#and there can be a sense of trying to feel just. Something

[luna-azzurra]

What to Give a Sh*t About While Editing Your Book

↳ Emotional Impact

Ask yourself: Do I actually feel something here? If a scene is technically “well-written” but emotionally flat, it’s dead weight. Your readers won’t remember your clever metaphors, but they’ll remember the way a quiet line of dialogue made their stomach drop. So yeah—give a sh*t about that.

↳ Character Motivation That Actually Makes Sense

If your characters are making decisions just because the plot needs them to… we’ve got a problem. In edits, zoom in on their choices. Are they acting like real, flawed, complex humans? Or puppets? Edit until their actions make you nod and go, “Yep. That’s exactly what that little disaster would do.”

↳ Cutting the “Almost Good” Stuff

This hurts, but it’s necessary. Some lines are nice. Pretty. Kind of smart. But if they’re not serving the story, they’ve got to go. Save them in a “kill darlings” file. Grieve if needed. But don’t let “kinda good” block the greatness trying to come through.

↳ Scene Purpose

Every scene needs to earn its place like it’s paying rent. Does it move the plot? Deepen character? Build tension? Ideally, two out of three. If the answer is “it’s vibes,” that might work for a paragraph—but not for 3,000 words. Cut. Condense. Clarify. Your future reader will thank you.

↳ Pacing That Doesn’t Bore People to Death

Look, I love a moody slow burn too. But if your story crawls for 50 pages without conflict, tension, or curiosity—your reader will ghost you. Read your scenes out loud. If you’re zoning out? So will they. Tighten that sh*t up.

↳ Dialogue That Sounds Like Real People (and Not AI)

If your characters sound like they're reading from a very polite script, it’s time to rewrite. Interruptions, unfinished thoughts, weird little phrases—those are gold. Make it messy. Make it sound like how people actually talk when they’re nervous, angry, or halfway in love and lying about it.

↳ Themes You Accidentally Nailed (and Can Now Strengthen)

Themes tend to sneak in while you’re drafting. During edits? Time to spotlight them. Don’t slap it on with a neon sign—but do lean into the emotional throughline you already created. It’s probably smarter and more beautiful than you gave yourself credit for.

↳ Your Voice

Don’t edit your weird out. Editing is for clarity, not sanding down your style until it sounds like generic internet writing. Keep the voicey bits. The odd metaphors. The lines that sound exactly like you. That’s what readers fall in love with—not perfection.

↳ Trusting That You’ll Need Multiple Rounds

This isn’t one-and-done. Your second draft will suck differently than your first. Your third might suck less, but still suck. That’s fine. It’s part of the process. What matters is that each time, it gets sharper, truer, and more you.

↳ Not Quitting Halfway Through Just Because It’s Hard

Editing is hard. But you’ve already done the impossible: you wrote a damn book. That’s massive. Now you’re just sculpting it. Don’t give up because it’s messy. Don’t panic because it’s not “there” yet. Keep showing up. Even if it’s just one scene at a time. Even if you’re crying into your tea. Especially then.

[the-fiction-will-knit-the-real]

a friend of mine has a prosthetic leg (along with less visible disabilities that led to that condition), and thus has disability plates on her car and parks in disabled parking spots

the number of anonymous hate notes she's gotten on her windshield coming back to her car that say things like 'we saw you park and you're clearly not disabled, you should be ashamed of yourself/kill yourself/stop taking spots away from actually disabled people' is despicable

like, try again, she's just wearing pants over her fake leg so you didn't notice her disability, so you can fuck off

of course they're too cowardly to actually confront in person too, because they're afraid they might be wrong and be told so. But not afraid enough to not be an asshole still in a way that can't be corrected, because it's anonymous

because people LOVE feeling like they've done something righteous to correct problems in society, but only if they can do it easily and without work. and almost all of such occasions are actually justbullying someone you don't know fucking anything about. So it has to be done anonymously to preserve that sense of 'I did a good thing,' otherwise you'd be called out and feel bad

it's exhausting trying to train people to be more understanding, especially when most people seem to know it deep down already

what abled ppl think is a massive problem for disabled folks: 13 year old on the internet faking something

what is actually a massive problem for disabled folks: "well you don't LOOK disabled, are you sure you're not faking? I'm not giving you accommodations until you PROVE you're not faking. Please give me, a stranger, your medical info and explain your condition to me in detail so I know you're not faking and only then will I respect or take you seriously"

[paucubarsisimp]

surprise gone wrong pt.2 (alternate ending)

pairings: oscar piastri x reader, ex!lando norris x reader

summary: in which you move on... with his teammate

warnings: mentions of cheating

a/n: so oscar didn't actually win the poll but i didn't actually agree with lando since he did cheat and cheating is not okay!! so i decided to make this and the lando one.

prev || alt ending

it was nearly a week before you heard from him.

a message. a simple text. just his name at the top of the screen. but the seconds before you opened it felt like hours. and when you saw the words, a bitter chuckle escaped you. "can we talk?"

no. you didn’t want to talk. not yet. maybe not ever.

but you couldn’t ignore it. not completely. you were still tangled up in him, in what you thought you had with him, even though the wound was fresh. so, you replied, terse but polite, "what do you want to talk about?"

the response came quickly: "i’m sorry. i messed up. i need to explain."

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. you didn’t want to hear his explanation. you didn’t want to hear anything that might make you feel like it was still salvageable.

but you couldn’t bring yourself to delete the message either. you stared at it, fingers frozen on your phone, mind a mess of conflicting thoughts.

you couldn’t keep living in the past, though. you couldn’t keep waiting for someone who no longer seemed to care. so, you didn’t answer. you left him on read, and for the first time, that felt like a small victory.

instead, you’d been finding solace elsewhere.

oscar had been there. quiet, patient, and understanding. he didn’t ask questions about what had happened in melbourne or why you’d gone there in the first place. he just let you be. he shared your silence, your grief. sometimes, he would crack a joke to lighten the mood, but he never pushed. and when you finally let your walls crumble, when you finally talked about lando—about the heartbreak, the betrayal, the way it felt to be forgotten—oscar just listened. without judgment. without expectation.

the two of you started spending more time together. at first, it was just small outings. a quiet coffee here. a walk around the city there. oscar didn’t rush anything, didn’t ask you to open up faster than you could handle. it was a slow burn. but somehow, in the midst of the heartache, he became a constant presence.

oscar was different. he had a steadiness about him. the kind of calm that made the world feel less chaotic when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control. when you’d spent so much time looking at lando, trying to understand him, trying to hold onto a love that wasn’t meant to be, oscar made you see that maybe there was something else. something real.

it wasn’t love. not yet. but it was something that felt more like a foundation. and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were drowning.

but even with oscar’s quiet support, you still couldn’t escape the shadows of your past with lando.

the moment you ran into him again—at an event oscar had invited you to—it felt like the earth shifted under your feet. you had barely even expected to see him. the gala was supposed to be a night for celebration, for oscar’s achievements, but it was hard to ignore the uneasy feeling when lando walked into the room.

he wasn’t the same as he was in melbourne, his eyes searching for someone—maybe you, maybe anyone who could make him feel whole again. you didn’t want to look at him, but he found you, anyway. there he was, across the room, eyes wide as he locked onto yours. it was like a magnet pulling at your chest, dragging you back to a place you couldn’t afford to visit again.

you felt your breath catch, just for a second, before you reminded yourself that you weren’t that person anymore.

oscar, sensing the shift in your mood, slid his hand gently over your back, offering comfort without a word. the touch, the steadiness of him, helped you hold it together.

“do you want to go?” oscar asked quietly.

you shook your head, forcing a smile. “no. i’m fine.”

oscar’s grip tightened just a fraction, and you knew he was only asking out of care. he wasn’t pushing you, but he could tell the air between you and lando was thick. but instead of shying away, you stood your ground. you weren’t running from him anymore.

lando, sensing your resolve, slowly made his way over, his expression unreadable. when he reached you, he paused, his gaze flicking between you and oscar.

“hey,” lando said, his voice quieter than you remembered. “can we talk?”

oscar’s hand didn’t leave your back, a silent protector, a reminder that you didn’t have to do this alone. you wanted to tell lando that there was nothing left to talk about. that the time for explanations had passed. that the person he had kissed on that rooftop was a reminder of just how little you mattered.

but instead, you looked at him, emotion swirling within you, threatening to choke you. “what is there to talk about, lando?” you forced the words out, cold and sharp. “you already made your choice.”

he flinched, and it cut deeper than you intended. but it didn’t matter. you weren’t the one who needed to apologize.

his voice faltered, guilt and regret swimming in his eyes. “i never meant for it to happen like this. i—I thought you weren’t coming, and i was confused…”

“you were confused?” you repeated, your laugh bitter, hollow. “you thought i wasn’t coming? what was i supposed to think, lando? you kissed her like it was nothing. like i wasn’t even real.”

oscar’s hand slid from your back to your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours in a silent show of solidarity. you squeezed his hand, drawing strength from his presence.

lando’s face crumpled, and for a brief moment, you saw a flash of the man you used to love. but it was fleeting, and the ache of that realization only made your heart feel heavier.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “i should’ve waited. i should’ve told you what was going on. i should’ve…” he trailed off, looking helpless.

but you didn’t need his apologies. not anymore.

“no, you shouldn’t have. you shouldn’t have kissed her in the first place,” you said, your voice steady, but the pain in your chest was real. “i don’t need your excuses. i just need you to understand that i’m done.”

there was no satisfaction in the words. no catharsis. you just felt… empty.

oscar’s grip on your hand tightened. you could feel the quiet support, the strength in his quiet presence. and you realized then that he wasn’t just offering comfort. he was offering a future. a future that lando couldn’t be a part of.

“come on,” oscar said, giving your hand a gentle tug. “let’s get some air.”

you turned away from lando, walking with oscar toward the door. there was a lump in your throat, but you held your head high. you didn’t look back. not even once. you had no need to.

oscar’s soft chuckle broke the silence as you stepped outside, the cool night air feeling like a welcome balm against the heaviness that had been suffocating you inside.

“guess i’ll have to fight for your attention now, huh?” he said, his voice playful, but there was a warmth there that you hadn’t realized you needed.

you smiled, just a little. “i think you’re already winning.”

oscar stopped walking for a moment, his hand gently brushing your hair from your face. when his eyes met yours, there was something there that wasn’t just friendship. something new. something real.

and for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it. you believed in the future, in the possibility of moving on.

“i’m here,” he said softly, his voice a promise.

and this time, you didn’t feel the need to look back at the past. because with oscar by your side, the future was already beginning.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @oddends, @mimisweetz, @theselilwonders, @superlegend216, @shigarika, @executioner-s, @fastandcurious16, @landofotographyy, @star73807-blog, @staple-your-mouth, @milkysoop, @ashopeworld, @ilovemeni, @shininfate, (i hope i got everyone!)

[araybiaaa]

❝ temptation.❞  ‎ elias ‘stack’ moore x black!fem oc

ooo. 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔… modern!au, tension, flirting, cunnilingus (cause every man in this movie is a muncher!) black!fem oc, explicit sexual content.

ooo. 𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔… where a good girl falls into temptation after she meets elias ‘stack’ moore.

ooo. 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔… soooo i wanted to try something different and do a modern!au with stack. (smoke’s still my favorite twin. the real girlies get it!) but i wanted to challenge myself a bit here.. this idea honestly came out of nowhere. i opened a03 and just started typing and somewhere down the line it became a one shot with 5k+ words?? 😭 also just wanted to say tysm for all of the love on my other fics. smoke and annie are near and dear to my heart and i’m glad you guys enjoyed my interpretations/writings for them. just a fair warning, the girl in this is very unserious but who wouldn’t be if you saw a vampire that looked like mbj! requests are open so send in something if you’d like — just keep in mind of my rules. anyway. likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated! ◡̈

“he’s dangerous. if you had any common sense you’d stay away from him.” their words seemed portent at first; a precautionary warning that had her wary of him. she didn’t know him but she’s heard enough stories about him to know that he was feared by everyone. his reputation was something akin of their town’s own boogeyman or freddy kreuger — he was dangerous, menacing and someone to be fearful of.

cleo hadn’t been in town long enough to know if his reputation superseded him or if the rumor’s held some weight of validity in them but her curiosity was piqued to meet the guy that had people hurriedly locking their doors when the sun went down and removing the welcome mats off of their front porches.

at first, she wondered if everyone in town had collectively decided to pull a prank on her as some sort of initiation or simply for their own amusement. because to her elias moore seemed more like a ghost than a vampire. she lurked outside after hours, even against their warnings — completely foolish and naive, but she never saw him around.

she doesn’t know why she wants to see him so bad, maybe it’s because everyone else has and she feels strangely left out. or maybe it’s because she needs to see for herself if there was a world where mythical creatures existed outside of the cheesy television shows she used to watch and the books that she read. but much to her dismayed defeat, time continued on with her being the only one who had yet to meet the feared elias moore.

“what does he look like?” she asked, feigning innocence behind her curiosity that her best friend, naomi easily sees through and narrows a pointed glare at her. “what? i just want to know in case i see him around somewhere!” she murmurs with a halfhearted shrug. it didn’t seem like an actual possibility with how she hadn’t so far, but she didn’t want naomi to know that she was willingly seeking him out.

naomi sighs, pursing her lips as she tapped her manicured fingers against her thigh. after a moment’s contemplation, she reveals: “i’ve only seen him around a few times. he doesn’t look like any of those sick looking vampire that you see on tv. he’s actually…fine.” at this, cleo’s eyebrows raise in amusement at her friend’s description. “he has this look about him that makes you weak in the knees whenever he smiles at you. it’s effortlessly sexy and his eyes — just don’t look in them too long cause you’re gonna find yourself wanting him to turn you into a vampire too just so you can spend the rest of eternity with him. i’m only telling you this because you asked, but don’t go around asking anyone else about him. you don’t want your daddy finding out about it.”

cleo nodded in agreement, but still found her mind wandering about him. she knows that naomi’s right, her overly religious father would have an aneurysm if he’d found out that she was asking questions about the town’s social pariah. but that didn’t stop her from visualizing him through naomi’s description.

she’s only ever heard of naomi speaking negatively about elias so for her to refer to him as fine despite her disliking of him had intrigued cleo. “yeah, you’re right. i was just curious but now i know.”

naomi’s pointed glare deepens, like she doesn’t fully believe cleo. “girl…stay away from him for your own good. trust me. i know another girl who was curious about him just like you are and she got turned.” cleo wonders if she’s just saying that to scare her away, but surprisingly it doesn’t.

“i hear you,” naomi hums in acknowledgment but thankfully doesn’t reprimand her any further about her curiosity.

…

sometimes cleo makes smart decisions.

when it came to school and her grades, everything was always calculated in her mind for her to choose the best possible outcome. she was annoying obsessive like that — always planning ahead, analyzing and assessing even the most mundane things that infiltrated her life. but other times, on seldom occasions, she makes not-so-smart decisions; one’s that has her acting impulsively and deviating from her normally pristine behavior.

she was supposed to be going back to her dorm room to get ready for a party that she was planning on going to with naomi. it was twelve o’clock and she had just finished an exasperating nine hour bartending shift with annoying alcoholics flirting with her and their heady, glossed over eyes staring at her ass in the tight fitted jeans that she was wearing.

her dad was less than pleased about her place of employment, but he knew that she needed extra money to pay for her clothes, shoes, hair and other miscellaneous items so he refrained from making any comments anytime she she complained about a customer or the minimal pay that she was getting.

cleo was closing the bar; wiping down the sticky counters, recounting the money in the register and overturning the chairs when she looks up and sees him. he’s standing across the street but even with the distance set between them she can feel the smolder of his gaze as he looked at her. cleo stands there for a brief moment just staring back at him until she mustered enough courage to make her way to the front door.

the overhead bell rings in a soft bellow as she pushes the door open. the humidity of the mississippi air sticks against her skin as soon as she steps outside. but even with its scorching temperatures, elias’ stare pierces deeper and has her skin burning. when she steps outside, she sees him making his way towards her — his gait was stealth and calculated.

she feels goosebumps prickle along her skin, air catches in her lungs and warmth curls around her neck as he sauntered closer. the first thing that she noticed was that although naomi had been right in her description of him, she had greatly undermined it. he wasn’t just fine; he was handsome and she could already feel her knees buckling weakly beneath her just at the sight of him. the second thing she notices is his eyes and the phosphorescent glow of red in his pupils. when he finally reaches her, he stands athwart from her and slowly drags his eyes over her body. his eyes find hers again and for a moment she wonders if she could hear the hastened beating of her heart.

