#back on this interview again because a) LOOK AT HIM | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

coryndoll · 2 days ago

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❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTEXT chapter five, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, caesars interviews, rafe and reader bonding, the last night before the games, i havent slept im so ready to start writing i havent even worked on the masterlist for this LMFAO sorry im spewing these out so much i just love thg

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the day after the scores, you’re told it’s your rest day, but there’s no such thing as rest here.

enobaria calls it a “refining session.” brutus, on the other hand, tosses a lopsided grin and says, “boot camp.”

you literally don’t even laugh.

the two of them are already planted on the velvet couches in the living room when you step in, hair still damp, expression blank. rafe drifts in behind you and flops down beside you on the couch, one leg bent beneath him, his elbow thrown lazily over the back of the cushions. when brutus eyes him, he shrugs.

“what?” rafe says, stretching his arms with a quiet crack. “we’re all friends here.”

enobaria rolls her eyes. brutus just exhales like he doesn’t have the energy to argue.

what follows is not friendly. it’s sharp-edged and exhausting, a full-blown psychological breakdown of what you’re supposed to be tomorrow when you step on caesar flickerman’s stage. not who you are, but who they want you to become.

“you’re not just tributes,” enobaria says, pacing slow. “you’re symbols, metaphors, breathing metaphors. do you understand?”

you nod, though you’re not sure if you do.

brutus rubs a hand over his face. “we’re giving you roles to play,” he says, a little softer. “you have to sell yourselves to the capitol. they’re going to fall in love with the idea of you.”

they look at rafe first.

“you’re the knight,” enobaria says. “protector of panem. young soldier from district two. charming, powerful, noble. someone who doesn’t fight because he wants to kill, but because it’s his duty.”

“chivalrous,” brutus adds. “but intimidating when you need to be.”

“someone the audience trusts,” she finishes, “but knows better than to cross.”

rafe lifts an eyebrow. “so you want me to be terrifying and trustworthy?”

“exactly,” enobaria says, not missing a beat.

he leans back again, mouth twitching at the corner. “guess i can do that.”

you wish it were that easy. but they turn to you next. enobaria studies you for too long, like she’s trying to peel your skin back to see what’s underneath.

“you’re not fire,” she says. “don’t try to be.”

you raise your chin, something cold curls in your gut. okay.

“you’re elegance,” brutus says. “grace, a flower that blooms in the middle of a battlefield.”

enobaria steps closer. “you’re the divine feminine, not to be underestimated. you don’t fight for glory. you fight to survive. and when you do, you make it look like art.”

you don’t know whether to feel flattered or furious. how the fuck do you portray that in an interview?

instead, you just breathe in slowly, eyes fixed on the window across the room. you’re too tired to argue.

they give you sample questions, hypothetical answers. you sit there for over two hours, repeating lines until they sound rehearsed in your own head.

rafe plays along easily, his tone slipping into charm when he’s asked about his strengths, letting a grin tug at his lips. you catch glimpses of what he’ll be like on stage. it’s convincing. dangerously so.

you get a break after that, barely ten minutes. just long enough to want to be anywhere else.

you’re standing near the sliding doors to the balcony, arms crossed, head pounding. the sky’s just starting to turn a hazy kind of blue. the city below doesn’t look real. nothing here does.

behind you, you hear rafe’s voice. “you wanna go?”

you turn your head slightly. he’s holding open the door with one hand, eyebrows raised.

“spar,” he clarifies. “just you ‘n me.”

you don’t answer, just step past him. you roll your shoulders back as you turn to face him, bare feet shifting against the smooth tile.

“first hit wins?” you say.

he smirks. “you won’t land one.”

you launch at him without warning, and he catches your momentum easily, spinning to throw you off balance, but you recover fast, ducking under his arm and aiming a quick jab at his side. he dodges, just barely.

your bodies move in rhythm. it’s dance-like and clean. but he’s faster, more grounded. his strength is in his restraint. he never uses more force than necessary. you can tell he’s holding back again, testing you, watching how you move.

but you’re not weak. you’re sharp, light on your feet. your hits are quick and calculated.

there’s a moment where he catches your wrist and twists, and your breath catches, but instead of panicking, you roll with it, using your other hand to push him back, your legs sweeping under his.

he stumbles, just for a second. you both pause. then you laugh, he does too. you wipe sweat from your brow and shake your head. “you’re better at this than i thought.”

“i’m better at everything than you thought.”

you roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest has eased. the sparring is the most normal thing you’ve done in days.

he steps closer, not in a threatening way. he holds your gaze. “you’ll be good out there,” he says, voice low.

you don’t ask if he means the interview. or the arena. you just nod. “yeah,” you murmur. “you too.”

the morning of the interview, you wake before the sun.

there’s no need to, no call time that early, no knock on the door. but your body just knows, like it’s wired to the pressure now. your stomach turns the second your eyes open, heavy and hollow all at once. you lie there for a while in the dark, the sheets tangled around your legs.

you don't remember falling asleep. you barely remember yesterday. the rehearsals blurred together, your body and brain pushed past the point of tired, and now you're on the other side of it.

you keep hearing brutus’ voice in your head.

you don’t fight for glory. you fight to survive. and when you do, you make it look like art.

whatever the hell that means.

you rise slowly. everything you do feels deliberate now, like it matters. like they're watching. even now. even here.

you step into the shower and let the heat burn against your skin. it's too hot. you don’t care. the steam curls up around you, beads of water streaming down your back like they’re trying to rinse off the nerves, the fear, the truth of where you're going.

when you step out, you don’t bother looking in the mirror. you know what you’ll see. your prep team does, too.

they're waiting when you step into the room that’s been transformed into a personal studio. valis is standing to the side, arms folded in a sleek black outfit, surveying your approach like a general waiting for her soldier.

she doesn’t say anything at first. just looks you over and nods. you’re a canvas, and she’s about to make you perfect.

the prep team descends in silence, gloved hands on your shoulders, guiding you gently toward the chair. your damp hair is already being combed through, braided, twisted. there’s music playing somewhere, no real words being sung, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own thoughts.

you murmur to yourself under your breath, just words from yesterday’s rehearsal, like the phrases they drilled into you, the fake answers, the poised smiles, the things you’re supposed to say when they ask you about the games, or about your partner, or what makes you different from every other tribute.

you think about your parents, what they’ll see. you wonder if they’ll even recognize you when you step on that stage.

a warm hand lifts your chin, guiding your face as the stylists start to work. powder, shimmer, subtle contouring that sculpts your features but doesn’t hide them. they know the image valis is aiming for.

the dress appears partway through. someone wheels it in carefully, draped over a velvet mannequin, covered in clear silk. your eyes lock on it instantly.

it’s breathtaking.

it doesn’t scream district two. not really. but there’s a nod in the design. it’s less armor, more divine regalia.

you catch your reflection now.

valis steps up beside you and nods once. “you’ll have them in the palm of your hand.” but you don’t answer.

you’re standing in line.

the stage is just beyond the doors, a glowing, blinding light on the other side. the screen above will play each interview in real time, showing the faces of the tributes in front of you. it’s where you’ll laugh, charm, and lie.

the line forms by district, starting with one. you’re somewhere toward the front again, right behind topper. your heels are quiet on the smooth floor, your body still, your breath slow.

topper stands in front of you, hands loose at his sides, relaxed in a way only someone from district one can be. he plays with the button on his jacket, bouncing slightly on his heels. you can hear him humming. he’s not nervous. he’s performing.

diamonte is already on stage.

you don’t even realize you’ve been tuning her out until caesar starts clapping and thanking her. her voice was quiet, her answers clipped. gee, her mentor must be exhausted.

the moment she exits the stage, the prep team swarms her like flies. and once his name is called, topper steps forward, a grin blooming across his face like it’s second nature.

you let your attention drift as the cameras pan to him.

his laughter fills the hallway as he starts his interview, all teeth and charm and easy. caesar eats it up. so does the audience. you let your eyes flick to the screen above, only half-listening. it’s hard to focus. you’re running through every question brutus made you answer yesterday, every phrase enobaria made you repeat.

the words still live in your mouth like muscle memory.

you’re so deep in your head, you don’t realize your hand has drifted back until you feel something warm brush your fingertips.

you blink, focus sharpening. his fingers. rafes.

you glance down, startled, but don’t move. his hand is at his side too, casual like yours, but his fingers are grazing yours like they’re asking a question.

his movements are slow, hesitant, like he’s checking if you’ll pull away. but for some reason, you don’t. instead, your hand stays there.

rafes fingers finally press softly into yours, and you stare at the floor. his thumb brushes along the inside of your knuckle once, kind of grounding in a way.

it’s stupid. and still, you squeeze his hand back.

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to, you just feel the warmth and the way it anchors you for a second when the world feels like it might spin off its axis.

topper’s name is shouted overhead in that sing-song way caesar flickerman always does, a final cheer ringing out from the crowd. on the screen, topper flashes his signature smirk, presses a hand to his chest, nods once like he’s accepting a crown, and walks off into the wings where his team waits for him like he’s already won.

your hand tightens slightly around rafe’s. his thumb strokes yours once more.

then you hear your name.

his touch disappears, you’re the one pulling away. you take one breath, two, and you don’t look back. you lift your chin, and walk.

once you step out into the light, it floods you all at once. you feel the heat on your skin, the flutter in your chest. your shoes hit the stage like they belong here,

smile, you remind yourself. so you do. not too big. just enough.

your lips curve gently, like a subtle invitation. you walk like you’ve done this before. like you’ve walked on runways made of bone and silk. like you’ve never known fear.

you cross to the velvet armchair opposite caesar flickerman, who beams like he’s just seen a goddess step into his living room. his blue hair sparkles under the lights, suit more outrageous than ever. it’s something gold and high-collared tonight, glowing like it was made of static.

you sit, and the applause simmers down to a purr as caesar leans forward, hands clasped.

“welcome, welcome,” caesar says, beaming at you. “you look stunning, my dear. absolutely radiant. tell me—who is responsible for this masterpiece of a dress?”

you glance toward the audience, then down at the gown.

it’s a dark wine red, almost black under the lights. the fabric flows like water, high-necked with a slit up one leg, the cut hugging you like it was poured on. petals are made from delicate glassy mesh climb up the bodice, unfurling across your chest and one shoulder.

“valis and my prep team,” you say. your voice is clear, calm, just a little smoky. “they worked very hard on it, caesar.”

“they deserve a raise,” caesar says dramatically. the crowd laughs. “and is it true we have a theme going on with this look? i’m sensing something floral, something . . .”

you smile again. just slightly. “roses,” you say, letting the word linger. “a reminder that something beautiful can still be dangerous.”

a hush falls. then applause.

you see it in caesar’s eyes. you’ve got him. he adjusts in his seat. “now i have to say, there’s been a lot of talk about you. your training score was . . . well, let’s just say it had everyone leaning forward. and the quiet ones, oh, we know what they say about the quiet ones. i mean, it was the highest score received this year.”

you keep your expression unreadable. “what can i say?” you reply softly. “i prefer to let my actions speak for me.”

the crowd loves that. they cheer again. even caesar claps a little, but you feel yourself settle into the moment. you were born for this, weren’t you?

“so tell us,” caesar goes on. “what’s your strategy going into the arena? any strengths you want to share? anything we should be watching for?”

you pause for a breath.

“i’m not here to make friends,” you say simply “i’m here to survive.”

another pause.

