you chose wrong—" he replied, his gaze unwavering.

"—twice," he added fuel to the fire, salt to the wound. But you knew why. He wanted you to submit to him, and he needed to work overtime to do so.

"You need to show me you're willing to make this right, love," you swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat making it nearly impossible to respond. His aura and magnitude of how he could move you however he liked now was overwhelming. You cannot run away, not when he dragged you back to this place instead of his brownstone at 57th street. You're not only under his surveillance here, but the Kkangpae and the rest of the family.

“What’s it gonna be? Cuz’ I can’t fucking pretend anymore–” 

His gaze dropped to the table for a moment before he reached into his pocket. You stiffened instinctively, already guessing what he was about to do. Sure enough, his hand emerged clutching the familiar black velvet box. The sight of it made your chest tighten.

"Hoseok," you said softly, your voice trembling with unease. "Please—"

"I don't think I will be so forgiving if you'll choose wrong for a third time, Princess." He ignored your plea, opening the box to reveal the ring again. The one you'd angrily thrown at him that fateful night when he tried to force it down your finger after you explicitly said no to him.

The one that symbolised everything you were not ready to accept, but you had to. It glimmered in the soft light of the room, deceptively beautiful.

"I'm done asking," he said firmly, his eyes locking onto yours. Your breath hitched, but before you could speak, Hoseok reached across the table and took your hand in his. His touch was warm, grounding, yet the weight of his action was suffocating.

You tried to pull your hand back, but his grip tightened—not painfully, but enough to make it clear you weren't going anywhere. With deliberate precision, he slid the emerald ring onto your finger.

"There," he said, his voice softening just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

You stared at the emerald ring, your mind racing. It looked almost serene on your finger, as if it had always belonged there. Hoseok sat back, satisfied, his lips curling into a faint smile.

Before you could respond, the soft thuds of certain leather shoes announced another arrival.

"Joon-ah!" Hoseok greeted, leaning back in his chair. "I assume there's news?"

Namjoon glanced at you briefly, then back to Hoseok. "Yes. We've made progress with the Anubis situation. The distilleries have been secured, but the reports of interference need attention."

"Anubis situation?" You echoed Namjoon's words. Hoseok's smile didn't falter, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanour. His gaze flicked to you, and for a moment, you thought he might dismiss your question. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers interlacing.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he said smoothly, his voice laced with a quiet finality that suggested the topic was closed.

Namjoon, however, wasn't as careful with his expression. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, a crack in the façade of calm efficiency he usually wore. It was gone as quickly as it came, but you caught it, and it only fuelled your curiosity.

"Anubis is my responsibility, Hoseok, you cannot—" you pressed, your tone sharper now. You'd learned long ago that brushing things under the rug only meant tripping over them later.

"Not anymore."

Hoseok's words cut through the room with an authority that left no room for argument. He leaned back in his chair, exuding an air of complete control, his eyes locked on yours with a quiet intensity.

"What?!" You breathed out rather loudly now.

"Not anymore," he repeated, slower this time as if daring you to challenge him. And challenge him you did.

"Hoseok," you tried again, your voice quieter this time, laced with both frustration and fear. "This isn't—"

"I gotta punish you somehow, Princess," his one was calm, almost casual, but the weight behind his words was anything but. Your stomach churned as his lips curved into a faint, disarming smile—a predator's smile hidden beneath a veil of warmth.

"Punish me?" you repeated, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. "Exactly for what you gotta punish me, Hoseok?

"For running," he said, the amusement in his voice doing little to soften the hurt he felt inside. "For throwing the ring. For abandoning me this morning after we made love last night—"

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off with a raised hand. "Don't misunderstand me, Princess. I'm not angry. But actions have consequences."

Your heart pounded against your ribs, the rhythm chaotic and uneven. His calm demeanour made it worse. It took one wide-eyed glance for Namjoon to excuse himself and quickly retreat to Kkangpae's office to leave you two alone.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind Namjoon seemed louder in the heavy silence that followed. Your eyes darted to it, half-hoping for an interruption, but it was futile. Hoseok's gaze was fixed on you, unrelenting and unreadable, trapping you in this moment.

"Hoseok," you began, your voice trembling. "This isn't fair. You can't just—"

"I can," he interrupted his tone steady but brooking no argument. "And I will. You know I don't take betrayal lightly."

"Betrayal?" you repeated, the word stinging as it left your lips. "Is that what you think this is? Hoseok, I—"

"You ran," he said simply, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. His fingers interlocked, creating a casual posture that only heightened your unease. "You left me, you threw the ring at me, you abandoned what we're building. Call it whatever you want, Princess, but to me? That's betrayal."

Your breath caught, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. "I needed time," you whispered. "Time to think, to—"

No, you needed Mark. But you also needed your best friend.

"Think?" Hoseok's laughter was soft, almost amused, but it didn't reach his eyes. "What is there to think about? You're mine. You've always been mine. And this?" He gestured to the ring now firmly on your finger. "This makes it only official."

"You can't force me to—" you said, the defiance in your voice surprising even you. This was never a discourse you or Hobi ever had. Everything was thought to be just platonic. Not for him.

"To what?" he asked, cutting you off again. His tone was low, dangerously calm. "To wear a ring? To stay by my side? To stop running every time things don't go the way you want?"

You flinched, the truth in his words hitting too close to home. Hoseok sighed, his expression softening just enough to make your heart ache. You were running each time you did not feel like the family was doing you justice. And each time it was Hoseok who came to talk sense into you. But this is different. You are not kids anymore, or teenagers. This is serious. Hoseok is serious this time.

"You know what Anubis means to me—"

"And you still thought it was something you could just walk away from?"

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms as the urge to argue warred with the fear.

"I didn't walk away from Anubis," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I needed space, Hoseok."

"You said you were tired, love."

"You misunderstood—" Hoseok shook his head slowly, cutting you off once again, his gaze hardening.

"I never wanted it to come to this," Hoseok said, his voice softening as he reached across the table, his hand brushing against yours. "But you forced my hand, Princess. And now, you don't get to run anymore. Not from me. Not from us."

"But Anubis—"

"It's still yours. But until you learn your place, Namjoon will suffice."

You bit your lip, caught between the suffocating desire to fight back but all you could do is shut your mouth and obey, telling yourself that this is only temporary.

He was, indeed, not mad.

.

.

.

.

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟎𝟐.𝟏𝟖.𝟐𝟓

©pennyellee. please do not repost

tag list: if you want to be notified once the full story is up for reading, you can write in the comments and I'll create a tag list!

Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! ♥

lots of love, p.

[copperbadge]

God dammit I am kind of fascinated by the Pennsylvania egg robbery (I have theories and ideas, and was in fact in PA when it happened) and now I want to write a short story about a Shivadh Egg Heist.

I'd change it to some other foodstuff but the eggs are the point. They can be preserved but it's not easy and it limits their use after. Almost any other food except maybe some veggies can be processed and frozen -- meat, cheese, bread, even sausages are cured and will keep for ages. And veggies aren't generally worth very much except --

Hang on, googling "can you grow avocados in the Mediterranean"....

Oh, well. Just gonna add The Great Shivadh Avocado Robbery to my to do list. Thanks, rubber duckies!

[somberarcangel]

Yeah. It’s kind of complicated but honestly…

All writing deserves to be seen. No matter how fluffy, smutty, angsty, or dark…the stories are a reflection of us and what we go through as a people. Harry Potter? Found Family? Game of Thrones? The meek, Arya, rises. The Hobbit…Bilbo is the size of a small elementary schooler and faces a DRAGON!

Don’t discount art just because someone puts meaningless value to it. It’s valued by default and deserves to be seen, bad or good. That’s why the truth hurts but it also sets you free

At some point "fanfic can be as good as professional writing" became "fanfic should be as good as professional writing" and that's caused major damage to fandom spaces.

[checkeredflagggs]

Febuwhump Day 8: Bleeding Out

pairings: gen

summary: a story about y/n, Redbull’s new second driver, told in non-sequential order

a/n: I love febuwhump and have participated before for other fandoms but this is a first for me — attempting to compete it via smau only. Hopefully I can write a complete story eventually and I will be posting it on its own masterlist in the correct order to read but it’ll be written based on the febuwhump prompt list! @febuwhump

a/n2: based on the 2024 year; sorry checo but you got replaced earlier!

a/n3: sorry Pierre but I’m not gonna give you the perfect no damages season that you had

y/n_rb

liked by maxverstappen1, logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and 2,193,429 others

tagged: maxverstappen1, redbullracing

y/n_rb: what a year it’s been…from car crashes to new girlfriends to lessons in menacing, 2024 you have been a dream!

I want to thank Redbull for taking a chance on me — hopefully I was worth it! Max, you have been absolutely the best teammate I could have asked for! Oscar and Logan, I am so glad we got to fulfill our dream of racing together this year! And Mr. Fenando sir it’s been a pleasure! I’ll make sure to make use of all of your advice!

One last race left! Abu Dhabi here we come!

view all comments

user1: anyone else catching those threatening tones in that last sentence??

↳y/n_rb: what tones???

↳user2: the very sweet tones you always talk in!

↳y/n_rb: that’s better!

↳user1: girl you’re kinda scary…

↳y/n_rb: 😁😁😁

oscarpiastri: you’re being suspiciously nice…what did you do!

↳logansargeant: why is my mom calling me!?! What did you do!!

↳y/n_rb: 😁😁

↳oscarpiastri: did you seriously call our mothers to plan a group vacation?

↳logansargeant: I want to use winter break as a time to get away from you! Stop invading my family time!

↳nicolepiastri: boys please be nicer to y/n! She was so kind to invite us on a European trip this winter!

↳oscarpiastri: stop trying to steal my mom!!

↳y/n_rb: who’s trying? I already won liked by nicolepiastri, hattiepiastri

↳oscarpiastri: I’m throwing things at you 🍎🛞🪨

user3: girl don’t remind us you haven’t been resigned yet 😭😭

user4: sooo did you like take actual notes from Alonso’s lessons or…

↳y/n_rb: if I told you, I’d have to kill you

↳redbullracing: y/n you can’t say that. please refer to the handbook, page 229

↳fernandoalo_oficial: Puede que ella no pueda pero yo lo haré. She might be able to but I will.

↳user5: i can’t believe we all forgot about her grid father 🙈 liked by y/n_rb

maxverstappen1: It certainly was…an experience…having you as a teammate

↳y/n_rb: don’t lie! I know I’m your favorite

↳danielricciardo: those are fighting words!

↳y/n_rb: bring it old man Aussie!! I bite

↳danielricciardo: stop calling me old! And threatening to bite me

↳oscarpiastri: it’s not a threat — she does

↳user6: if Daniel is old man Aussie — what are Oscar and Mark?

↳y/n_rb: baby Aussie and ancient Aussie

↳user6: 😂😂😂

↳aussiegrit: kid…

↳oscarpiastri: do you see what I have to put up with? redbullracing please don’t resign her

↳y/n_rb: well that’s fucking rude!

↳redbullracing: 🫢🫢🫢

↳y/n_rb: wait what does that mean?!?

francisca.cgomes: Mon amour! My love!

↳y/n_rb: run away with me

↳pierregasly: I’m gonna run you over

↳y/n_rb: try it!

alexandrasaintmleux: Ce fut un plaisir de faire votre connaissance cette année! It was a pleasure to get to know you this year!

↳y/n_rb: my offer still stands! I can treat you so much better

↳charles_leclerc: S'en aller! Go away!

↳alexandrasaintmleux:😘😘

↳charles_leclerc: Alex…

↳y/n_rb: haha

user7: I’ll certainly miss you terrorizing everyone…

↳y/n_rb: even if I’m not a driver, I’ll still be doing that!

↳charles_leclerc: fuck

↳pierregasly: non

↳oscarpiastri: please no

↳y/n_rb: 😁😁

f1

liked by user, user, user and 3,723,183 others

tagged: pierregasly, y/n_rb

f1: and that’s major contact between redbullracing’s y/n_rb and alpinef1team’s pierregasly. This is not the first time this season these 2 have crashed together. The race is currently under red flag as the marshals work to clear the track of debris.

view all comments

user8: of course it was those 2…

user9: they couldn’t resist one last crash to finish off the season could they…

user10: it’s taking a while for the marshals to remove them from the car isn’t it?