“it’s kinda late for you to be out here ain’t it?” he posits and the deepened drawl of his southern accent somehow makes him more attractive.

cleo swallows a shaky breath, nodding. “i’m closing up the bar. we just closed about ten minutes ago,”

he raises his brows, trailing his eyes somewhere offside. “and they just left you to do it by yourself? don’t they know it’s dangerous people out here? vampires walkin’ about like they’re humans.” he says with sarcasm lilting in his voice and clicks his tongue against his teeth with a reprimanding tsk that follows.

cleo juts her chin outwardly. “i’m more than capable of handling myself.” she rebuttals, her hand perched on her hip as she looked at him.

his eyes find hers again and he smirks impishly, nodding his head. “i’m sure.” he says; and it’s something hidden in the way that he says it that has her cheeks warming again. a moment passes between them as he stares at her with an intrigued expression worn on his face. “you ain’t scared of me,” it’s more of a statement than a question, though she knows it’s intended to be the latter.

he sounds and looks surprised by this, that he’d finally encountered someone that didn’t run away when they saw him. “am i supposed to be?” she was more attracted to him than anything, unable to stop looking at his lips and his bared fangs that peeked out from his mouth.

he shrugs, “everyone else is.”

“well i’m not everyone else,” at that he doesn’t respond, only smirks at her again making the butterflies she feels in her stomach somersault deeper. cleo bites her lip as she looks over her shoulder towards the bar. ‘don’t ever invite him in anywhere, that’s how he gets you.’ she ignores her father’s words, pushing them to the back of her mind. “you wanna come in?”

he raises another brow, “you want me to come inside?” this time it’s her that shrugs and he only gives her a brief dubious look of contemplation before he’s following her inside of the bar at her open invitation. she could feel his eyes honed in on her ass and unlike with the drunken middle aged men from before, she isn’t repulsed at the realization.

“you know, at first i thought people were lying about who you are. it seemed like everyone knew what you looked like except for me.” she says, folding her arms against her chest and watching his eyes lower to her perked breast. she bites on her lip, intrigued.

“you were lookin’ for me?”

she nods briefly, “i wanted to know what you looked like.”

he walks towards her until he’s standing directly in front of her; way closer than he was when they were standing outside and it catches her slightly off guard. “well now that you have…whatchu think?” the remark is undeniably coquettish — the soft murmur of it accompanied by the lascivious look that he’s giving her has her pinned beneath his gaze.

“i think you’re not as scary as people make you out to be,” she responds; avoiding the answer that she knows he was truly searching for. but he settles for this one too, indulging in her retreat.

“you think you can make that assumption from a five minute conversation? what if i am like everyone says?” the air between them shifts into this palpable tension; hot and undeniable. he takes a few more steps forward until he’s hovering his heightened figure over her. she cranes her neck to look up at him, “i could bite you right now and you wouldn’t be able to do anythin’ about it”

“if you wanted to you would’ve done it outside,” she rebuttals, seeing the twitch of his curled upper lip.

“maybe i like playin’ with my food before i eat it.” and the innuendo behind his words has her breath hitching.

her skin pricks with goosebumps again at his teasing words. elias takes immediate notice of it; his nostrils flare as he inhales sharply with his heightened senses. and it takes a moment for her to realize that he must smell something radiating off of her body — arousal? excitement? — because he’s chuckling and licking his lips as he reached his hand out and brushed it over her hip. she shivers, not out of fear but of arousal. “and you sure as hell look and smell good enough to eat.”

cleo’s mouth gapes the only audible sound that comes out is a soft gasp. it’s the sound of her phone ringing that suddenly clefts through the tension hanging in the air. she jumps, startled, looking at elias whose eyes narrow at her phone like he’s inwardly cursing it for its intrusion. she reluctantly moves out of his grasp and walks over to pick up her phone that was sat at the edge of the counter.

picking up the phone she sees that it’s a text from naomi asking where she’s at. she’d gotten so distracted with elias that she forgot that she was supposed to meet naomi at their dorm room half an hour ago. she types a quick message in response, telling her that closing up took longer than expected and that she should go ahead to the party without her and that she would just meet her there instead.

she looks up from her phone at the same time elias is already walking out of the door, the sound of the bell ringing announces his departure as cleo stands there with her mind replaying their interaction.

…

a week passes before she sees him again. he’s standing outside of the door; staring, watching, waiting. she walks towards the entrance and holds the door open, beckoning him forward. “come in,” he walks inside as she closes the door behind him.

“you weren’t here the other night.” he says, catching her slightly by surprise. had he been looking for her this time instead of the other way around?

“oh, yeah. i was off. i don’t work on tuesdays and thursdays,” she explains watching as he nodded before looking away with a sheepish expression. after their last encounter, she spent the entire week thinking about him — how he looked at her, how his hand felt against her bare skin. cleo didn’t understand how she developed such a quick attraction for him, especially when she didn’t even give human boys any time of the day, but something about him was different.

naomi was right, all it took was one look from him and cleo found herself a fallen victim to his charm. “why aren’t you scared of me?”

she’s taken aback again, even more so than the first time. “why do you want me to be?” she challenges, noticing the pull of his jaw as he clenches it shut.

“your daddy’s a preacher ain’t he?” she furrows her brow, curious to know how he’d figured that out without her telling him. “how you think he’d react if he knew you were stayin’ behind after work to talk to me?”

ah, so that’s what this is about.

“well aside from me being grown and fully capable of making my own decisions, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” and she would definitely keep this secret from him for his sake and hers. “elias—”

“stack.” he interrupts to correct her.

“elias,” she says, unmoored by his correction. he gives her a look but listens as she continued. “i’m not talking to you because i’m trying to prove something to my dad or anyone else here.”

“then why are you?”

“because i want to.” she exasperates, frowning slightly. “why is that so hard for you to believe?”

“because you don’t know what you’re gettin’ yourself into,” elias retorts through a forewarning tone that sounded all too familiar of her family and friends who initially warned her away from him. he was right, aside from the fictionalized information that she got through old cw shows she used to frequently watch, she didn’t understand the depth and complications that came along with being a vampire. but her interest in elias made her want to know more — she wanted the truth and all its ugliness.

“then show me.”

…

elias stack moore had a tarnished reputation way before he got bit and transformed into a vampire. albeit he was the more level headed of the two, the smoke-stack twins were well known for their violent behavior and short fused tempers. their involvement with the notorious al capone and then stack becoming involved in a near ritualistic slaughter hadn’t done anything to ease anyone’s perception of him. his reputation expanded over the near century with people reciting tales of his life; often times dramatizing it completely.

but regardless of the half-truths or stack’s solemn search for penance — he still remained feared to the point where people would refrain from staying outside at night too long just to avoid him. he kept mostly to himself, only indulging in his sexual needs with a few other vampires that lived amongst the town. if he did leave his house, he made sure it was brief just to avoid any inadvertent run in’s.

he knew he was feared and had stories told about him that would give kids nightmares. but she was surprisingly the only one that didn’t tremble in fear when she saw him or tightly clutch her cross necklace and recite scripture from the bible in hopes it would protect them and keep him away like everyone else did. instead of running she gravitated towards him; accepting and intrigued by him in a way he hadn’t felt before.

he was wary at first of getting close to her.

she had a reputation as the preacher’s sweet and innocent daughter. he could only imagine the outcry that would erupt if anyone were to find out that she had been talking to him. but cleo insisted that she didn’t care and expressed interest in wanting to see/know him — all of him. so he invited her to his house.

she came over at work — still dressed in those tight jeans and that cropped shirt that accentuated her lithe physique — all wide eyed and innocent and fucking gorgeous.

as soon as she stepped over the threshold and inside, he felt something shift in the air as he realized that she was the first girl he’d ever invited into his house. he watches her as she looks around spectatingly, crouching over a bit with her hands on her knees to look at the display of photos that he had. “your brother?” she asks rhetorically as she looked at the candid black-and-white photograph that he had of him and smoke taken years back during the time of their youth.

stack nods tersely, pursing his lips in a moue.

and he’s grateful that she notices his reluctance and doesn’t prod any further because even though it’s been over a century since his brother’s death, it was still hurt carrying him around in his memories.

it’s stack who segues the conversation, now turning the spotlight on her. “you said you wanted me to show you, so what do you wanna know?”

cleo bites her lip in thought. stack’s mind is briefly distracted with how sexy she looks that he doesn’t initially hear her question until she asks it again.

“it took me a while to learn how to do it. i taught myself most of what i know, the guy who turned my ex that turned me didn’t teach me much. but it’s the first thing i taught myself.”

she nods, biting on her lip again as she lowered her eyes in a shy chagrin. “so that night at the bar…when you sniffed me what did you smell?”

“you really wanna know?” she looks up, almost contemplative, but nods. “lust. your hormones were all over the place.” her expression’s caught somewhere between mortification and a grimace. “my hearin’ is heightened too…i can hear your heart beatin’ fast as hell. you nervous?”

at her nod, he posits. “cause of me? why do i make you nervous?” he takes a preemptive step towards her, closing the distance between them. he hears her pulse quicken. smells the saltiness of sweat underneath the floral saccharine of her perfume.

she doesn’t respond, only looks at him underneath her lashes. “what else do want me to show you, cleo?” her breath hitches, eyes flit from his lips back up to his eyes in a quick maneuver. her heart beats louder and the smell of her arousal is so thick that he can almost taste it on his tongue. he inhales her scent; feeling his own arousal mix with hers.

he sees her throat stretch as she swallows.

…

it’s almost feral how he bares an arm around her waist and tugged her body closer to his. she gasps a bit at his onslaught — startled by the abruptness of his movements, but she’s immediately relaxing into his embrace the moment he brushes his mouth against hers. he kisses her with a ravenous vigor, sliding his tongue over the cupping of her lower lip as a terse plea for entry. she whimpers before she succumbs to his prowess, slacking her jaw wider as he intertwined their tongues.

his kisses are bruising and greedy to the point where he steals all the air that was in her lungs. it’s a slip of tongues and a crash of teeth messily colliding, through guttural groans and breathy whimpers. stack’s arms tighten their hold around her before lowering to her ass. he squeezes her through her jeans before giving it a firm smack; smirking at the way it ricocheted. he gives it another hard squeeze as his mouth nipped at the exposed flesh of her neck. “tell me what you want,” he rasps; gruff and throaty, his breath hot against her skin.

his lips pucker as he nipped at her skin; sucking deep, purple love-bites all over. (and it feels so good that she doesn’t even care that she’ll have to cover up the evidence of his markings with makeup to hide from her father and naomi.) she grips the back of his head, holding him against her as she fluttered her lashes and indulged in the pleasure.

“this,” she whispered, voice shaky, body trembling with an intense want. he groans against her neck; alternating between nipping and sucking. and he gets too into it because she hears a low sound that mimics a growl and feels the sharpness of his fangs grazing her clavicle. she gasps, taken back and he’s immediately recoiling — looking up at her with his swollen lips and lidded eyes.

“fuck. i-i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—sometimes when i get too excited it happens. but i wasn’t trying to…” he’s panicking, careening apologies to her. but she’s sliding her mouth over his and kissing him deeply with fervor.

“it’s okay,” she whispers, still pecking at his lips.

stack furrows his brow, “yeah?”

“just don’t bite too hard.”

he nods, lightly grazing his teeth into the softness of her flesh. he nibbles at her neck with the tip of his bared fangs biting deliciously into her skin. the pain is sharp but still pleasurable enough to have her eyes rolling to the back of her head. his hands make their way to the front of her body, sliding over her abdomen and hovering at the waistband of her jeans. she breathes softly through her parted lips, emanating a whimper when he bites into her lower lip. “you smell so fuckin’ good,” he murmurs, reaching his hands between the crux of her thighs and sliding his thumb over her slit — passing the pleasure over the seam of her jeans.

her underwear suddenly becomes sticky with her arousal and knowing that he could smell it on her was sending her over the edge. she feels this incessant pleasure building; coiling in her stomach and spreading through the heat of the place where she desired him the most. “can i taste you?” at her consenting nod, he maneuvers them towards the couch and eases her down onto the cushion.

he pries their wet lips apart with a ‘smack’, a string of saliva draws at their disconnection. she holds the smother head of his gaze, watching as he lowers to his knees. “lift your hips up for me,” he murmurs, already working at the buttons and zippers of her pants that loosen around her hips.

she concedes, arching her hips off of the couch just enough so that stack’s hands are able to tug the tight fitted fabric over her hips and down her thighs. “look at you,” he says; marveling at the sight of her arousal. the dark spot is visible against her pink underwear — soddening through the fabric. “already so wet and ready for me.” he kisses the inside of her thighs, nudging the bridge of his nose against her cunt.

she shivers through a moan, it’s just the barest of contact but she’s hypersensitive to his touch. his deft fingers pull at her ruined underwear, sliding them down her legs and absentmindedly throwing them aside so that she’s sat completely bare in front of him.

her cheeks warm at her vulnerability.

stack’s hand brushes against her calf as he gripped her leg and hefted it easily over his left shoulder. his eyes hone in on her cunt as she spreads open; staring in awe at the slick that’s gathered between her folds. he grabs at her other leg, barring it around his right shoulder until he’s got a perfect position of her cunt displayed in front of him.

cleo arches her hips slightly, holding herself upright as she rests the palms of her hand against the cushions. her heartbeat quickens at the desire that grows, palpable and thick in its emerging, sending another jolting throb directly into her cunt. she could feel the wisps of his breath as he leaned in. he brushes a teasing kiss against her thigh, humming softly at the way she shivers in response.

he nudged himself closer towards her cunt; pressing soft kisses against her skin in passing before he finally reaches the place where he could smell the the evidence of her want. he presses a kiss against it and she shudders, feeling the tension roll down her spine and curl into her toes. she doesn’t even have a moment to gather her bearings, because then he’s flattening his tongue and licking her up from the back of her perineum to her clitoris. “oh—fuck. s-stack,” she bellows a soft cry of pleasure, her hands grip into the couch to seek purchase.

and when he reaches the over sensitive bud, he puckers his swollen lips and sucks her into his mouth; skillfully using his tongue to massage her clit. she feels the texture of his tongue stimulating her clit, sending an overwhelming wave of pleasure burning through the crevices of her body. her breath catches in her throat and she’s shivering so hard that stack has to pull his mouth away to remind her to breathe.

she nods numbly, blinking through the fogginess of her vision. she parts her lips and exhaled shakily; attempting to lull her breathing. “grind your hips against my face,” she whimpers, reaching a hand up to hold the back of his neck to anchor herself as she slowly rolled her hips against his face.

“ohmygo—” the added pressure of his nose and tongue assaulting her clit has her dizzy. his hands grip her hips, fingers dig into the meat of her thighs holding her against him.

he makes his way up her vulva; pausing right before he reached her clit and increased the pressure so that the base of his tongue was forced slightly under her clit. he slows his movements, unrelentingly in his ravenous feat as he holds the pressure there. she grinds against him again, shaky, still trembling through her movements as she buried his face deeper into her cunt.

she could hear the lewd stickiness of her slick as he licked up her pussy; could see it glistening over his face — a messy mixture of her arousal and his saliva dripping down his chin. she’s already shaking towards her release but then he grazes his fangs softly against her clit and she’s suddenly bellowing out cries of pleasure as she cums.

she pulsates around his tongue, the tension tugs in her lower belly. he slides his thumb through her slickness, watching as she haphazardly falls backwards against the couch cowering away from the overstimulation. stack pulls away, lapping his tongue around his mouth as he licked up the remnants of her slick. “you okay?” he asked through a rasped breath, watching as she laid there in a dazed stupor.

she nods, just barely, feeling the heaviness of her breathing begin to lull. cleo never thought that someone as smart as her would be drawn into the temptation from a vampire, but here she was — with her cunt still throbbing around nothing, legs and body completely spent, eyes looking at his face that’s covered in her juices, and it entices her.

and it’s then that she realizes that she was totally and completely fucked. he’d warned her that she didn’t know what she would be getting herself into if she became involved with him but with the way he ate her pussy out so good and had her wanting more, cleo realized that she was willing to test the boundaries of her restraint.

…

cleo didn’t like lying, she’s always prided herself about being a truthful person regardless of the repercussions that could follow. she didn’t like people lying to her so in return, she treated everyone with the same decency of respect and remained truthful about everything. it’s not until she starts dating stack that lying easily becomes integrated into her life.

she goes to church with her father every sunday, sits in the front pew and listens as he recites sermons and scriptures about demons and evils that plagued the world. it guilted her knowing that he was wistfully unaware of the fact that she was bedding with someone he referred to as one of the demons that walked amongst them, but the way he made her feel was better than anything she’s ever experienced before.

so she keeps the secret buried deeply, and listens halfheartedly at his preachings as she finds her mind wandering on stack again. it’s easier to hide behind her fib with her father, but naomi’s naturally pestering curiosity always gets the better of her and a simple response of “i already have something planned.” does not offer enough of a rational explanation for her.

“you’ve been acting weird these past few weeks…” she acknowledges with a skeptical brow and pursed lips. she narrows her gaze in on cleo who desperately hopes that she doesn’t look too hard enough to see the hickies stack sucked on her shoulder and breast the other night. “you’re here during the day, but always sneak out to go somewhere at night like you’re meeting someone,” she accents, her perception’s dangerously close to discovering cleo’s secret.

“i’m not.” the lie falls disbelieving to both of their ears. naomi gives her a narrowed look, tilting her head. she bites on her lip in contemplation, sighing softly as she concedes. “okay! but you can’t say anything to anyone especially not my dad.”

naomi gives her a bemused look but nods.

