#but they just never separate even if they could

[shdysders]

no one noticed

pairing: jenna ortega & female reader

summary: in which you fly across the country to surprise jenna, holding onto the hope that things will go back to the way they were.

word count: 6.0k

author’s note: no one noticed - the marias

You couldn't tell when it had all started.

You didn't even know what it was.

All you knew was that it wasn't like it used to be.

Jenna used to notice everything. It was the way her gaze would linger a little longer than anyone else's, searching your face like it held all the answers.

She'd catch the smallest changes in your mood, the tiniest cracks in the facade you showed the world.

No one else noticed those things—not when you were quieter than usual, not when your smile didn't quite reach your eyes—but Jenna always did. She'd tilt her head, her brow furrowing in that way that meant she was piecing together a puzzle, and ask softly what was wrong.

It wasn't just your emotions she picked up on. It was everything. The way she'd notice when you'd changed your perfume, leaning closer and smiling as if it were her favorite secret.

Or how she'd spot the faintest smudge of eyeliner you'd tried to wipe away, running her thumb gently along your cheek without a word.

You hadn't even realized how much it had meant to you at the time, the way she saw you in ways no one else did. How she made you feel like you were someone worth noticing.

It had been effortless for her, her attention so natural and constant that you never had to ask for it. You'd be talking about something insignificant—some show you'd watched, something you'd read online—and she'd interrupt with a soft laugh, telling you how your eyes lit up when you were excited. She'd make you feel seen in a way that no one ever had, as if every little thing about you was worth treasuring.

Jenna had always been the person who noticed, even when no one else did.

So when that started to change, you wondered if it was all in your head.

At first, it felt small—just a few moments here and there that you could shrug off. Like when you'd been quiet during a phone call, and Jenna didn't pause to ask if something was wrong. Or when she'd missed the faint tremor in your voice, something she'd once been able to pick up on like a second language.

You told yourself it wasn't a big deal, that you were overthinking. But then it started happening more often. Little things piled up until they didn't feel so little anymore.

Still, you didn't want to blame her. Instead, you turned it on yourself, convincing yourself that you were imagining it. That you were making something out of nothing.

Maybe you'd just grown too used to her attention, you thought. Too dependent on the way she always noticed things no one else did. You felt almost ashamed for needing that kind of validation, for craving it the way you did.

There were nights when you couldn't sleep, lying awake and wondering if you'd lost your mind. You told yourself that she hadn't changed, that you were the problem—that you'd become hypersensitive, searching for cracks that weren't really there.

And since no one else seemed to notice it, you couldn't help but feel like you were wrong. Like you'd made it all up.

Jenna still said the right things sometimes. She still asked how you were, still smiled at you like you were her whole world when you were 'together'. But it didn't feel the same. There was a distance now, subtle but unmistakable, like a thin layer of glass separating you.

You told yourself that if no one else could see it, then it couldn't possibly be real. But deep down, you knew.

You knew, even if you couldn't admit it to yourself yet.

You'd told yourself over and over that things would get better.

Every time Jenna's name flashed across your screen, every time you saw her face smiling at you through a grainy video call, you felt that flicker of hope. She'd always say the right things—how much she missed you, how she couldn't wait to see you again. For a moment, you'd believe her.

But then the call would end, and you'd be left staring at your reflection on the dark screen, feeling emptier than before.

It was getting old, this routine of clinging to a connection that didn't feel real anymore. The virtual version of Jenna wasn't enough—it never was. You didn't want to see her through a screen; you wanted her here, next to you, holding you, laughing with you, noticing you.

But instead, you sat alone in the silence of your room, waiting for a text that might not come.

There were moments when you hated yourself for feeling this way. For needing her so much. You tried to rationalize it, telling yourself she was busy, that her work demanded more of her time now. You knew she wasn't doing it on purpose—but that didn't make the loneliness any easier to bear.

You'd catch yourself staring at your phone, half-hoping she'd call, half-hoping she wouldn't, because you didn't know if you could stand hearing her voice and still feeling so far away.

The distance wasn't just physical anymore. It was in every text that felt shorter than it used to, in the FaceTime calls where her eyes darted off-screen as if she had somewhere else to be. You'd thought, more than once, about asking her why she always looked like she was about to disappear. But you never did.