↳user11: yeah…it doesn’t usually take this long unless something has happened…

↳user12: god I hope they’re both alright…

user13: did they have to bring in extra medical cars???

↳user14: they did — it’s not looking good…

↳user13: fuck

f1gossippage

liked by user, user, user, and 1,923,284 others

f1gossippage: during the beginning laps of Abu Dhabi - y/n l/n and Pierre Gasly made contact that resulted in a red flag. After a lengthy delay, extra medical cars were called to the site of the crash where both l/n and Gasly were cut from their cars. They were both rushed from the scene — it looked like they were bleeding out pretty badly…

view all comments

user15: I was right above them — it did NOT look good but they were both seemingly conscious

↳user16: Jesus…at least they were conscious?

↳user17: that is a good sign (I think)

user18: has anyone official said anything?

↳user20: not that I could tell but the race has been started again…

user21: I can’t even imagine going out again to race after seeing that crash

↳user22: those drivers are stronger than me for real

user23: listening to their radios right now — everyone keeps asking for updates on them!

↳user24: are they getting updates?

↳user23: everyone is being told that there are no updates yet

↳user24: ugh…

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @Voidvannie @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @yawn-zi

[promptedwordsmith]

I asked this request with someone else so you mayy or mayy not see the same request somewhere else. Depends on if you or the other person does write my request. It’s alright if you don’t wanna, write want you wanna to write. I just need this idea out of my system 🤣

MC is indicted that she is powerful. Good fighter, powerful evol where she can practically borrow someone else evol and the core in her heart. She much weaker for an unknown reason at the moment. But what if she wasn’t for a brief moment? 👀

What if MC physically fights the LaDS men without holding back 👀 like a scenario where a new wanderer shows up, puppets her or something, forcing the LaDS men to defend themselves. I need the angst and drama 😂 where the men are like “I don’t want to hurt you but you’re going kill me at this rate if I don’t do something.”

This keeps floating in my head, someone save me 🤣

OK soo I hope this is what you meant and it wasn't just me completely misunderstanding but the second I read this I just had to get started omg

I usually really don't like the whole "I'm going to save you by playing on our connection" trope but it suits this sort of story I think!

Caleb

The battlefield was silent. Not the kind of silence that came from peace, but the suffocating, eerie kind—the moment before the storm.

Caleb stood at the center of it, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, violet eyes locked on you. Or at least, the body that belonged to you.

But you weren’t there.

The moment the Wanderer had latched onto you, sinking its unseen claws into your mind, he’d known something was wrong. You had stiffened, your Evol flaring wildly for half a second before your entire stance changed. That was the first warning. The second had come when your gaze lifted to meet his—not with recognition, not with warmth, but with something empty.

And then you had attacked him.

His own gravity turned against him—the weight around his body fluctuating so rapidly that he nearly lost his footing. That alone had confirmed his worst fear. The Wanderer wasn’t just suppressing your will—it was using your Resonance against him.

You had stolen his Evol.

And now, he had to fight you.

But he couldn’t.

Not really. Not the way he fought others.

His hands clenched at his sides as he dodged another blast of gravitational force, feeling the way the air twisted and compressed around him. You were strong. Stronger than he had ever let himself acknowledge.

His mind was at war with itself. Every instinct screamed at him to fight back—to win—but the part of him that had spent lifetimes protecting you? That part was already losing.

Because how could he fight you, when all he wanted to do was save you?

You lunged forward, eyes still vacant, but your movements were clean, precise—yours, but also not yours. You weren’t just mimicking his power; you were enhancing it. His own gravity was being amplified, warped, turned into a weapon against him. It took everything he had to avoid the sudden shift in force, barely managing to stabilize himself before he was slammed downward with bone-crushing weight.

The ground cracked beneath him. His knees buckled.

Caleb grit his teeth.

If this had been anyone else—any other enemy—he would’ve ended this fight by now. But it wasn’t. It was you. And for the first time in his life, he was afraid.

Not of you. Never of you.

But of what he might have to do to stop this.

He tried to speak, voice raw. “You have to fight it.”

You didn’t respond.

You only lifted your hand, and the world collapsed inward.

The force struck fast—so much stronger than he expected, so much more precise. His body strained against the gravity pressing down on him, the weight overwhelming. If he had been anyone else, he would’ve been crushed.

And that’s when the realization hit him—this is what you feel.

Every time you resonate with him, every time you borrow his strength, every time you fight beside him, this is what your body endures. The sheer force of his Evol, amplified within you.

He had never really thought about it before. Never truly grasped just how much you took on when you fought at his side.

And now? Now that power was against him.

His arms trembled as he forced himself up. “I know you’re still in there.” His voice was hoarse, desperate. “I know you can hear me.”

Nothing.

His mind raced. He needed to think. He needed to find a way to reach you—not hurt you, never hurt you—but how?

His vision blurred at the edges. The gravitational pull you were using was unlike anything he had ever faced. Not even he had pushed his power to this extent before. His body screamed for relief, his Evol struggling against itself.

But then he saw it.

The slight hesitation. The way your fingers twitched—just barely, but enough.

It wasn’t the Wanderer controlling his Evol. It was you.

Somewhere inside, you were still fighting.

That was all he needed.

Caleb sucked in a sharp breath, shoving aside hesitation, pain—everything. His hands shot forward, fingers splaying wide, and for the first time in this fight—he didn’t resist your gravity.

He let it pull him in.

The instant he got close enough, he grabbed your wrist, forcing your Evol to connect with his. Forcing Resonance.

And that was all it took.

Because the moment your Evol touched his, he poured everything he had into it. Not just power. Not just control. But himself.

His memories. His thoughts. The lifetimes spent together.

The way you had always brought him back from the edge.

The way he had sworn to protect you—not just in this life, but in every life.

And then, for the first time, you hesitated.

A sharp breath escaped you, your entire body jolting as if something had just slammed into your mind. Your grip on your own power wavered—just enough for Caleb to take control.

Gravity twisted.

Not violently. Not in a way that would hurt you.

But in the way he always held you.

Steady. Unshakable. Safe.

Your body swayed, your breath stuttering, and then—then—your eyes flickered.

Your real eyes.

Not the Wanderer’s empty gaze.

Yours.

Recognition flashed across your face, confusion, panic—and then the force holding him down snapped.

Caleb barely had time to react before your legs gave out, and he caught you without hesitation, his arms wrapping around you, his Evol still steadying your weight.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your breath was warm against his shoulder, your body trembling in his arms. He could feel your heartbeat—erratic, unsteady, but yours.

And that was all that mattered.

The fight was over.

He pressed his forehead to the side of yours, his grip tightening, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve got you.”

A shaky exhale. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his uniform. “I…” Your voice was hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

Caleb exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “No. Don’t.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes burning. “You came back. That’s all that matters.”

And in that moment, he realized something—something that had been clear all along, but he had never let himself truly accept.

You weren’t just his partner.

You were his equal.

And no matter what, no matter how hard it got, he would always pull you back to him.

Rafayel

The battlefield was ablaze.

Not with fire, but with chaos.

The air was thick with smoke and embers, Rafayel’s flames flickering and dancing wildly across the ruined ground. Yet, despite the searing heat, his hands trembled. His chest ached—not from exhaustion, not from injury, but from the sheer horror of what was happening.

Because it was you standing against him.

And it wasn’t you at all.

Your eyes, usually filled with warmth, were void of emotion. Your stance, once fluid and graceful, was rigid—unnatural. The Wanderer who had taken over your body had turned your Resonance against him, amplifying his flames, twisting them, making them stronger in ways he never intended.

And now, that power was aimed at him.

A burst of fire roared toward him, faster than he could react. The heat seared his skin as he barely managed to throw himself to the side, landing hard against the dirt. His breath came out ragged as he quickly pushed himself up, his eyes locking onto you once more.

"Damn it..." he whispered, swallowing hard.

He couldn’t fight you.

But you—no, the thing inside you—had no such hesitation.

You lunged. Faster than he expected, stronger than he remembered. And maybe that was the worst part. He had always known you were powerful, but now? With your Evol fully unleashed against him, amplified in ways he never thought possible, he realized just how devastatingly strong you truly were.

And he had never feared your strength before.

Not until now.

You moved like fire itself—wild, relentless. Each attack forced him to retreat, to defend, to dodge, rather than strike back. He couldn’t. Even as his instincts screamed at him to fight, to survive, his heart refused to let him lift his hands against you.

"Come on, Rafayel," a voice that wasn’t yours taunted from your lips, hollow and mocking. "Is this really all you’ve got?"

Another wave of flames erupted toward him, this time crackling with an intensity that made his stomach twist. He barely managed to counter, his own fire surging up to meet yours, but the moment the two collided, yours consumed his completely.

His eyes widened.

His own fire.

It didn’t even stand a chance.

"Shit—"

The explosion sent him flying backward, slamming into the side of a crumbling building. He gasped, pain shooting through his ribs. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the helplessness clawing at his chest.

He had to think. Had to find a way to get through to you.

But how?

If he tried to burn the Wanderer out, he’d be burning you.

If he held back, he’d die before he got the chance to save you.

He gritted his teeth.

No. There had to be a way.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked onto you again—his love, his muse—possessed and wielded like a weapon against him.

His hands clenched into fists.

"I know you’re still in there." His voice was hoarse, desperate. "I know you can hear me."

But you didn’t answer.

The Wanderer tilted your head, smirking through your lips. "That’s sweet," they mocked. "But pointless."

And then you attacked again.

Faster. Stronger.

You disappeared in a flash of heat—only to reappear behind him. He barely turned in time to block the hit, his forearm crashing against yours. The sheer force of it made his bones rattle. Then came another, and another—strike after strike, relentless.

And Rafayel could do nothing but defend.

Not because he wasn’t strong enough.

But because he couldn’t—wouldn’t—hurt you.

Think, damn it!

The answer came in a flicker of memory.

Your Resonance.

You borrowed the power of others, but it was a two-way connection. If he could reach that part of you—if you were still in there, buried deep beneath the Wanderer’s control—then maybe, just maybe, he could pull you back.

But he had to get close.

Close enough to touch you.

Close enough to take a direct hit.

It was a gamble. A stupid, reckless gamble. But he was running out of time, and there was no way in hell he was going to lose you.

So, he let go of his defense.

Dropped his guard completely.

And when you lunged at him again, aiming straight for his heart—he didn’t move.

The moment your hand made contact with his chest, he reached out. Not with his fire. Not with his fists.

But with his Resonance.

A connection.

A tether.

Through the blinding heat, through the searing pain of your touch, he focused on you—the real you, trapped beneath layers of someone else’s will.

"Come back to me," he breathed. "Please."

For a moment—just a flicker—something changed.

Your body froze.

The grip on his chest loosened, fingers trembling against his shirt. The flames flickering in your eyes wavered—just for a second.

And in that second, he poured everything into the link between you.

Your Evol, your power, the resonance that had always bound you together. He reached for it. Pushed his own power into it. Made it something bigger, brighter, than the darkness that held you captive.

"You’re mine," he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours despite the heat. "Not theirs."

The Wanderer shrieked.

The connection between you burned.

And then—

A scream tore through the air. Your body convulsed, and suddenly, the fire turned inward.

Not his. Yours.

Flames erupted around you, swallowing your form in a wild blaze—brighter, hotter than anything he’d ever seen. And then—

Silence.

When the flames finally died, you collapsed against him, body trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps.

But your eyes—

Your eyes were yours again.

"Rafayel..." Your voice was weak, hoarse, but it was enough.

His breath hitched, arms tightening around you as he pulled you close, pressing desperate kisses to your hair, your forehead, anywhere he could reach.

"You scared the hell out of me," he whispered, voice shaking. "Don’t you ever do that again."

A weak laugh left your lips as you buried your face against his chest. "Not exactly something I planned, you know."

He let out a breathless chuckle, relief washing over him like a tidal wave.

You were back.

And he would never let you go again.

Sylus

The night was warm, but Sylus felt nothing but cold.

He stood across from you, his crimson eyes narrowed, his breath steady—but his heart pounding.

You weren’t you.

Not really.

A Wanderer had taken your body, stolen your will, and twisted it into something unrecognizable. The way you moved—precise, calculating, almost inhuman—was proof enough. Your usual grace had been sharpened into something unnatural, something colder than he could stand to see.