“i might be seeing someone,” cleo murmurs, averting her eyes to naomi to see her eyebrows raise. “i am seeing someone. but don’t ask who! because i’m not going to tell you who it is. i’m only telling you this because i know you wouldn’t stop hounding me if i didn’t.”

naomi stands there quiet, considering her words. “is he married?”

“what!?” cleo beseeches, frowning at her friend’s absurd accusation. “girl, no! i am not a fucking homewrecker!”

“hey, it’s a fair assumption!” naomi rebuttals, raising her hands in the air at her defense. “you’re being sneaky and sleeping over at his place at night… it made me think that you only go over there because that’s the only time that you’re allowed to.”

“no. i’m not fucking a married man.” cleo states. she continued to stuff her clothes in her overnight bag, avid to get to stack’s place. she could feel naomi’s he eyes still piercing through her, curiosity sits on her tongue wanting to inquire further about the guy’s identity. but she thankfully relents, only giving cleo a hum of acknowledgment when she grabs her bag and clamors a parting bye as she walks out.

when she arrives at his house, she’s greeted with a smile and kiss, his arm wraps around her waist as she melts softly into the embrace. he maneuvers her bag from her hands, allowing to to fall absentmindedly to the floor with a loud thud. his hands are groping her everywhere; sliding over her ass, squeezing her titties, palming her cunt through the flimsy pair of leggings that she wore. it’s almost feral how both of their bodies aligned with the same wanton desire.

she loves how the outside world becomes a distant memory for them as they remain secluded in the privacy of his house with no worries of interruption or ridicule waiting. “if you had any common sense you’d stay away from him,” had been a warning, but she found herself gravitating towards him despite their attempts of deterrence. and she had no intentions of letting go of this feeling or him.

[loveinhawkins]

ao3

Robin’s double-triple-quadruple checking that Steve is okay—well, okay as he can be, gritting his teeth as Nancy wraps hastily made bandages around him—when she sees Eddie turn away out the corner of her eye.

She follows the movement unconsciously, but then she really looks, and at first she thinks it’s just this god-awful place draining the colour out of everything, but wow, he looks bad.

“Hey,” she says as brightly as she can, “you just checking out the scenery over here or…?”

Eddie shakes his head, and that immediately seems like a bad idea because his face gets even paler, which Robin didn’t even think was, like, possible.

“Just needed to—” he says faintly.

And that’s all he gets out before he weaves where he’s standing, and Robin reaches for him instinctively, grabs a hold of his hand; his palm is cold with sweat, and she suddenly finds herself thinking that the rumour going around a couple years ago, that Eddie passed out in the middle of a dissection in Biology, must have some truth in it.

“Okay, we’re okay!” she says quickly, and holds on as tight as she can. “We’re just gonna stand here and breathe.”

She says it a few more times, “We’re just gonna breathe,” and she’s got no idea if it’s the right thing to do or not, whether it’s just deeply annoying or making everything worse.

Eddie closes his eyes, and she worries about that initially, but the grip of his hand gets stronger, and he doesn’t sway again, and when he opens his eyes and looks at her, they’re clear and focused.

He squeezes her hand twice. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t let go, and he looks embarrassed about it, so Robin says that her sense of balance is so incredibly shit, and this is very helpful of him, thank you.

It works at least a little bit; he almost laughs. Then he swallows, and she can feel his urge to look back over despite himself. He stops the motion just in time.

“Is he—” His fingers twitch uneasily. “Is he okay?”

“Yes,” she says immediately.

She really hopes it doesn’t sound like she’s pacifying him. It’s just, she knows by now what to watch out for, she doesn’t even really need to be looking; an awareness of Steve in her periphery is enough.

She rushes to try and clarify, “Like, I know it seems like I was panicking with the rabies thing, I mean, I kinda was super panicking, but I got it all out my system, like I’m a worrier first and foremost, that’s my secret default emotion, you’re welcome, so when I say there’s nothing to worry about, obviously there are plenty of things to worry about, look where we are, but I promise nothing major currently in the Steve department, and I can tell you, like, instantly when that changes, it’s a sixth sense.”

Eddie blinks, looking slightly stunned. Shit, she forgets sometimes that it’s only really Steve who’s used to these monologues.

A big breath. “And I know it seems like I’m panicking because I’m rambling which—okay, that’s sometimes true, but in most cases—this one included, I swear!—me talking way too much just means I’m comfortable with whoever’s listening.” Eddie’s eyes widen. “So, um. Congratulations? Sorry? Take your pick. Does that, um, make sense?”

There’s a pause before Eddie replies—he’s probably still processing just how many words were thrown at him.

“I don’t think you talk too much,” he says in a taken aback kind of way. Then, “And yeah, sure, that makes sense. Just, uh, questioning your judgement.” A slight self-effacing smile. “I’m not typically the kinda guy folks are comfortable around.”

“Is it really so shocking?” Robin says, meaning it as a tease but—

“Yes,” Eddie says, and while he matches her tone, the word teeters between a joke and something vulnerable.

They both turn at a sudden grunt of exertion—Steve’s standing up, supporting himself with one hand leaning on the rock he’d fallen against. Nancy watches his movements with an anxious intensity; Robin follows her eyeline and notes with relief that the bleeding’s stopped.

“We can go to my house,” Nancy says like she’s trying to convince herself it’s a good idea. “There’ll—there must be some bandages or something just. Just in case.”

Steve lets go of the rock and stands up to his full height. It’s a deliberate show of reassurance, Robin thinks, as much for himself as it is for Nancy.

“Sure,” Steve says. “And guns too, right?”

Nancy’s startled into a laugh. For a second, the weight of concern leaves her face. “And guns,” she repeats.

Eddie catches Robin’s eye with an air of bewilderment. “Guns?” he mouths.

Robin nods.

Eddie looks, if possible, even more lost. Then his eyes slide away from Robin’s, and his expression changes; he starts to frown. At first Robin can’t tell what he’s noticed except that there can’t be any more blood, thank God, because he doesn’t look away. Then she sees it too as Steve takes a step forward with a nonchalant, “What are we waiting for? Let’s go,” like the determined normality of his voice can somehow hide the fact that he’s shivering.

Nancy bites her lip, looking like she’s come to the same unwelcome conclusion as Robin: that no matter what they say, it’ll just result in Steve arguing against it.

There’s a rustle off to the side. Robin glances over only in time to see a blur of denim; Steve catches it against his chest. Eddie’s vest.

“For your modesty, dude,” Eddie quips like it’s no big deal, but Robin can instantly sense the care he’s taken in how he’s said it, that he’s guessed intuitively about the kind of person Steve is: the kind who, when Robin once forgot her umbrella, shared his and made sure she was fully covered, despite him getting soaked in the process.

It’s like she can physically see the path that Eddie’s flippancy has opened up. This way Steve accepting the vest is just continuing the joke; he doesn’t need to admit that he actually needs it.

And it works. Steve expertly sidesteps around the vulnerability and shrugs on the vest, echoing Eddie’s levity right back at him.

“Oh, my modesty, sure. Well, in that case, don’t wanna offend you, dude.”

“You know me, propriety is my middle name.”

Steve laughs. He fiddles a little with one of the buttons on the vest then says lightly, as if an afterthought, “Didn’t know you cared.”

It still walks the line of a joke, but Robin can hear his sincerity, and from the look of surprise on Eddie’s face, so can he. And it’s not like Steve being genuine is a surprise to her, but—

The ground gives way beneath her feet; her stomach lurches as she loses her balance, and it’s only when she accidentally catches Eddie’s shoulder that she realises she’s not going to fall through an endless chasm, that the world is just shaking violently—still not a comforting prospect, but she’ll gladly take it over the alternative.

She barely has time to feel the relative relief before another shudder sends her straight to the ground; she’s too caught off guard to even protect her face with her hands. But her landing isn’t nearly as painful as it should be—as everything finally grows still, she finds the reason why: Eddie, who from the awkward twisted position of his legs looks like he was caught equally off guard, and yet he’s still managed to fling an arm around Robin, bracing to keep her from the worst of the impact.

“Did anyone touch the vines?” Nancy asks breathlessly.

Robin and Eddie shake their heads.

“Any, uh, particular reason why?” Eddie says in the tone of someone who’d really rather not find out.

“It’s a hive mind,” Steve and Nancy say simultaneously, in a very hive mind like way.

Robin hums the theme to The Twilight Zone; everyone laughs, some pressure finally released.

“So killer demon bats weren’t enough, we’ve gotta deal with booby traps too,” Eddie says.

Steve snorts. He glances childishly to Robin as if looking for approval; she rolls her eyes with an irrepressible smile. Seriously?

There’s a split second of disbelief before Eddie just grins in delight. “Real mature, Harrington.”

Steve shrugs. “Sorry, man,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Just providing what Dustin would’ve done.”

They sober slightly at the reminder that their group’s been split.

“You think they’ve figured out that we’re…?” Eddie wiggles his fingers vaguely. He’s slower at getting to his feet than everyone else had been—he’s still hunched over slightly, rubbing at his knee.

“They will,” Nancy says with conviction.

“Don’t underestimate them,” Steve says mildly.

“Oh, I’m not, believe me. They’re kinda terrifying.”

“Terrifying?” Nancy echoes, laughing again, right as Steve says, “Exactly.”

As if in response to their laughter, there’s a distant growl punctuated with ominous clicking. Steve and Nancy both go rigid, and Robin thinks of the night after Starcourt, when Steve stayed over at her place because neither of them wanted to be alone; and he told her how everything started for him, his voice tripping over the words like he was reliving it all over again: running back to Jonathan Byers’ house, hearing the snarl of a monster.

“Yeah, I’m all for going to the Wheeler sanctum,” Eddie says weakly.

But he doesn’t move initially, so Steve and Nancy end up leading the way. Steve repeatedly sweeps the beam of his flashlight back and forth, making sure that the path is lit up for everyone, and Robin wonders whether he’s so focused on that that he hasn’t yet noticed—

“You’re hurt,” she tells Eddie softly. She’s up and looped her arm through his without thinking—which is kind of a big deal considering she nearly threw up with nerves when dancing with a boy at her middle school Snow Ball—and she realises that, for once, she forgot to be nervous about it.

“It’s not that bad,” Eddie says dismissively, but she can feel him leaning on her so it must be at least a little bit bad. “Hey, we kinda even each other out like this, huh? Your balance is pretty good, actually.” He pauses, then, “I’m okay, promise, just didn’t wanna…” He shrugs, nods towards Steve. “Gotta prioritise, y’know?”

Robin doesn’t push back on it for now, just slows her pace so Eddie isn’t jostled. “Thank you,” she says instead, lowering her voice. She nods toward Steve too. “For the…”

“Style improvement? Yeah, you’re welcome.”

This time Robin only lets him get away with belittling it for so long; it’s important, she thinks, that he knows.

“I mean it. He wouldn’t have taken it if you hadn’t—he’s…” She sighs. The greatest Tammy Thompson impersonator. Stupidly funny. Serious, when he has to be. Caring. Selfless. My best friend. “Stubborn.”

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Oh, and you’re not? What the hell was that back there?” He drops into a gently mocking impression of her voice, “I made that shit up.”

“I was just being honest!”

“Way to give me a heart attack.” She feels him squeeze the crook of her elbow. “Don’t do it again.”

And there’s that balancing act again, joking but not. Robin hears it for what it is. Don’t leave me alone. She squeezes back.

“I won’t.”

She expects Eddie to change the subject quickly. Instead he laughs—smaller, sadder. “Shit, sorry. You must think I’m—”

“No,” she says firmly. “I don’t.”

Eddie looks down like he’s just watching his step, nothing more. But his hold around Robin’s arm tightens again. He clears his throat.

“Thanks, Buckley.”

“Hey, Robin, Eddie,” Steve calls; Robin feels Eddie jump. “There’s vines up ahead, like…” He turns around and indicates where with the flashlight. Then he catches Robin’s eye, knits his eyebrows slightly. You okay?

She smiles in reassurance before subtly tilting her head towards Eddie, wrinkles her nose. 

Steve’s forehead relaxes. The tiniest nod. Yeah, I know. Got my eye on it.

Because of course he’d noticed the hurt knee despite Eddie’s attempt to hide it; Robin recalls now one of Steve’s rants about his time at school, how he’d often clock injuries during basketball games before the borderline neglectful coach.

And then she realises that Steve’s been walking backwards throughout their silent conversation, alternating between lighting the way for Nancy, and for her and Eddie.

She rolls her eyes, briefly draws a circle in the air with her finger. Now you’re just showing off.

Steve grins, waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. Oh, yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?

But he obligingly turns around, as Nancy gives him a sidelong, questioning look. He answers, too far away to hear, points behind him with his free hand like he’s explaining something. Then his hand goes to the vest, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly over the denim near the collar; Robin smiles.

“So, uh, how likely is it that I’m gonna get that back?” Eddie asks. He sounds amused, like he’s just noticed the same thing as Robin.

“Like, out of ten?” She pretends to think about it. “Two point five.”

Eddie snorts. “Wow, thanks.”

It’s a compliment, Eddie, she thinks, recalling the select few sweaters that Steve fiddles with in winter. He only does that with clothes he really loves.

“You’re not the first. He steals my sunglasses all the time.”

Eddie bursts out laughing. “Figures. He’d look good in anything, it’s so unfair.”

And it doesn’t sound serious; it’s said off the cuff, like it doesn’t have to mean anything. But Robin’s growing more certain that she can hear what’s hiding underneath—that, however hesitantly, she’s being tested.

“Yeah, but we’re not supposed to actually tell him that, he’ll never shut up about it.” As Eddie laughs, she elbows him gently, reaches across to tug at one of the zippers on his sleeve. “So are you providing a permanent service with your clothes? Cause I call dibs on your jacket.”

Eddie laughs again; the mix of disbelief and joy in the sound is familiar—Robin’s heard it come from herself not all that long ago. It takes a while to sink in, that friendship can be found so easily—an uncomplicated, earnest type of love once thought lost to kindergarten; it doesn’t have to hurt.

(“I didn’t need the truth serum to say it,” Robin had confessed during a terminally slow day at Family Video. “I think, deep down, I trusted you.”

“Oh,” Steve said softly and watched the rest of the movie they’d thrown on dewy-eyed.)

There’s a spring in Eddie’s step now despite the limp. He calls out like he’s on a summer hiking trail, “Are we there yet?”

Nancy chuckles. “No. Are you five?”

“Wheeler, I’m shocked that you’d repeat the baseless lies of the school faculty.”

Steve turns, his grin caught by the flashlight—and he looks younger suddenly, Robin thinks, like he’s in class, sneaking a look at someone in the seat behind.

“Wow, dude, I’m so sorry. Are you bored? I forgot to book the entertainment.”

“Did you, Steve?” Eddie asks, all innocence. “I thought you were the entertainment.”

And as they go back and forth, it’s as if the darkness of the woods can’t reach them anymore—as Steve starts a game of I spy, and Eddie encourages Nancy to come up with equally outlandish guesses, the two of them barely keeping their giggles under control, violets, vixen, velociraptor?

“Vines, you losers!” Steve says, still grinning, walking tall like he’s totally forgotten about his injury; and Eddie turns to Robin like that had been his aim all along, “Your turn, Buckley.”

Oh, you’ll fit right in, Robin says to herself before jumping into the game—as they all, at least for a little while, leave fear behind.

[tidytrash]

On the other hand of op's rant, yes, you SHOULD help children, because they're small, inexperienced, and generally don't understand how the world works yet. You don't have to like them, but for the sake of argument if a child is hurt, you PROBABLY should feel at least OBLIGATED to help, even if it's something like a little cut on their knee.

• Yes, stranger danger is important, make sure to let their parents know what happened (unless they're the ones causing harm. Then police ig?)

You don't have to like them. It's not "ablist" or "ageist" or whatever other stupid fucking thing I've seen people say in the comments. If you don't like them, you don't need a reason to not like them. It's as simple as you just don't vibe with children, and that's OKAY. Just don't take it out on the children, because it's not their fault. They haven't grown up yet.

Trying to force yourself to like children when you just.. don't, for whatever reason, just creates resentment. They CAN sense that. They're usually pretty good at sensing emotions, especially negative ones.. directed at them. That being said, just because you might not like them, doesn't mean you can be a dickhead to them.

Give them time.. let them learn and grow. Kindness is free, it costs nothing and it makes you feel good. Encourage them when you can, don't be a jerkwad when you can't.

you don't "hate kids," you hate being forced into a caretaking role.

you don't "hate kids," you hate censorship passed off as family values.

you don't "hate kids," you hate the constrictiveness of the nuclear family.

you don't "hate kids," you're just not used to occupying fully age diverse spaces so you're not used to the noise or the many different kinds of needs.

you don't "hate kids," most public spaces just aren't built for kids, and so the few kids you see are always uncomfortable and distressed.

you don't "hate kids," you hate the intense social rules assigned to kids and anyone who interacts with kids.

You don't "hate kids," you hate how society reproduces its most restrictive elements and how kids are powerless to resist it.