“but i do think there’s a . . . poetry in surviving. it’s not just about killing. it’s about reading the arena, understanding people, knowing when to wait, and when to strike. and how to turn the odds.”

caesar whistles. “spoken like a true daughter of two! and is there anyone, back home maybe, who’ll be watching you closely?”

you let the question hang in the air. your eyes flick to the camera softly, and you nod. “i hope my parents are watching,” you say. “i hope . . . they know i haven’t forgotten who i am.”

that earns a quieter reaction. people are still respectful, just a little more curious. you don’t say anything else.

caesar stands with you, takes your hand, raises it to the crowd, “district two’s rose—y/n!”

the applause swells. you let them cheer, let them look at you and see exactly what you want them to see. you smile, but it never quite reaches your eyes.

you step offstage into a rush of motion. the applause is still buzzing in your ears. immediately, you're swallowed by hands. valis’ voice hits first, sharp with breathless praise.

“you were perfect,” she says, adjusting the fabric at your shoulder, like there’s something to fix even though there’s not. “the smile, the posture, the answers. perfect.”

your prep team swarms in next, touching your hair, smoothing your dress, giving you anxious, excited looks. they all talk at once. someone hands you water, someone else mutters something about a strand of hair being out of place. you don’t listen. not really.

enobaria appears behind valis, arms folded. “well done,” she says simply. “you said everything we wanted them to hear. you owned the room. didn’t overstay, didn’t overshare. you were exactly what we needed you to be.”

you nod, just once, like you’re absorbing it, but your eyes are already moving up, to the screen above the door.

caesar’s still standing on stage, soaking up the applause that followed your exit. “and now,” he announces, voice rising again, “please welcome to the stage . . . our male tribute from district two—rafe cameron!”

the camera follows him as he steps into the light. his suit is simple, dark, collar slightly open like he couldn’t be bothered to wear a tie. and a small, barely-there detail: a single rose pin at his lapel. it matches the petals from your dress.

he takes the chair opposite caesar, leans back like he’s done this a thousand times, like he’s not about to enter a deathmatch, but like he’s sitting at a bar about to tell you a story.

you don’t realize you’ve stepped forward until valis gently tugs your elbow, ushering you to sit. but you don’t sit. not yet. your eyes stay locked on the screen.

you watch as caesar leans in, grin wide. “rafe cameron. i think you’ve just broken quite a few hearts in this room.”

rafe’s laugh is low, warm. just the right amount of amused. “that’s not my intention,” he says. “but i’ll take the compliment.”

the audience swoons. you can already see the headlines. the capitol’s favorite solder, the face of two, panem’s protector.

“now, you’re quite the mystery, rafe,” caesar says, smiling. “the training scores don’t lie. and you’re not exactly the loudest tribute we’ve had, but there’s something about you . . . something commanding. tell us, where does that come from?”

rafe shrugs slightly. “i grew up around people who didn’t let words mean much,” he says. “they taught me that actions matter more. if i make it out of that arena, it won’t be because i talked my way through.”

gee, you two are looking like two peas in a pod now.

“so no fancy speeches?” caesar teases.

rafe smiles again, slower this time. “if i give a speech, it’s probably because i’m buying time to get behind you.”

the crowd loses it.

even caesar laughs, clapping his hands. “oh, i like you.”

valis murmurs something beside you, something about how his phrasing is perfect, how he’s sticking to the plan, how he’s a dream.

caesar asks about the arena next, like what he’ll do when it all starts.

“i’ll fight,” rafe says. “that’s what i’ve been trained to do.”

“and if you’re not the last one standing?” caesar asks, voice softer.

rafe pauses.

and for a second, you see it, something flickering in his expression. “then i’ll make sure the person who is . . . deserves to be.”

caesar lets the silence hang for just long enough before rising to his feet and calling out his name like a victory bell, “rafe cameron!”

the applause slams through the studio again as rafe rises, nodding once to the audience, then turning to disappear into the wings.

when rafe walks past the prep teams and camera cords, he doesn’t stop until he’s beside you.

you nudge his arm, “panem’s protector?”

he hums like you’re challenging him, “our rose of panem?”

you roll your eyes, but there’s a smile in it.

the ride back to the apartment is quiet. brutus has already mumbled something about calling it a night and disappears into his room the moment the elevator doors open. enobaria lingers in the living room, speaking in low, clipped tones into a thin communicator tucked into her wrist. a family call, maybe. her voice softens when she says the name lynna. it makes you smile, even though you don’t know who that is.

you don’t listen in anyway. it’s not your place.

instead, you let valis and your prep team start their work.

they're gentler this time, quieter, more careful, like they know tonight is different. it’s not just an end to the public show, but the last stretch of normalcy before it all crumbles into the arena tomorrow.

the dress is removed, handled like it’s priceless. and maybe it is. your skin is wiped clean, their fingers warm as they dab off every trace of shimmer, rouge, gloss. even the kohl lining your eyes. it’s all erased, like none of it ever mattered.

you're back in your loungewear again. it’s just you.

you hear the other prep team working on rafe in the room across from yours with muffled voices, maybe some quiet laughter. his team has always been a bit more relaxed than yours. you wonder if he’s smiling. if he’s pretending he’s not scared.

you don’t speak to each other yet. not with all these people still here. but when they finally start to pack up, hands gentle and final, you feel a strange kind of grief tug at your ribs, like losing something you didn’t even know you were holding.

valis kisses the top of your head before she leaves. you don’t stop her. she doesn’t say goodbye just yet. she’s probably saving it for tomorrow. but she squeezes your shoulder and goes.

rafe’s team probably does the same. you hear the soft footsteps and hushed murmurs, and then the front door hisses shut behind them, and it’s just the four of you now.

brutus is silent behind his door. snoring, probably.

enobaria’s still talking in the living room, but her voice is fading into something calmer. laughter, even.

you don’t mean to sit down on your bed. you just find yourself there. your fingers twist the edge of the blanket without thought. your gaze is trained somewhere between the floor and nothing at all.

you should rest, but your mind doesn’t want to. it’s loud now. strategies, maps, faces, weapons, alliances, weak points. it’s all there, all fighting for space in your head.

it feels like studying for an exam in school, except this time, a wrong answer doesn’t just mean a bad grade. it means a knife in your throat. a cannon fire. a name in the sky.

you hate that thought. you hate it. but it’s real. you have to be the one who survives. you can’t afford not to be. not after all this. not with how many people are counting on you. but then again . . . the games don’t care what you deserve. and luck doesn’t care either.

you’ve seen it in old games before. it doesn’t even matter if you’re strong, or fast, or smart. one misstep, one wrong branch or trap or breath, and it’s over. that’s what scares you, not the killing.

you shift and lay back, arms at your sides, eyes on the ceiling. you think about the arena, what it might be.

a sunken city, maybe. collapsing buildings, rusted steel and water pooling beneath cracked rooftops. a place where every step is a risk.

or maybe something dry and open. a desert with no real water source comes to mind. but no, they wouldn’t do that. it would end too quickly. there’d be no tension, no drawn-out battles, no long, bloody entertainment.

they need a spectacle this year. the tributes are too good. the scores too high. no one wants to see a short game.

you sigh, and roll to your side. the fabric of the blanket scratches slightly against your cheek. you’d watched the rest of the interviews once you were back in your room earlier. nothing stuck except for a girl from five. her name slips your mind, but not her face, her hands didn’t fidget when she spoke. and the guy from eleven. there was something in the way he hesitated before answering certain questions. something he didn’t want to give away.

you’ll remember that if you see them again. like, you’ll see him before the bloodbath surely, but once you’ve taken what you need tomorrow and start to survive in the arena? it’s weird to know you might never see them again.

you close your eyes for a second, but the quiet only sharpens. the light dims in your room after it’s suspected no movement from you, and you let it. maybe your room without light will make you calm down.

there’s a soft knock at your door, like three light taps.

you blink, lifting your head slightly, already assuming it’s enobaria. maybe she’s just checking in, saying goodnight before finally calling it. you half expect her voice on the other side, ‘rest up. don’t waste your nerves now.’

but instead, the door cracks open slowly, just enough to reveal a boyish, crooked smile, like he’s trying not to laugh. like he’s about to say something really stupid. your heart flickers in your chest when you realize it’s rafe.

he doesn’t say ‘wakey wakey,’ but the look on his face might as well scream it. he leans his head in a little more, eyes squinting like he’s checking if you’re already asleep. when your mouth twitches into a smirk, he smiles wider.

you sit up slowly, brushing a blanket wrinkle smooth with your hand. “you look like you’re about to break in and rob me,” you mutter, eyes squinting back at him, amused.

he gives a dramatic glance over his shoulder, like he’s being tailed, before slipping fully inside and nudging the door shut behind him with his heel.

“can i crash here for a bit?” he scratches the back of his head like it’s casual, like it’s normal for him to just be here, hovering in the half-dark with his hair still a little tousled from the prep team’s touch.

you raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t explain. he just doesn’t have to. you figure he just wants to go over strategies, maybe revisit some of the things you two talked about earlier. one last brain meld before the big plunge. you nod and scoot back until you’re flush with your pillows, tugging the blanket over your lap and leaving plenty of space.

he takes the opportunity immediately like a damn cat. rafe shuffles across the floor in a quick motion and flops forward onto your bed, stomach first, the heels of his feet hanging off the edge. he sighs dramatically into your mattress like he’s just dropped the weight of the world behind him. which, to be fair, he kind of has.

for a little while, you just talk. nothing important. dumb things, mostly.

you make a joke about brutus’s snoring sounding like a broken hovercraft. rafe brings up how his prep stylist nearly burned off his eyebrows with some kind of capitol serum today. he mimics the voice of caesar from earlier, going all wide-eyed and grand, waving his arms in mock imitation, “the stunning, the spectacular, district two's shining girl, y/n!” and then immediately butchers your last name on purpose.

you laugh. you genuinely laugh. it feels strange in your throat. his grin is lazy, but then it gets quiet.

not awkward quiet. not heavy yet. just quiet enough that you can hear the tick of the wall clock and the hum of some ventilation system in the room. you realize you’ve been playing with your fingers for a while. twisting them in your lap, knuckles cracking faintly. your breath feels a little tighter.

he doesn’t say anything at first. but his head turns slightly toward you, like he knows it’s coming. and then you ask.

“do you think they’ll make it fast?”

he blinks, eyebrows pulling together slightly. “who?”

“any of us.” you keep your voice low. “or if they’ll . . . drag it out. for the audience.”

they always want a show when someone dies. the words feel like glass in your mouth, but you say them anyway. it’s too close to tomorrow not to. and the longer you hold them in, the more they burn.

rafe’s smile fades a little. he rolls onto his side to face you better, his elbow propped up beneath his cheek. “depends.”

“on what?”

he shrugs. “how interesting they think we are.”

you look at him, really look at him. you know that you two have to be one of the most interesting of the litter this year. no doubt about it. it’s not even being cocky, but you don’t even have to question whether you’re interesting enough.

his brows are furrowed, like he’s working through something of his own now. whatever mask he wears for everyone else, it’s off tonight. it’s just rafe. he exhales softly, like something’s sitting heavy in his chest.

“sometimes i think . . .” he starts, then stops. his fingers drum lightly against your blanket. “i think i’ve spent my whole life being trained to win a game i never actually wanted to play.”

your heart twists. none of his words are you. you can’t relate to that, at least not fully, but you shift slightly closer. “then why play?” you ask, just above a whisper.

he stares at the ceiling. “because people expect me to. and because if i don’t . . . someone else dies in my place, i guess?”

he turns his head toward you again, his eyes softer than before. you both sit in the quiet for a long moment.

at some point, you don’t know what time it is, don’t even bother to check the clock, but you know the night’s not long enough. not with tomorrow looming the way it is. the games. the arena. the countdown that won’t stop ticking.

rafe’s still lying on your bed, arms folded under his head, his legs half hanging off the edge. his shirt is rumpled, and there’s a faint line across his cheek from where he must’ve pressed his face against his arm a little too long. he’s quiet, but not asleep. you can tell. his eyes are still open.

you don’t talk at first. it’s the kind of silence that doesn’t feel awkward, just tense, like you’re both listening to the same thing.

nothing will be the same after tomorrow.

you shift, pulling your blanket higher over your lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge. rafe swallows, shifting slightly.