He had fought countless enemies before. He had cut down traitors, eliminated threats, and broken those who dared to stand against him. But this?

This was the first time his hands trembled before a fight had even begun.

You raised your hand, palm out, and Sylus braced himself. A flicker of energy crackled around your fingers—his energy, twisted by your Resonance Evol.

The Wanderer inside you smirked.

“Your hesitation is touching, Sylus,” they said, your voice not quite right. “But it will be your downfall.”

Then, with a flick of your wrist, the world ignited.

A blast of pure, searing energy surged toward him—his own power, amplified and turned against him. He barely had time to react, throwing himself to the side as the ground where he once stood erupted in a violent shockwave.

Damn it.

He knew your Evol made you powerful, but now—now—he was realizing just how dangerous it was. With your Resonance, you weren’t just using his ability. You were enhancing it. Making it faster. Stronger.

Making it better than he ever could.

Sylus exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he steadied himself.

“Darling,” he said, his voice calm despite the ache in his chest, “if you wanted a fight, you could’ve just asked.”

The Wanderer inside you laughed. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You were always going to lose.”

You lunged.

Sylus barely dodged in time, his coat billowing as he twisted away. Another blast of energy, another near-miss. He felt the heat graze his cheek, singeing his skin. Tch. That was his power. Amplified. Used against him.

And worse?

He still couldn’t bring himself to attack you.

Because even though your body was moving against him, even though you were fighting with deadly precision—it was still you.

And the thought of hurting you was the first thing in his life that truly terrified him.

But this was no longer just about him.

He had to get you back.

Sylus moved with purpose, dodging, analyzing. He needed a plan—a way to break the Wanderer’s hold without breaking you.

But the problem was you were making it impossible.

You weren’t just strong—you were devastating. Every attack came faster, sharper. His own Evol, when amplified by yours, was far more than he could handle. It was overwhelming, relentless.

A pillar of energy surged forward. He braced, crossing his arms as the impact slammed into him, forcing him back. He barely stayed on his feet, his boots skidding against the cracked ground.

You’re too strong like this.

And that realization—it shook him to his core.

He had always known you made him stronger. Had always known that together, you were an unstoppable force.

But now? Now that you were standing against him instead of beside him?

He wasn’t sure if he could win.

And worse—he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

“Come on, Sylus,” the Wanderer taunted through your lips. “You always plan for every possible outcome, don’t you? You must’ve thought about this scenario.”

He clenched his jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

A smirk. “Oh? You really mean to say you never once imagined what would happen if your pretty little Resonance Evol turned against you?”

Sylus said nothing.

Because the truth was—no.

He had never imagined this.

Because in every scenario he had ever planned, in every possibility he had ever considered—

You were always with him.

The next strike was the closest yet.

A blast of energy—too fast, too precise. He barely managed to counter, the force sending him stumbling back. He could feel the bruises forming beneath his clothes, the sting of burned skin where your attack had hit.

And still, he hesitated.

“Why won’t you fight me, Sylus?” the Wanderer hummed, tilting your head. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said simply.

The Wanderer clicked their tongue. “Oh, but I’ll hurt you.”

You raised your hand again.

And Sylus knew—this time, he wouldn’t be able to dodge.

But at the last second—you hesitated.

It was brief, almost imperceptible, but Sylus saw it. A flicker of recognition. A second where your body tensed—but your fingers curled inward, as if trying to resist.

You were still in there.

Sylus inhaled sharply. That’s it. Hold on, darling. Hold on just a little longer.

If you were still there, he could reach you.

He just had to risk it all.

So, instead of dodging—

He stepped forward.

The Wanderer sneered. “Giving up already?”

Sylus didn’t answer.

He just closed the distance—and grabbed your wrist.

The moment his fingers closed around your skin, he poured his energy into you.

Not to fight.

Not to hurt.

But to resonate.

If your Evol worked through Resonance, through matching the energy of those around you—then all he had to do was flood you with something stronger than the Wanderer’s control.

And there was nothing in this world stronger than his need to bring you back.

Your body stiffened. The energy in your hand faltered, flickering unsteadily between raw power and something uncertain. Your breathing hitched.

Sylus tightened his grip.

“Come back to me,” he murmured, his voice commanding. “I know you’re still in there.”

For a second—nothing.

Then—

A sharp gasp.

Your eyes, wide and yours again for just a moment, locked onto his. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. A violent shudder wracked through your body.

Sylus didn’t let go.

“You are mine,” he said, his voice a whisper, but carrying the full weight of his soul. “No one else gets to have you. Not them. Not anyone.”

A strangled cry tore from your throat. The Wanderer fought—but Sylus was stronger.

Because he knew you.

He knew your energy, your heart, your soul.

And no matter what—nothing could ever make him let you go.

The moment the Wanderer’s hold snapped, you collapsed against him.

Sylus caught you immediately, cradling you against his chest, his arms locking around you like a vice.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, weakly, you whispered, “You’re bleeding.”

Sylus let out a breathless laugh, pressing his forehead against yours. “You should see yourself, darling. You made quite the mess.”

You gave a weak chuckle. “Guess that means I won?”

His grip tightened. “Never.”

Then, softer—

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

You nodded against his chest, and Sylus knew—

No matter what happened next, you would never fight alone again.

Xavier

The world around you spun. The cold, sterile air of the facility clung to your skin, and your heartbeat pounded against your chest as though it wanted to break free. You could feel the weight of your body, but it felt distant, as if you were no longer fully in control of it.

Your breath quickened as the world distorted, everything around you slipping out of focus. The pain in your temples only made the sensation worse, a sharp jolt of nausea sinking into your gut. It was as though your entire being was split in two, and one of those halves was being pulled in a direction you didn’t want to go.

You fought it, clenching your fists in an attempt to regain control, but it was no use. The foreign force inside you took hold with an iron grip, seizing every inch of you, weaving itself into your core until it became you. The invasive presence swirled within, a dark, malicious energy.

There was a flash of movement—Xavier. His silver hair caught the light, and his blue eyes found you with a look of deep concern. His steps faltered as he came closer, his gaze narrowing, confused. But the moment you met his eyes, the clarity of what was happening hit him all at once.

“No,” he whispered. The word trembled from his lips. “No, no, no…”

It was you. It was your body, but not your mind. Not your will. You weren’t in control anymore.

You were a prisoner inside your own skin.

“Xavier!” you tried to shout, but the voice that came out of your mouth wasn’t yours. It was cold, detached, and devoid of all warmth. A hollow echo of what you had once been.

Xavier’s eyes widened as his instincts kicked in. He knew you. He knew you, and this was wrong. This wasn’t the person he’d fought beside, laughed with, shared so many quiet moments. This wasn’t the person who’d trusted him with their heart, body, and soul.

But you weren’t completely gone. He could see it in the way your lips trembled, the subtle flicker of emotion beneath the cold mask the Wanderer had woven over you. But it wasn’t enough.

You were still trapped, still in that dark corner of your mind, but the Wanderer’s will was too powerful.

The presence inside you stirred, pushing against your resistance. Xavier took a careful step forward, his hand raised in a calming gesture, as though trying to reach the real you beneath the enemy’s control.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Just fight, okay? Fight it, please. I’ll find a way to get you back, I swear.”

But you didn’t respond—not with your words, not with any recognition of him. The enemy within you was far more cunning, pushing you forward, taking control of your every movement. You could feel it sinking deeper into you, exploiting the part of your mind that resonated with Xavier’s light. The resonance you shared, once a source of strength, now became a weapon against him, turning his own power into something he had to fight against.

It was then you saw it: the horrible realization in his eyes as he looked at you. He couldn’t bring himself to harm you, not even to defend himself, not when he knew what you’d become.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his shaking hands, but you saw the struggle in his gaze. The anguish was raw, suffocating. He was trying to figure it out. He was trying to find a way to save you both.

The resonance between you and Xavier, the bond that had always strengthened you both in every situation, now felt like an anchor pulling you deeper into a sea of chaos. You could feel his power around you—surging, lighting up the space—but now it was a threat. A threat that made you feel like you were suffocating.

“No,” you whispered, fighting with every ounce of your being to reach him. “Don’t… hurt… me…”

But the Wanderer inside you wasn’t willing to let go. It twisted your body, forcing your hand up, and you could see Xavier’s eyes flicker with the realization that you were about to hurt him.

With a sudden surge of power, the resonance inside you flared to life—Xavier’s own Evol, manipulated by the enemy, twisted around you, harnessed into a blinding ball of light. The space around you erupted, and Xavier was forced back, his own power ripping through the air to fight against yours.

“Xavier—!” you screamed again, but the voice that came out of your mouth was filled with malice, not your own.

You didn’t know if he could hear the real you anymore. You couldn’t even feel the pulse of his Evol flowing into you as it used to. He was too far away now. He was so far away.

But Xavier didn’t back down. Even as the ball of light surged toward him, he didn’t flinch. His Evol blazed brighter, trying to counteract the resonance that had been corrupted. He didn’t understand it entirely, didn’t realize the full depth of what was happening—but he could feel you. He could feel that you were still somewhere in there, buried beneath the surface.

The battle raged on, your body moving against your will, fighting against Xavier. Every strike he blocked only caused him more pain. His own power—the very light that had once been his most treasured ally—felt oppressive, draining. He was fighting with everything he had, trying to reach you, but you were so far gone.

Xavier’s voice cracked with pain. “Please… come back to me.”

In that moment, everything froze. Time seemed to stretch as you felt the pulse of his light reach out, gentle yet forceful, like a lifeline in the storm. He wasn’t giving up. He refused to give up on you.

Somewhere deep inside, something inside you stirred.

The Wanderer’s control over you flickered, just for an instant. And in that moment, you were able to reach him.

You couldn’t speak, but you tried—your hand, shaking and weak, reached out toward Xavier. You were trying to call him back, trying to fight the darkness that had consumed you. But the Wanderer still lingered, still pressing down on you.

Xavier saw it—he saw the fight in you. He saw that you were still there.

And that was enough.

“Hang on,” he whispered, his voice full of promise and pain. “I’ll get you back. I swear I will.”

His Evol flared one last time, combining with the resonance that had always existed between you. This time, your light—the one that connected you both—fought back the darkness with a power neither of you had ever felt before.

The battle raged between the two of you, but this time, Xavier’s light pushed through the darkness, finally forcing it back. Your own resonance fought through the haze, giving you control once again.

And as you regained yourself, breathless and broken, you saw Xavier before you—his blue eyes filled with relief, but also the weight of everything he had just fought against.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he pulled you close, holding you tightly as if afraid that if he let go, you’d slip away again.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. But even through the pain, there was nothing but tenderness in his touch.

Zayne

Zayne could feel the cold creeping up his spine long before he saw you.

The battlefield was a chaotic mess of fractured ice and broken stone, an eerie quiet hanging in the air. You had been acting strange earlier—off, distant—but he never could have predicted this. Never could have anticipated what was coming.

Your eyes were distant now, completely blank as you stood across from him, an uncharacteristic stillness in your posture. A thick chill hung in the air, and the normally comfortable bite of his ice Evol now seemed like something far more dangerous—like something hostile.

“Y/N…” His voice was tentative, unsure. His heart pounded in his chest. He knew you. Knew you better than anyone else. So, why were you standing there, so calm, so detached?

You didn’t respond.

A dark energy, one Zayne couldn’t quite explain, pulsed beneath the surface, swirling through the air like a storm, wrapping around you. It wasn’t your power—he could sense that. But what came next? That, he hadn’t expected.

You raised your hand. Your own power—Resonance—flared to life, but it wasn’t the soft, gentle way it usually did. It wasn’t amplifying his power, it wasn’t supporting him like it always did. No. This time, your Resonance vibrated in sync with Zayne’s own ice, amplifying it and twisting it to your will.

And with a sudden burst of energy, Zayne watched in horror as his own ice began to materialize around you—not as defense, but as a weapon.

It was his Evol, the one he had honed and perfected for years, the one he trusted more than anything. And now, it was being used against him. His own creation.

“Y/N!” He yelled, his voice strained with both disbelief and desperation. But you were too far gone, the energy in your eyes too overwhelming.

Without warning, you thrust your hand forward, and the ice surged at him with the force of a tidal wave. Zayne barely had time to react, his body moving on instinct as he threw up his own defenses, sending a surge of ice to block the incoming attack. But it wasn’t enough.