[writing-for-marvel]

bucky barnes + sunsets

As the Sun Goes Down

Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

Summary: Bucky struggles to let anyone in.

Warnings: references to Bucky’s past, not enjoying physical touch, hurt comfort vibes

Word count: 600

A/N: for @flashfictionfridayofficial, thank you to my darling Nika for this inspo while I’m trying to get out of my writers block 💛 banners by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

“Bucky?”

A small smile curves on Bucky’s face which he can’t prevent - he’d recognise your voice anywhere.

Of course it is you who came to find him, that doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, instead, it’s how soft your voice is as you say his name that does. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to others treating him with kindness when his nervous system is conditioned to abuse with deadly force.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Yes, his brain shouts - he needs an outlet for all the thoughts that die on the tip of his tongue, for all the one sided conversations that never leave his grey matter because he doesn’t feel confident enough to share the contents with anyone.

But who wants to hear the anxieties of an ex-assassin?

He feels your thigh brush his as you sit beside him, and even though he hasn’t opened his mouth, he’s certain you can sense his apprehension. Goosebumps run up his right arm, but he’s pretty sure it isn’t the cool night air that’s the cause of them.

“Isn’t the sunset gorgeous tonight? So many pretty colours.”

As stunning as the sunset is, none of the gradients of reds, oranges and tinges of purples even come close to how beautiful his favourite colour is - the shade of your irises.

Believing that is probably far too forward to say as the opening to his side of the conversation he instead chooses to simply agree with you. “They certainly are.”

He turns to face you seated beside him at the edge of the balcony to find his favourite colour already looking at him with worry dripping from your gaze. The way you look at him somehow makes the anxiety in his chest churn, that the utmost concern you have for him adds to the expectation that Bucky should be bearing his soul to you.

He’s not quite up for that, even if you are the one he can see himself being vulnerable with. Eventually. You’re more understanding than most.

You reach for his hand, and though every instinct Bucky has is to pull away, to not let anyone lay a finger on him for fear of the repercussions that physical touch always had, he tries not to flinch when you hold him.

For 70 years the only time he felt human touch was to beat him into submission, perform experiments against his will, to pulverise his brain and turn his thoughts to mush. It’s not easy to rewire his thinking to enjoy human connection, but there’s something comforting about the way your warm, soft skin caresses his that doesn’t make him want to pull away from you.

“You can talk to me, Buck. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here to listen.” You smile at him in a way that makes his stomach flip, before your eyes flick back to the sunset. Bucky’s left watching your side profile, the curve of your upper lip, the flutter of your lashes as you blink. You’re stunning, but in a way where Bucky doesn’t think you realise just how beautiful you truly are.

Hopefully he’ll find the words to tell you one day.

He’s not ready to talk yet, but the crushing weight of expectation and drowning anxiety in his lungs doesn’t consume him to the brink of breaking down when you’re by his side. There’s a strength radiating off you that he feeds off, that gives him hope that one day life might have a semblance of normalcy to it.

As the sun sets along the horizon and the light completely fades from the day, you and Bucky sit in complete yet comfortable silence, never once letting go of each others hand.

Follow @ems-library for fic notifications

[plutosunshine]

What changes do you need to make in your life? Uranus in houses

Uranus in the 1st house

If you have Uranus in the 1st house, life is kinda asking you — maybe even pushing you — to embrace your individuality completely. Like, not just surface-level "I'm a little different" — but deep, radical self-acceptance. You're meant to stand out. You’re not here to fit into neat little boxes or live by someone else’s blueprint. And honestly, the more you try to "blend in," the more uncomfortable and restless you’ll probably feel.

Change for you often looks like breaking free from old versions of yourself — shedding layers of identity that don't match who you actually are inside. It's almost like you have to reinvent yourself several times through life, and each time you get closer to your truest, most electric version.

Also, people with Uranus in the 1st house sometimes shock others without meaning to — just by being themselves. If you've ever felt like people either instantly "get you" or are like, "Whoa, what are they about?" — that's totally part of your magic. You're meant to wake people up just by existing. So part of the change you might need is learning not to shrink yourself to make others more comfortable. Your energy shakes things up, and the world needs that.

Basically, life is asking you to be bold about who you are. Own your quirks, trust your instincts, and don't be afraid of people who don't "get it." Your real people will. ⚡

Uranus in the 2nd house

When Uranus is in your 2nd house, life kinda whispers (or sometimes yells), "Hey, your relationship to money, possessions, and self-worth isn't meant to be traditional." Stability in those areas? It's a moving target. You might experience sudden gains and losses, or your income might come from weird, unconventional, or unexpected places — like random side hustles, tech stuff, spiritual work, inventions, or just not the typical 9-5 route.

You're not supposed to cling too hard to stuff — money, belongings, even security in the "normal" sense — because Uranus wants you to find your true value somewhere deeper. It's like life challenges you to stay flexible, resourceful, and open to change. If you ever try to "lock down" your finances too tightly, life might throw curveballs just to remind you: "Hey, you can't control this like everyone else does."

What you’re really being nudged toward is a more authentic, liberated version of security — one that's based on your own inner worth, not just how much is in your bank account or what you own. That can feel wild sometimes, but it’s where your freedom and true abundance live.

Also, with Uranus here, you probably have some super unique talents or ways of creating value — like, skills that aren't "standard issue." Part of your life path is trusting that and not trying to be cookie-cutter about how you "should" earn or what you "should" have.

In short: you’re here to redefine what stability means — on your terms. And once you stop trying to do it the way everyone else expects, the real magic flows.

Uranus in the 3rd house

If you’ve got Uranus in the 3rd house, your mind doesn’t work like everyone else's — and that’s a huge gift. You're wired to think fast, differently, outside the box. Like, while everyone else is still putting the pieces of a puzzle together, you're already looking at the next puzzle two steps ahead. Your ideas can be brilliant, futuristic, and honestly, sometimes even too "out there" for people to immediately understand.

Life pushes you to communicate in your own unique way — whether that’s through writing, speaking, tech, memes, art, whatever fits your flavor. You’re probably not here to just parrot what’s already been said — you're here to spark new conversations. It’s very "I have something different to say, and if you don't get it, that's fine — you'll catch up."

Change-wise, Uranus in the 3rd house wants you to free your voice. Don’t water yourself down just to be understood easily. You're meant to bring new ideas into the world, even if it feels like you're shouting into the void sometimes. You’re also probably here to teach or influence people in unexpected ways — even just by chatting or posting online. You might drop a random comment that seriously changes someone's life without even trying.

Also, heads up: your day-to-day life can be kinda unpredictable. Last-minute trips, sudden changes in plans, weird encounters with siblings or neighbors — that's all very Uranus 3rd house energy. The universe likes to keep your environment stimulating, because your brain craves newness and movement.

So overall, life’s asking you to trust your strange, electric mind — and share it, even if it feels like no one gets it at first. You’re a mental pioneer. 🧠⚡

Uranus in the 4th house

When Uranus is in your 4th house, home and family roots are not exactly "normal" — and they’re not supposed to be. You might have grown up in a household that felt a little unstable, eccentric, chaotic, or just different from what most people around you experienced. Maybe there were sudden moves, surprising family dynamics, or a general sense that home didn’t always mean "predictable."

At a soul level, life is nudging you to redefine what home and emotional security mean for yourself. You’re probably not meant to live a super traditional, white-picket-fence kind of life — unless you totally reinvent what that looks like for you. You're wired to crave emotional freedom as much as emotional connection, which can be a weird balancing act. You want to belong, but not if it means losing yourself.

One big change Uranus asks from you is to detach from old family patterns that no longer support who you are becoming. You might be the one in your family who “breaks the chain” — doing life differently, healing old emotional wounds, choosing freedom over stuck loyalty.

Also, you may randomly move at unexpected times, live in unusual places, have a very unique home setup, or create a kind of “chosen family” of your own. Home for you isn't necessarily one physical place — it’s more about finding people and spaces where you can breathe, be weird, and feel truly safe being yourself.

If you ever feel like your foundation is shaking, it’s usually Uranus asking, "Is this still real for you? Or are you clinging to something out of fear?" And if it’s not authentic, life will eventually push you to shake it loose.

In short: your soul's mission is to create an emotional life based on truth, not tradition — and it's okay if it looks totally different from what you grew up with. In fact, it’s supposed to. 💫

Uranus in the 5th house

When Uranus is in your 5th house, life is saying loud and clear: "You’re not here to create like everyone else. You’re here to shock, inspire, and completely rewrite the rules of self-expression." Your creativity, your passions, even the way you love — it’s all electric, unpredictable, and absolutely unique to you.

You probably get flashes of inspiration out of nowhere — like one minute you're just living your life, the next you’re hit with a wild idea that’s lightyears ahead of its time. Follow those sparks. Your soul is happiest when you’re making or doing something that feels exciting, different, even a little rebellious.

When it comes to love and dating? Yeahhh... not exactly "by the book" either. 😂 You need excitement, freedom, and real connection — not just safe, boring routines. People who try to tie you down too fast or expect you to follow some romance script might make you want to run for the hills. Fast. Love for you needs to feel like an adventure, not an obligation.

Also, with Uranus in the 5th, you're meant to experiment with joy — find what lights you up and don’t be afraid if it changes over time. Hobbies, art, passion projects, even the way you relate to kids (if you have them or ever do) will all have a non-traditional flavor.

The big change Uranus asks of you is to trust your weird, wonderful self-expression, even if it doesn’t make sense to others. You’re not here to color inside the lines — you're here to invent whole new colors. 🎨⚡

And honestly, when you really let yourself play your way, life becomes magic.

Uranus in the 6th house

If Uranus is in your 6th house, life is basically saying: "You’re not meant to do work, health, or daily life the 'normal' way — and the sooner you own that, the freer and happier you’ll be."

You probably get restless with routines that feel too rigid or boring. Clocking into a 9-5 every day doing the same thing forever? Hard pass. Your soul craves freedom in your work life — meaning freelance gigs, weird career paths, sudden changes in job direction, or working somewhere that lets you be independent or innovative. Traditional setups might feel like they drain your life force unless they give you enough space to be you.

And your relationship to health is just as unique. Your body might respond weirdly to stress, routine, diet, or even conventional medicine. Sometimes it’s like your system is more sensitive to energy shifts — so listening to your own intuition, trying alternative healing methods, or mixing different styles might actually work better for you than following the "one size fits all" advice.

The big thing Uranus pushes you to change? Let go of trying to force yourself into boring, mechanical rhythms just because you think you “should.” Find your own rhythm. Make your day-to-day life feel alive, not suffocating. It’s about learning how to serve the world and honor your individuality at the same time — not sacrificing one for the other.

Also — random note — you might suddenly shift habits, diets, or routines overnight. Like, you wake up one day and think, "I'm never eating sugar again" or "I'm quitting this job today." And if you trust those intuitive jolts (and they come from real insight, not just rebellion), they can actually be super healthy for you.

In short: build a life that lets you work and live in a way that feels electric, free, and true — even if it looks totally different from what everyone else is doing. 🛠️⚡

Uranus in the 7th house

If you’ve got Uranus in the 7th house, life is basically setting you up for relationships that break the mold. The traditional "settle down, follow the script" thing? Yeah... not really your destiny. Deep down, you crave connection — but it has to come with a huge side of freedom, authenticity, and excitement.

You might attract super unusual, eccentric, brilliant, rebellious partners — people who are totally different from what your family or friends expect. Or your relationships might start in weird, sudden, out-of-nowhere ways. Sometimes it's instant sparks, sometimes it's chaos, but it’s never boring.

One big thing Uranus asks of you is to rethink what partnership means. You’re not here to merge into someone else or lose yourself in "we" — you're here to form relationships where both people still get to be totally themselves. If someone tries to control you or box you in, your soul is gonna scream, "Nope!" even if everything looks good on paper.

There can also be sudden changes in relationships — fast beginnings, sudden breakups, on-and-off vibes — because your partnerships are meant to reflect growth and evolution, not just stability for stability’s sake. Long-term, the kind of relationship that works for you is one that feels like a conscious choice every day, not an obligation you’re stuck in.

You’re meant to experience partnership as something that’s alive, surprising, and full of breathing room — not something that clips your wings. 🪽

In short: you’re here to build new models of love and partnership, ones that are real, free, and yours — even if they don’t look traditional to the outside world.

Uranus in the 8th house

If Uranus is in your 8th house, you are wired for deep transformation, but it’s not going to be slow, steady, or easy — it’s going to come in flashes, breakthroughs, and total holy sht* moments. Life doesn’t let you stay the same for long. You’re built to shed skins, reinvent yourself, and go through some seriously wild inner changes that shock even you sometimes.

The 8th house is about shared energy — intimacy, deep trust, merging resources, death and rebirth (emotionally, spiritually, and sometimes literally dealing with loss). Uranus here brings sudden shifts in all those deep areas. You might experience unexpected changes with money you share with others — inheritance, investments, debts, etc. But even bigger than money? Emotional intimacy. You probably don’t do closeness the "normal" way. You need freedom even in deep bonds — meaning you’ll crave deep connection but also fear losing your independence if it gets too entangled or heavy.

Part of your growth is learning how to let people in without feeling trapped. And honestly? You're meant to attract people who help awaken you — lovers, friends, mentors — not just keep you safe and cozy. Relationships with you can feel electric, transformative, and a little chaotic because you wake people up, and they wake you up right back.

Also, you probably have some crazy strong intuition about hidden things — emotional undercurrents, secrets, even metaphysical stuff like energy healing, astrology, or psychic phenomena. Uranus in the 8th house often gives flashes of insight into the unseen realms.

In short: you’re here to transform, to trust your inner flashes of insight, and to live through depth without losing your freedom. It’s intense, but you were built for this kind of magic. 🖤⚡

Uranus in the 9th house

If Uranus is in your 9th house, your soul is basically wired for exploration, expansion, and truth-seeking — but in the most wild, non-traditional way possible. You’re not here to just accept what you're taught; you’re here to question everything and find your own truth, even if it’s way outside the "normal" zone.

You might have an intense need for freedom through learning, travel, philosophy, or spirituality — but you’ll always approach those things in your own way. Like, traditional religious systems? Academic structures? "One-size-fits-all" beliefs? Nah, that’s not gonna cut it for you. You need room to roam, both mentally and literally. ✈️📚

Big changes with Uranus here usually look like sudden revelations that totally flip your worldview. One day you might believe in X, the next day you're like, "Nope, it’s Y," because a flash of insight hit you so hard you can’t unsee it. And travel? Yeah — you might have unexpected moves, spontaneous trips, or a restless need to experience different cultures and ways of thinking. Even if you stay in one place physically, your mind is always somewhere new, exploring.

In relationships and life in general, you need people around you who respect your mental freedom. Anyone trying to force you into their belief system or limit your thinking? Instantly a no-go for you.

The change Uranus is pushing you toward is breaking free from inherited beliefs and creating your own understanding of the universe — one that's alive, evolving, and completely yours. You’re here to be a trailblazer in thought, not a follower.

In short: You’re meant to wake people up to bigger, freer ways of seeing life — starting with yourself. 🧠🚀

Uranus in the 10th house

If you have Uranus in your 10th house, you are not here to have a "normal" career or public life — at all. Like, truly, you’re built to shock, inspire, and change the system by just being yourself out in the world.

You might have this deep, restless urge to do work that’s different, groundbreaking, or ahead of its time. Sitting at a desk doing the same thing every day under someone else's rules? Not it. You need freedom, innovation, and the space to carve your own path. A lot of people with this placement either blow up suddenly (like, overnight success out of nowhere) or have a career path that's full of random twists, turns, starts, and reboots. You're not supposed to have a straight-line journey. You’re meant to reinvent yourself publicly over and over.

And when it comes to your reputation? People might see you as rebellious, brilliant, eccentric — maybe even a little unpredictable. Some will admire it, some won’t know what to do with you — but either way, you’re unforgettable. Your energy shakes things up wherever you go, especially in the areas of leadership, fame, career, and achievement.

The big shift Uranus demands from you is: don’t force yourself into traditional definitions of "success." You're supposed to define success on your terms, even if nobody else gets it at first. When you stay true to your weird, genius path, that's when the universe really opens doors for you.

You’re basically a walking permission slip for others to realize they can be successful without selling their soul. 🔥

In short: You’re here to change the game — not play it. 🛸🌟

Uranus in the 11th house

If you have Uranus in the 11th house, you’re literally built to find your people — but it’s not gonna happen in a typical, cookie-cutter way. You're supposed to connect with wildly different, progressive, visionary communities — the weirdos, the geniuses, the rebels, the dreamers — the ones who don't just fit in but want to change the whole damn system.

You’re not meant to just be part of any group; you’re here to help invent new movements, ideas, and futures. You might feel restless or out of place in traditional circles because your soul knows you need a tribe that lets you fully be yourself — no masks, no small talk, no shrinking.

You might also notice that friendships and group connections in your life can be sudden, electric, and sometimes unstable. People can come into your life fast and leave just as fast — but every connection usually brings some kind of awakening or shift, even if it’s short-lived.