“i think . . .” he starts, voice low as he breaks the silence. he hesitates. you don’t think it’s the kind of hesitation that means he doesn’t know what he’s about to say, but maybe it’s the kind where he does, and it scares him.

finally, his voice breaks through the hush again, “i think my dad rigged the reaping for me.”

you blink, hard. your first reaction is confusion. your mouth parts slightly, like the words don’t compute. you stare at him, processing. “what?”

he finally shifts. he sits up slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, like he can’t say it lying down. “i think my dad rigged the reaping,” he says again, quieter now. like he’s still not sure if saying it out loud makes it more real or less.

you just stare. your brain takes a second to catch up. “okay, but how can . . . how can someone even do that?”

he huffs. “if they’ve got enough pull. i told you my dad’s a high-ranking peacekeeper. i wouldn’t put it past him.”

you just watch him.

he runs a hand through his hair. “i’m eighteen, it’s my last year. last shot. he’s been pushing for this forever since i was a kid, always said it was ‘in my blood’ or whatever as if he ever did it when he was my age. warriors, winners, glory, all that bullshit. i thought maybe i’d made it through. like maybe he gave up. but then my name got called and . . .” he shakes his head. “i knew.”

the silence between you thickens.

“so,” you say slowly, “you didn’t even want . . . to be here.”

“not like this.” he says it flatly, like he’s already accepted it. like it’s just a fact.

you nod, but your stomach turns. you think about how fast you raised your hand, how fast you moved toward the stage. how you didn’t even hesitate. you wanted it. you asked for it. and he didn’t. he was shoved in, boxed up and dropped into it like a piece on a game board.

you look away for a second, a sharp tightness in your chest. guilt? maybe. maybe something more complicated than that. you shouldn’t care. don’t get too attached. everyone should accept their fate, but for some reason, you just can’t let this shake.

“i didn’t know it could even be rigged,” you say after a moment.

“most people don’t. the blame would go immediately to the capitol for it, and they can’t afford that. already have too much to worry about.”

you glance back at him. he’s looking straight ahead now, somewhere past the door, unfocused. he looks tired. not in the way everyone looks tired, but in a way that’s deeper. oh. he’s been carrying this for too long.

“so then what was it like?” you ask. “growing up with him.”

he doesn’t answer right away. then he laughs dryly. “loud. exhausting.” he rubs at his jaw. “everything was a test. everything had a consequence. there was no playing. no room for mistakes. if i cried, i was weak. if i hesitated, i was a failure. he used to time me doing drills in the backyard. would get pissed if i didn’t beat my last record.”

you don’t say anything. you’re not sure what you could.

“i don’t think he ever really saw me,” rafe mutters. “just some idea of who he wanted me to be.”

you shift closer without thinking, just enough that your knee almost touches his. your blanket shifts with you. you don’t say anything dramatic, don’t try to fix it. you just sit there with him.

“i’m sorry,” you say hesitantly, quietly, something you’re not used to. but you’ve been thinking that maybe you should now.

he shrugs. “nothing to be sorry for. just how it is.”

you nod. it’s quiet again. but this time it feels different. there’s no performance here. no prep team, no sponsors, no cameras.

he leans back again, rests his head against the bed, eyes shut. you keep your gaze down.

he stays quiet for a while like he’s trying not to think too hard. and then, after a few more seconds pass, he speaks. “oh, but what about you?” he asks. “what were you like before all this?”

you glance over at him. “what do you mean?”

“before the games, or the training center, or before your name was even in the pool. what’d you care about? what’d you want?”

you don’t answer right away. the question sits in your chest like a stone.

he isn’t asking in that surface-level way people do, the way interviewers or capitol hosts might. he isn’t fishing for a soundbite. he’s just asking because he wants to know. maybe because it makes everything feel a little less isolating if he knows someone else used to be a real person too.

you press your tongue to the inside of your cheek. sigh. “i don’t know. i think i was bored.”

it’s a poor way of starting this, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything. he just watches you, listening.

you shrug a little. “my mom works in records for the district. basically just moves files around and makes sure everyone else is on time. it’s as dull as it sounds. she's been doing the same thing since before i was born. every day. same path to work, same lunches. she gets home, sits in the same chair, turns on the same channel, and that’s her night.”

you pick at the blanket in your lap. “my dad’s a peacekeeper too. nothing like yours, i think, but he plays the game. he keeps his head down, follows orders. they’re both good people. i know it. i think they’re just . . . resigned. like they don’t expect anything more. i was probably gonna end up doing what my mom does, to take over her job eventually. get slotted into the same chair, the same shifts. get used to silence.”

your voice drops. “and yeah, i didn’t want that.” you glance at rafe again, “i didn’t want to be invisible.”

you laugh once. “i thought volunteering would make me matter. thought it’d give me some kind of identity, some pride. like maybe people would look at me and see me for once, i guess.”

he doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you wonder if it sounds ridiculous out loud. like a kid trying to win gold stars in a system designed to kill them.

but rafe just nods, slowly. “makes sense.”

you exhale, finally letting your back rest against the wall too. you turn your head slightly. “what about you?” you ask, softer now. “if you didn’t get reaped. if your dad didn’t, whatever the hell he did to get you here, what would you be doing right now?”

his jaw clenches a little. you can tell he’s thinking, but you can also tell the answer’s not easy.

“i’d be home,” he says finally. you glance at him, but you don’t push. “probably walking sarah to school,” he adds. “she hates waking up early. always complains the whole way there.”

a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t last long. “wheezie would already be up, probably trying to get out of eating whatever our stepmom cooked for breakfast. she used to slip it into her jacket pocket and then flush it when no one was looking.”

you smile, just a little. it’s the first time you’ve heard him talk about them. “you have siblings?”

he huffs a breath, a little like a laugh but not really. “yeah. two sisters. sarah’s sixteen. we used to fight all the time, over nothing. she’s stubborn as hell but she’s smart. too smart, sometimes. wheezie’s thirteen. she’s got this habit of pretending she’s not listening, but she remembers everything. like . . . everything. it’s creepy.”

you smile, surprised. not because he has sisters, though that’s new, but because of the way he’s talking. you’ve never heard him like this. not in the training center. not in the interviews. not even on the rooftop.

“they sound like a handful,” you say.

“they are.” he pauses, then adds, quieter, “they’re good, though. better than me. wheezie would slack off during training more than me, but sarah’s good for it. all the camerons are.”

“you think they’re watching?” you ask.

he shakes his head. “i hope not. not if they’re smart.” he exhales slowly through his nose like he’s trying not to let something show. “they probably think i volunteered, talked my dad into saying my name,” he mutters. “i wonder if that’s worse.”

you don’t say anything. you don’t know what the right thing would even be.

he runs a hand down his face and lets it drop, then turns to glance at you. “any siblings?”

you shake your head. “just me.”

he nods like he figured. “that explain the volunteering?”

you almost laugh. “no. i mean . . . maybe a little.”

he waits. doesn’t push. but he’s looking at you now, and it feels like you owe him something, but you’ve already said it. “i just didn’t want to end up like my mom, you know,” you say like he already understands, and he does.

he looks at you for a beat longer, then nods like he gets it.

you both fall quiet again. you’re tired, and not just physically. it’s in your bones now, all of it. but sitting here, next to him, it’s a little easier to breathe.

and neither of you says it out loud, but you both know this might be the last night you ever get to talk like this. maybe that’s why it matters so much. maybe that’s why you don’t want to move.

but then there’s another knock. you and rafe both glance up at the same time, barely a beat after it lands, and the door creaks open. enobaria stands in the doorway, shoulder leaned into the frame. she lifts an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“are you two having a sleepover?” she drawls.

you deadpan right back, “why, you wanna join?” you toss her a look over your shoulder, one part playful, one part exhausted. it’s not a real invite, but it’s not not one either. you’ve never seen her act normal.

she huffs, something that’s almost a laugh, and crosses the room to pull the desk chair out. it gives a small squeak as she turns it around and drops into it backwards.

“cute,” she mutters. “but let’s talk strategy again.”

you groan immediately, flopping backwards like she’s just sentenced you to death early. rafe doesn’t miss a beat either, dropping his head until his forehead nearly hits the mattress, arms sprawled out beside him.

“what is this, homework?” you mutter into your pillow.

enobaria doesn’t smile this time. she’s watching both of you now, eyes sharp, tone steady. “listen,” she says. “you can complain all you want, but in the next week, one of you might die. or both of you. i’m not gonna sugarcoat it. i’m not good at that. but i know what works.”

you sit up again, slowly. rafe’s already half-propped on his elbows, listening now, even if his head’s still turned to the side.

“you two watch each other’s backs,” she says. “no matter what. no splitting up unless you have to, and even then, you circle back. don’t assume anyone’s dead unless you see it with your own eyes. and if it happens, if one of you goes, you make it mean something. don’t let it be for nothing.”

you can feel your throat tighten and your stomach turns. you glance at rafe. he doesn’t even look at you.

enobaria leans forward. “you don’t have to kill each other,” she says. “but one of you needs to come back. one of you has to. you understand me?”

you nod. it’s faint. rafe gives a slow blink. another nod.

“use everything you’ve learned,” she continues. “everything. don’t wait to be clever. if it’s brutal, be brutal. if it’s manipulative, fine. lean into it. alliances are fine for the first few days, but they always burn out. you two are a unit. don’t forget that.”

you shift in place, something in you itching. “you’ve seen this a lot, huh?” you ask.

enobaria gives a quiet nod. “more than i’d like.” she leans back again, resting her head briefly on the top of the chair.

“last year’s kid from four, ria, remember her? she got cocky in the final five. thought she had enough food stockpiled to wait the others out. didn’t account for an acid rain trigger that melted her stash. by the time she had to come out, she was half-starved and stumbled right into the final three’s ambush.”

you wince.

enobaria’s voice drops lower, thoughtful. “always account for change. for traps. for things that feel unfair. because they are. it’s a game, but it’s also a show. that means it’s rigged for drama. that means they want surprises. don’t fall into them.”

you nod again, slower this time. “okay.”

she exhales, like she’s getting tired of the weight of her own words. then she adds, almost offhandedly, “also . . . i don’t know. if it gets desperate, you could always start a fake romance or something. no one’s done a believable one in a while.”

you groan like she’s your older sister telling you something you don’t wanna hear, but rafe huffs out a soft laugh into the mattress.

she grins. “i’m just saying. the capitol eats that stuff up. doesn’t have to be real.”

“goodnight,” you say, waving her out.

“just keep it in your pocket,” she smirks, standing. you scowl at her through narrowed eyes. rafe’s still half-buried in the bed, clearly choosing not to comment. enobaria starts for the door. “get some rest. you’ll be up late enough tomorrow.”

you turn your head on your pillow as she leaves, watching her go. she stops in the doorway just once more.

“noon,” she reminds the two of you. “we’ll say our goodbyes then.” and then she’s gone.

the door clicks shut, leaving the room. you exhale hard into your pillow, bury your head deeper into it.

rafe hasn’t moved much. he’s still stretched out across your bed, holding himself up on his elbows, staring at the far wall like it might offer answers.

you stare at the pillow beside you. you don’t know why, but neither of you say anything. you just sit there, processing.

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oikarma · 11 hours ago

Text

war of the foxes | pt.2

pairing: max verstappen x teammate!reader

summary: before: this is the wrong story. now: all stories are the wrong story when you are impatient.

a/n: omgg i actually didn't think i was going to continue this but you know inspiration struck.

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Six months.

It took only six months for the world to move on from your story.