You were using his own power against him. Every movement, every strike was amplified by your Resonance, making the ice you conjured stronger, faster, sharper. He barely managed to dodge one attack as the ice flew past him, slicing through the air and leaving deep gashes in the ground. His heart raced.

“I won’t hurt you…” Zayne muttered to himself, his hands shaking as he summoned more ice to defend himself. He could barely keep up with you now. It wasn’t just the power, it was the control. His Evol had always been something that was intrinsically tied to his soul, his emotions, but now, in your hands, it was alien, a force completely out of his control.

And worse—he didn’t know how to fight you without hurting you. The thought alone tore him apart.

You stepped forward, the ice swirling around you like a storm. It rose from the ground, wrapping around your body like armor, and you moved toward him with terrifying speed, your eyes fixed on him with a distant, eerie look.

Zayne didn’t want to fight you. But you weren’t giving him a choice.

With a cry of frustration, Zayne shot a beam of ice at you, but you deflected it effortlessly, sending shards of his own ice right back at him. One piece grazed his arm, leaving a trail of blood beneath the frozen surface. He winced but didn’t let up, his gaze locked on yours as he took another step back.

"Please," he whispered, voice ragged with emotion. "You have to fight this."

But you didn’t respond, didn’t show any sign of recognition. You just continued to move toward him, the ice in your hands growing more elaborate with each passing moment. A large block of ice shot at him with blinding speed, and Zayne barely managed to dodge it, but he was starting to feel the weight of the battle. His own powers were being turned against him, and he couldn’t keep up.

His breath came in shallow bursts, and his mind raced. There had to be something he could do, something to stop you from using his own Evol against him. He needed you to break free from this—needed you back.

His eyes searched the ground for something—anything—that could help, but all he could see was the snow and ice he had created. Your resonance, your amplification of his ice, was making everything around them feel like a frozen prison.

Then it hit him.

You were using his ice, yes, but you were still you. There was still a trace of your presence beneath the surface, beneath the coldness and the power you now wielded. The way your movements weren’t just about destruction, but about something else—something familiar.

The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning: He could still reach you.

Zayne closed his eyes for just a moment and focused, pulling at the ice around him, not in anger or fear, but with something deeper—something he had never relied on before. He wasn’t just using his Evol for defense. He wasn’t trying to trap or fight you.

He was trying to connect.

A wave of ice rippled through the battlefield, but it wasn’t just a defense. It was a gesture, a soft and delicate thing, like the ice seals he had carved for you when you were children. He called upon the memory of that moment, the warmth in the act, the love behind it.

Slowly, carefully, he shaped the ice into something, a symbol. A seal. A small ice sculpture, just like the ones he had made for you all those years ago. It was perfect. Beautiful. Simple.

The ice seemed to slow around him, the energy flickering. He could feel it—the resonance between the two of you, so faint now, but it was still there.

He placed the ice seal on the ground, hoping that this small act would remind you of who you were.

"Please," Zayne whispered. "Remember me."

The ice around you hesitated. The coldness seemed to crack, breaking apart like a frozen surface thawing in the warmth of the sun. You froze in place, your hand trembling as you reached for the ice seal he had created for you.

For a long moment, nothing happened. But then—slowly, so slowly—the coldness in your eyes began to melt, replaced by a softness he had longed to see again. You dropped to your knees, gasping as the power began to drain from you, leaving you breathless but you.

Zayne’s heart swelled as he rushed to your side, pulling you into his arms.

“I’m here,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Zayne allowed himself to breathe. The battle was over. And you were back.

[superpowereddonut]

Spencer's Star (Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader)

Hi! I was just re-watching Criminal Minds and had to write this short little drabble! Also, this is my first time experimenting with the use of 2nd person (ie. using 'you'), but I still didn't use Y/N. Please let me know what you think!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader / Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader

Episode: 5x13 'Risky Business' (end scene on the jet)

Warnings: Slight (canon) Spencer-targeted bullying by the team (but not from reader!)

Word count: 907

*****

It had been a good case. Well… good by BAU standards. 

Since the team had arrived in the small rural county in Wyoming, there had been no further deaths and within only 48-hours they had caught the unsub - an EMT who goaded teenages into choking themselves to death through an online ‘game’. Still, despite the quick solve, the whole case had been disturbing. You wondered whether anyone else was still dwelling on the twisted man who had repeatedly choked his own son. Or if anyone but Hotch had noticed JJ’s seemingly personal stake in this case. Move on, you reminded yourself, tomorrow there will be another case, and then another, and another. You can’t afford to dwell on each one. 

Shaking your head slightly, you forced yourself to focus on the present, just as Emily took out a wooden shape and placed it on the table between you. “What is that?” Spencer asked from the seat to your left.

"It’s called a star puzzle.” Emily replied, “It’s basically impossible to figure out.” 

You watched with interest as she began to take it apart, and noted Spencer’s quick eyes tracking each of her movements. “You have to put all of the pieces back together to form a perfect star,” she explained, “but the origin of it is kind of a romantic tale.” 

Emily began recounting the story, her voice soft and lilting. “There was this young prince who wanted to win the heart of the fairest maiden in the land. So, he climbed to the top of the tallest tower in the kingdom and he caught a falling star for her.” 

The whole plane seemed to be listening to Emily now - Rossi was watching from where he leant against the plane window next to her, and Penelope was hanging off her words as she carefully knitted what looked like a bright blue tea cosy. Even Derek, lounging on the seats behind you and Spencer, had taken off his headphones to hear better. But - as it so often did - your attention had moved to Spencer, who now had a slight crease in his brows. 

“Unfortunately he was so excited that he dropped it and it smashed into all of these pieces…” Spencer reached out to pick up the now-separated pieces of the puzzle, his arm gently brushing yours as he moved. “...so, he frantically put it back together again to prove his undying love for her,” Emily was saying, “and he succeeded, and they lived happily ever after.” You caught Penelope’s soft sigh from the back of the plane before Spencer spoke up, “That doesn’t make any sense.” He said, and you had to hide your smile at his adorably confused tone. “What do you mean?” Emily replied, now frowning as well.

“You can’t catch a falling star. It would burn up in the atmosphere.” It was becoming difficult to hide your fond amusement, and you almost had to physically sit on your hands to keep from reaching out to smooth his furrowed brow.

“Yeah but it’s not literal, Reid, it’s a fable.” 

Spencer didn’t seem satisfied, “But there’s no moral. Fables have morals.”

“Okay, so it’s just a romantic little story,” Emily rebutted, growing exasperated, “The point is, it’s basically impossible to do because you have to take all of those pieces and fit them together exactly…” 

You watched, transfixed, as Spencer’s long, nimble fingers worked quickly, slotting each piece together with precision before he gently set it down in front of you, once again in its complete shape.

“There’s a lot to hate about you Dr. Reid.” Emily said, sarcasm softening her harsh words. You heard Derek chuckle from behind you.

“Play poker with him sometime.” Rossi said with a quiet smile.

“Try playin chess with him.” Derek chimed in.

“Or Go” came Penelope’s voice from the back.

You rolled your eyes at the familiar teasing jabs, but your smile fell when you saw Spencer’s face. You knew that look. He was feeling insecure, running back over the entire interaction to see where he had missed a social cue, or messed up in his contribution to the conversation. He didn’t seem to have picked up on Emily’s sarcasm, instead taking her comment to heart.

“Don’t be fooled,” you spoke up, “he watched you take apart the star and memorised the movements. He just had to repeat the pattern in reverse.” 

Emily’s eyebrows shot up before she turned to Spencer. “Did you really?” She asked, and her tone now held unmistakable awe. He just shrugged, though you noticed the set of his shoulders relax slightly and his cheeks flush pink at her admiration.

The rest of the team gradually turned their attention elsewhere, and you were about to go fishing in your bag for a book when Spencer’s arm brushed yours again. You looked up to see his dark eyes fixed on yours. Oh, those eyes. They had always reminded you of old, cosy libraries and soft caramels that melt on your tongue. It was an effort not to lean into his warmth.

“How did you know I memorised the pattern?” He asked, his voice a soft whisper as though not to draw the attention of the others.

You allowed yourself a small smirk. “I know you too well Doctor Reid,” you said, equally quiet, “you’re going to have to try harder than that to impress me.”

His answering grin made your heart skip a beat. 

“Challenge accepted.”

[breserker]

so i checked the notes of this post and some of the complaints about miscommunication contrivance give the well worn example of "person walks in at the exact wrong moment and leaves before clarification" being bad and annoying and hey thats the main conflict of the second half of Shrek

but it works

specifically because the KIND of miscommunication upholds the movie's central themes of ogres being Undesirable, of Shrek thinking hes okay being alone because he buys into the societal presumption of ogres being undesirable, that HES undesirable - the miscommunication being hes not, there is someone for him but she sees herself as undesirable bc of the ogreness too. Its literally about societys standards of beauty and race driving a potential loving couple apart bc they think they must follow what society wants of them.

The tricky thing with writing is that there really is no true Bad trope or even bad type of a trope, its just having the knowledge (and willingness to fail as you play around with writing to gain that knowledge) to use the toolbox at your disposal to your best advantage. I know that seeing multiple instances of a trope done to a contrivance level may sour it, but that doesnt mean it doesn't have its uses. It doesnt mean Shrek is a worse story for using a trope, because it as a story knew exactly what it was doing when it did. And sometimes i like to see a story use potentially overdone tropes with confidence bc they know what to do with them instead of a story that is so concerned with coming off cliche that it abandons the toolbox because miscommunication tropes bad/annoying.

Ive written for tropes i vehemently hate (boss/subordinate relationships) bc i wanted to not only challenge myself but also write them in a way I'd find them interesting, and to this day experiments like that are some of my favorite fics Ive ever written. And I still hate that trope! Try it! Surprise yourself! Unrestrict your writing!

"Why didn't they just communicate?? They're so stupid!" Have you considered that communicating with someone you love and value and don't want to hurt is scary and that vulnerability takes practice and that perfect characters with perfect words make the most boring stories of all

[weekendlusting]

A TALE OF FAME

pairing ꪆৎ charles leclerc x ahaana patel ᥫ᭡. f1 driver x bollywood actress au

chapter ꪆৎ 4

summary ꪆৎ she's everything, and he just drives.

note ꪆৎ no hate to any characters used in the story, none of what i write reflects on how they actually are. all my love, happy reading.

prev

The streetlights cast their golden glow on the slick cobblestone streets, as Monaco’s night embraced the quiet lull after the evening crowds had long since dispersed. Ahaana Patel had just finished another grueling reading session for Jigra, this time with Vedang Raina, her co star who plays the "jigra" in the movie, and Vasan Bala, the director of the movie.. The call had been buzzing with activity, the air thick with anticipation for the movie’s impending launch. But as she made her way through the still night, her mind wandered, caught between the excitement of returning to Bollywood and the unease of stepping back into a world she had once distanced herself from.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A quick glance at the screen revealed a message from Karan Johar, the producer who had not only rekindled her Bollywood career but was also, for better or worse, the force that pulled her back into this whirlwind. Ahaana smiled at the message: "Remember, tomorrow's reading important. Don't overthink it!"

Her smile faded as she shoved the phone back into her bag. It wasn’t just the upcoming filming that had her thoughts in a frenzy. The rain started slowly, as if the weather itself had decided to add an extra layer of drama to her already chaotic emotions. It drizzled gently at first, but quickly grew more intense. She was about to pull her umbrella out when a sudden gust of wind caught her off guard, flipping the umbrella inside out. With a frustrated huff, Ahaana gave up and wrapped her arms around herself, quickening her pace as she made her way toward the coffee shop she had promised herself as a refuge for the night.

Monaco had a way of shifting moods within hours, and the glamour of the Grand Prix could never quite prepare someone for the kind of solitude one might encounter in the city’s winding streets. The lights from cafes and bistros flickered softly, but the rain blurred their reflections, creating a dreamy, almost surreal atmosphere. Ahaana welcomed it—she needed this. A quiet moment where she could collect her thoughts and prepare herself for the whirlwind to come.

Her shoes splashed against the wet pavement as she hurried forward, the rain now soaking her to the bone. She didn’t mind—though it was cold, it was somehow soothing. The slight discomfort of the wet clothes reminded her that she was still human beneath the polished image people expected of her.