Career and dreams? You’re meant to dream big — not just for yourself, but for the collective. Like, you’re here to push humanity forward in your own way, whether that’s through tech, social movements, arts, spirituality, or whatever wild path your heart picks. And honestly, you're usually ahead of your time — you see futures that other people haven't even imagined yet.

The big shift Uranus asks of you is: don’t cling to old friendships, networks, or dreams just because they’re comfortable. Your soul craves growth and evolution. And sometimes that means walking away when a community no longer matches your vibration — even if it’s hard.

In short: you’re here to shake up the collective, connect with your soul tribe, and dream the future into being. 🌍🚀

Uranus in the 12th house

If Uranus is in your 12th house, you’ve got this deep, electric connection to the unseen — the collective unconscious, intuition, dreams, energy fields, things most people can’t even put into words. You’re wired to sense shifts before they happen. Sometimes you’ll just know stuff without knowing how you know. It's like you have a built-in cosmic antenna — picking up on vibes, future trends, hidden emotions, even collective spiritual shifts.

But here's the tricky part: because the 12th house is so hidden, a lot of this Uranian lightning might be happening under the surface, inside you — not always super obvious to you or others. You might feel restless without knowing why, or you might have sudden awakenings that feel totally random but actually aren’t.

Freedom, for you, is an inside job. It’s about freeing yourself from old karmic patterns, unconscious fears, and anything that cages your inner wildness. You’re here to break free from invisible prisons — things like self-sabotage, outdated spiritual beliefs, hidden anxieties.

Also? You’re super plugged into the collective energy. When society goes through chaos or awakening (and let’s be real, it does a lot these days), you might feel it in your body and soul before anything even happens externally. You’re like a cosmic early warning system. 🚨✨

The shift Uranus is asking from you is: trust your flashes of insight, even if they come from dreams, meditation, or deep inner nudges that don’t seem logical at first. And learn how to ground your energy so you don’t get overwhelmed by everything you’re sensing.

You’re meant to be a kind of hidden awakener — someone whose very presence, even quietly, stirs change in others on a deep, soul level. 🌀💫

In short: you’re here to awaken not just your own soul, but the collective dream — and it all starts with trusting your inner electric magic.

[crystaltoa]

I feel like such a mean old nasty hag saying this but… do they not plan on existing past the age of 35? In their 20s a breakup wouldn’t necessarily destroy their lives (or they could bounce back from it at least) because there would be another rich guy around the corner, but it’s going to get harder and harder with more competition as time goes on.

Fascinating that it’s considered ‘eroticising’ the inequality. I’m bad at picking up these things as I’m very ace, but now that I see it I can’t unsee it. interesting that boyfriends/husbands don’t appear prominently in this imagery, if at all, and it seems that the content is targeted at straight women. But the partner is not the fantasy, he’s just the key to unlocking the fantasy.

Gen Z and younger millennials have been previously known for ‘quiet quitting’ and other anti-work attitudes, which is not in itself a gendered phenomenon. It stems from the cost of living crisis and the state of the modern workforce and the dawning reality that getting ahead and meeting traditional milestones is bordering on impossible for many, work is not rewarding in the emotional or financial sense, and that one might as well try to actually enjoy their current existence rather that running themselves into the ground for a hypothetical better future.

While there is a lot to be said for living in and enjoying the moment, avoiding thoughts of the future isn’t healthy when taken to its logical extreme. Something I’ve observed as a general trend in women across generations is being caught up so much in the day-to-day stuff that they forget to take care of their future, especially financially. Honestly, I think part of my own interest in personal finance came from the realisation that I wasn’t straight and that I couldn’t gamble on marrying someone who would know all the things I didn’t and make good decisions to ensure a happy future.

Which led me to the realisation that actually, straight women shouldn’t gamble on this either. But many of them still do, even those who consider themselves quite progressive. And from talking to others I learned that also, a lot of men don’t know much about personal finance either, it’s just often assumed by their partners that they know what they’re doing (*glares at my parents*). Apathy toward the future is bad for everybody.

I don’t think GenZ’s disinterest in work or “ little treat” hedonism is inherently a problem. Nor do I think not working carries any moral weight one way or another. I am very much pro-UBI and I think it’s actually essential to achieving true equality. But the stay-at-home trophy fantasy plays off the generation-wide frustration with work and appears to provide a solution, which can be very dangerous if not viewed with healthy skepticism.

this little glamorized misogyny "joke" has run its course right. can we leave this corny demonic shit in 2023. it is done now. we've had enough.

[ourseasone]

CHAPTER 001 ✱ THE FIRST DEATH

previous masterlist next

“This white area right here,” the doctor says, pointing to a section on the screen. “This is the tumor.”

Your gaze shifts from the glowing image of your brain to the doctor sitting across from you. Your eyes lock onto the man’s face, trying to process the words you’ve just heard. You blink once, then twice, and then a third time, hoping the reality of it will somehow change, or at least make more sense. But no matter how many times you blink, the words remain — brain tumor. Your chest tightens. Your breaths feel short and shallow. Your heart rate spikes, and suddenly, the room feels smaller. You’re not sure if it’s the shock, the disbelief, or the wave of panic rising in you, but your world feels like it’s spinning out of control.

“A brain tumor?” Your voice is barely a whisper, barely audible, as though if you say it too loudly, it might become too real to bear. “A brain tumor…”

“Yes. And a very dangerous one.”

Your mind tries to make sense of it all, but nothing clicks into place. Instead, a faint smile, almost involuntary, forms on your lips. Your eyes drift back to the computer screen, staring at the scan of your brain. The image is clear — six large, distinct spots, each one a reminder of something that shouldn’t be there. You stare at it, unblinking, as if maybe by looking long enough, the truth will somehow change. A tumor. In your brain. It doesn’t sound real. It’s like something out of a bad dream, one that you’re not ready to wake up from.

A few days ago, you’d come to the hospital after passing out at the boxing gym. It had started out like any other day — training, working through the motions, feeling the usual aches and fatigue. But that night was different. You felt a wave of nausea hit you, but you pushed it aside. Just tired, you thought. Then came the dizziness, the piercing headaches, until, finally, you collapsed. When you came to, your coach was hovering beside you, his face filled with concern. That was when they decided it was time to get checked out. The scan was supposed to only offer some clarity. And now here you were today, hearing something that felt impossible. A tumor. A dangerous one. In your brain.

The words hang heavy in the air. Your chest tightens again, and you can feel your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Do I have to get surgery?” You ask, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

The doctor hesitates, his expression turning even more serious.

“It’s inoperable, Y/N. Because of the location, surgery would be too risky. It’s not something we can touch safely.”

You let out a nervous laugh. It sounds hollow, almost forced, and the sound catches in your throat, thick with the weight of what you’ve just been told. You feel an overwhelming lump form there, as though your body itself is betraying you. Your eyes burn, and you bite your lip, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“But then… what happens to me?” Your voice cracks on the last word, and for a moment, it feels like your chest might collapse under the pressure.

The doctor’s face softens, but you don’t need sympathy right now. You don’t want that look. Not from someone who’s supposed to help you.

“There’s nothing we can do for now,” the doctor says, his voice quieter, more reluctant. “We can only hope that the tumor doesn’t grow. That it stays the same size. We need to monitor it closely.”

Hope. The word echoes in your mind, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Hope? That’s it?

“So I’m just supposed to live with this? And hope it doesn’t get worse?” The frustration in your voice is evident, a mix of fear and disbelief. “What happens if it does get worse? What happens to me then?”

The room feels colder, more suffocating. The future, once filled with possibilities and the simple joy of living, suddenly seems like a distant memory, slipping further out of reach with every passing second.

“So I’m going to die young?” You don’t even know if it’s a question anymore. It’s more like a statement of fact, a brutal realization that you can’t undo.

The doctor shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He takes a deep breath, as if trying to gather himself before responding. His eyes flicker with something — pity, maybe, or just an overwhelming sadness that a young person like you has to face this. You don’t want pity. You want answers. You need to know.

“Doctor,” you say, your voice suddenly more forceful than before, though it’s thick with the pain of everything you’re processing. You straighten up in your seat, willing yourself to face the truth, no matter how much it hurts. “Tell me the truth. How long do I have left to live?”

The words are out, and now there’s no taking them back. The air feels heavier, charged with the weight of the question, and for a long moment, the doctor says nothing. He just looks at you, his gaze steady but reluctant, as if bracing for what comes next. And finally, the doctor exhales slowly, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Nine months. Maybe a little over a year if you’re lucky. In your current condition, it’s possible you might live a bit longer. But that’s all we can give you. Time. We just have to wait and see how things unfold.”

Nine months. Or a little over a year.

The doctor’s words hang in the air like a dark cloud. They’re vague, but the message is undeniable: neither option leaves you with much time. You feel the weight of it, crushing you from all sides. Suddenly, your throat tightens, and you feel a sharp lump rise in it, choking you. You want to cry, scream, punch something, break everything in sight — yet, all you do is stare blankly at your hands, fingers fidgeting with a nervous energy that doesn’t seem to help. You can’t breathe. The walls of the office feel too close, the air too thick, the entire space too small. All you want is to escape. To run. To make it stop.

In just over a year, you will be dead. And the most horrifying part is there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

“I know this is difficult to process,” the doctor’s voice continues, soft, almost too compassionate. “I sincerely hope you’ll take the time to talk to someone about it. We’ll schedule another appointment next week for more details.”

You nod, though you don’t truly hear the doctor anymore. His words blur into a meaningless murmur, lost in the buzzing noise that has overtaken your thoughts. You stand up automatically, your limbs moving without conscious thought, too numb to feel anything. Your body feels disconnected, like you’re watching yourself from the outside. Your eyes are empty, like the world around you is out of focus, and the doctor’s mouth moves in slow motion. You catch a few words here and there, but they hold no weight. Only the echo of your own thoughts fills your mind, reverberating louder than anything else.

With a faint bow, more out of habit than anything else, you grab your bag, your hand shaking as you sling it over your shoulder. The floor beneath your feet seems to stretch farther with each step you take. Your body is on autopilot, moving mechanically toward the door. The cold, sterile scent of disinfectant hits you as soon as you step into the hallway, more suffocating than it ever was in the office. The familiar scent of the hospital now feels foreign and harsh, like the smell of a place where people come to die, not heal.

Your feet drag as you walk. Your eyes are locked on the ground, watching the tiles pass beneath you, but your mind is a whirlwind, spinning with a thousand thoughts, none of them clear, none of them making sense. You’re lost. Completely lost. Should you tell someone? Your mother? Suho?

But no. No, you can’t tell anyone. Not yet.

Your mother… She wouldn’t understand. She’d probably just dismiss it. Her cold, indifferent attitude would be the same as always. She might even accuse you of making it up for attention, a sick attempt to get sympathy. You could already hear her voice, the dismissive tone, the lack of care. Even the rare times you visited her at the retirement home, she barely acknowledged you. Why would this be any different? You could already hear the words, feel the sting of them, the way they would cut through you.

And Suho… No. Definitely not Suho.

You know your best friend too well. You know that hearing this news would break him — completely and utterly. Suho would break at the mere thought of it, at the simple thought of losing you. Maybe Suho wouldn’t show it outwardly, maybe he would try to stay strong, to hold it together for your sake. But you’d see it. You can already picture the sadness in Suho’s eyes, the way it would completely ruin him. You couldn’t do that to him. No, you couldn’t break him like that. You can’t bear the idea of that. You can’t bring yourself to do that to him.

The doctor had said you had about a year left, give or take. A year. That’s time, right? Time to hide it. Time to lie about the headaches. Time to fake your way through each day, pretending nothing’s wrong. It should be easy enough, shouldn’t it? You’d just keep quiet. Keep everything to yourself. No one needs to know. You could hold it together for a little while longer, couldn’t you?

Because once people know, once they learn that your days are numbered, they’ll look at you differently. They’ll see you as broken, fragile, like something already slipping through their fingers. They’ll treat you like a dying man, as if you’re already been buried six feet under. They’ll pity you. And that… that is the last thing you can bear. The thought of people looking at you with those eyes, speaking to you with that soft, sorrowful tone, treating you like you’re already gone — that would kill you long before death ever touches you. The pity would be worse than the tumor itself.

And your first death has already happened. It happened the moment the doctor told you about the tumor.

▅▅▅▅▅ 𑁍 ▅▅▅▅▅

If there’s one thing you absolutely despise, it’s waking up early. Especially this early. According to the cold, unfriendly numbers blinking on your watch, it’s 5:49 AM — a time that feels almost inhuman to you.

The sky is still cloaked in deep gray, and the streets are eerily silent, the world not yet awake. Step after slow step, you drift down the road toward Byuksan High School, your right hand shoved deep into the pocket of your school uniform jacket, the other clutching a small paper bag, warm with the smell of fresh pastries. Your backpack hangs carelessly off one shoulder, and the low thrum of music filters through your earbuds, though you’re barely listening. Your mind is far too crowded with heavier, louder thoughts.

Today, you’re ridiculously early compared to your usual schedule. Way too early.

Then again… you hadn’t been able to sleep a single second after the soul-crushing news you received yesterday.

You hadn’t gone to your part-time job at the convenience store, hadn’t dragged yourself to the boxing gym either, texting your coach some excuse about feeling too sick to make it. Which, to be fair, wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth. Instead, you had stumbled home, dropped face-first onto your bed, and stayed there. No dinner. No phone. No distractions. Just hours of thinking. Endless, restless, useless thinking. Memories, regrets, fear — they all tangled together in your mind until you couldn’t tell one from the other.

By four in the morning, you gave up trying to fight it.

If sleep wasn’t coming, you might as well move. You pulled yourself out of bed, took a shower, threw on your uniform, and decided to leave the house absurdly early, hoping that maybe, with a long enough walk, the fresh air would sweep the chaos out of your head.

( It hadn’t. )

But at least you had enough time to stop by the small bakery a few blocks from home — the one Suho loved — and pick up a few pastries.

You now move calmly through the deserted halls of Byuksan High, your footsteps echoing slightly against the linoleum floor. The school is eerily silent, only the faint hum of the old heaters breaking the stillness. The sky outside has started to shift — not fully light yet, but no longer pure darkness either. That grey-blue hour between night and morning where everything feels suspended, floating.

Stopping in front of Class 1-5, you gently push the door open, cringing at the small creak it lets out. You step inside, instinctively making as little noise as possible. The classroom is empty, save for one person ; Suho. Sprawled across three desks at the back of the room, his arms dangling loosely, mouth slightly open, fast asleep — exactly how you expected to find him. The sight makes something tight and painful twist in your chest, but outwardly, you allow a small, genuine smile to tug at the corners of your mouth.

You close the door behind you with a soft click and make your way to your seat — also in the back, right in front of Suho’s. As you pull out your chair and quietly lower yourself into it, you notice Suho stir slightly.

Shit. Did I wake him up?

You freeze for a second, then slowly place your backpack down on the floor, setting the bag of pastries carefully onto your desk. You glance over your shoulder just as Suho shifts again, grumbling something incoherent under his breath, and — hilariously — sniffs loudly the air, his nose twitching like a dog catching a scent.

“Seriously?” you mutter to yourself, a laugh bubbling up in your throat despite yourself. “He can smell food even while he’s sleeping?”

At the sound of your voice, Suho stirs again, this time cracking one eye open sluggishly. He squints toward you, clearly still halfway trapped in a dream. His head lifts slightly from the desk, and for a second, he just blinks at you in confusion, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

His gaze drifts around the empty, dim classroom, then back to you, disbelief written all over his sleepy face.

“Y/N…?” he croaks, voice hoarse from sleep. He shifts upright, stretching his arms with a groan before rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What time is it? Why the hell are you even here already?”

“It’s probably around 6:30 or something,” you reply casually, lifting the small paper bag in your hand up to head level, the scent of fresh pastries practically leaking out. “I brought us food.”

Suho blinks again, as if processing the information slowly, before his face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You absolute legend,” Suho says, practically scrambling to sit properly on top of his desk now. His hair is a complete mess, sticking up at odd angles, but he looks so genuinely happy that you feel a deep warmth bloom in your chest — bittersweet, but comforting.

You chuckle softly as you toss a couple of items toward Suho : two custard-filled donuts, a few mini cakes neatly wrapped in wax paper, and a strawberry milk — plus a banana milk for good measure. You had picked up the exact same for yourself, except you opted for two strawberry milks because you’re basically addicted to them. Suho catches the pastries clumsily, practically hugging them to his chest like precious treasure.

“You’re saving my life right now,” he says seriously, already unwrapping one of the donuts with the urgency of a man who hadn’t seen food in weeks.

You just lean back in your chair, resting an arm over the backrest, watching him with a small, warm smile.

“Thought you might be hungry,” you say simply, taking a lazy sip from your own strawberry milk.

“How are you even alive right now?” Suho jokes between bites, his cheeks puffed out adorably with donut. “You literally hate mornings.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, tearing into a piece of cake and popping it into your mouth. “Miracles happen.”