Six months since Abu Dhabi. Six months since Red Bull smiled at you for the cameras and quietly shut the door behind your back. The headlines stopped printing your name. The journalists stopped asking if you'd return. Fans either forgot you or turned you into a footnote. You were a trivia question on the Red Bull website, who was the first female driver for RBR?

You tried not to blame them, because this was how they were conditioned to be. Formula 1 never paused for grief, or regret, or for girls who dared to think they could beat Max Verstappen.

You spent some time pretending you didn't care, in the form of some interviews and a few half-hearted TikToks. Someone got you a seat for endurance testing. It was an old car on an old track, where no one cared how many world championships Max Verstappen had. There were moments there, long stretches of quiet corners and downforce, where you remembered what it felt like to just drive. Then the silence would come again.

It whispered in your ear, you were almost enough. Almost.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It was Monaco when you saw him again.

Not in the paddock, no, you weren't allowed there anymore. You'd traded that lanyard in for a grid pass from Aston Martin's hospitality, smiling politely for photos while some executive tried to network you into obscurity.

You were headed to the exit when you caught sight of Max.

He was walking alone. Surprisingly, there were no cameras or fans. There even wasn't a Christian Horner hovering nearby to say something PR-approved and quietly condescending. It was just Max, in his usual Red Bull jacket, the same one he'd been wearing the day you'd left. This was a little odd. He should have had a new team kit. Someone would yell at him about it later.

For a second, you thought about looking away, but by then, he had already seen you.

He didn’t smile--of course not! He didn't look away either. That was the thing about Max, he always looked. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

"Still watching me?" you asked, when he stopped a few steps away.

Max tilted his head. " I always have been."

It was stupid, the way those two words sent a pang through your chest. You crossed your arms, leaned against the stone wall of someone's overpriced apartment complex, and raised a brow.

"Why?"

Max's eyes darted to the track behind you, where the sound of engines still echoed from the junior race. "Because I wanted to see if you'd come back."

"I didn't," you said. "You knew I wouldn't."

"I hoped you would."

You stared at him.

"You hoped I'd come back?" you echoed, voice sharp. "To what? The team that wrecked me? The team that smiled while they twisted the knife?"

Max looked tired. Not physically, because there were no dark circles under his eyes and he was as fit as you'd expect a Formula One driver. No, he was tired existentially. You only ever saw that kind of tired in mirrors.

"I hoped," he said again, "because you made it further than anyone. Because you didn't flinch. Not really."

You scoffed. "I flinched. I broke. And you let me."

"I didn't have a choice."

You stepped forward. "Didn't you?"

There was no answer. There it was. The truth in silence again. It said more than his press briefings ever could. He hadn't fought for you. No one ever fought the system and stayed.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Later that night, when you sat alone in your hotel room, you pulled out your old race gloves. The ones with the tear in the thumb. You hadn't touched them since you left.

You ran your fingers over the stitching, remembering Singapore. The smell of burnt rubber. The heat. The heartbreak. The way the Red Bull pit wall had gone quiet after they gave the final team order. It hadn't been because they were nervous.

They knew you'd obey.

You didn't cry. You hadn't cried since you left. You just sat with it and let it linger.

You had survived.

That had to count for something, right?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Months later, you got a call. It wasn't from Red Bull, or any F1 team.

It was WEC, Le Mans, LMDh car. This was competitive, real budget, proper development. They wanted you. Not as a token. Not as a gamble, a second driver, someone to make sure they had enough points for constructors but someone who they could never fully let fly.

Obviously, you said yes.

The world didn't erupt when your name was announced, but you didn't need it to. You didn't need headlines or hashtags. You just needed the track.

This time, you weren't trying to prove anything. Not to the world. You tried not to think about Max Verstappen. You had let go of the anger you held for RBR.

You were just trying to remember the version of yourself that existed before they tried to rewrite you.

When the lights went out in Le Mans, and you dove into the first corner, elbows out, engine screaming, for the first time in a long time--you felt free.

So. Three years. That's how long it took for your name to stop being said in pity. Now, they said it with respect.

You were the one who got away. From Red Bull, from the system, maybe even from Max Verstappen.

But the truth was: he never quite got away from you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The letter came on a Tuesday.

You almost threw it away because you thought it was trash. It was unordinary, just a single white envelope tucked into your travel bag between a pair of gloves and an old paddock pass. You didn't find it until you were in your hotel room, getting ready for the start of the next WEC season.

It wasn't signed. It didn't need to be.

I think about Singapore sometimes. You should've taken it. I wanted you to take it, but I didn't stop them.

Your fingers tightened around the paper. Your eyes scanned it again, looking for something--clarity, closure, maybe an apology that wouldn't make your stomach twist. There was no apology. This was a confession.

I haven't stopped watching you race. I think I liked you more when you hated me.

You laughed.

It was a bitter, tired, and almost fond laugh. Of course he'd say something like that.

You didn't write back. What was there to say? He found you anyway, during Le Mans weekend, in the hospitality tent. You remember it well, rain drizzling onto the asphalt as you sat alone at the edge of the garage, helmet on the table beside you. Your gloves were tucked under one arm. You heard the door open and didn't need to look to know who it was. It was your manager, of course. Who else would be in here?

You didn't look until he spoke, at which point you realized you were horribly wrong.

"You're still faster in the wet."

Your gaze flicked up. Max Verstappen was in front of you, hands in his jacket pockets. He was every bit unbeatable machine you used to know, though he didn't do that anymore. He had retired, on his own terms, which might've been a good choice. There was no sign of being forced to slow down.

"You always were," he added, almost like a joke, almost like he regretted it.

You exhaled through your nose. "You came all the way here to flatter me?"

"No," he said. "I came to tell you I miss you."

You stared.

Not at his face--way too dangerous. Instead, you stared at the space just beside him. The air. You were confused, to put it mildly. You were confounded. What was he trying to do?

"You don't miss me."

"I do," he said quietly. "Even if I don't deserve to."

Your jaw clenched. "You could've said something. Years ago. It's all over know. We don't know each other. You're retired, my career is finally alright."

"I couldn't."

"No," you almost spat. "No, you could've. You didn't."

He looked at you then, and it was the same look from your rookie year--the one you'd hated, the one that wasn't pity, wasn't disdain, but something infinitely worse: recognition.

He saw you, all of you. "I'm sorry," Max said. “For not stopping them. For surviving the way I did. For winning the way I did."

"No. We've done this before. You apologize for not doing anything and you come back again to want more and I don't know what you want from me? Don't you want to see me happy? Unbothered? Don't lie to me. Why do you come back, if not to gloat?"

"I want to try again. Not with racing. With you."

You let the silence settle. Let it wrap around both of you, thick as the rain misting against the windows. He looked at you expectantly while you picked up your helmet and walked past him.

You stopped at the door.

Without turning back, you said. "You want to try again? Wait. It's your turn to wait. I'll be at the finish line."

You didn't hear his reply, but you felt him watching as you walked out into the storm.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The first time you stood on the top step, fists raised, face shining in the champagne rain--he watched from a quiet hospitality box in Bahrain. Alone. It had been reserved for him--his name alone would've gotten it, certainly--but as a partner. This was nice. There was no fanfare, no statements to the press. Just his hands in his pockets and his heart thudding like it used to before his races.

It was your era now.

They called you relentless. Brilliant. The one who finally broke through. The one who hadn't just survived the Red Bull seat, but left it behind like a snake shedding its skin. You'd won WEC twice with Porsche, and now you were back where it'd all started.

You came home late--hair damp from the shower, phone buzzing with messages you didn't answer. Max was in the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie sleeves shoved up as he tried to slice tomatoes like someone who didn't once drive 300kph for a living.

He turned when you came in, beaming. "You won, darling."

"I know. You saw me." You grinned. "Was it lonely in your box? I don't think they even saw you this time. Must've been nice leaving without a billion cameras in your face."

You dropped your bag and the teasing, too. You crossed the kitchen in two steps, wrapping your arms around his middle and buying your face in his chest.

He didn't say anything. He just just held you, breathing it in.

"You don't miss it?" you asked eventually. "Not even when I'm on pole?"

Max pulled back, just enough to look down at you. "Miss parts of it, yeah. But I like this more."

"This?"

Max smiled, small and honest. "You. Home. Not being angry all the time."

You raised a hand to his face, to run your fingers along where there'd once been headpiece indents. The only marks there now where from you. "I think I like winning more than I thought I would,” you said.

"You're better than I ever was," he replied without hesitation.

You looked at him then, really looked. Max Verstappen--the legend, the storm, the boy who once warned you not to let them break you. He was older now, much softer around the eyes. He was also happier.

"You're a liar."

"No," he said. He kissed you again, as full of fire as he was when you'd first met. His warmth hadn't burnt out, it'd just grown softer. "And besides, there's another kind of pole I like seeing you on--"

"Max!"

Five years. Five years it had taken you. But you'd ended up next to him, still, and this was the best way it could've happened.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: he's so soft i love him

#max verstappen x reader #formula one x reader #formula one #f1 x reader #f1 #angst #max verstappen #max verstappen drabble #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #fanfic #drabble #imagine #oikarma ᯓᡣ𐭩

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amirawrah · 1 day ago

Text

⭐︎ Not yet but soon

with JUDE BELLINGHAM . blurb

synopsis: When Jude casually calls you his wife in a live interview, the internet is like huh?? You’re panicking, he’s unbothered.

You were lying on your couch, robe on, green face mask setting, a bowl of strawberries in your lap and one sock half-off your foot. Pure chaos and comfort. A cozy Sunday.

The TV was on, but muted. Jude’s new interview was playing on a loop on every sports network and social platform—you figured you’d catch it live.

You were in the middle of texting your best friend about brunch plans when it happened.

Interviewer: “You’ve been glowing lately. Life’s treating you well off the pitch too, yeah?” Jude (smiling in that too knowing way): “Yeah, life’s good. My wife keeps me grounded.”

Record scratch. You blinked. Paused.

“...my wife keeps me grounded.”

You sat up so fast, your bowl of strawberries nearly went flying.

WIFE?!

The group chat popped off within five seconds like they were waiting to pounce, texts like WIFE!!?? to tell him to chill to am i a bridesmaid or what???

You buried your face in your hands. “Jude,” you groaned, grabbing the remote and turning the volume up.

He looked unbothered on screen, all charm and soft curls and casual ‘yeah, my wife’ energy like you hadn’t spent months dodging rumors and keeping things private-ish.

Your phone started buzzing again—this time, it was him. Speak of the devil.

You answered without a hello. “Are you mad?”

He chuckled. “So you saw it?”

“I heard it. Wife?? Babe, we’re not married.”

He paused, and for a second, you thought maybe he’d panic, walk it back, say it was just a slip. But instead, he said—

“Yeah, but… we’re basically married, aren’t we?”

You opened and closed your mouth. “That’s not how it works!”

“You have a drawer at my place, I have one at yours. My mum calls you her daughter already. You know my bank PIN.”

“Okay—first of all, I only know your PIN because you forget it under pressure. Second of all, the world thinks we probably eloped in Vegas now!”

He laughed again, but it was softer this time. “Sorry, babe. It just slipped. Didn’t realize it’d blow up that fast.”

You sighed, flopping back onto the couch, phone pressed to your ear. “I’m wearing a face mask and eating strawberries like a fool while the world thinks I’m somebody’s wife.”

There was a pause, and then, just barely. “You’d make the prettiest wife, though.”

You froze. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be sweet after making me panic.”

Jude snorted. “Too late.”

Then, quietly. “I’ll say it again one day. The real way. Just not with cameras around.”

You felt your heart melt and your stomach flip, all at once.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed.

A beat of silence.

“Still wanna come over later? I’ll cook.”

“Will my husband be there?”

“Stop,” he groaned, laughing. “I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Not a chance, Bellingham. Not a chance.”

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unsuperingyournatural · 1 day ago

Text

i really hate it when this happens

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

comfort, tears, spoilers (TLoU 2x02), a little fluff that was much needed

It started with a vow.