As she rounded a corner, her phone slipped from her hand, landing with a soft thud in the nearest puddle. Her breath caught as she quickly crouched down to retrieve it, wiping off the water that had already soaked into the screen.

“Great,” she muttered under her breath, before looking up.

It was then she heard the sound of an engine revving, the smooth hum of a car pulling up beside her. The headlights cut through the dark as the vehicle slowed down to a crawl. Ahaana barely had a chance to look up before a familiar voice broke through the quiet night.

"Underwater yet?”

She looked up, startled, only to meet Charles Leclerc’s amused face, framed by the dark interior of his sleek, black car.

“You seem to have a knack for finding me in the most inconvenient moments,” Ahaana said, her voice tinged with sarcasm but a playful glint in her eyes. She could feel her heart rate pick up slightly at the sight of him, and she tried to mask the sudden flutter with a nonchalant tone.

Charles raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. You seem to be doing quite well in your little adventure out in the rain. But if you’d like, I can offer you a ride.” He paused for effect. “Unless you plan on swimming to where you're going?”

Ahaana was about to brush him off, but something about his voice—calm, caring, and teasing all at once—made her pause. She glanced up at the coffee shop, now barely visible through the rain, and then back at Charles, his car still idling, waiting for her response.

“You don’t have to do that,” she began, though her body language was already betraying her. The chill from the rain was seeping deep into her bones, and she wasn’t in the mood for another cold walk to her destination. She shivered involuntarily as the wind picked up. “I’m sure your car is far too nice to have someone like me soaking up the seats.”

Charles chuckled, a warm, easy sound that seemed to cut through the damp night air. “It’s closer than that coffee shop, and I’m guessing you’re already a little too wet to care about how nice my car is.”

Ahaana tilted her head, her expression a mix of amusement and hesitation. “You know, you’re really hard to say no to.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, grinning as he opened the door to the passenger seat. “Come on, get in before you turn into an ice sculpture.”

Despite her internal resistance, Ahaana found herself walking toward the car, stepping in and shutting the door behind her. The warmth of the car enveloped her, and she let out a quiet sigh of relief as she settled into the plush seat. She immediately reached for her damp hair, trying to push it away from her face, but the rain had soaked through so thoroughly that it didn’t seem to matter.

Once inside, Ahaana groaned, pulling at her soaking wet sleeves. "Ugh, I’m going to catch pneumonia."

Charles reached into the backseat, pulling out a hoodie. "Here."

She hesitated before taking it, slipping it over her damp clothes. It was warm, slightly oversized, and smelled exactly like him—clean, fresh, with just a hint of something she couldn't quite place but immediately liked.

She let out a dramatic sigh. "I guess you’re not the worst Monaco tour guide. But only because you came with amenities."

Charles shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips as he started the car. "And here I thought I was making an impression."

Little did she know, she was making an impression on him instead.

“So,” Charles began, after a few moments of comfortable silence, his tone light but laced with a curiosity she hadn’t expected, “how’s Jigra going?”

Ahaana glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Not what I was expecting as small talk, but sure,” she said, her voice laced with mock surprise. “I thought you’d ask about something more stupid, like how you noticed my shirt is absolutely see through right now.”

Charles smirked at that, "Oh I definitely noticed that." To which Ahaana let out half a chuckle and a scoff. “But, I’m more interested in what’s really going on. Jigra is a big deal, right? Can I ask why? I mean this isn't the first intense film you've done, from what Max told me. And by his reaction that day I'm guessing there's more to this.”

“Keeping tabs on me are you?,” she teased, trying to lighten the tension in her shoulders because of his question, her gaze briefly drifting to the window as the rain slid down the glass in rivulets.

She turned back to look at Charles's magnificently handsome face, only to see him with a raised eyebrow as if asking her to elaborate. She sighed and said “It’s nothing. It's just something happened during my last film that I haven't quite gotten over yet. Of course I want to do this film, it's a great role, Satya is an amazing character to play. But it's not the acting I'm scared off, it's just weird for me to go back to film city right now.”

“Well, I don’t see you as the type to get scared of anything. I think you're gonna be just fine.” Charles’s voice was teasing, but it was also full of sincerity.

Ahaana’s gaze flicked back to him, and for a moment, their eyes locked. There was something about his presence—so steady, so grounded—that made her feel like she could exhale for the first time in weeks.

“You’d be surprised,” she said quietly. “I’ve had some time away from acting, and the pressure... it’s not what I remember. It’s a lot harder to let go of all the expectations people place on you.”

Charles looked at her thoughtfully, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “I get it,” he said. “The weight of it all, the constant eyes, the pressure to keep being perfect. It’s exhausting. I’ve been there.”

Ahaana regarded him carefully, intrigued by his response. “So what do you do when it gets too much?”

He shrugged, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I just keep going. It’s all you can do, right? And sometimes, when things feel a little too heavy, you find ways to laugh. You keep yourself grounded.”

Ahaana chuckled, her gaze softening. “I could use more of that, I think.”

“I can help with that,” he said, his voice playful but sincere. “I’m pretty good at keeping people grounded. Or at least distracted.”

“You seem to be very confident in your abilities,” Ahaana teased, her eyes narrowing with playful suspicion.

“Well, I have to be,” Charles said, his smirk widening. “It’s part of the job description.”

The light banter helped break the tension, and Ahaana found herself more comfortable than she had expected. The warmth of the car and the easy rhythm of their conversation was soothing in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

They drove the short distance to Charles’s apartment in comfortable silence, the kind that only happens between people who don’t need constant chatter to fill the gaps. When they pulled into his garage, Ahaana looked up, taking in the sleek, modern building, the lights inside casting a warm glow across the driveway.

Charles parked, turned off the engine, and immediately got out of the car, moving quickly around to her side. As soon as the door opened, the cold hit her like a wave, and she stepped out gingerly, wrapping her arms around herself to try and stave off the chill.

“Come on,” Charles said gently, offering her a hand. His touch was warm and steady, and for a moment, Ahaana hesitated before taking it. His fingers curled around hers, firm but gentle as he led her through the entrance of the building.

As they walked through the door, Charles led her into the living room, which was a spacious, airy room filled with muted tones and sleek furniture. The whole place had a modern but homey vibe—like the kind of space someone could live in without it ever feeling cold or sterile. There was a large window that framed a perfect view of the glittering city below, the occasional car headlights cutting through the rainy night. It was peaceful.

“You can sit here,” Charles said, gesturing toward the sofa. “I’ll get you a towel.”

Ahaana lowered herself onto the soft cushions, still shivering as she wrapped her arms around herself. She felt self-conscious for a moment—being in his space, accepting his help—but her exhaustion, both physical and mental, quickly overtook that discomfort.

She looked around, her eyes landing on the sleek glass coffee table in front of her, the coffee cups left casually on the surface. It was clear that Charles’s place wasn’t overly formal, but it also wasn’t careless—it was a place he seemed to have carefully curated for his own comfort. And somehow, that made it feel even more personal.

Charles returned a few moments later with a thick towel in hand, his expression soft but determined. “Here, let’s get you dried off a bit. You’re absolutely freezing.”

Ahaana took the towel from him, a little reluctantly at first. But then she let out a small sigh and began drying her hair, pressing the fabric into her scalp to soak up the moisture. The heat from the towel, along with the warmth of the room, felt like a relief she hadn’t realized she needed. She could feel her body finally starting to ease into the comfort of the moment, though she couldn’t entirely shake the tension in her chest.

“Such chivalry,” she teased, her voice softer now, probably because she was freezing. “You sure you're not doing this to get laid Leclerc?.”

Charles, who had settled himself on the opposite end of the couch, looked at her with an expression that was equal parts amused and understanding. “Ahaana,” he began, his voice low and husky, sending a chill down Ahaana's spine, she didnt't know it was because of him or the cold, “Trust me baby, if I wanted to seduce you I wouldn't be offering you more clothes right now.”

Ahaana laughed, and just shook her head. “Alright, alright, knock it off.” she said, her voice lighter now. “I’ll take advantage of your hospitality for now.”

Charles chuckled, and for a moment, they simply sat in silence, letting the quiet fill the space between them. The steady beat of the rain outside continued, creating a rhythmic soundtrack to the peace that had settled over the apartment.

The soft hum of the rain against the windows had begun to settle into the background, a calming melody that accompanied the flickering warmth of the lights in Charles’s apartment. Ahaana, now thoroughly dried off, had settled back onto the couch, wrapped in the plush towel like a cocoon. The cold was starting to fade, and with it, the tension in her body. Still, there was a softness in the air, the kind that made it easy to stay in the moment without thinking too far ahead.

Charles, having noticed her growing comfort, stood up and moved to a nearby closet. “I’ve got a shirt you can borrow. It’s not fancy, but it’ll keep you warm.”

He returned with a simple black T-shirt in hand and offered it to her with a warm smile. Ahaana took it with a quiet, grateful nod, and without thinking much of it, slipped it on. The fabric, soft and oversized, enveloped her like a second skin. It was exactly what she needed—a little comfort, a little security.

Charles took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, his eyes never leaving her as she adjusted the shirt. “There. Much better,” he said, his voice easy and teasing, but with an undertone of something deeper—something that lingered just beneath the surface.

Ahaana chuckled, running a hand through her damp hair, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest. “I feel like I’m wearing a blanket,” she said, adjusting the shirt, feeling the coolness of the fabric against her skin. The way it hung on her made her feel both cozy and oddly exposed. “It’s... comfortable, though. Thanks.”

Charles nodded, still looking at her with that relaxed smile of his. “You’re welcome. And now, how about some coffee?”

Ahaana raised an eyebrow, laughing softly. “That sounds like heaven.” He grinned bright, moving toward the kitchen.

Ahaana smiled as she settled back into the couch, her legs folded under her. The apartment was quiet now, save for the rain that pattered against the windows. Charles’s space felt more like a retreat than a home—a sanctuary of sleek, minimalist design with subtle hints of personal warmth. The dim glow of the lights created soft shadows around the room, highlighting the simple elegance of his furnishings.

When Charles returned with two mugs of steaming coffee, he handed one to her before sitting down. He took a deep breath and let the steam rise from his cup, savoring the warmth before looking back at her.

The soft hum of the rain against the windows and the warm, cozy glow of Charles’s living room created an atmosphere that was far from what Ahaana expected when she’d stepped out of her hotel earlier that evening. Her clothes were still a little damp, but the T-shirt she’d borrowed from Charles fit her in that way that made her feel comfortable yet oddly aware of the fact that it wasn’t hers. It was just the right amount of snug, and the familiar scent of Charles’s cologne lingered faintly on the fabric, making it hard to ignore the closeness between them.

As she sat on the couch, sipping the coffee Charles had thoughtfully handed her, she felt an unexpected sense of ease. The tension of the evening—the rain, the rush, the impromptu ride—had faded into something softer, something gentler.

Charles had settled back in the armchair across from her, his gaze not quite focused on anything, as if he were trying to read her. She noticed how he ran his hand through his hair absentmindedly, the gesture casual but endearing. The way he looked at her, though—there was something undeniably different about it. She could feel it in the air, in the way he leaned forward slightly, as if he were hanging on to every word she said.

"Not bad, huh?" Charles finally spoke, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. His voice was warm, easy, like the most natural thing in the world.

Ahaana took a small sip of her coffee, then met his eyes with a playful grin. "Not bad at all. This whole place—it’s very… you."

Charles smirked, clearly amused by her response. "I like to think it’s got a little charm." He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "I mean, it's not a mansion or anything, but it’s home."

Ahaana tilted her head, glancing around the sleek apartment. The minimalist décor, the soft lighting—it did have a certain charm, but there was something else about it. It felt warm, lived in. "It’s… very cozy, actually."

Charles’s expression softened a little, and he smiled. "Cozy is good. I like cozy." He paused, and for a moment, the easy banter they’d been sharing turned into something a little more genuine, a little more introspective. "I guess we all need a place where we can just… be ourselves, right?"

Ahaana thought for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug absentmindedly. "Yeah," she said quietly, her voice soft but steady. "I think I’ve been looking for that. A place where I can just… not be in the spotlight for a while."

The vulnerability in her voice didn’t escape Charles’s notice. He shifted in his seat, leaning slightly forward. "Well, you’ve got it here, Ahaana. No one’s watching. Just… you and me."