You'd told yourself it was because of work.

She loved what she did, and you loved that for her. How could you not? She'd always dreamed of it, always thrown herself into it with a passion that had drawn you to her in the first place. So, of course, she was busy. Of course, there were long days, packed schedules, and late nights. You'd whispered those words to yourself so often they became a mantra.

She's not ignoring you. She's just busy.

You told yourself that was the reason for the less frequent texts, the shorter calls, the way her replies came hours later now—sometimes not at all. It was work. It had to be. And you couldn't blame her for it. You wouldn’t blame her for it.

But that didn't make it any easier to bear.

It was getting old—lying awake in bed, phone clutched in your hand, fighting the pull of sleep just in case she'd call. Some nights, you didn't even know what you were waiting for. The sound of her voice? The comfort of knowing she was thinking of you? It never felt like enough.

And yet you kept waiting, night after night, feeling the ache of loneliness settle deeper into your chest.

You used to think you were strong, that you could handle the distance because it wasn't permanent, not really. But now, you weren't so sure. You felt yourself slipping, losing the ability to pretend everything was fine.

Maybe you'd lost it.

Maybe you were losing it—overanalyzing, clinging too tightly, wanting too much.

It wasn't like you could explain it to anyone else either. Nobody else saw what you did. Nobody else noticed how the little things were falling apart. So maybe you'd imagined it all.

And yet, lying there alone, staring at the darkened screen of your phone, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling that it wasn't just work.

It was something else.

You felt awful for even thinking it. The thought alone was enough to make your stomach churn and your chest tighten with guilt. But sometimes, late at night when the silence felt too heavy, the whispers in your mind grew too loud to ignore.

What if Jenna had found someone else?

She'd been gone for months now, busy with filming, constantly surrounded by new faces, sharing spaces and moments with people you didn't know and couldn't see. You knew it wasn't fair to think that way. She was away for work, doing what she loved. But still, the idea crept in like a shadow you couldn't chase away.

What if she'd found someone who could give her the things you couldn't? Someone who could be there for her in ways you weren't able to, offering physical comfort while you were hundreds of miles away?

You hated yourself for even entertaining the thought. It felt like a betrayal of her trust, an insult to everything you shared. Jenna wasn't like that. She wouldn't do that. But still, the ache of doubt lingered.

So instead, you turned the blame inward.

Maybe you were the problem.

Maybe this was all in your head, some twisted fabrication of a restless mind desperate for attention and reassurance. Maybe you were losing it—grasping at straws and creating problems where there weren't any. Or worse, maybe Jenna really was pulling away because of you.

Maybe you were too clingy, too needy, too pushy. Maybe she'd grown tired of the late-night calls, of your questions about her day, of you trying to hold onto something that felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You'd lie awake in bed, turning those thoughts over and over until your chest felt tight and your eyes burned with tears you refused to let fall.

But you couldn't let yourself think that way. You couldn't let yourself spiral.

So you shoved it all down—every fear, every doubt, every whispered insecurity. You buried it beneath forced smiles and reassuring words, convincing yourself that it was just your mind playing tricks on you. You'd wait for her call, for her text, for any sign that things were still okay.

You had to believe it was just work.

Because the alternative would break you.

It made sense to keep it to yourself too. You avoided bringing it up—not to family, not to friends, and certainly not to Jenna. What would be the point? You'd perfected the art of acting like everything was fine, pasting on a smile that didn't falter even when your chest felt tight and your head felt heavy with unspoken worries.

Around others, you acted normal. You laughed when you were supposed to, nodded when the conversation called for it, and deflected any questions that veered too close to how you were really feeling. Because, in the end, nobody could read your eyes.

Nobody even tried.

Nobody but Jenna.

At least, that's how it used to be. Once, she'd been the only one who could see through the cracks in your facade. She could look at you and know instantly when something was wrong, even when no one else had a clue. She wouldn't even have to ask; she just knew. It was something you'd always loved about her—that quiet attentiveness, the way she cared so deeply and effortlessly.

But now, it didn't feel that way anymore.