You had promised yourself you wouldn’t watch the episode. Not when it aired. Maybe not ever. Because even talking about it had pulled something deep from him—something wounded and raw—and you couldn’t bear the thought of seeing that hurt etched across his face again.

But Easter Sunday came, and with it, the second episode—the one you had been dreading. Pedro was in New York for the press circuit, caught up in a whirlwind of interviews and late-night appearances. You, meanwhile, were stuck on location for a cold indie film in Vancouver, shivering between takes in a thin robe while fake blood dried sticky on your arms.

You kept your promise to yourself. You didn’t watch it.

Pedro did.

He FaceTimed you that night, almost the moment the credits rolled. You answered from your hotel bed, bundled under three heavy blankets and clutching your heating pad like a lifeline. The second the call connected, your breath caught. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn and solemn, the weariness clinging to him like a second skin.

“Hey,” you whispered, your brow creasing the moment you took in his face. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t speak right away. His throat worked around a swallow, his hand dragging down his face like he could wipe it all away if he just tried hard enough.

When his eyes finally found yours, he forced a small, crooked smile—one that barely lasted a second before it collapsed under the weight of everything he was feeling.

Your stomach twisted painfully. His eyes were bloodshot, his face blotchy in a way that told you he'd shed more than a few tears.

Your heart seized. "Babe?" you said softly, barely audible, unsure what you were even asking—just needing him to say something, anything.

Pedro let out a small, broken laugh, dragging a hand down his face.

“I watched it,” he said roughly.

Your chest ached as the words hit you. You blinked back a new wave of emotion, heart tightening for him, not yourself. "God, Pedro... I'm so sorry."

“I thought I could handle it,” he said, his voice cracking around the edges as another breath of disbelief escaped him. “I’d already seen the cut. I knew every frame. But Bella—fuck, Bella destroyed me.”

He scrubbed his hand through his hair, eyes shining. For a second, it looked like he might lose it all over again.

Without thinking, you reached for the screen, fingertips brushing the glass like it might somehow bridge the distance. “I wish I could hug you right now,” you whispered.

He smiled, small and wrecked. “You kind of are.”

You talked long after that—not just about the show, but about anything, everything, keeping each other tethered. By the time you hung up, Pedro’s voice had steadied, the lines at the corners of his eyes easing. You kissed your fingertips and pressed them to the screen, lingering for a beat longer than necessary. Pedro mimed catching it with exaggerated care, cradling it to his chest with both hands, making you laugh through the tightness in your throat.

You should’ve left it at that.

But three days later, your brother texted you a link to a Reddit thread.

you: what’s this?

him: read the comments. some of these people GET it. like really get it.

Curiosity was your downfall.

You scrolled. The comments were glowing. Praise for Pedro, Bella, Kaitlyn. People devastated by the scene. Cries of heartbreak and disbelief. You found yourself screenshotting the sweetest, most heartfelt ones and sent them to Pedro with a soft message: for when you need a reminder.

Then the five-minute warning came on set. You powered down. Went back to work.

But the words stayed with you. Lodged in your ribs.

"Most brutal death scene I've ever seen."

"Worse than the game."

"Pedro Pascal deserves an Emmy for this."

By the time you were back in your hotel, scrubbed clean and wrapped in pajamas, the ache had grown unbearable.

You watched it.

You didn’t even bother catching up with the premiere first. You dove straight into the second episode. Straight into the wreckage.

It destroyed you.

By the time Ellie’s screams cracked through the TV speakers, you were sobbing—ugly, hiccuping sobs that wracked your entire body. You barely noticed when your phone buzzed with Pedro’s message: still awake? can I call you? You just hit FaceTime with trembling fingers.

He answered immediately.

His face filled your screen, forehead furrowed with concern.

“Hey—hey, hey,” Pedro said, alarm sharpening his voice. “What happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

You shook your head frantically, gasping. “I—I watched it.”

Relief and heartbreak crashed across his features.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed.

You hiccupped miserably. “It was horrible. I can’t—I can’t even look at you right now without wanting to cry again.”

You turned the camera away, overwhelmed.

“No, no, please,” he murmured. “Come back to me, amor. I’m right here. Just breathe. Nice and slow, okay?”

You tried. You really did. Pedro’s voice, soft and steady, was the only thing that tethered you. He coached you through it—slow inhales, slower exhales—until you could lift the phone again, your tear-streaked face filling the screen.

“Get some water,” he coaxed. “Little sips.”

You obeyed, the cold water helping to ease the tightness in your throat.

“I thought you said you weren’t gonna watch it,” he said once your breathing steadied, teasing just enough to make you huff a shaky laugh.

“I wasn’t,” you groaned. “But my asshat of a brother sent me the link to those Reddit comments. And I got curious.”

Pedro shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“Please do,” you muttered, collapsing back onto your pillows.

He chuckled, warm and low. “Not before I see you first.”

A beat of silence passed, both of you soaking in the connection through the screen.

“I wish you’d told me,” he said, quieter now. “I would’ve asked you to wait. So I could be there. So you knew I was okay.”

Your lip wobbled.

“I wish I had too,” you whispered. “Or not watched it at all. I really fucking hate seeing you die on screen.”

Pedro’s expression softened even more, his eyes glistening.

That interview, years ago, came rushing back—him asking what you couldn’t stand after reading from a cue card. You, blurting out, Watching you die on film. I hate it. His teasing “Aww,” the warmth in his touch when he patted your shoulder.

Now, he said nothing for a moment—just looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“I love you so much,” he said roughly.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “And I miss you.”

“I miss you more.” His smile turned boyish, a little shy. “Can’t wait to hug on you nonstop. Smother you, honestly. You’re gonna regret saying you miss me.”

You let out a wet, broken laugh.

The rest of the call melted into soft teasing, low confessions, promises tucked into every lingering glance.

You said goodnight with soft goodbyes and quiet I love yous, carrying them with you through the long days that followed.

So when the knock came a week later, you didn’t think twice—just padded to the door, remote still in hand, expecting nothing more than a delivery or a staff check-in.

Until you opened it—and found him standing there.

Pedro stood there in the dim hallway, the sight of him hitting you like a breath you hadn't realized you were holding—tired, rumpled, beautiful, and so achingly familiar your heart nearly gave out.

The moment your eyes locked with his, tears welled up, blurring your vision.

You launched yourself forward without thinking. Pedro caught you with a soft grunt, his bag slipping from his shoulder and thudding forgotten onto the floor, his arms wrapping around you with a fierce, unyielding strength.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion.

You buried your face against his chest, clutching at the fabric of his jacket, breathing him in—warm skin, leather, a faint trace of cologne you knew by heart.

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Missed you so much, hermosa."

You dragged him inside. He dropped everything, didn't even make it two steps before he was kissing you—slow, deep, lingering—like he needed the confirmation that you were real.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I wasn’t about to let you watch the next episode without me,” he whispered.

You smiled faintly against his chest, voice thick with emotion. "Good, because I still hate watching you die on screen. And I need you here to remind me that you're okay, that it's just pretend."

Pedro's hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, his voice a low, steady murmur against your hair. "Of course, amor. I'm right here. Always."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing your hair gently from your face. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Fingers still threaded loosely with yours, he nudged the door shut with his foot and followed you farther into the room. The muted flicker of the TV danced across the walls. Pedro lowered himself beside you, tucking you into his side with a quiet, lingering tenderness. You nestled against him, feeling his hand skim soothing circles along your back.

You grabbed the remote, your heart still pounding from the reality of him here, and without a word, pressed play on the new episode, curled up against him, the steady beat of his heart grounding you more than anything else could.

And for the first time all week, you let yourself exhale.

didn't want to put this up top due to spoilers but this materialized when i watched a reaction video of that scene and I had the thought 'I really fucking hate seeing this man die on screen. His shouts and those sounds are going to be in my mind for the fucking rest of my life'. RIP Joel, you deserved better.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #female descriptors used #female reader #tlou spoilers

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twopoppies · 3 days ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/twopoppies/781704563083329536/she-even-came-to-his-concert-the-day-the-break-up?source=share

Gina, I’m a different anon. When I came back to the fandom, I remember I tried my best to avoid any pics or videos from holivia because honestly, that was the main reason I took a break in the first place. Then when I returned, I eventually had to face all of that again to get some context and understand what I’d missed. And I won’t lie—it was kind of tough to see, because she was literally everywhere during that time. I seriously considered disappearing again and even started doubting Harry. I guess having doubts is just part of the experience, but also is what the media does to you if you focus on that.

But I decided to stay and focus on larry and catch up on the interviews he’d done, and that’s when the doubts started to fade—because I truly think Harry values his privacy above everything. In one of those interviews, he literally said he’s very aware of the boundaries between his work and personal life, and even though he sometimes feels "hypocrite" for setting those boundaries with fans while also inviting vulnerability during shows, it’s something he’s willing to do for his own sanity . And that it really bothers him when other people try to erase those boundaries. Like it's pretty clear he has a clear distinction between what is work and what his private life is.

And while some of that has probably been used as an excuse not to talk about Olivia, I still feel like it’s true—Harry’s private life has been under scrutiny for so long that it makes sense he’d want to take control of it by setting clear limits.

And when you read and understand all that, you realize nothing about holivia felt organic—because she crossed those boundaries multiple times. She did everything she could within the loopholes of the contract to associate herself with Harry. There were tons of rumors about them, her whole situation with Jason was all over the media, and it’s pretty clear she enjoys that kind of attention.

Looking back, even though I think both Harry and his team hold some responsibility, it’s also obvious that she took the reins. I also feel like there was a shift from 2021 to 2022—like they told Harry to cooperate more because people weren’t buying it.

It doesn’t matter how many blurry and “spontaneous” pics there are of them, or how much time they seemed to spend together, or how often she showed up at his shows—it all felt super heavy and awful.

I think that whole period, but especially 2022, was really hard on him. He just looked dead inside when he was around her.

When it finally ended, he was literally Nicole Kidman after the divorce from Tom Cruise was finalized.

#holivia #stunts #holivia breakup

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marimayscarlett · 1 day ago

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Hallo!!

I was wondering if you could list all the bands that Richard has talked about loving?

I know he loves KISS obviously but I was curious about some other bands, I wanted to make a playlist of them (listening to music that Richard like makes me feel more connected to him?? idk I'm weird lmao)

Thank you!!! 💕

Hi 👋

When I read this particular ask, I got quite excited - it meant I had the perfect excuse to dive into my lists and archive of Richard's interviews once again and use this opportunity to revisit some of my favorite interviews as well as add new ones I find along the way. So thank you for that 😌

The idea to create a playlist based on Richard's preferences sounds like a sweet idea! He has a distinct taste in music, with clear favorites and people he admires. Music was a comfort to him from an early age and played an important role in his life, as he mentions here: "I was often grounded and music was the only way for me to escape. I can remember sitting alone in that dreary room at home, looking outside and listening to tapes of Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and AC/DC." Here are some more quotes/moments of him regarding his taste in music - For a better overview, I mark the named artists in bold and color:

"I prefer to listen to music when I'm in the car. I'm a fan of good old AC/DC rock'n'roll! That's where my roots come from, Led Zeppelin, the old heroes, that makes my heart soar!" (Heavy Metal Heaven)

On the topic of how he would put his dream band together: "I would choose - on drums - John Bonham (Led Zeppelin), for sure! Vocals - Bon Scott (AC/DC), the greatest rock'n roll singer of all time, guitar - Jimmy Page (Led Zeppelin) on the left, me on the right of course, bass - John Deacon from Queen and on keyboards the man from Nine Inch Nails - Alessandro Cortini!" (Heavy Metal Heaven)

"Martin Gore from Depeche Mode is definitely one of the songwriters who have always meant a lot to me. He's also someone I would love to do a song with." (rnd.de)

You are one of the most important metal bands in Europe and of course you headline bills everywhere you go, but is there any band that you wouldn’t mind opening? Richard: "I would love to open for Led Zeppelin." (Heavy Rock)

His IG update in August 2019: "Even though I caught a cold,I didn’t miss one of my favorite live bands. Royal Blood in Russia,love those guys!"