Ahaana caught the glint of sincerity in his eyes and felt a flutter in her chest. She wasn’t used to moments like this—moments where everything wasn’t so complicated. The world outside didn’t matter in this little bubble they’d created, just the two of them, drinking coffee in the glow of candlelight, the rain outside acting as a backdrop.

Before she could respond, Charles gave her a playful grin, as if the moment had slipped back into something lighter. "Hey, you know," he said, tapping his mug with his fingers, "I think this might be the most spontaneous evening I’ve had in a while."

Ahaana chuckled, her eyes sparkling. "Spontaneous? You almost ran me over in the rain. I’d call that an accident, not a plan."

Charles laughed, the sound easy and light. "Okay, fair point," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "But I’m kind of glad it happened."

Ahaana raised an eyebrow, her smile playful. "Really? You’re glad I nearly got hypothermia?"

He shrugged, the corners of his lips curling up into that endearing half-smile that she’d already come to find impossible to ignore. "Well, maybe not the getting drenched part. But I don’t mind the company."

Ahaana felt a warmth spreading through her chest, not from the coffee, but from his words. There was something so easy about Charles—the way he didn’t overthink things, the way his humor made her forget about the little worries she carried with her. He didn’t expect anything from her, just… enjoyed being around her.

"I guess I don’t mind the company either," Ahaana said, her voice a little quieter this time, but the smile on her lips was genuine.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. The silence between them was comfortable, almost like it wasn’t something that needed to be filled with words. Ahaana let her gaze wander, noticing the subtle details of his apartment again—the simple elegance of it all, the way the dim candlelight made everything feel more intimate, more… personal. She hadn’t realized how much she liked being in his space until now. It felt welcoming in a way that she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

Charles broke the silence with a half-laugh, pulling her attention back to him. "You know," he said, his voice a little quieter, "I’m not used to being so… relaxed. It’s kind of nice."

Ahaana leaned back on the couch, glancing at him through half-lidded eyes. "Well, maybe you should get used to it. Relaxing seems like something you don’t do enough."

He tilted his head, meeting her gaze with a hint of something deeper, a subtle curiosity. "What makes you think that?"

Ahaana shrugged, tapping her mug gently against her lips. "Just a feeling. You look like you could use more quiet nights, less racing around the world."

Charles looked at her for a long moment, his eyes flicking down to her lips before meeting her eyes again. For a brief second, something in the air shifted between them—something that made her heartbeat skip a little. The way he looked at her, the way he was so unguarded in that moment, it made her feel like she was the only one in the room.

Before either of them could say anything more, the lights suddenly flickered. Both of them looked up in surprise as the apartment was plunged into darkness.

"Great," Charles muttered, but there was no frustration in his voice. It was more an amused sigh, as if this was just another one of those small, inconvenient moments that life liked to throw at him.

Ahaana couldn’t help but laugh at the timing. "Seriously? What is it with tonight and things going wrong?"

Charles smiled, shaking his head. "You should’ve stayed in your hotel room."

But Ahaana, her lips curling into a playful grin, leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. "I’m glad I didn’t. It’s… more interesting this way."

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her response. "More interesting, huh?"

"Yeah," she said, her voice light, but there was something in it that made Charles’s heart beat a little faster. "You’re not so bad to hang out with."

Charles let out a small laugh. "I try my best."

Charles quickly got up and dug up some candles to help. Charles placed the candles and Ahaana lit them up using the lighter, both working like a well oiled machine in silence.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, creating an intimate ambiance that seemed to cocoon the two of them in a little world of their own. Charles’s eyes never fully left Ahaana’s, even as she casually took another sip from her coffee. There was something magnetic about her tonight—something that made him want to keep her here, to keep talking to her, to keep feeling like the moments they shared weren’t just fleeting.

The rain continued to tap against the windows in soft, rhythmic beats, the sound almost comforting in its consistency. Outside, Monaco was bathed in soft lights, but inside Charles’s apartment, the world felt small and quiet—just the two of them, the gentle hum of the night, and the occasional flicker of the candle.

Ahaana shifted in her seat, adjusting the shirt of Charles’s she was still wearing. It hung loosely on her, the sleeves slightly rolled up, revealing a glimpse of her toned arms. The comfort of the shirt seemed to settle her into a kind of quiet relaxation that had been absent earlier in the evening, when she was still tense from the cold rain and her doubts. Now, she felt lighter somehow—lighter, and more at ease.

Charles watched her, his gaze softening as he saw the shift in her posture, the way she almost looked like she belonged here, in this moment, in this space.

"Are you sure you don’t mind me staying?" Ahaana asked, her voice soft but carrying a hint of uncertainty. She had been a little hesitant to let herself fully relax, but the night had unfolded in ways she hadn’t expected. It was strange, staying at someone’s place in the middle of a rainstorm, especially when that person was someone who had been slowly worming his way into her thoughts more and more.

"Are you kidding?" Charles said with a smile, his tone light, but there was an earnestness beneath it that caught her attention. "It’s late, and it’s a downpour out there. You’re not going anywhere." He didn’t make it sound like an imposition; if anything, it came off as more of an invitation, a quiet assurance that this moment wasn’t just a passing thing.

The room fell into another moment of comfortable silence, but this time, it was different. There was a certain ease to it, a kind of understanding that they didn’t need to fill the space with words all the time. They both seemed to be lost in their own thoughts, yet still very much present with each other.

Charles broke the silence, his voice soft. "You know… I never really get nights like this. Where everything just feels… simple. Easy."

Ahaana turned to look at him, a little surprised by his admission. She’d never expected him to open up like that. He had always been the one to deflect, to keep things light. But tonight, it was as if the walls between them had started to come down, just a little bit.

"Yeah?" she asked, her voice almost gentle now, as if she, too, was starting to understand just how rare this moment was.

"Yeah," he replied with a smile that was almost shy, as if he wasn’t used to sharing this side of himself. "I’m usually running from one thing to the next, you know? Racing. But this… this feels different, refreshing."

Ahaana tilted her head, watching him closely, her gaze thoughtful. "I get it," she said after a pause, her voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like that too. Like I’m always… running. Running from something, or towards something, but never really stopping to… just be." She didn’t realize how much she had said until the words were already out. But once she’d said them, it was like a small weight lifted off her shoulders. Talking about it didn’t seem so hard anymore.

Charles was quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving hers. The intensity in his gaze made her feel both exposed and understood. He wasn’t judging her; he was just listening. And in that moment, Ahaana felt a shift—a subtle change in the air. She wasn’t sure if it was just the night, the rain, or the quiet intimacy of the moment, but something between them was starting to change.

"I think I know what you mean," he said, his voice steady, yet there was a vulnerability in it that she hadn’t expected. "Sometimes it’s hard to just… be. But tonight, it feels okay. With you."

She smiled, her heart fluttering lightly at the sincerity in his words. "Yeah," she agreed softly, her voice barely audible. "Tonight feels okay."

A few beats passed in silence, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that felt full, complete. As if they had said everything that needed to be said without really saying it all.

Then, Charles stood up suddenly, drawing her attention. "You want some more coffee?" he asked, his tone light but sincere, like he was trying to keep things casual, even though everything inside him was starting to feel… different.

Ahaana nodded, not trusting herself to speak at first, so she just watched him move around the kitchen, preparing another cup for her. She felt the pull between them intensifying with every moment. Every glance. Every word. Something was happening, something neither of them had expected.

And Ahaana, despite her usual reservations, couldn’t deny it anymore. There was a growing connection, a magnetic pull that she couldn’t walk away from, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise.

When Charles came back with the coffee, their hands brushed as he passed it to her, and for a brief moment, the electricity between them crackled again. Ahaana glanced up at him, their eyes meeting in a long, silent exchange, and she couldn’t help but feel the shift in her heart.

The air between them crackled, and Ahaana couldn’t deny it anymore. There was something building. Something… undeniable.

She looked at him now, watching him with an intensity she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. His features were soft in the candlelight, the slight stubble on his chin giving him a rugged edge that contrasted with the quiet warmth of his eyes. There was a sincerity in his gaze, a depth that made her heart flutter and her thoughts scatter. The way he looked at her made her feel as if she were the only person in the room, the only person that mattered.

Charles noticed her gaze, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. His heart beat a little faster. There was something about the way Ahaana looked at him—something that made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t in a long time. The teasing, the playful banter—they had all melted away, leaving only this unspoken tension between them. He couldn’t quite place it, but he knew it was real. He knew that this—this—was something that wasn’t just going to slip away.

His eyes lingered on hers, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn’t until the silence stretched just a little too long that he realized he was leaning forward slightly, drawn in by the magnetic pull between them. He didn’t want to move too quickly. Didn’t want to make it awkward or force something that wasn’t there. But the way her lips parted ever so slightly, the way her chest rose and fell as she exhaled—he could feel the heat between them, the undeniable tension in the space that neither of them had been able to ignore.

Ahaana, too, felt the tension, the charged energy swirling between them. It was like something was building, an invisible force that neither of them could quite name, but both of them were painfully aware of. Her heart was beating faster, her breath coming a little more shallow than usual, and she felt that familiar pull toward him, a magnetic force that made her want to close the space between them, to see where this moment could go.

She swallowed, and for a brief moment, she considered pulling away. But the thought was fleeting. She didn’t want to walk away from this, not tonight, not with him. Something about being here, in this space, with him—it felt right. She had spent so much time running from feelings, from connections, but with Charles, everything felt like it was aligning in ways she couldn’t explain.

And then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, she leaned forward just a fraction, her eyes never leaving his. The space between them was so small now, so unbearably close. She could feel the warmth radiating off him, could smell the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the rich, earthy aroma of the coffee. Her pulse quickened, and she wondered if he could feel it too.

Charles, his heart racing in his chest, felt the air shift once more. He could barely hear the rain anymore; it was just the sound of their breath, the beating of their hearts that filled the silence. Everything else fell away, and for that one charged moment, it was just the two of them. He could see the vulnerability in Ahaana’s eyes, the way her lips parted ever so slightly, like she was holding her breath, waiting for something. He couldn’t help but lean in just a little more, his body betraying him as his mind tried to process what was happening.

“Charles,” Ahaana whispered, her voice soft and tentative, but there was a hint of something else in it now, something unspoken that made his chest tighten. She was so close now, too close, and yet she didn’t pull away.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a slow breath, as if trying to steady himself. He was so close to her now, he could almost feel her heartbeat matching his. He could see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation that still lingered. And yet, something told him that she wasn’t pulling away, that she was waiting for something, just like he was.

His hand moved almost without thinking, gently reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face, the simple gesture sending a rush of warmth through him. As his fingers grazed her skin, he felt an electric jolt shoot through him. He hadn’t meant to touch her like that—not in this moment—but it felt… natural.

Ahaana’s breath hitched at the touch, and her eyes fluttered closed for a second, the heat of the moment washing over her. When she opened her eyes again, they were locked on his, the distance between them barely a breath apart. She could feel the tension between them building, the charge in the air almost unbearable. She could feel her own pulse quickening, and for a split second, she thought about pulling back. But she couldn’t.

Without even realizing it, she leaned in just a little closer, her body moving toward his as if guided by some invisible force. The intensity in the air was palpable now, thick with unspoken words, unspoken desires.

And then, as if the universe itself had decided to intervene, the moment stretched just a fraction too long, and neither of them could hold back any longer. Charles’s gaze dropped to her lips, and he could feel his own lips part slightly, his breath coming faster. Ahaana mirrored his movements, her lips trembling ever so slightly, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she closed the final bit of space between them.

Just as their lips were about to meet, the thunder cackled very very loudly outside, lightening up the room more.

Both of them froze. The tension snapped, and the moment was broken—shattered by the sudden power outage.

For a split second, they just stood there, their faces inches apart, both breathing heavily, both still caught in the aftershock of what had almost happened.

Ahaana was the first to pull away, her breath a little unsteady. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to apologize. "Well… that was… unexpected," she said softly, her voice breathless.

Charles let out a nervous chuckle, his hand still hovering in the space between them, his fingers twitching as if they were still reaching for her. "Yeah…."

Ahaana glanced around the room, now lit only by the flickering candlelight. The entire ambiance had changed—still charged, still full of possibility, but now laced with a touch of awkwardness that neither of them knew how to navigate.