The two of you fall into an easy, quiet rhythm — chatting about nothing in particular as you eat. You listen to Suho ramble between mouthfuls of donut about how brutal yesterday’s math homework was, how Coach Kim wants the both of you to sign up for the upcoming school sports festival, how someone allegedly flooded the boys’ bathroom on the second floor again. Normal things. Stupid, everyday things.

And you soak it all in like it’s air you desperately need to breathe. The sound of Suho’s laugh, the way he talks with his mouth full even though he knows you hate it, the excited sparkle in his eyes when he’s telling a story — it’s all so real, so vibrant, so painfully alive. It hits you harder than you expect, how much you want to protect this for as long as you possibly can. How desperately you want to freeze time, to keep this version of Suho untouched by the reality waiting to crush you both.

No, you think firmly. Not yet. Not for a while.

You’ll keep the secret. You’ll keep pretending. Because once you tell Suho, there’ll be no going back. And the smile currently lighting up Suho’s face would never quite look the same again.

“Hey, earth to Y/N?” Suho’s voice cuts through your thoughts, waving a hand in front of your face. “You good?”

You blink, startled, then huff out a soft laugh, reaching over to steal half of Suho’s second donut without permission.

“Yeah. Just thinking about how ugly you look when you eat.”

Suho lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest.

“Rude! I am a vision of beauty,” he protests, spraying a few crumbs across the desk.

“You’re a vision of something, alright,” you tease, grinning widely.

You both burst out laughing — real, genuine laughter that fills the classroom and bounces off the empty walls. For a while, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in your own little bubble of silly jokes and sugary pastries and the kind of friendship that feels unbreakable.

The sun finally pushes itself up over the horizon, light bleeding slowly into the classroom through the grimy windows. Little by little, the rest of the world wakes up. Students start trickling into the classroom, chattering sleepily, slamming their desks, and unpacking their bags. The noise grows louder, the day begins like any other — and you don’t even notice, too busy trying to etch this fleeting, perfect moment into your heart.

For now, life goes on. Just like it always has.

And you’re determined to make it stay that way — for as long as you possibly can.

previous masterlist next

note ∘ ∘ ∘ and the first chapter is finally here! im so so excited to write even more for this fanfic >~< also, this story is available on my wattpad too with a male oc if you ever feel interested!

taglist ∘ ∘ ∘ @suunani @naelvze @ecrvea @eijizwrld @dudekiss3r @ten0rikuma @nnryota @yeon103 @strawberrywith-chocolate2 @daichiwkmi (let me know if you wanna be added!)

[regressionschool]

What’s the very first thing you notice when you see her like this—the way her tiny toes wiggle against the soft mat, or the way her whole body vibrates with pure, bubbling joy?

You pause in the doorway, just watching for a moment, not wanting to break the magic. There she is, your sweet little one, right in the middle of her colorful, messy kingdom. The nursery smells faintly of baby powder and the warm, sweet scent of her lotion, the air humming with the soft crinkle of her diaper every time she shifts. Her arms are thrown high into the air, little hands spread wide, as if she’s trying to catch every single giggle that bubbles out of her mouth.

Around her, the toys have spilled from the bright pink bin, a flood of colors and fluff. Plushies with stitched smiles, squishy balls, rattles that clack and jingle. She grabs a purple stuffed rhino, clutching it close against her chest for a moment before planting a sloppy kiss on its snout. The pacifier bobbles in her mouth as she giggles, the sound high and bright, like tiny bells.

You can’t help the swell of emotion in your chest, watching her like this. There’s pride, yes, but also something deeper—an aching, tender love that stretches far beyond words. She’s safe here. She’s yours. And every little squirm and squeal, every crinkly movement, is part of the rhythm you two have built together—day after day, cuddle after cuddle, diaper change after diaper change.

You move closer, careful to let your footsteps sound soft against the mat. She catches sight of you and her whole face lights up, eyes shining, cheeks round and rosy. Without thinking, she reaches up, little hands grasping at the air, wanting you, needing you. You kneel down beside her, feeling the thick quilted mat puff under your knees, and gather her up easily, effortlessly, into your arms.

Her diaper presses warm and thick against your side, crinkling between you as she clings, her little body wriggling in excitement. You stroke her hair, feeling the silky ribbons tied at the ends of her pigtails, and murmur softly, almost like a lullaby, “There’s my happy girl... Did you have so much fun with your stuffies, huh?”

She nods fervently, the paci bouncing, and presses her forehead against your shoulder with a small, contented sigh. You can feel the slight squish of her soggy diaper against you, and it only deepens your sense of purpose—the quiet promise that you'll always be there to take care of her, no matter how small, no matter how silly, no matter how many diapers she soaks through.

You rock her gently, slow and soothing, letting her ride the wave of her excitement down into something softer, lazier. Her tiny fingers fiddle with the sleeve of your shirt, her breathing already slowing. You know the next step of your routine without even thinking—a fresh, fluffy diaper, a little cuddle pile with her favorite plushies, maybe a bottle if she's still this snuggly.

You smile into her hair and give her a kiss just above her ear, feeling her sigh again, this time even sleepier.

There’s no need to rush. The whole afternoon stretches ahead of you both, warm and safe and perfectly, wonderfully little.

[softsunnyy]

Quinn Hughes would be the happiest man alive if he could stay with his face buried in your pussy and this is a hill I will die on

-🐥

so… i did something 👉🏻👈🏻

this is also @ruinix fault !!

🚨 oral sex... and kinda a drugged subby Quinn, oops 🚨

poorly written, i literally finished this right before going to sleep, so i'll just post it and check in the morning. DON'T KILL ME.

Quinn is watching, trying to contain himself. He plays with his hands nervously, trying to hide the effect you have on him, but it gets harder and harder every second.

he´s sure it all started that morning, when you put on that perfume. The same one he smells on your neck every time you two fuck. Every time he's buried in your pussy and trying to hide his face, biting your skin, growling, even whimpering. It's an addictive scent, it drives him crazy, but today he particularly feels it more than ever. He's smelled it before you appear in every room.

his senses are more alert, his eyes glassy, his bulge aches, and he starts to sweat coldly. It's like you do it on purpose. As if you know the effect it has on him and decide to use it against him today, when all his friends and teammates are invited to the house. When he can't do anything about it, because all eyes and attention will be on him, so he can't take you to the bathroom and make you his.

it's stressful, and he's getting grumpier and grumpier. His eyes travel over your body, and he´s getting distracted in the middle of conversations now.

he sees how your clothes hug your figure. You look beautiful, as always, but this time his feelings are more intense. And his eyes travel to your legs, seeing how you squeeze them, how they move when you walk, how they expand when you sit. He sees how you move your head when you talk, and how your hands try to match the passion with which you converse.

he tries to see your chest, your ass, and feels like a pervert, but he can't help it, and some of his teammates have started to notice, teasing him, with huge smiles on their faces, not understanding the torture this is for him.

his cock aches, and he tries to hide it, to fix his pants, to adjust his posture, but nothing works, and he shifts uncomfortably, trying to ignore your existence, but failing. And he feels like he might cry and come when you approach his side, hugging his arm, resting your head on his shoulder, and waving at one of the boys. He smells you, he can't help it, and then he loses himself even more.

memories, images, his head filled with all the things he'd love to do to you, and you can feel his body almost shaking from how tense he is, causing you to smile. You know what you're doing, you know what you're causing, and you're completely entertained watching your boyfriend, normally so dominant with you, turn into a ball of arousal, a bundle of nerves who will do whatever you ask. And he doesn't even know the real reason behind it. He doesn't know what you did.

and when the meeting drags on a bit, he feels like he might start begging. He's capable of kneeling, screaming for you to please help him, to touch his cock, to even give him a kiss, because he knows that's all it takes for him to cum and stain his pants.

it's pathetic.

his cheeks are red, and he constantly runs his tongue over his lips, feeling his dry throat. He looks everywhere, lost, and tries to find you once more, because you've left him, and he feels like he can't stand it. You can't leave him, not even for a second. And when his eyes find you, he sighs in relief, feeling his underwear slightly wet, sticky. He knows he's on the edge, and he can't understand what's happening.

he tries to remember, to understand when it all started. When he woke up, he felt attracted to you, of course he did, but everything got even worse when this started, when his friends arrived and he tried to have a drink with them. You had handed him a glass of something; and that's all. From that moment on, he began to feel strange, heated, increasingly confused. And he tries to put the pieces together, to understand what you did to him, and normally that would have led to you being brutally punished, but now he feels helpless. He feels like he can't control you.

he can only beg.

and when his friends finally leave, there's silence, tense and charged. You turn your back on him, waiting for him to speak, to come closer, to whimper or cry. But you don't hear anything, and you're alarmed, so you're about to turn to face him. At that moment, Quinn takes your hand, hurriedly, without care, and leads you to the bedroom, trying not to stumble.

then, when you enter the room, he turns to look at you, cupping your face in both hands, pulling you close, kissing you.

and it's desperate, you feel it. It steals your breath and you try to put your hands on his arms, searching for support because your legs want to give up, like every time you feel his lips. He leaves a kiss, and another, and another. And you can hear him whimper, how he moans in pain for his cock, and how his body grows weaker and weaker, until he finally falls to his knees in front of you.

you have him.

and you look down on him, making him feel small, consumed, at your mercy for the first time. He stares at you with his bright, glassy eyes, completely attentive. He's stunned, and you can see the dark patch on his pants. You can literally do whatever you want. So you decide to give him a show.

he doesn't touch you, he doesn't dare, but he feels like he's going to come when you start to take off your shirt, followed by your bra. You let him see your tits, and for a moment he's about to drool, watching them bounce, how the air makes your nipples harden rapidly. He wants to kiss, suck. He wants to put his face on your chest and leave the marks of his fingers, his teeth. Anything.

he wants to come on your skin, watch his cum run thickly between your tits. Or over your nipples. And every thought makes him want to move, but something stops him. Your gaze.

your eyes are intimidating, full of leadership, of power, and he won't do anything unless you ask him to, even though he feels like he's about to die from not being able to touch you.

"what do you wanna do, Quinn?" you ask him, and he wants to whine when he hears his name. “I need you to tell me what you want.”

he swallows, trying not to look at your tits so he can look at your face. He tries to formulate words, to say something coherent, but it takes him a couple of seconds to think of anything.

“please…” he mumbles.

“what?” you ask, leaning in slightly, your tits closer to him.

“please, just let me touch you... please.” you can see he’s desperate, his cheeks flushed, and then you nod.

“fine,” you said, and before his eyes, you took off your pants, slowly, missing the way his eyes wandered to your legs, to the bite marks adorning your thighs, or to the bruises on your knees from every time you’d been in his position. Then you took off your panties, and he could see the dark stain of your arousal, letting him know he wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

then you moved to the bed, sitting on the edge, watching as he moved closer, quickly, scraping his skin, making his knees turn red. When he was in front of you, you opened your legs, showing him your glistening, wet, hot pussy. He can smell your arousal and you nod, giving him the green light.

Quinn doesn't hesitate. His hands spread your legs even wider, and his face buries in your pussy, devouring you. His tongue runs between your folds, and you can hear him swallowing your juices, instantly becoming drunk on your fluids.

he's always loved eating you out, but now? now he feels like he's on another level. In heaven.

he plays with your clit, sucking, licking, listening to you whimper as one of your hands tangles in his hair, trying to pull him even closer. And he complies, taking over your pussy, which welcomes him, dripping wet.

your hole throbs, your clit swells, and he doesn't stop moving, making out with your lips, making sure your moans are loud and clear. Unconsciously, he moves his pelvis and rubs himself against the floor and the edge of the bed, stimulating his cock, sending shocks of pleasure through him that make him moan, grunt, and become even wilder and more primal. He wants to cum, he wants to make you cum.

he doesn't even need to get inside of you; he just wants to eat you out, even if his tongue goes numb, his jaw cramps, and his knees break. Nothing matters to him, just you and your sweet, addictive pussy, which has him in the clouds.

and you try to go along with the plan, conscious, but it's so hard, and all you can do is throw your head back, moaning his name like a broken record, feeling his tongue everywhere, doing what he knows you like.

even though the idea was to torture him, you can't deny how much it turned you on to see him so desperate, and for hours, you waited for this moment, making your pussy more than ready for him, for anything.

Quinn is good at what he does, he knows it, and he knows he doesn't even need to use his fingers, thrusting his tongue into your hole, being welcomed by your tight walls, which throbbed around him, acknowledging him, welcoming him home. And he lingered, drugged by the sensations, his mind completely clouded.

all he can think about is devouring you, making you cum again and again so he can keep feeling your taste, your juices. And you know it, you know he can go on for hours, and the thought alone excites you.

soon, a knot begins to form in your belly, and you know what's coming, but you don't warn him, because you know he knows. And when he notices, he begins to rub himself harder, widening the stain on his pants, feeling his cock throb, furious, red, marked by his veins and with his swollen tip, his balls eager to release his cum.

it's when he feels you cumming that he allows himself to do it. But he doesn't let you rest; he keeps moving, keeps swallowing, feeling drop after drop of your cum run down his chin, wetting his neck and soon his chest. His pants are soaked, completely sticky, with thick white strips wasted, but his cock is just as hard as it was at the beginning.

and you moan, trying to beg him to slow down, to give you a few seconds, but he's physically incapable of doing that. He feels drunk, he needs to keep drinking from you, and nothing's going to get him out of your pussy, not when he's stronger and desperate.

you gave him access to the only thing he needs, and he doesn't even care if he has to ruin his pants now just to stay there. He's willing to do whatever it takes.

he loves your pussy.

so, for now, get ready; he won't stop until he's gotten a good number of orgasms out of you.

whatever you gave him, it worked.

[honourablejester]

I feel like I want to say ‘yes but no’ here, because I think there are actually two different arguments happening.

Going to the quoted tags, I think what they are arguing against is scenes that are randomly throw in purely for shock value. Moments that don’t tie back to anything larger in the story but are purely there to discomfit and shock the audience. Which. Can actually be useful, if what you are trying to do is create a general sense of unease and lack of safety and ‘anything can happen’, but that’s extremely tone dependent and can often just not work.

Which, as they say, is not what OP seems to be arguing for, judging by the examples they provided. Because those examples are there to serve something larger within the story. The mistake they seem to be making is assuming that ‘serving something larger within the story’ is the same as ‘following the info-dumped rules that have been established for the setting’. Whereas OP’s argument, I think, is that people find a visceral demonstration of the rules (or the exceptions to the rules) significantly more memorable than an info-dumped recitation of the rules. It’s not that you can’t flesh out the rules of your world, even if just for yourself, it’s that you should also demonstrate the rules of your world in a way that your audience will find interesting and memorable, rather than just list them at people.

And it doesn’t have to be rules. Which is, I think, also a mistake the quote tags are making. Because they seem to imply that the examples given work within the established rules of their setting, which …

I’m going to focus in on the example of Artax here for a second. Because Artax’ death isn’t necessarily within the to-this-point established rules or threats of the setting. And I suspect a lot of people did feel cheated and upset at it. It does, to an extent, come out of nowhere. The Nothing was established as a threat, but random bits of swampland that drown you faster the sadder you are, and this sadness inflicting a horse of all characters, probably didn’t feel like it had been foreshadowed in any way. The Swamp of Sadness doesn’t fit the rules.

But it does fit the themes. Artax’ death wasn’t foreshadowed because it is the foreshadowing. It is the traumatic, memorable warning shot off the audience’s bows from a story that is going to end after the complete destruction of this world. The Swamp of Sadness is a warning precursor of the complete despair, nihilism and destruction of dreams that the Nothing will cause. And Artax himself, in some ways, is a warning of the future threat of Gmork. That when it comes to fantasy, hope, dreams, it’s despair and nihilism that are the enemies, and that those who succumb to them run the risk of destroying more than just themselves.

Your visceral scenes should be grounded in the story you’re telling, yes, they should illustrate something that you’re trying to convey, but that doesn’t necessarily have to be the rules, in the sense of ‘how the magic works’ or ‘how the medieval iron trade works’. OPs complaint is that so many pieces of advice for how to write sci-fi/fantasy are about how to establish rules that mimic facets of the real world so it will seem more believable, when what you actually need to do is build a coherent tone and atmosphere so that it feels believable. You need to create moments and imagery and scenes that people will engage with emotionally, because humans are emotional creatures, and emotions, as unfortunate as it sometimes is, will hook people to the narrative faster than all the rules in the world.

The tags, though, do also have a point as well that it’s not just a visceral scene, but a visceral scene that serves some purpose. You can’t just slap a human-faced bear in there willy-nilly, there has to be a reason within the story for it.

But that reason does not have to be explained or fit within the ‘rules’. It just means that you, as an author, have to think about the effect you intend this scene to have, and does that effect enhance or detract from your overall story.