From the Emigrate Promo interview (where he presented himself in a Dr. Jekyll/Mister Hyde kind of fashion): "We both like music that is rather dark, the early years of Swans, Big Black, Ministry, but also classic rock bands like Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, or Black Sabbath have influenced us musically / We both have preferences for songwriters like Trent Reznor, Martin Gore or Jeff Buckley, a musician who died at an early age."

"I’ve always had a soft spot for electronic music. I loved bands like Kraftwerk and later Depeche Mode." (Fidelity)

"I’ve always been a big AC/DC fan. Then there’s Big Black, who were one of the first industrial bands I listened to. There are so many records I heard when I was younger that I loved. At the moment, as I’ve gotten older, I love to listen to more melancholy music. I loved the last Radiohead — smoking some weed — it’s a blast! I really liked the last Depeche Mode record. I also like Lana Del Rey; there’s such great production on her records. I like electronic dance music as well. My taste in music has gone from one extreme to the other." (Guitarworld)

Here he's mentioning some of his favourite songs (Allo music):

"Kiss was an absolute phenomenon. They represented capitalism in the purest sense, and every child was Kiss infected because they were so big", said the Rammstein guitarist to Metal Edge. "I used to have a poster of them in my room as a child, and when I was 12 years old my stepfather tore it down and into a thousand pieces. I was up all night trying to put it back together, and you can be sure it was hanging the next day." Once, he told Guitar Player, he even drew the Kiss logo in his school notebook, which was strictly forbidden. "I got punished in front of my whole school. But that made me like Kiss even more." (wir.sehen.euch)

Apart from the quotes and moments mentioned above, Richard worked with several artists on his Emigrate albums like Jonathan Davis (Korn), Peaches, Marilyn Manson, Frank Dellé (Seeed), Lemmy (Motörhead), Benjamin Kowalewicz (Billy Talent) and Tobias Forge (Ghost), plus and he also intended to work with Serj Tankian from System of a Down and David Bowie. So maybe we can assume that he also likes or at least appreciates the musicians mentioned, otherwise they probably wouldn't have been on his radar.

#HYPERspecific stuff only anon and i are interested it. send post #richard kruspe #rammstein #emigrate #interview & quotes #Kruspe chronicles #listening to kiss while typing this and watching old 80s music videos of them. those guys sure were quite confident #paulstanleyiskindofwhimsicallycutewithouthemakeup ok shut up maria

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sugardollcurse · 3 days ago

Text

𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒉

꒰ pairing ꒱ ringo starr x reader

꒰ summary ꒱ you’re a reporter’s assistant on your very first real assignment, delivering things to the band during a long press day. you didn’t expect him to smile at you. or to ask your name. or to remember it the next day.

꒰ note ꒱ i love him so much siighh

You were just there to deliver the sandwiches.

That was it. Your whole job. Get the press packets in before noon. Make sure the photographers didn’t spill tea on the rental equipment. And, crucially, bring sandwiches to The Beatles.

Not even for The Beatles, really. For the reporter you worked under. He was inside the suite already, talking at them about trends and music and something about their accents being “marketable.” Your job was to knock on the door, slide the paper bag in, and leave.

That was it.

You did not expect the door to open early.

Or for a mop of floppy dark hair to appear under a pair of soft blue eyes.

Or for him to blink at you like you were the one who wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Alright?” he asked, and leaned against the doorframe like this happened all the time. “You bringin’ snacks or somethin’? I smell food.”

You blinked.

Then stared down at the brown paper bag in your hand. “Er-yeah. Sandwiches. Um, one chicken, one egg, and I think one’s ham and tomato, unless it got mixed up with the manager’s again, in which case…”

You trailed off.

Ringo Starr was looking at you.

Looking at you and smiling.

“Well,” he said, stepping back with a sweep of his arm, “far be it from me to stop a sandwich deliverer. You’re a hero, you are. Come in.”

You shook your head quickly. “Oh, no, I’m not-I’m not supposed to. I just give them to someone and go.”

“Scandalous,” he said, deadpan. “You tease us with lunch and vanish? Who trained you?”

That made you laugh, too loud, a bit startled, and it surprised you. You hadn’t expected him to be funny like that. Not right away. Not so off-the-cuff and dry.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “Just doing what I’m told.”

“You sound like George,” he said, and then tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

You blinked again.

“…Me?”

“No, the ghost behind you,” he said, then leaned in, hand to his mouth, mock-whispering: “Yes, you.”

You told him your name, hesitantly, sure it would disappear the moment the door shut.

But he nodded like he was saving it for later. “Nice.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. So instead you said, “Um. Sandwiches. Here.”

“Right.” He took the bag and peeked inside. “You didn’t poison these, did you?”

“…No?”

“Good. Just checkin’.”

And then the moment passed. The door shut. The suite swallowed him up again.

And you stood in the hallway, heart doing strange, unfamiliar things in your chest.

━━

The next morning, you were back.

Only because the same reporter had asked you to be. He’d forgotten his notes and needed someone to drop them off. You weren’t even supposed to go up. Just leave them at the front desk. But the concierge had smiled and said, “Oh, they’re still upstairs. Suite 4B.”

Which meant you had to take the lift again. Past the same long hallway. Past the security.

You knocked softly, just once.

You weren’t sure why you expected the same thing to happen.

But you did not expect him to open the door again.

Or for his face to light up.

“There you are!”

You blinked. “…Sorry?”

“I thought I dreamt you. Y’know, bringin’ us food and all. Like a sandwich angel.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. “I don’t think angels get paid minimum wage.”

He grinned. “Still. You’re back. Which means fate, or somethin’.”

“…Or my boss forgot his notes.”

He shrugged. “Still fate.”

He took the envelope from your hand, but didn’t go back inside right away. He looked at you again, this time with a bit of hesitation, like he was trying to work something out.

“D’you wanna come in for a minute?”

You blinked. “Um-don’t you have interviews?”

“Yeah,” he said, with the same casualness someone might say “Yeah, I’ve got laundry.”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to-”

“Oh, right. Rules.” He scratched his head. “Well. D’you want a tea, then? I’ve got one on. Paul won’t drink it, says I make it too strong.”

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like you were already welcome. Maybe it was the fact that he’d remembered your face.

Or maybe it was because you hadn’t been offered tea in weeks without someone expecting you to file something afterward.

You nodded.

He stepped aside.

The tea wasn’t good.

You told him so.

He laughed so hard he nearly choked on it.

“Good. I didn’t want to share anyway.”

The others were still inside the suite, you could hear them. Paul’s voice going a mile a minute, John laughing too loud, George’s low murmur, someone from the press trying to talk over all of them. Ringo led you to the quieter side room, out of view, and plopped down on the couch with his mug.

You sat in the armchair.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

He looked at you, brow raised. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged. “You meet thousands of people.”

“Doesn’t mean I forget the nice ones.”

You blinked at that. All you did was bring their lunch...

He sipped his tea, then added: “Besides. You brought lunch! That puts you miles above most of the journos in this place.”

You smiled. Looked down. “I was nervous.”

“Still are, a bit,” he said, not unkindly. “You do that twitchy thing with your hands.”

You looked down again. Your fingers were indeed twitching.

“I get like that too,” he said. “Especially when they all stare at you like you’re a statue or somethin’. Weird, innit?”

You nodded.

He watched you for a moment. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

You looked up, surprised. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You don’t talk to me like I’m a headline.”

“I don’t think I’m qualified to talk to you at all.”

He laughed. “That’s even better.”

━━

It kept happening.

By accident at first. Or at least that’s what you told yourself.

You’d be walking past the corridor, and there he was. Sitting on the edge of a low table, swinging his feet, sipping tea he never finished. He’d look up, beam like the sun cracked through a cloud, and say:

“Hello, you.”

You started keeping a spare cup in your bag, just in case he offered to make tea again. (He always did.) It was horrible every time. But it was yours. His and yours. In that echoing press-tinted suite, between recorders and flashbulbs, his half-whispered jokes and offhand glances were the only quiet things you had.

And he never got your name wrong. Not once.

The first time you brought lunch again, he opened the bag, looked inside, and then up at you.

“What’s this, then?” he said. “Spoilin’ me.”

You smiled. “Just leftovers.”

“You’re tellin’ me someone didn’t want this sandwich? In this economy?”

You laughed. “Eat the sandwich, Ringo.”

He grinned, tore the paper, and took a dramatic first bite.

“…Alright. You win.”

A pause.

Then, like it was nothing: “D’you eat yet?”

You blinked. “Not yet, no.”

He scooted over on the couch and patted the spot beside him.

“Well, go on then. I can’t be the only one chokin’ on crumbs.”

So you did. Right there in a posh hotel room, shoulder barely brushing his, half-wrapped sandwich in your hand, trying not to stare at the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or the smudge of whatever it was on his chin.

(You handed him a napkin. He missed and wiped it with his sleeve instead.)

━━

And so it went.

You’d bring papers. He’d ask what book you were reading. You’d make a passing joke. He’d remember it a week later and bring it up like it was your shared secret.

Once, he looked over at you in the middle of a pause between interviews, with Paul making jokes to the press and John trying to balance a spoon on his nose, and he said, quiet-like:

“Thought about you yesterday.”

Your heart kicked.

He looked back at his tea.

“Just for a minute. But it was a good minute.”

You smiled, shy and stunned.

“…What were you thinking about?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Just how you laugh sometimes. You do this little thing where your nose scrunches. It’s funny.”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but George interrupted, calling him over.

He stood, gave you a wink, and mouthed: Good minute.

It wasn’t until the end of the week that it happened.

Another press day. Endless flashbulbs, tape reels spinning like clocks. You’d been running errands, mind buzzing, head down. You didn’t notice him until the elevator doors slid open.

He was already in it.

“Oi! Just in time.”

You stepped in without thinking. “Didn’t know I had a deadline.”

“Now you do. I’ve decided.”

You smiled, glancing down at your hands. Your knuckles were red from carrying too much. Your eyes ached.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Busy one today?”

You nodded. “Lots of running around.”

“You always look knackered by the end of it. You should sit down more.”

You gave him a look. “I’ll sit when I’m dead.”

He grinned. “Morbid. I like it.”

The elevator hummed as it rose. You leaned back against the wall, just breathing.

He watched you quietly.

Then:

“What’s your favorite sound?”

You turned your head.

“…What?”

He looked at you. Earnest. Tilting his head a little. “Sound. Y’know. Something little. Not like music. Just... something that makes your chest go soft.”

You blinked. That wasn’t a question people asked. Not in your world, anyway.

You thought for a moment. “Rain on windows. At night. When you’re warm inside.”

He grinned, big and genuine.

“Rain on windows,” he repeated. “God, that’s lovely. I’m nickin’ that.”

“You asked.”

“And you delivered.” He bumped your shoulder gently. “Fair trade.”

The lift opened. He left with the rest of them. You stayed behind a moment, staring at the space he’d been in.

Rain on windows.

You didn’t see him the next day.

Or the one after.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It was always chance anyway. You weren’t part of their world. You were just a helper in the wings, holding sandwiches and papers and late coffees for overworked journalists. You weren’t someone he’d-

But then came the morning after that.

You were in early. Fog outside the hotel. Rain in the air.

You walked past the front desk, arms full of folders, and the concierge called out to you.

“Y/n, sorry, someone left something for you.”

You blinked. “For me?”

He handed you a small, square box. Wrapped in navy paper. String tied at the top. No note.