"Well, um we should go to bed," Ahaana said, trying to lighten the mood, though her voice still held that slight tremor from what had almost happened. She couldn’t look at him directly; instead, she focused on the candle flame, the dancing light keeping her from meeting his eyes.

"Yeah," Charles replied, his voice low, his eyes still searching hers. "Get some sleep, yeah."

Ahaana nodded, though the words felt heavy in her mouth. "Yeah."

Neither of them moved immediately. The tension was still there, still crackling, but now it was tempered by the uncertainty of what had just happened. Neither of them was sure where to go from here, but both of them knew that whatever had almost happened, it hadn’t been the end. It was just the beginning.

And neither of them was ready to walk away from that, not yet.

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ᝰ.ᐟ fourth part! hope you guys like it!

next

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tags @seonghwaexile @bookishprophecy @justadesirebel @peterholland04 @bakingpiastries @ricciardosheart @mikefaistgf @sp1rl @charlesgirl16 @leila-030304 @uhcalli @blahblechblah @phobiccneel @blushmimi

comment to be added to taglist

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© weekendlusting

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[elodieunderglass]

elodie! i am still excited to read your big fanfic works BUT i have also had SO much fun watching you develop your delightful OCs. i hope you are having fun with them too!!

Oh my goodness SO everyone who is mildly roasting me because they’re like “Killie the jockey OC is quite short and wretched and horrid, 🧐 much like Chilchuck. Is this a thing? Do you have a type?” is right and please don’t tell my husband that he’s horrid he’s actually quite sweet is putting their finger on the reason why I’ve sort of resurrected him and his worse brother Charlie in my subconscious.

Before writing Weasel Heart in Defiance I thought: I am about to embark on writing a novel that could 💯 be an original, standalone novel. And being a coward, I turned to my idiot OC Charlie, an imaginary friend since childhood, and asked:

Me: Charlie would you be able to be a protagonist of an original novel? because I’m scared?

Charlie: I have read the brief and am completely ineligible. I think you are only saying this out of fear, and because our initials are the same, and because I am short. Actually, the more I think about it, the more that is a microaggression (racism against short people), so no. No, and fuck you, and also -

Me: I was actually thinking of Killie -

Charlie: Killie would not take on any job that has so few horses in it.

Me: oh no -

Charlie: and you’re kind of committed to calling the story some variation of “weasel heart” and neither of us would have a weasel daemon. That’s kind of load-bearing, isn’t it.

Me: oh shit.

Charlie: like, and even if you sand the serial numbers off the rest of it, the whole point is -

Me: the weasel daemon, yeah.

Charlie: my daemon would be a potoo.

Me: it would NOT, you lying son of a bitch. It would be something backstabbing and horrible, with a core of utter ruthlessness. Like a poisonous spider.

(Charlie, hilariously, in a move that normal childhood imaginary friends/OCs do not normally pull off, briefly materialised as a hallucination while I was labouring in the drug-free, physically rather challenging delivery of a real human baby in order to laugh his ass off at me. He was presumably intended to materialise to give me courage. Instead he simply provided spite. I have longstanding Charlie beef.)

Charlie: Killie is a nice bloke in an awful way, if you like nice blokes who aren’t nice at all, but is too much of a mess to carry any sort of plot, and besides, his daemon is either something portable or a straight-up horse -

Me: probably a kestrel -

Charlie: Probably, as you say, a kestrel. God, there’s nothing between his ears at all. Elevator music. Lo-fi girl beats and the sound of the wind, overlaid over transparent montages of horses. Zero emotional life to Killie. He simply exists to ride alongside your parents’ car when driving, and to get shitmixed when he falls off, and to live up to mentally when you need to be stoic.

Me: he’s such a good ragdoll.

Charlie: he deserves it. It’s the punchable face.

Me and Charlie:… he needs a boyfriend.

[heyftinally]

Honestly, I have personal beef with The Hero's Journey method, and more specifically the way it's taught.

From what I've gathered over the years, the vast majority of us who got The Hero's Journey in English Lit class got told - either implicitly or explicitly - that it was the be-all-end-all of plot structures. That most (if not every) story could and should fit that structure. Hell, my syllabus went to far as to use Star Wars as an example of it, which was definitely intended to drive it home as the epitome of plot structures.

But if you ACTUALLY look at books, both historically and current, a lot of them don't even look at THJ structure. Not every character has or needs a mentor. Not every character even leaves their neighborhood. Not every character returns home.

The only guaranteed structure of a story is a beginning, a middle, and an end. Within that, you get to decide what happens. Who are we following? Where are they going? What kind of person are they at various points in your story? All of that and everything else is 100% your call.

There is no one plot structure that's the best or that encompasses every story. Fuck it all. Make your own. Fiction writing is creative for a reason.

Every 21st century piece of writing advice: Make us CARE about the character from page 1! Make us empathize with them! Make them interesting and different but still relatable and likable!

Every piece of classic literature: Hi. It's me. The bland everyman whose only purpose is to tell you this story. I have no actual personality. Here's the story of the time I encountered the worst people I ever met in my life. But first, ten pages of description about the place in which I met them.

[nameless-jamie]

Hi, I love your writing and I love that you post so frequently! Could you wrote a fic based on the scene in the finally in which Rupert tells West Ham's coqch to take Jamie out? Could be a separate story (maybe Y/N is Richmond's lawyer) and she finds out and wants to finish Rupert? Or in the P/A universe and Jamie teases her about being protective and caring about him after she stands up to Rupert?

Thanks!

Red Card

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing, suggestive scenes, angry Y/N, sexist joke from Rupert

A/N: I hope it's okay that I used your request for a Jamie Tartt x PA ff, I thought it fit so well. Thank you for the idea!

The energy in Nelson Road was electric. The stands were packed with Richmond fans, their chants echoing through the stadium as the team prepared for one of their toughest matches yet. The anticipation was palpable, the tension thick in the air, but none of it compared to the storm brewing inside her the moment she overheard Rupert Mannion’s words.

Y/N wasn’t even supposed to be standing on the sidelines during the match—technically, her job as Jamie Tartt’s personal assistant didn’t require her to be this close to the action. But after years of working with Jamie, she’d become part of Richmond’s inner circle, always hovering near the dugout with Roy, Beard, and Ted, ready to handle whatever ridiculous emergency Jamie threw at her.

But tonight? Tonight, she was glad she was there.

Because she overheard everything.

Standing just a few feet from West Ham’s technical area, she had no choice but to hear Rupert fucking Mannion—West Ham’s owner, snake, all-around waste of oxygen—lean toward his coach and murmur,

"Take Tartt out."

She had frozen, fingers tightening around the clipboard she had been holding.

"Hard. Do whatever it takes."

It was quiet. Calculated. Cruel.

Rupert’s voice was as smooth as it was poisonous, a quiet command given to West Ham’s coach, the kind of thing meant to be whispered in dark corners and carried out with no one the wiser. But she had heard it, and once she had, there was no way in hell she was going to let it slide.

It made something snap inside her.

Without thinking, she stormed across the grass, ignoring Roy’s “Oi, what the fuck are you doin’?” and Beard’s sharp “Y/N—don’t—”

She was already moving.

Marching straight up to him.

“Mister Mannion,” she said, voice saccharine-sweet with rage.

Rupert barely glanced at her. “Ah, Miss Y/L/N. Didn’t realize Jamie let his little assistant wander around unsupervised.”

She clenched her jaw. “I heard what you just said about Jamie.”

Rupert smirked. “Did you?”

“You told your coach to injure him.” Her voice was pure steel.

Rupert sighed, as if she were boring him. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Football is a physical sport.” He tilted his head, looking her over like she was some insignificant little thing he could swat away. “Though, I suppose you’d know all about being handled roughly. What’s Jamie got you doing these days? Fetching his water? Maybe warming his bed?”

Y/N lunged.

Her vision went red as she launched herself at him, fully prepared to end him right then and there.

Before she could so much as grab the smug bastard, two line refs yanked her back.

“Let me go—” she growled, twisting in their grip.

Roy and Ted were already jogging toward her, Roy looking absolutely thrilled and Ted looking like he was suppressing laughter.

One of the refs shook his head. “Sorry, miss, but you’re outta here.”

She stood beside Roy and Ted on the touchline, fuming, while the referee held up the red card like she was some kind of violent offender.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Ted said, ever the peacemaker. “Now, I don’t wanna tell ya how to do your job, sir, but surely we can all agree that giving someone a red card when they aren’t technically a player is a little… excessive?”

“It’s the rules,” the ref said flatly.

“She doesn’t even play, mate!” Roy barked. “You can’t send her off!”

The ref shrugged. “Rules are rules.”

Roy, arms crossed, scowled so hard he looked ready to combust. “It’s a stupid fucking rule.”

“Stupid or not, she has to leave,” the ref insisted.

Y/N threw her arms in the air. “Oh, come on! I didn’t even do anything.”

The linesman coughed. “You tried to assault West Ham’s owner.”

“Tried being the keyword,” she snapped. “If you lot hadn’t held me back, I’d have succeeded.”

Rupert, still standing smugly nearby, let out a low chuckle. “My, my,” he said, voice dripping with condescension. “I didn’t realize Jamie’s assistant was so… passionate about her job.”

Y/N whirled back toward Rupert. “You’re a disgusting, pathetic excuse for a man,” she seethed.

Rupert only chuckled, waving his fingers at her like she was some little girl throwing a tantrum. “Run along now.”

The rage inside her burned.

“If anyone on West Ham lays a hand on Jamie, I swear to God, I will—”

Rupert tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “It looks an awful lot like you’re getting rather—” his lips curled into a smirk, “—emotionally involved with your client.”

The audacity of this man.

She felt the anger boiling in her chest, sharp and blinding, but before she could lunge, two line refs grabbed her arms, holding her back.

“Ohhh, I hate you,” she seethed.

Rupert just smiled, infuriatingly unbothered. “Careful now, boys. Wouldn’t want Jamie’s newest toy to get too scratched up before he inevitably trades her in for someone better.”

That was it. That was her breaking point.

She surged forward, only for the refs to tighten their grip, dragging her back toward the tunnel.

“LET ME AT HIM,” she yelled, legs kicking uselessly as she was forcibly removed.

“Jesus Christ,” Roy muttered, but there was unmistakable approval in his tone.

Ted just sighed. “Well, that went about as well as we could’ve hoped.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the way he dismissed her or the fact that she couldn’t do a damn thing about it, but she let the refs drag her off, still spitting curses as Roy followed them, arguing the whole way.

Jamie, standing on the pitch, barely caught the end of it—just enough to see his PA being forcibly escorted out, Roy yelling at the ref, and Y/N looking ready to kill someone.

He frowned. “What the fuck?”

Isaac, jogging up beside him, snorted. “Mate, Y/N just got a red card. She got sent off.”

“Right. And… why?” Jamie blinked. “She ain’t even a player.”

“Yeah, well, she’s got more fight in her than half of us,” Isaac muttered.

Sam, ever the optimist, said, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explana—”

“—Apparently she tried to murder Mr. Mannion,” Colin interrupted.

Jamie’s eyes widened. “Oh, fuckin' hell.”

Jamie found her in the locker room after the game, sitting on one of the benches with her arms crossed, scowling at the floor.

She barely glanced up as he walked in.

He leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, smirking. “So.”

She huffed. “So.”

He tilted his head. “Wanna tell me why my personal assistant got sent off the pitch? ’Cause, I gotta say, love, that’s a new one—even for you.”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “Rupert told his coach to target you. To hurt you.”

Jamie felt something twist in his stomach. He wasn’t surprised—not really—but hearing it from her, hearing how angry she was about it…

It did something to him.

Before he could respond, she turned to face him fully, eyes blazing. “And then that prick had the audacity to say some sexist bullshit about me, and I—” She clenched her fists. “I snapped.”

Jamie smirked. “You snapped.”

“Yes.”

“And got dragged off the pitch.”

“Yes.”

“And got a red card even though you don’t play football.”

She groaned, rubbing her face. “Yes.”

Jamie couldn’t help it—he laughed.

Y/N shot him a glare. “Jamie.”

“Nah, nah, I’m just—” He shook his head, grinning. “You got sent off tryin’ to protect me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s definitely a thing.” A really sexy thing. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Admit it. You care about me.”