The scenes OP highlights are memorable, and they’re memorable for the right reasons, because they enhance something else about the story. The Pale Man highlights that the fairy world has its own dangers and horrors, which brings it back tonally towards the horrors of Ofelia’s real world, and makes it feel less dissonant and unreal. The blood test in The Thing shows the characters attempting to work out the rules of the creature, and viscerally and dramatically proves MacReady right about the nature of the creature, but so very wrong about the identity of the creature. It also, as do many of these scenes, demonstrates spectacularly that we ain’t in Kansas anymore, that shit is going to happen that doesn’t fit the rules of our world, which is an important tonal shift to establish the baseline of the genre. These scenes work, and they serve to bring the audience inwards towards the story, to establish the baseline for disbelief. But I guarantee you that everyone out there has an example of a scene from a movie or story that did feel just fully random and out of the blue and all the more dissonantly jarring for it. Something that threw them out of the story rather than drew them further in.

So you do have to think before you put in your bear about what you want that bear to do for the story you’re telling, and whether or not it will effectively do it.

your dark fantasy novel doesn't need a logic-based magic system it needs a bear with a human face

[stilljuststardust]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Visualization; How I do it

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

As always, take what works for you. This is my opinion and experience, I don't want you to do everything the same way I do, I just hope it helps you discover your way. I probably experience visualization different than you and that's ok.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

1. Embrace tunnel vision

When I was first exploring visualization, particularly in shifting, it was emphasized to me that it should be as realistic as possible.

It's easy to sit down and lose yourself in trying to perfect the visualization. I would try to visualize and end up annoyed because I couldn't nail down the details. I felt pressure to get everything "right".

Here's the thing, visualization is not perfectly mapping out the floor plan of your bedroom, nor is it a 1:1 recreation of your environment.

Don't get overwhelmed trying to juggle everything single detail. Your brain doesn't multitask, it switches focus between tasks rapidly. In trying to switch between everything on your checklist you are going to overwhelm yourself and lose all immersion in the process.

The five sense are important but they are not a checklist. Trying to juggle five different experiences at once can be overwhelming. Pour your focus into something and let the other senses come up if they want to, instead of breaking your focus to add in something new.

You don't have to get it "right". You don't have to be perfect, exact, or accurate.

Tunnel vision is your friend. When you're going about your day to day life you're not focusing on your entire environment all at once. Some of the most immersive and potent visualizations you will ever have will be of minute details.

You don't visualize the whole scene you visualize a moment of it and get lost in it.

Maybe it's hard for you to visualize an entire room, but can you visualize one aspect of it? Instead of trying to map an entire castle, can you imagine the cold feeling of one of its windows against your hand?

You're overwhelmed trying to imagine your bedroom, so try instead to imagine the feeling of your bed in the morning when you don't want to get up. It's difficult to build an entire soundscape in your head so just imagine the grating sound of your alarm dragging you from sleep.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

2. Smell + touch > sight

While vision is the sense we rely upon for day to day life, and is therefore the focus of most visualization, we have four more that are often over looked.

The easiest way to immerse yourself is smell.

When it comes to memory and emotion one of our most powerful senses is smell. Sometimes you're moving through your life and you catch a whiff of something unidentifiable that drags you, head first, into nostalgia.

You may not be able to figure out the exact lay out of your environment but you probably know how it smells.

I find that when you start with smell all the other senses enter the visualization more naturally. When u think of the smell of the Hogwarts library the images of floating books and worn pages enter my mind without me having to consciously summon them.

This could just be a me thing so don't bite me if it's not yours, but personally thinking of how something looks always feels flimsier than the other senses even if it is still important.

When I am trying to imagine laying on the lawn the image easily feels impersonal, but the smell of morning air, feeling of wet grass under my hand and sun on my face, feels so much more real.

But YK, that's just me.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[kayywaiii]

Helping Hand ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ

{deaf!bakugou x fem!reader} ♪‧₊˚

summary : you manage to get bakugou to attend the UA spring festival, but not without coming to new discoveries about his hearing

word count : 3.2k

warnings : HEAVY cursing (its bakugou lol) slight angst, sunshine x grumpy lowkey (reader is sunshine) calm bakugou agenda, lowkey ooc, fell first AND harder, honestly just like a drabble bc theres like no solid resolution, fluff

authors notes ! struggled with this specific one for NO GOOD REASONN (other than the fact that I unfortunately have finals) lowkey isnt really finished but I wanted to get something out so i hope u enjoy !!

Bakugou Katsuki hated asking for help.

His life completely operated on self-preservation, opting for earlier bedtimes and training times in order to avoid those loud-mouthed extras who constantly nagged him for support. 

“Do you need help with that?”

“Is that too heavy, can I get the other side?”

“Do you want to tutor with me?”

Their morale– though he knew they meant well– only pushed him to work harder on his own, shedding away from their kind smiles and cleverly disguised words. He felt their questions weigh down on him, not keen on the sense of pity they implied. Did he seem like he needed their fuckin’ help? Bakugou Katsuki didn’t make it to the top with help. He did it on his own and there wasn't a thing he couldn’t figure out by himself. 

Except for you.

He couldn’t put his finger on you… on the way his chest throbs when you’re near. The way you give him a big smile even when he calls you names or pushes you too hard during class combat training. The way you seem to lull him into contentment with just a touch to his shoulder or hand, or perhaps it's when you share your lunch when he forgets his in the heap of chaos between classes and hero work. It’s like the bright, beaming light of sun rays making its way into his gaze and his only line of defense is his hand raised high over his face. And it’s when he catches himself thinking about you while brushing his teeth that he realizes he is well and truly fucked. He thought about the domesticality of it all, like when you’d sleep over at his and wake up cursing because you were late for your first class. When he watched in the bathroom mirror, wishing he could see you like that every morning. 

Bakugou Katsuki wasn’t in denial, he understood that he was in love with you, he hadn’t doubted that. Still he both hated and loved the feeling. The searching for you in crowds or the classroom or doing your notes for you when you were sick. He loved to see your face but hated to be the one to seek it out. Did loving you make him weaker? Weren’t you just another distraction in the climb to the top? Another trivial matter that’d pass with time, if only he didn’t poke the fire?

He hadn’t known what to do, especially when it felt like his heart was about to explode when you were near. But this was nothing compared to what he deals with on a day to day. If he could handle being a hero in training, he could handle this one by himself too. 

When the Spring festival came around he couldn’t help but say yes. He’d known you’d be there and that was reason enough for him. Even though his friends endlessly teased him, trying to coerce him into something that sat too tight in the neck and gut. Instead he wore his black tee, skull print front and center on the chest, the one he liked– despite Mina’s disapproving pout. 

The festival itself was filled with streamers and balloons and crazy lights of blue, green and pink flashing in his peripheral. Food vendors lined the outside walkways of UA and sakura petals laid scattered across the brick floor. Crowds of hundreds of people littered the street shopping and gaming and listening to student performances. Night fell over the campus while he searched for you, still hot from the hoots of romantic encouragement from his friends. Loud noises of cheers and song drifted throughout as he cut through the crowds and Bakugou grunted in discomfort. How did he let you talk him into this shit?

Thud! 

There you were, in this sea of people, bumping straight into him and knocking the wind straight out of his chest. You must’ve been walking pretty quickly because the impact almost knocks you straight to the ground. Bakugou’s large, scarred hands go to your shoulders to balance you, his grip tight and he took in how pretty you looked in that dress. And fuck, did you look beautiful. More than he’d ever thought, causing him to clear his throat and look away from you, lest he say something he’d regret later. You who stared right into his eyes, hoping he’d look in yours. He was damned. How the hell did he let you talk him into this shit?

It’d been hard– and in the middle of an intense training session– but you’d managed to convince Bakugou to show up to the UA annual Spring Festival. You weren’t sure you heard him correctly at first, his head turned away from you and a quiet mumble left his lips. 

“Fine.” He’d grumbled under his breath and you’d perked up at the sound. 

Hm?” You furrowed your brows in confusion, unsure if the words you’d thought left his mouth actually left him. 

“I said I’ll go, damnit.” He spat, before he swept you off your feet with a quick kick and onto the bright blue mat below. You’d persuaded him to actually leave his dorm room for once under the pretense of a school festival, but what you really wanted to do was see the fireworks with him. The perfect explosions intertwined with colors of varying hue fascinated you, the mixture bursting against the milky black sky reminding you of your friendship. And so, you were determined to look your absolute best for the occasion, clad in a dress borrowed from Ochaco and covering an already blushing face in even more blush. But despite all this, you insisted you did not have a thing for Katsuki Bakugou. Even when Mina and Kamanari made a bet to see who’d make a move first, you firmly explained your non-feelings for the blonde. 

Yes, you liked training with him, he was a good challenge. And yes, you enjoyed hanging out with him outside of school, he was okay company. And sometimes… maybe your face heated up when he’d ruffle your hair or prod between your eyebrows. But you asserted it didn't– doesn’t– mean anything, only that you’d gone particularly hard in a spar, or that it was kind of hot that day. You absolutely, positively did not like Katsuki Bakugou.

“Watch where you’re going, bastard.” He muttered, half-heartedly. “Could’ve knocked you down.” You grinned, a breeze of light content going through your body as you watched him. His eyes spoke of amusement and his usual scowl replaced itself with a playful smile. Even someone as not-in-love-with-Katsuki-Bakugou as you could admit how pretty he looked bathed under the pink and green spring lights, his ash blonde hair a natural mural of colors.

“Knocked me down? You wish.” You tease, smoothing down your skirt. His eyes trained on you, your words only making his smile wider.

“Oh, I wish, huh? How about practice last week, you smug asshole?” He prods between your eyebrows, a short laugh coming from him. You grin at his laughter, the ability to make him do anything but sneer a foreign concept for all but a few.

“I was distracted and it will never happen again.” You retort, your hands perched on your hips in stubborn challenge.

“Sure it won’t.” He grunted. Bakugou hesitated before drawing in a breath and slipping his hands from your shoulders down to your waist, feeling the embroidered details at the midriff. “Is– this…dress new?” He stumbled through his words, feeling a rising heat in his neck and jaw.

“It’s Ochaco’s,” You reply, pulling up at the skirt and looking over it, a soft smile on your face. “Does it look okay on me?” Your voice tightens and lowers, as you pick at the skin around your nails.

“Hm?” He scowled, clearly frustrated with something. “Do I look okay in it?” You spoke a little louder, clearer– bringing yourself higher and trying to match his height.

“You look perfect.” He suddenly rushes through his words, eyes widening like he’d let his own thoughts get the better of him. “I just mean– it just seems like a spring kind of dress.” He remarked, referring to the yellow and pink flower details running along the waist and chest of the frock.

You all but snorted at his demeanor, your lips softening and sliding your fingers to touch his black band tee. “You can just compliment me, Kats. It’s not a crime.” A mocking smile crosses your face and a resolute frown on the blonde’s.

“Tch. You– look okay, alright?” He spoke, a clear red coating his nose and cheeks. You’d thought it might be a trick of the light. There was no way he was blushing, least of all because of you. But was there? Was there a possibility he’d been thinking of you just as much as you had him?

Pops of color suddenly graced the sky, exploding into bits of dust and debris. You softly gasped and turned from him to watch them for a moment, the street now relatively empty from on-lookers moving to the hill. It was perfect, the mixture of yellow and pink explosions off from afar the most beautiful thing, the most perfect symbol. It’s only when you hear a wince behind you that you whip your head back in concern, Bakugou’s hands leaving your waist and shooting up to his ears where he held them firmly. He let out a grunt of discomfort, squeezing his eyes shut. 

You only stared at him for a simple moment before grabbing his hand and leading him away from the clamor. You cut through the trickle of people snacking at vendors and winning games, onto the lawn of the school and up the brick pathway leading up to the main entrance. You cursed, messing with your keycard before finally pushing open the large wooden door.

He let you lead without complaint, focused on blocking out the noise above and keeping his eyes trained on you. 

He needed your help.

It was the first time he’d admit it, squeezing your hand in solidarity as you climbed the stairs of the UA dorm rooms. His ears rang, the now muffled fireworks a lost memory as he watched you– so determined to help him that he’d just let it happen, surrendering any dying protest deep in his chest. He desperately wanted your assistance, wanted to share your lunch when he forgot his or have you patch him up after a rough fight. He wanted you to hug him when he was tired, talk to him about your day while he cooked for the both of you. He wanted you, more than he ever thought imaginable. And he couldn’t bring himself to be angry about that, though he was curious. 

You turned to him in the hallway of your dorms, taking his other hand and bringing him a soft, sympathetic smile. If it was anyone else he’d probably yell at them for their pity, talk himself up arrogantly, throw an explosion their way. But it was you, you who never pitied him over anything. And you knew he was strong anyway, so what was it? It wasn't unbridled sympathy you felt, so why did you stick your neck out for him each time? 

“The fireworks right?” You spoke slowly, gesturing a firework popping in your hand. Bakugou nodded, giving you a tight lipped smile, or at least what he knew how to give. “Yeah,” He croaked, red eyes searching yours in desperation. “That’s it.” Your face softened into a guilty frown, your gaze avoiding his. “I’m sorry, Kats.” You grimaced, playing with your fingertips. “I wanted us to see the fireworks–”

“Don’t make this about you, bastard.” He muttered, crossing his arms. “It’s— Jesus, it’s fine, you didn’t know.”

A soft silence fell over you both, save for the muffled pops of fireworks outside the window adjacent to you. It left him in his quandary, unsure how to act alone with you. Did he touch you? Would you want that? Would that be weird? For someone who always seemed so angry and in the mood to yell, he stayed so quiet today, sullen almost. “Are you okay?” You asked, keeping your words clear as you spoke.

“I’m fine. You don’t have–to ask every five seconds.” His words cut through the air, though they were soft, almost a mutter. “I mean– I just want to make sure you’re alright. Why didn’t you tell anyone your ears have been hurting?” You murmured, resting a hand on his crossed arms. 

You watched his jaw tick with tension, dragging his eyes away from your face as another silence rested against the walls of the hallway. Against the pictures from freshman year and the lists of to-dos you knew most of your roommates never got to. “I know you don’t need or want my help but– I just can’t bring myself not to.” You explained. “So– let me help you for my sake.”

Bakugou lets out a breath of air and cards a hand through his hair, face warming in subtle red. 

His gaze finally flicks to yours again and he can’t seem to regret the decision more.

“You’re just so— so fuckin’ sweet, you know that?” He scowled, shoving his hands in his pants pockets. “So peachy, I just can’t seem to keep up anymore.” Your eyes widened, surprise and clear confusion crossed your face as you dropped your fingers from his forearm. “Peachy?” A smile graces your lips and he scoffs. “You know what I damn mean, asshole.” His sneer deepens, bringing a hand to brush a stray hair away from your face. He pauses for a moment, his soft sigh fanning against your cheeks.

“I don’t know how to reciprocate it– and I damn sure don’t want to owe you anything.” The blonde furrowed his brows, concentrated on your hair and absolutely nothing else. You blink and let out a loud laugh, throwing your head back in raw amusement. His face morphs into one of discomfort, swallowing in embarrassment. Your breath finally manages to catch itself as you wipe tears from your pink face. “You don’t owe me anything, Kats. I help you because I want to– because it just feels right. ” You’re practically hopping on the tips of your toes, the emptiness of the hallway surrounding you making you bolder and the noises of cheers and pops lowering your inhibitions. “And not just ‘cause I'm a hero in training, okay? Because I really care about you.”

You give him an earnest smile and his breath catches in his throat when he realizes he can’t hide it anymore. He can’t hide his love for you, he can’t hide how much he wants to tug you in and kiss you breathless. Show you how strong he really is when he’s sweeping you off your feet. 

“Y/N?” He mutters, slipping his hand under the nape of your neck gingerly. 

“Mhm?” You hum, looking up at him through your lashes and nodding enthusiastically.

“I’m in love with you.”

A shock runs through your heart, breath now lost from your lungs. It thumps even louder now and it seemed like you could feel the beat in the floorboards. 

“Oh.” You manage to squeak, choking through most of it and your face warming. It was just the spring heat, you told yourself.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, and fuck it’s probably all wrong, but– there it is… all out on the table and… I just want you to help me.”

A long silence comes as you figure out how to even begin to respond to that. “I– I want to help you, Kats– honest, I do… but I don’t know how… in this situation.” You swallow. He watches you, face ruddy in exasperation or affection. It feels like your heart has never beat faster and yet you felt a tug in your chest, a yearning you’ve never understood. You’d felt it when you’d hang out or spar, your mind never quite letting him leave your thoughts. And you realized, face warming: You did have a crush on Katsuki Bakugou. A sense so strong that it felt unjustified to call it something so menial as a crush.

“How about dinner?” He manages, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. A silence crosses through the room as you bring yourself to. Your face feels like it’s on fire when you’re looking at him, like a bright explosion glittering your world. He looks so nervous, yet so resolute like he was trying to hide his regret of telling you this way. Your silence seems to make him sweat, eyes widening in barely concealed panic. “It’s no, isn’t it? It’s fine– it’s no, fuck–”

“No, no– I mean…yes–! I want to go to dinner with you, Katsuki.” You rushed, playing with your nails and nodding. “I’d love to go to dinner with you.” You clarify, clearing your throat. “If… that’s okay.” 

“...Okay.” He grins to himself, stuffing his hands in his pants pockets. 

“Okay.” You parrot, giving him a soft smile and brushing out your skirt.