You stared.

Untied it.

Inside, soft and delicate, was a compact, round little record. A vinyl single. No label. No sleeve. Just the glint of grooves, and a small post-it stuck to the inside of the lid.

“Made it for you. Listen when it rains.”

Your chest tightened.

You turned the note over.

Underneath, scribbled in small slanted print: Good minute. —R.

You didn't get a chance to thank him that day either.

Press madness swallowed everything whole again. But the next time you crossed paths, by the lift, same as before, he looked at you with that soft, cheeky smile.

“So? D’you like it?”

You nodded, a little stunned. “You made that?”

“Went back down to the studio late. Asked the lads to piss off for an hour. Paul’s still whinin’ about it.” He grinned. “Only about a minute of sound, but figured it might make you smile.”

You swallowed. Heart in your throat.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged like it was nothing.

“Wanted to give you somethin’ back. You’re always bringin’ us things. Tea. Sandwiches. Calm, when it’s mad in here.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

A beat passed. You could hear your pulse.

Then he leaned in a little, not quite touching you, voice low.

“Next time it rains,” he said, “put it on, yeah? Think of me.”

“I already do.”

That made him go quiet. His mouth twitched up, then faltered, then steadied.

“Right,” he said. “Well. That’s alright, then.”

You smiled.

He smiled back.

And for a few long seconds, there was nothing else. Just the two of you, close enough to hear each other breathe, the murmur of the hallway gone quiet around you.

Then he added, barely audible...

“Can I… see you again? Properly, I mean. Not just in lifts and hallways. Like… dinner, maybe?”

Your breath caught.

“Yes.”

His grin returned, crooked and boyish and brilliant.

“Good. Great. Grand.”

He cleared his throat, stepped back, still smiling too much to hide it.

“Guess I’ll have to come up with another sound, then.”

You tilted your head.

“Why?”

He met your eyes, steady now.

“'Cause rain’s yours. Gotta find one that reminds me of you.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps

#ringo starr #ringo starr imagines #ringo starr fanfic #ringo starr oneshot #ringo starr x reader #the beatles #the beatles x reader #the beatles oneshot #the beatles fanfic #beatles x reader #beatles #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #x reader

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circledwithaheart · 1 day ago

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Once again did a Sentence Exchange so @diazsdimples will finish an essay for uni. He's still working (but soooo close! definitely go harass him about it) but I decided to be generous because Fuck It, right? Have some more actor au, this time in Eddie's POV. Follows this snippet. ⭐️

The first day at 118 Productions, all told, isn’t bad. Certainly not the worst he’s ever had. He’s met A-listers that deny his existence until they have a scene, and C-list actors who fawn over him like he’s a god. Both situations tend to make him uncomfortable but, given the choice, he’d take the former every time. He’s made a good living in the acting world, he won’t deny that. It treats him and his son very well, affording them opportunities they never would have had otherwise. But under the fame, the money, interviews and flashing cameras? He’s just Eddie Diaz. Mexican American boy from El Paso, Texas. He thinks maybe he can rediscover that part of himself here at the 118. Everyone from Bobby, the co-owner and founder, to Ravi, their main camera operator, has been friendly and welcoming. Well, almost everyone. To say that Eddie found Buck’s ‘greeting’ a touch odd is an understatement. Buck may have only spoken one word, but his body language was practically a neon sign, broadcasting his feelings. Eddie expected perhaps a bit more enthusiasm from the guy. They’re supposed to be co-stars. It’s not like Eddie’s here to replace him or anything. Then again, maybe he’s always like that, or just having an off day. Eddie’s only going off of what he’s heard in various circles, and from Anita. People love to talk and, as Eddie’s all too familiar with, it’s almost never accurate till it winds its way through the gossip mill. Until that pipeline of information gets back to the topic of said gossip, it’s hard to know if they’ve been painted as better or worse than they truly are. “Is there anything I should know about Buck?” Eddie asks, settling into a chair. Bobby finished showing him around the studios and surrounding lots, ending their tour in his office so they could “chat and get to know each other”. “Buck?” Bobby frowns slightly, quirking his lips to one side. He steeples his fingers together in a way that reminds Eddie a little of his dad, and even more of the priest from his childhood church. Thankfully it doesn’t appear that Bobby will be handing out punishments when he reaches an answer. “Not that I can think of.” Bobby leans back in his leather chair, his expression relaxing. “He’s a good kid, leaps before he looks sometimes. But he’s come a long way. I wasn’t always sure that would happen.” Bobby smiles, a hint of fondness to it, like he’s talking about his own child. Then he leans forward again, elbows resting on the high gloss desktop scattered with papers. “Buck really put the work in to prove he was worth it, that he deserves a place here. Can’t think of a better person I’d rather have on my team.” “Present company excluded, of course,” Bobby amends.

np tagging, if you wanna share something:

@diazsdimples @daffi-990 @stereopticons @bidisasterevankinard @actuallyitsellie @wildfluorescent @tizniz @diazheartsbuckley @midsummersmorn @spotsandsocks @theotherbuckley @kitteneddiediaz @your-catfish-friend @thekristen999 @aoubooming @wikiangela @rainbow-nerdss @steadfastsaturnsrings @inell @eddiebabygirldiaz @dr-shortsighted-owl @imtheiliad @bi-buckrights @elvensorceress @bucksbiawakening @giddyupbuck @beyourownanchor6 @indestructibleheart @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @monsterrae1 @statueinthestone @honestlydarkprincess @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @thelikesofus @wildlife4life @eowon @rewritetheending @spaceprincessem @bekkachaos @bucksbignaturals @lovetommyactually @toxicpositivitybuddie @hyperfocusthusly @loucifersbitch @thelikesofus and anyone else who wants to😘

#eddie: i literally just got here. is he always like this or did i somehow piss him off already????#eddie diaz #bobby nash #buddie #buddie wip #fic: lights camera bitch smile #fuck it friday

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santaasi · 2 days ago

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the director

who never cuts the scene

He filmed the way other people fell in love — quietly, insistently, and always with her at the center of the frame.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES whose laptop background is blurry from a coffee spill but he refuses to change it because it’s a photo of her mid-laugh during a screen test. he says the blur adds “atmosphere.”

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who hates interviews. loathes the press tour circuit. but when she’s seated next to him, when she smiles at the host and leans just slightly toward him, he forgets to be nervous.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who owns exactly one cologne, which he rarely wears. she once said offhandedly that it smelled like the kind of man a poem would leave lipstick on. he’s worn it ever since.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who keeps a folder titled “almosts” on his desktop — scenes that were cut, alternate lines, ideas he’ll never shoot. most are about her. he doesn’t open it often.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who doesn’t believe in fate but films like he does. like every soft gaze, every brush of hands, every almost-kiss is the universe leaving breadcrumbs.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who always writes with a pen she once borrowed. It’s a habit now, even if it runs out of ink. he refills it. keeps it with him at every shoot.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who edits late at night, lit by the glow of the screen and a single desk lamp. the rest of the world falls away — except her. he can’t bear to cut frames where she looks at the camera like that. like she knows what he’s hiding.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who has a ritual before every shoot: checks the light, the lens, then scans the space for her. if she’s already there, something in him settles. he doesn’t even realise he’s holding his breath until she looks up.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who’s known for being calm and thoughtful on set, but she’s the only one who can tell when he’s spiraling. the twitch in his jaw. the way he taps the edge of the monitor twice, then again. she always finds a way to quiet it — a hand on his shoulder, a small joke only he understands.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES whose notebooks are a mess of crossed-out dialogue and lines circled in frantic ink. the best scenes always start with her name at the top.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who always quiet panics when she signs onto another director’s project. he supports her. he applauds her. He tells her she’ll be brilliant — and she will be. but some part of him, the part he doesn’t admit exists, counts the days until she’s back.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who remembers the first time she walked onto his set — not what she wore or said, but how loud everything felt before she spoke. How everything quieted after.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who once spent three hours adjusting the lighting for a single close-up of her face. “It needs to look like dusk,” he told the crew. “like the moment the day remembers it’s almost over.”

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who says he doesn’t write romance. but every story he writes is about longing. about the love you almost say. the hand you don’t take. the kiss you never film.

★ FILM DIRECTOR!JAMES who believes that everything in his life is about her.

masterlist // muse script

#– santi 🪐#musebts #james potter fic #james potter x reader #james potter fanfiction #james potter x y/n #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter

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the-dreams-i-dream-blog · 2 days ago

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The summary:

2025 the boys of BTS were in the biggest band of the world, they have sold out shows and finished their mandatory military service. The world was theirs until an accident that happened in the year 2027 with their bandmate Jeon Jungkook. They all decided to break up after this accident, nobody speaking about it until now…. These are their interviews

Pairings: yandere Jungkook x reader

Chapter 2: You make me Begin (2025)

Jung Hoseok-

When we were making our comeback album, Jungkook was ready and he seemed like he never left. He would be the first one in the studio and the last one to leave. If you think he had energy before, he came back running on batteries.

Kim Taehyung-

During this time I don’t think I ever saw him sleep, but at the same time he was doing everything to show Army he was back and better then ever. Jungkook did his live’s on Weverse he would sing, dance, anything Army would want, he would provide. He looked fine, yes he would do his drinking but nothing crazy.

Park Jimin-

I think when we actually started the tour thats when he started to lose himself.Its crazy how hard he worked but now he was playing harder.

Kim Namjoon-

Every city we went to he was picking up ladies. I mean on all the other tours we have had he would have his fair share of his nights with his girls. But this tour was different every night a new girl. Asia, South America, North America, Europe.

You name it.

He couldn’t help himself.

Min Yoongi-

Aish, this boy

I would be roomed right next door to him in the hotels. It felt like I was living in my own personal hell. That boy can be loud and not just loud, he would go on for hours. I kind of felt bad for the ladies in his bed.

Kim Seokjin-

If the ladies weren’t enough, he got more into the drinking. He is a Korean man of course he loves his drinks. But when you wake up in the morning and chug a glass of whiskey like it’s milk, thats when we had a problem.

Kim Namjoon-

He would be drunk during meetings and the rehearsals, but you better believe he was completely sober during every single performance. He didn’t need to drink he was already drunk off the energy the fans were giving him.

(Las Vegas, 2025)

The night he saw y/n

Former manager-

Las Vegas was supposed to be like every other night, it was also the last concert in America. The boys did their thing, loved every second of it then headed out to their cars.

Interviewer- Did Jungkook see y/n while he was performing?

Former manager-

No. He saw her when he was in the back of the car with Jimin we were driving away from the stadium. She was at the performance she was part of BTS’s Army.

Park Jimin-

He loved looking at the Army’s while we drove away. But when he saw y/n, it looked like he stopped breathing.

It was also funny seeing her not acknowledging us driving past her like how the other fans were doing. She was looking down at her phone.

(He laughs)

Former manager-

She wasn’t from Las Vegas.

She was looking down at her phone to see where her aunt wanted to meet so she can get picked up.

(He takes a moment to take a breath.)

I remember Jungkook tapping my shoulder in the car and said “Do you see that girl who is wearing the black skirt and the black high tops?”

I thought he was crazy

Park Jimin-

There were so many people, when Jungkook asked our manager if he saw the same girl he did, it felt like it was a joke… it wasn’t.

He demanded our manager to find her no matter what.

Former manager-

I thought this is a lot of work for some girl he was going to sleep with once then never see her again. But I did what he asked because I couldn’t say no.

Kim Namjoon-

Jungkook was pissed when he found out she had already left Vegas. She was only there to see us perform then she had to go back to her home. Her reality.

But he now knew her name y/n l/n, so he did what he did best… find her.

Min Yoongi-

He couldnt just go to where she lived because one, we had to go back to Korea and Two, it would look creepy him just showing up. So he made a plan, a crazy plan but it worked. Now that I think about it I don’t think he ever let go of that “What’s yours is mine, what’s mine is mine.” Mentality.