She scoffed. “Of course, I care about you. You’re my job.”

Jamie smirked. “And?”

“And nothing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Jamie leaned in, voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “You sure sure?”

Y/N shoved him. “Shut up, Jamie.”

He laughed, stepping back. “Alright, alright.” He crossed his arms, eyes still bright with amusement. “But just so you know—next time, if you’re gonna get sent off, at least make it worth it.”

She huffed. “Oh, trust me. Next time, I’m throwing a punch.”

Jamie grinned. “Now that, love, I’d pay to see.”

And even though he teased her for it—because of course he would—he couldn’t help but feel something warm settle in his chest.

Because she had fought for him.

[gilbirda]

How to Write Women, a quick guide by me

Hello! I was recently inspired to write a series of educational posts so I thought maybe it would be useful for someone.

I want to preface this that there is no criticism intended. I understand that female characters in general have been neglected in media, and I don't blame fandom for not understanding how to write a woman if there hasn't been a good reference in their lives.

My objective is that you, the reader, finish this post with a basic structure and few questions to ask yourself when writing a female character; and with the terms and curiosity to research more if you'd like to expand.

I'm no professional writer, but I've been writing for more than 20 years at this point, and I specialize in writing female protagonists and writing organic romantic storylines.

Here we go.

I want to write a woman, where do I start?

Writing women, at the end of the day, is no different than writing a man. Really, that's the trick.

Disappointed I'm not giving some kind of hot takes about this?

Good.

Because it should be that simple, but to get to that point we should unravel some baseline thought process that can and will get in the way even if you try to write a good female character.

A few questions to ask yourself are:

Why am I writing this character?

Does she have agency in her own story?

Does she have her own goals and aspirations?

Let's break them down:

Why am I writing this character?

What do I like about her? Is she annoying? Is she a hero? A villain? An antagonist? What thing do I like about her canon characteristics (for fanfic writers)? What would I change?

As mentioned at the beginning, female characters usually are not very well written. They are usually fridged or used only as a reminder that MC (usually a man) has emotions and vulnerabilities.

Take a moment to think about it. Think about the feelings her character gives you, and what are the things you do know about her. Think about wasted potential, or unanswered questions about her actions and plot lines that left you wanting more.

If you find her annoying, wonder why — usually, a female character being "annoying" or "not interesting" is tied to her not being developed enough, and pushed into a one-dimensional role. Pay attention at how many speaking lines she has, that usually gives you a clue of how much her character is developed.

Once you have decided who you want to write, this is where it gets interesting.

What kind of story do you want to tell? What role does she play in it?

When making the structure of the story and developing the plot, wonder about how exactly the female character(s) add to the table. Again, female characters can fulfill any role in a story, but watch out!

Bitchy mean girl lesbian

Motherly mommy mom/sister/friend that takes care of everyone

The "healer" of the team

These 3 roles have been used as boxes to fit female characters for ages. Be careful if you think you are pushing her into one of these.

But how can you avoid the tropes?

Does she have agency in her own story?

Or: if you remove her from the story, nothing changes?

Go into your mind palace, and remove the interactions and scenes the female character is in. Does the story still work? Could her lines be easily delivered by someone else?

If the answer is yes, then she doesn't have any agency.

It doesn't matter if she is a main character or a supporting character — she should have a say on the events or some kind of influence in the development of the plot.

Maybe she has a skill that is needed multiple times during the story, or maybe she has past experiences that are a mystery and unraveling her secrets reveals a plot twist, or maybe turns out she was the traitor all along. Make her MATTER.

Does she have her own goals and aspirations?

Or: Is she existing for someone else's sake?

This one is useful for the "mommy" character or the "healer" character.

Go into your mind palace again and think if you remove the female character's loved ones from the equation, does she have something to do?

If the answer is no, then she doesn't exist for herself.

She could still love and take care of others, but she has to exist for something else than that. Make her dream and yearn, and make mistakes, and sacrifice thing for selfish reasons.

Romance is usually a goal given for female characters (and that's a whole other topic I hope to write another post about), and it's a good one! Just be careful with falling for the trap of swapping the people (usually men) she exists for.

Give her hidden agendas, convoluted selfish secret reasons, make her want to destroy the world! Make her want to pursue the truth, chase someone for revenge, be a thrill seeker. Make her HUMAN.

In Conclusion

A quick trick I use when I write female characters is: If I swap her gender, nothing changes?

Of course there's nuance, but that keeps me grounded when even the questions I went over in this post are not enough for me.

Again, writing female characters should not be that different from writing men. If it feels different, ask yourself why and try to understand where the thought comes from.

NOTE: If the point of the story is to discuss the problem of codependency, or portray a toxic relationship, by all means skip checking about agency or her having goals. Rules are there to break them, but first you have to understand them.

I hope this helps someone and I will add and edit this post as needed, maybe to add useful links.

Happy writing!

[scary-grace]

Guitarist!Tomura actually has me in a chokehold so a gc would be nice I just need to work up the courage LMAO

Guitarist!Tomura also has me in a chokehold, which is why it took me so long to write a follow-up! I really love him in this AU so there may be more to come.

“Okay, now that we’re done laughing at Shigaraki, first things first —”

“Laughing at Tomura-kun is the first thing,” Toga says. Dabi glares at her. “Don’t make that face! If I was singing love duets through the wall with my neighbor, you guys would never let me live it down.”

“Nobody gets to live that down. That is not cool band guy behavior,” Twice announces from behind the drum set. Then, like always, he changes his tune. “Don’t worry, Shigaraki! I think it’s sweet!”

“I think we should never talk about it again,” Tomura mutters. He turns to Dabi. “You were saying something, right?”

“Yeah,” Dabi says. “First things first. Does anybody have any new songs?”

The band always needs new songs, and everyone’s supposed to bring one to practice. In theory they should always have something cooking. In reality, they get a new song maybe every six practices, and only some of those are good. They’d be better if anybody liked taking feedback on their lyrics. But they don’t.

“I have one,” Spinner says, “but —”

“Is it about being a true artist and not whoring yourself out to the Spotify algorithm?” Dabi doesn’t wait for an answer. “No.”

“We could use it if we metaphor it a bit,” Spinner protests. He passes a piece of paper to Tomura. “Look.”

Tomura scans the lyrics. He likes some of Spinner’s phrasing, and the song structure works, but he can see a few too many lines about standing apart from the machine. And Spinner’s not the only one who writes like that. “Why don’t we just do a whole LP around that? Give it some characters and a plotline and then it’s not just an album. It’s a story arc.”

“You think we can pull that off?” Toga looks up, interested. “What about a love story?”

“No.”

“Hey, that could work!” Twice taps the kick drum for emphasis. “Like, think about it! The protagonists are falling in love amidst the machines and then they have to defeat them if they want to be together!”

“There’s no way we can pull that off,” Tomura says. Twice ignores him, and he looks to Dabi for help. “If we’re going to do a concept album, let’s do an album about a concept we actually understand.”

“Nobody’s going to listen to us if we’re just complaining about the system,” Dabi says. “We need a hook. The love story’s a hook.”

“Then one of us had better figure out how to write love songs,” Spinner says. “Because we all kind of suck at it.”

Dabi looks like he’s thinking about it, and Tomura wonders, like he does every so often, why he decided to let Dabi project-manage the band he started. “Okay,” Dabi says finally. “We’re calling practice for today. No more practice until everybody has at least one song to share.”

“Oh, come on —”

“How much of a song do we need to have?” Toga interrupts Tomura.

“At least two verses and a chorus. Instrumentation optional,” Dabi decides. There goes Tomura’s plan to weasel out of this by coming up with a melody and chord progression and calling it good. “Text the group chat when you’ve got something.”

Everybody else starts packing up their instruments, like this is settled or something. Tomura came up with the stupid concept album idea. He’s the one who has to put the brakes on. “We can’t just not practice,” he says. “We have shows booked next month.”

“So you’d better get writing, then.”

“Yeah. More writing, less singing to your neighbor through the wall,” Spinner says. Tomura glares at him. “Maybe you can write a song about that.”

Tomura will write a song about that when hell freezes over. But he needs to write something, or the band’s not going to practice at all before their first gigs of the school year. A concept album about humans falling in love while standing up to the machine or the man or whatever. This is going to be a nightmare.

When Tomura gets home, his neighbors are just as noisy as ever, except for you. You’re quiet. Are you even home? Tomura tries to write, but it’s hard to focus when he’s so busy listening. He’s still not sure if you heard him singing along with you, but what if you did, and you got so embarrassed that you’re never going to sing again? If someone had told Tomura this morning that he’d be upset that one of his neighbors wasn’t making noise, he’d have told them they were out of their mind.

And then he hears it, just past midnight — quiet humming from the other side of the wall, a tune that’s vaguely familiar. This time, when the words pick up, Tomura doesn’t sing along. He just listens as you mumble your way through the first verse of The Last Shadow Puppets’ Miracle Aligner. “Often the humble kind, but he can’t deny he was born to blow your mind — or something along those lines —”

It’s not Tomura’s favorite song from that band, but given that you like the band enough to get their songs stuck in your head, your taste in music is at least decent. Tomura won’t be able to decide if it’s actually good until he hears you sing a few more songs. And speaking of a few more songs — Tomura picks up his pen again and scrawls out a single lyric across the top of the page. Screw a concept album, for now at least. He just has to start somewhere.

One lyric turns into another, turns into a verse and the start of a chorus. Tomura writes until two am, your voice brushing softly against his ear.

[the-shades-of-night-descend]

As she fell deep into addiction and became hooked on the drugs that circled Warhol’s Factory, you would have thought that her creator and friend would have been there. But really, Warhol watched Sedgwick’s death with cruel wonder.

When Warhol met Sedgwick, their friendship burned bright and fast as a kind of mutual obsession. Sedgwick was looking to escape her abusive, well-to-do roots and connect with the art scene. Warhol, as always, was looking for money and fame. It’s no secret that the artist was a social climber. That was a fact that he’d happily admit. So when he met the troubled child of a wealthy family, he stuck tight to the ‘Poor Little Rich Girl’.

For a few years, Sedgwick was his muse, appearing in several of his films, joining him for interviews and ruling as the Queen over his Factory kingdom. But as Sedgwick began to stretch out her wings when she met Bob Dylan, and when her addiction was starting to take hold of her head, health and bank account, the artist didn’t just abandon her but seemed to kick her to the curb with incredible cruelty. “Do you think Edie will let us film her when she commits suicide?” Warhol said.

In 1971, Sedgwick did die but Warhol was nowhere to be seen. After being pushed out of his circle and replaced by a new blonde fascination in the form of Nico, the superstar succumbed to her addictions. The world still mourns her, but it seems that Warhol never did, as even his written memorial for his supposed muse is callous.

In his book, The Philosophy Of Andy Warhol, one cryptic chapter is described as “The Fall And Rise Of My Favourite Sixties Girl”. Even that feels odd. Either Warhol is deeming Sedgwick’s entire life as a ‘fall’, and merely her death as her ‘rise’, or he’s purposefully ignoring her fall into and struggles with addiction.

“Favourite Sixties Girl” also doesn’t seem to fit, considering the tone of the chapter. Telling the story of “Taxi”, “a confused, beautiful debutante”, with a “poignantly vacant, vulnerable quality that made her a reflection of everybody’s private fantasies.” From the first paragraph, Warhol seems to make it clear that his fascination with Sedgwick wasn’t based on who she was but on who he could mould her to be. He presents her as a void or a canvas, writing, “Taxi could be anything you wanted her to be – a little girl, a woman, intelligent, dumb, rich, poor – anything. She was a wonderful, beautiful blank. The mystique to end all mystiques.”

However, perhaps the very issue with Sedgwick was that she wasn’t a void or a blank. Instead, she was very clearly a troubled product of a hard life. While Warhol seemed determined to simply see her as a rich girl, Sedgwick’s childhood was horrific despite her wealth. She was routinely abused by her father, institutionalised when she tried to speak out about it and trapped in a cycle of mistreatment no matter what.

While refusing to acknowledge his muse’s pain in any real or helpful way, Warhol saw it and wanted to use it. “I could see that she had more problems than anyone I’d ever met. So beautiful but so sick,” he wrote, adding, “I was really intrigued.”

Andy Warhol & Edie Sedgwick in Paris, 1965