[pankowcrumbs]

Over the Radio X Lando Norris

18+

Plot: You are Lando's new race engineer and the flirting is everything even though it's forbidden.

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

The headset felt heavier than usual.

It wasn’t the weight, obviously. It was the pressure. I’d just been promoted me, Y/N, twenty-five, notoriously chatty and chronically single to the role of Lando Norris’s race engineer. A job I’d secretly daydreamed about since joining McLaren as a junior engineer three years ago. Not just because I loved strategy or thrived in high-stakes environments.

But because Lando made work… dangerous in the best way.

We’d always had this flirty, electric thing between us laced through teasing in the paddock, lingering glances after debriefs, and him playfully tapping his pen against my shoulder when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. But I’d never let it go further. Too complicated. Too public. Too… risky.

And now?

Now I had a mic strapped to my head and a driver... that driver relying on my voice to guide him through every sector.

“Alright,” came his voice through the comms during FP1, low and casual, “I’m just going to say it I like hearing you in my ears.”

I rolled my eyes, cheeks already heating. “You’re supposed to like hearing me, Norris. I’m your engineer now.”

“I liked hearing you before you got the promotion.”

“Focus.”

He chuckled, the sound crackling slightly over the radio. “Can’t help it when you sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Bossy.”

Jesus Christ.

I muted myself for a second just to let out a laugh. He was testing me already, barely ten minutes into the first session. I should’ve expected nothing less.

Back on comms, I cleared my throat. “Alright, let’s try the medium tyre run, please. Box now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I swear he said it just to get a rise out of me.

By qualifying, he was in full performance mode razor-sharp on track, but his mouth still didn’t switch off completely.

“Tyres feel great,” he said mid-run. “Or maybe it’s your voice lulling me into a false sense of security.”

“Glad I can soothe your inner chaos.”

“Oh, you do. Might ask you to record bedtime stories next.”

“Eyes on the apex, Norris.”

“Yes, boss.”

I caught one of the mechanics chuckling nearby.

It didn’t help that we were the same age. Didn’t help that he looked at me like I wasn’t just a voice in his ear, but something he wanted and maybe always had.

Didn’t help that part of me… wanted it back.

Race day.

This was it.

Lando was starting P4, and I was trying not to throw up from nerves. We stood by the car before the formation lap, the crew swarming around us in a flurry of final checks and tyre warmers and last-second whispers.

He walked over to me, helmet in hand, curls slightly damp under his cap.

“You good?” he asked.

I nodded. “You?”

He grinned. “You’re in my ear today. I’ll be great.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not allowed to flirt with me mid-race. We’ve got a championship to chase.”

“No promises,” he said, leaning in just enough for no one else to hear. “You make strategy sound sexy.”

He winked and walked off before I could swat him with my clipboard.

God help me.

“Radio check.”

“Loud and clear.”

The lights blinked off and the race began.

For the first few laps, everything was clinical. Tyre temps. Fuel delta. Turn eight oversteer.

But by lap twenty, he was settled and cocky again.

“Okay, love, talk to me.”

“Your pace is solid. Holding strong at P3.”

“Love that. Love you, too, but we’ll unpack that later.”

I flushed despite myself. “Lando”

“You sound flustered.”

“You sound overconfident.”

“I’ve got the world’s prettiest engineer in my ear. Hard not to be.”

I bit back a smile. “Focus on Leclerc. You’re gaining three-tenths in Sector 2.”

“Yes, boss. I like when you take charge.”

He was impossible.

And brilliant.

And absolutely relentless.

By lap 37, he was chasing P2, and we were in the thick of strategy calls. I tried to keep my voice even, professional, despite the sweat on my palms.

“Box this lap, confirm?”

“Confirmed.”

He flew into the pit lane. Tyres off, tyres on, and gone again textbook.

Back on track, I checked data. He was flying. We were flying.

Then came his voice, smug and smooth.

“You’re amazing at this.”

“Just doing my job.”

“I meant being sexy and strategic at the same time, but sure.”

I laughed couldn’t help it. He was unreal.

“And you’re dangerously close to being muted.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

“Liar.”

I was. A little.

Maybe more than a little.

By the final ten laps, he was in P2, battling for the lead. My heart was pounding as hard as his engine.

“Push now, Lando. You’ve got the grip. He’s vulnerable.”

“Copy. For you, I’ll push.”

“You’d better. Don’t make me come down there.”

“Oh, please do. You threatening me in person? Hot.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself whiplash.

He overtook on Lap 59. Clean. Bold. Beautiful.

P1.

“YES!” I yelled, forgetting to mute. “You’ve done it!”

He was laughing in my ear. “Sounded like you just...”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying...”

“Drive the bloody car, Norris!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He won.

He bloody won.

I barely remembered the cooldown lap, too overwhelmed with numbers, data, and his smug little voice in my ear.

“You were perfect,” he said, a bit breathless. “I don’t just mean the car.”

I didn’t reply.

I couldn’t. Not when my heart was beating that loud.

In parc fermé, I waited on the pit wall, still breathless as the crew jumped and cheered around me. He leapt out of the car, helmet off, curls damp with sweat, eyes scanning until he found me.

And then he ran.

Straight to me.

Lando didn’t hesitate just wrapped his arms around my waist, lifted me clean off the ground, and spun me like we were in some bloody film. I was laughing, flushed, and fully aware the world was watching.

“Lando!” I hissed, “Cameras!”

“Don’t care.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He looked at me all mischief and heat and said, “You realise this means I get to flirt every race now, right?”

I grinned despite myself.

“Only if you keep winning.”

“Deal.”

He pressed his forehead to mine.

“Guess we’re going to be unstoppable, then.”

It didn’t take long for the world to catch on.

The radio clips the ones where Lando called me love, where he shamelessly flirted mid-race, where I threatened to mute him while trying not to laugh went viral before we even packed up the garage.

The fans were obsessed.

I saw the edits first little videos stitched together on TikTok, set to romantic pop songs, captioned things like “find someone who talks to you the way Lando talks to Y/N” or “she’s his soft spot, I’m in tears”. There were screenshots of me on the pit wall, flushed and grinning like an idiot, side by side with photos of him beaming in the car.

#LandYN was trending by morning.

I nearly dropped my phone when I saw it.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered, scrolling through endless fan theories. They’re secretly dating. They’re in love. She’s his lucky charm.

One clip had already reached a million views it was a montage of our comms from the race, ending with Lando yelling “You were perfect!” over the radio.

My cheeks ached from smiling.

Still, I knew better than to get too carried away. It was fun, sure, but it was dangerous too. Teams didn’t love distractions. And even if part of me burned for him always had, if I was honest I wasn’t going to risk my career over a few flirty radio messages.

Or so I told myself.

That afternoon, we were ushered into the press tent for post-race interviews.

Lando was his usual charming, grinning self, hair still messy from the helmet, race suit tied around his waist, white McLaren tee clinging to him in all the right places.

I tried not to stare.

Tried harder not to think about how he’d lifted me off the ground in front of half the paddock hours earlier.

The reporters, of course, pounced almost immediately.

“So, Lando,” one of them called, “incredible win today. Do you think the new race engineer had anything to do with your performance?”

He smirked and flicked a glance at me where I was standing just off-camera.

“I mean…” He shrugged dramatically. “Have you heard her voice?”

The whole room laughed.

I buried my face in my clipboard.

“She keeps me calm,” he went on, grinning like the devil. “Keeps me focused. Also keeps me on my toes. Sometimes I listen just to hear her yell at me.”

Another ripple of laughter.

I shot him a glare over the top of my clipboard. He winked.

Another reporter jumped in, voice eager. “There’s a lot of talk online about how much chemistry you two have. Any truth to that?”

My stomach dropped.

This was it. This was the moment where he’d laugh it off, make a joke, move on.

But Lando paused.

His smile softened.

“I mean, it’s not fake,” he said simply. “We’re close. We trust each other a lot. Makes a difference when you’ve got someone you… y’know. Care about.”

I felt the heat climb up my neck, all the way to my ears.

The reporters caught it instantly, shouting follow-up questions, but Lando just grinned and gave a playful two-finger salute before ducking out of the interview area.

I didn’t breathe until he was gone.

Later, tucked away in the back of the motorhome, I cornered him.

“Are you insane?” I hissed, grabbing his wrist before he could escape. “Did you hear yourself?”

He looked at me, all wide eyes and fake innocence. “What?”

“‘Someone you care about’? Lando, they’re going to eat that up! The fans are already....!”

He cut me off by tugging me closer, voice low and teasing. “Why are you so panicked, love?”

“Because...” I sputtered. “Because it’s my job, and people are already making bloody fan fiction about us!”

His hand slid lazily down my arm, fingers brushing the inside of my wrist. It was maddening how casual he was, like my heart wasn’t currently trying to punch a hole through my ribs.

“Let them,” he murmured. “I’m not scared.”

“You should be. It’s a media circus out there.”

He leaned in, so close I could smell the lingering leather and soap on his skin.

“Y/N,” he said, smiling faintly, “I meant it.”

I blinked up at him. “Meant what?”

“That I care about you.” His hand tightened slightly around my wrist, grounding me. “I don’t care who knows.”

My stomach flipped so hard I nearly stumbled.

“Lando…”

He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, fingers grazing my cheek. “You think I’ve been flirting with you all this time just for fun?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“No one else gets under my skin like you do,” he said, laughing under his breath. “No one else makes me want to win more, just to hear you call me perfect again.”

I didn’t mean to. Honestly, I didn’t.

But I surged up onto my toes and kissed him.

It was clumsy at first too fast, too desperate but then his hands were cupping my jaw, anchoring me, and he kissed me back like he’d been waiting for it forever.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and dizzy, he rested his forehead against mine.

“‘Bout bloody time,” he whispered.

I laughed, shaky and giddy.

“I’m still going to yell at you over the radio,” I warned.

He grinned. “Good. Gets me going.”

I smacked his chest, and he caught my hand, threading our fingers together like he had no intention of letting go.

The motorhome door rattled somewhere behind us. Someone calling for him, for debriefs or photos or something equally less important than this.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

“C’mon, love,” he said softly. “Let’s give them something real to ship.”

We didn’t even make it a full twenty-four hours before the team called us in.

It was Zak who asked for the meeting polite but firm and as soon as I walked into the glass-walled conference room and saw Lando slouched in a chair with that sheepish, boyish grin, I knew we were in trouble.

My stomach twisted.

Zak didn’t exactly tell us off he’s too clever for that but the message was clear.

"You two have great chemistry," he said, steepling his fingers under his chin, "and it's good for morale. Good for the fans too. We're not here to kill the vibe."

Lando nodded along, looking for all the world like a naughty schoolboy.

"But," Zak continued, voice harder now, "there's a line. Banter’s fine. Flirting, fine. It stays on the radio. That’s it. No relationships. No... fraternising. You know how it looks otherwise conflicts of interest. Favouritism."

I felt my heart sink to the soles of my shoes.

"If anything beyond the job happens," Zak said, tone grave, "I'm sorry, Y/N, but you'd have to go. We can't have that. It's non-negotiable."

The words hung between us like a guillotine.

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod. "Understood."

"Understood," Lando echoed, though his voice was quieter.

Zak smiled, all business again. "Good. We trust you. Carry on."

The meeting ended without further fuss, but I felt hollow as I followed Lando out into the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing above us like a wasp.

I was two steps from escaping when he grabbed my hand and dragged me, fast and urgent, into his driver's room.

The door shut with a soft thud.

"Lando" I started, but he spun to face me, blue eyes bright and burning.

"We just have to be careful," he said quickly, crowding into my space, voice low. "That's all. We can work this out."

I stared at him like he'd gone mad. "Are you insane?" My voice cracked. "I can't risk my job. I love this job, Lando."

"I know," he said, hands finding my hips like magnets, grounding me. "I know, love, I swear. I’d never let anything happen to you."

I shook my head, heart hammering. "One wrong move, and they’ll sack me. I’m not risking my career for..."

"For us?" he finished, smile tilted, heartbreakingly soft. "Not even a little?"

I glared at him, but it had no heat. God, he was dangerous when he wanted something. Sweet talker. Charming bastard.

He took my silence as an opportunity, nosing gently along my temple, voice a whisper against my hair.

"Secret meetings," he murmured. "After long race days. Hotel rooms. Locked doors."

I shivered.

"No one has to know," he coaxed. "We'll be smart. We'll be so bloody careful, they'll never suspect a thing."

I bit my lip, torn between every instinct screaming be sensible and the way his hands curved around me like I was already his.

"You’re asking a lot," I whispered.

"I’m asking for a chance," he said simply. "For us."

He pressed his forehead to mine, and for a long second, we just breathed each other in. Him and me and the impossible thing growing wild between us.

I was so tired of fighting it.

Of pretending.

One night. One chance. Maybe that was all it would be maybe it would end in heartbreak but right then, with his thumb stroking slow circles into my hip, I didn’t care.

"Fine," I breathed, caving, heart racing. "But careful, Norris. I mean it."

His grin was a flash of sunshine.

"Careful's my middle name," he teased, then leaned in and kissed me, slow and sweet and reverent, like we had all the time in the world.

God help me, I was already addicted.

Another race day. Another chance to push the boundary without crossing it.

I was clipped into my headset, the familiar weight of it comforting as I stood on the pit wall, heart thundering in rhythm with the engines.

Lando’s voice crackled over the radio.

"You miss me yet?" he teased during formation lap, the lightness in his voice making me smile against the back of my hand.

"Focus, Norris," I said, keeping my tone prim, but the smile was audible, and we both knew it.

"Hard to focus when you sound that pretty," he quipped back, low enough that only I would catch the meaning behind the words.

I heard the collective swoon of the fans in my mind. They’d catch the exchange they always did snipping, editing, posting. #LandoYN was trending every bloody week.

The race itself was chaos late rain, tight corners, pit strategy coming down to seconds but God, he drove like a man possessed.

Each time I gave him a call, he responded instantly, trusting me, trusting us.

On the final lap, I told him, "Bring her home, Lando."

His laughter was breathless over the comms. "Anything for you, love."

And when he crossed the line first, victorious, the roar from the team around me was deafening.

I barely remembered throwing my arms up, screaming with the others, heart exploding with pride until I caught sight of him in parc fermé, helmet off, curls wild, grinning like the sun itself.

He found my eyes across the chaos and winked a quick, cocky, secret little thing that made my stomach swoop.

The media circus after was worse than ever.

"So, Lando," one of the interviewers said slyly, mic shoved in his face. "Your radio with your race engineer... getting pretty famous. Fans are shipping it, mate."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks pink.

"Yeah, well..." His eyes flicked to me, lingering a second too long. "Some people just... bring out the best in you, don’t they?"

The crowd erupted.

My whole face burned.

Bloody hell, Lando.

Zak would have kittens.

But secretly, deep down, it thrilled me how he didn’t hide it. How he let it show.

Later that night, long after the champagne showers and the debriefs, after the media had cleared out and the garage was dark and still, I found myself outside his hotel room door, heart hammering.

I hesitated for a full thirty seconds before knocking.

It swung open almost immediately.

He stood there, hair still damp from a shower, barefoot, wearing nothing but grey joggers slung indecently low on his hips.

"Hi," he said, voice rough from the day, from the screaming, from the adrenaline.

"Hi," I whispered.

Before I could lose my nerve, he reached out, grabbed my hand, and tugged me inside.

The door shut with a soft click behind me, cutting us off from the world.

We barely made it two steps before he had me pressed up against the wall, mouth on mine.

There was nothing polite about it.

It was hungry.

Months of tension, stolen glances, secret touches it all snapped free like an elastic band stretched too far.

His hands skimmed up my thighs, grabbing beneath the hem of my dress, squeezing like he couldn’t get enough.

I gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, pressing closer until I could feel the hard line of him against my belly.

"God, I’ve wanted this," he groaned, lips trailing along my jaw, my throat. "Wanted you."

His hands were everywhere sliding under my dress, dragging the zipper down with one quick, impatient tug.

I wriggled out of it, letting it puddle at my feet, standing there in nothing but a scrap of lace and my heels, breathing hard.

Lando stepped back, eyes dark, devouring the sight of me.

"Fucking beautiful," he muttered, voice wrecked.

He dipped down, kissing my shoulder, my collarbone, trailing lower.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, gasping when he mouthed at the tops of my breasts, teasing with slow, maddening patience.

When he dropped to his knees, I thought I might collapse.

"Lando" I choked out, but he only grinned up at me, wicked.

"Let me take care of you, love," he murmured.

And then his mouth was on me hot, clever, relentless.

He hooked my leg over his shoulder, hands gripping my hips like a lifeline, holding me steady as he licked into me with devastating skill.

I buried my fingers in his curls, tugging helplessly as pleasure coiled tight and hot in my belly.

It didn’t take long I was wound too tight, too desperate and when I came, it was with a cry muffled against the back of my hand, thighs trembling around his head.

He kissed his way back up my body, nipping and soothing, whispering praises against my skin.

When he finally lifted me arms strong, careful and carried me to the bed, I didn’t resist.

I didn’t even think.

I just held onto him, heart racing, trusting him to catch me.

And he did.

All night long.