( Flashback interview from Jungkook)

Jeon Jungkook-

I used to be very possessive and selfish.

Yours is mine and mine is mine.

Everything is mine.

Jungkook and the rest of the BTS boys went back to Korea and this is when jungkook starts his plan… Operation get y/n to Korea.

Kim Taehyung-

When I heard about his plan, I thought there was no way he was gonna pull this off.

Kim Seokjin-

It was too risky. If anyone found out we would all go down with him. I even told him off because of this, but does he ever listen? NO!

Jung Hoseok-

Aish

This part of Jungkook I never truly got maybe it’s our fault for allowing him to always get what he wants but his mind is an obsessive one and he is a fighter. Those two traits don’t always mix at least not with Jungkook.

Kim Namjoon-

Hearing this plan that he had it clicked for me that we were losing him somehow. My mind was racing asking so many questions. One of them being this isn’t the Jungkook we sent into the military,who is this guy?

Min Yoongi-

I wanted to believe that there was a reason he was going through all this trouble for this girl.This girl he saw once while he was driving past, so I agreed for him to go through with his plan

Interviewer- so what was Jungkook’s plan to get Y/N to Korea?

Park Jimin-

He wanted to hold a contest on Weverse in honor of BTS doing a comeback. The winner wins a trip to Korea of course, all expenses covered they would get our merch and spend two weeks in Korea.

Jung Hoseok-

There was no doubt Y/N would enter because it was a great opportunity. Jungkook kept track of all the names coming through and where they were from so he wouldn’t get the wrong girl.

Kim Seokjin-

The moment Y/N’s name came through to confirm she entered the look in Jungkook’s eyes were something I’ve never seen before. I kind of wished he would’ve stayed sleeping around.

Big hit would like to announce the winner of BTS‘s comeback contest here on Weverse , and the winner is … Y/N L/N.

authors note: Thank you guys for so much love for this fanfic, I’m so excited to show my work to you guys and I hope you guys continue to see the vision. :)

tags: @kokoandkookie @petersasteria @crispynutella @pumpkinbratsworld

#bts x reader #jungkook x reader #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #bts yandere smut #jungkook smut #jungkook yandere #bts yandere #jungkook yandere smut

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auroraharper · 21 hours ago

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Jealousy, Jealousy - Charlos

Summary:

Just Charles being Jealous of anything that touches or breathes on Carlos

The paddock buzzed with its usual energy—mechanics darting around, media calling out questions, PR teams coordinating like clockwork. But Charles wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

His eyes were fixed on them. On Carlos, laughing—bright and loud—and on Lando, standing far too close.

They were by the McLaren garage, Carlos leaning casually against the wall, one hand animated mid-air as he told some story. Lando was grinning wide, shoulders brushing Carlos’s every now and then, head tilted like Carlos was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

And Carlos—Carlos was glowing. That soft look in his eyes, the way he nudged Lando with his elbow, the way he bit his smile back—it was easy, it was fond, it was theirs.

Charles clenched his jaw.

He hated how natural they were together. How Carlos always made time for Lando no matter how busy he was. How Lando got to have that carefree version of Carlos, the one that didn’t carry the weight of expectations and pressure.

He’d been watching for too long. Something acidic curled in his stomach.

"Carlos," Charles called, tone sharp enough to slice through the chatter.

Carlos turned, brows lifting, "Hey! Give me a second, yeah?"

Charles didn’t answer. He just kept staring at Lando, gaze hard, unreadable. Lando met his eyes and smiled a little, cocky and unbothered.

Charles looked away first.

…..

The hospitality suite was warm with chatter and post-race relief. Carlos had done well—P4—and Charles had barely managed P6, but even that wasn’t why his mood was sour.

It was them again.

Lando had taken up residence beside Carlos on the couch, legs sprawled, his arm casually draped behind Carlos’s shoulders, fingers dangerously close. And Carlos? He didn’t even seem to notice. He was sipping his water and talking animatedly about some moment during the race, eyes crinkling when Lando cut in with a joke.

Charles stood a few feet away, pretending to scroll through his phone. Pretending he wasn’t watching. Pretending his heart wasn’t thudding with something very ugly and very loud.

Lando laughed again. "You seriously almost sent it into Turn 10? Madman."

Carlos grinned, leaning in a little too much. “It worked, didn’t it?”

That’s enough.

Charles didn’t even realize he’d moved until he was standing right in front of them, jaw tight, voice clipped. “Carlos. Can I talk to you?”

Both of them looked up, surprised.

Carlos blinked. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

The air shifted. Lando raised his brows, staying leaned back, unbothered and far too smug.

Carlos pushed off the couch, following Charles without question, but not without a glance back—checking on Lando, and that nearly did Charles in.

He waited until they were alone, behind a door, tension vibrating off his skin like electricity.

“What was that?” Charles snapped.

Carlos frowned, arms folding. “What are you talking about?”

“You and Lando,” Charles said, biting each word. “He always touches you. Always has something to say. And you let him.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “He’s my friend.”

Charles stepped closer, low and cold now. “It doesn’t feel like just that.”

Carlos stared at him—searching his face, and maybe for the first time realizing just how close to unraveling Charles was.

“Are you jealous?” Carlos asked, cautious.

Charles didn’t answer.

Because the answer was yes. Because jealousy didn’t even begin to cover it.

……

Carlos was mid-interview, sitting on the edge of the hospitality couch, hair still damp from the shower, wearing a plain team tee that somehow made him look obscenely attractive. His brow furrowed in concentration as he listened to the question, nodding thoughtfully.

And then.

Then he lifted the water bottle to his lips.

It was one of those tall, sleek silver ones—Carlos’s favorite. He drank from it, head tilted back, throat moving with every swallow like something out of a slow-motion ad.

Charles stared at it like it had personally offended him.

“That bottle gets more kisses than I do,” he muttered under his breath, arms folded across his chest.

Pierre snorted next to him. “Mate. It's hydration.”

Charles didn't take his eyes off Carlos. “It's the enemy.”

…..

Carlos had a ritual. Every race, before the start, he’d slip into the car, settle into the seat, and place his hands gently on the wheel—like he was greeting an old friend. He’d stroke it once, whispering something in Spanish under his breath, and Charles had never been more jealous of carbon fiber in his life.

“Do you have to look at it like that?” Charles snapped one day, arms crossed, watching Carlos get cozy with his steering wheel.

Carlos blinked. “What?”

“That thing. The way you touch it. You caress it.”

Carlos grinned, instantly catching on. “What, this?” He ran his fingers over the buttons, slow and deliberate. “She’s sensitive. Gotta treat her right.”

Charles looked ready to combust.

…..

It was hot. Spain hot. And Carlos was out there on the balcony, shirtless, towel slung low on his hips, head tilted back to soak up the sun like a cat on vacation. Charles stood behind the glass door, watching with arms crossed and a deep scowl on his face.

He muttered to himself. “Even the sun gets to touch him.”

Carlos opened one eye. “Are you mad at the sun now?”

“Yes,” Charles deadpanned. “It gets to see all of you.”

Carlos burst out laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

Charles slid the door open and stepped out, already reaching for him. “No. I’m territorial.”

…….

Carlos had adopted a stray cat during the off-season. A tiny orange menace named Churro who had somehow wormed his way into Carlos’s heart—and his lap, his chest, his suitcase, and worst of all… his bed.

Charles hated that cat with every fiber of his being.

“Why is he always on you?” Charles grumbled, watching Churro curl up on Carlos’s stomach while they were watching Netflix. “Doesn’t he have a bed?”

Carlos didn’t even look up. “He likes me.”

“I like you,” Charles snapped. “But when I do it, I’m ‘clingy’ and ‘needy.’ When he does it, it’s cute?”

Carlos glanced at him with a smirk. “He doesn’t breathe on my neck when I’m trying to sleep.”

Charles pointed at Churro dramatically. “He’s my nemesis.”

Churro blinked at him slowly. Carlos laughed and stroked the cat’s ears. “He wins.”

……..

Carlos had wrapped himself up like a burrito. Just a big, warm, sleepy burrito of tan skin and cozy cotton fluff. He sat on the couch, wrapped from shoulder to shin, the blanket tucked under his chin while he scrolled through his phone like he wasn’t the most tempting thing Charles had ever seen.

Charles stood across the room and stared.

The blanket got more physical affection than he did today. That blanket got to touch Carlos's chest, his thighs, even his abs. It wasn’t fair. He deserved that. He earned that.

"You're ignoring me," Charles said, arms folded.

Carlos glanced up. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

“Yeah. With that.” Charles pointed accusingly. “The traitor.”

Carlos blinked. “Are you… talking about my blanket?”

“Yes.”

Carlos smiled, slow and wicked. “You’re jealous of fabric?”

“I’m jealous of anything that gets to touch you instead of me,” Charles said without hesitation, voice low and a little dangerous now.

Carlos’s smirk faltered, heat flickering in his eyes. “Then come take its place.”

That was all the permission Charles needed.

He stalked over, grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked it off with a single pull. Carlos gasped, now left in only a loose pair of shorts and warm skin flushed from the cocoon he’d been in.

Charles climbed into his lap like it was his right, straddling him, gripping his jaw as he leaned in. "Mine," he muttered against Carlos’s lips.

Carlos grinned. “Possessive tonight, aren’t we?”

“You like it,” Charles growled, kissing him deep—slow at first, but sharp at the edges.

Carlos’s hands slid up under Charles’s shirt, nails grazing his spine, making him shiver. “Maybe I do.”

Charles pulled back just long enough to say, “You’re not sleeping with that blanket tonight.”

“Oh yeah?” Carlos challenged.

“No,” Charles whispered, mouth brushing his jaw, moving lower. “You’re sleeping with me.”

Carlos groaned when Charles’s teeth grazed the side of his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

Charles kissed the spot he bit. “You’re mine.”

The blanket ended up on the floor. The couch got thoroughly christened. And Carlos didn’t even miss the damn thing.

……..

Carlos lay there with his head on Charles’s chest, the room quiet except for the low hum of the AC and the steady beat of Charles’s heart. His hand was splayed over Charles’s stomach, rising and falling with every breath, and his lips curved in the kind of smile that only ever appeared when he felt safe.

Charles was still trailing lazy fingers along his back, dragging them in light, possessive patterns—like he was redrawing Carlos into his own skin.

“You’re warm,” Carlos murmured.

Charles kissed the top of his head. “I’m better than your blanket, no?”

Carlos chuckled, sleepy and satisfied. “A thousand times better.”

There was silence for a moment, comfortable and heavy. Charles’s arm tightened around him, hand cradling the back of his head like Carlos was something fragile, precious, breakable only in the wrong hands.

Carlos shifted to look up at him, his eyes hazy with affection. “You really get jealous of anything that touches me?”

Charles looked down, a little bashful now, like the intensity he showed earlier had embarrassed him in hindsight. “I… yeah. You’re… important to me.”

Carlos reached up and touched his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You could’ve just said that, you know.”

Charles gave him a look. “I did. With my mouth. On your neck. On your chest. Down—”

Carlos laughed and kissed him to shut him up.

They kissed slowly this time. No rush. Just mouths moving like they had all the time in the world. It was sweet, and deep, and real—something solid between the teasing and possessiveness and heat.

When they broke apart, breath mingling, Carlos whispered, “I love you, you know.”

Charles’s eyes softened. “I know. I love you too.”

Carlos tucked himself closer, head nestled under Charles’s chin, fingers drawing circles on his skin.

“And for the record,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, “you don’t have to fight the blanket. You’ve already won.”

Charles smiled, eyes closing, arms wrapping tighter around him like a victory he’d never let go of.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

#fanfic #fluff #charlos

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