There was no point in letting the cracks show, no point in spilling everything when it felt like she wouldn't notice, or worse, that she didn't want to. So you kept it buried, tucked away behind your smiles and your carefully constructed responses.

You wished it weren't true. You wished you could believe she still saw you the way she once did. That she still noticed the things no one else did. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, that belief became harder and harder to hold onto.

And you hated yourself for it. For doubting her. For doubting what you had. For doubting the one person who had once been your constant.

It wasn't like you had proof. Nothing you were feeling, none of the doubts gnawing at the back of your mind, were confirmed to be true. That's what made it worse—the uncertainty of it all. You were acting like everything was fine, smiling through conversations and going about your days like you weren't slowly unraveling inside, but the truth was, you didn't even know what you were holding back anymore.

You didn't know if Jenna really was pulling away, or if you were just imagining it. You didn't know if the long silences and the hurried calls were a sign of something deeper, or just a product of her busy schedule. You didn't know if it was you, if maybe you'd been too needy, too much, or if it was something entirely out of your control.

And yet, you were pretending like you were fine. Around family, friends, even Jenna during the few moments you got to speak to her, you tried your best to act normal. Because if you couldn't even be sure of how you felt—if you couldn't even figure out what was real and what wasn't—then how could you explain it to anyone else?

It was easier to push it down, to keep the doubts and the worries locked up where no one could see them. Easier to smile and nod and go through the motions than to let anyone in on how you were really feeling.

Because deep down, you knew there was no point. Nobody had ever tried to read you, not really. Nobody but Jenna.

And that was what scared you the most. Because if she wasn't noticing now, maybe she never would.

Nothing about this felt right. The distance between you and Jenna was like a heavy fog, clouding every thought, every action, every word. Should you ask her about it? Should you speak up, lay everything bare, and risk hearing what you were most afraid of?

It felt like the logical choice, the brave thing to do, but even the thought of it made your chest tighten. What if she confirmed your worst fears? What if she told you it was over, or worse—that she hadn't even noticed anything was wrong?

But keeping quiet didn't feel right either. Pretending you didn't feel the cracks widening between you, ignoring the ache of unanswered questions, felt like a betrayal to yourself. And yet, every time you tried to muster the courage to bring it up, something held you back.

The words would sit on the tip of your tongue, heavy and unspoken, while you sat in silence. You didn't know what to do, caught in this limbo where every decision felt wrong.

And maybe that was why you kept spiraling—because the loneliness of it all was unbearable. Lying in bed at night, staring at the empty space beside you, the silence felt deafening.

You tried to convince yourself it was fine, that this was normal, but the truth was that loneliness had a way of magnifying everything.

Every little doubt, every unanswered text, every distant call felt like another brick in the wall building between you.

You hated how much you overanalyzed everything, how your mind wouldn't let you rest. Every time your phone vibrated, you'd hold your breath, hoping it was her.

Every time it wasn't, your heart sank a little further. The quiet ate away at you, and the more time passed, the more you felt like you were the only one fighting to bridge the gap.

But forcing her wasn't an option either. It didn't feel right to demand more of her, to pull her into a conversation she didn't seem ready to have.

If you confronted her, if you said everything you'd been holding inside, what would happen? Would she tell you that you were right, that she'd already started to drift away?

Would she admit there was someone else, someone who could give her the kind of presence and attention you couldn't?

You couldn't bring yourself to think about it, let alone ask. If she wasn't yours in the way she used to be, you didn't want to know.

The idea of forcing her to stay, of begging her for something she wasn't willing to give freely, felt wrong in every sense. And yet, the thought of losing her entirely was unbearable.

So instead, you clung to the hope that time would fix it. If you didn't say anything, maybe things would fall back into place on their own. Maybe Jenna just needed space, time to navigate her busy schedule, and she'd eventually find her way back to you.

If you waited, if you were patient enough, maybe she'd realize what she had with you and want to hold onto it again.

But the waiting was agony. The longer you stayed silent, the more it felt like you were watching the clock, counting the minutes until something changed—or until it was too late. Time was supposed to heal things, wasn't it?

So why did it feel like the more time passed, the more everything unraveled?

There were moments when the thought crept in, uninvited and unwelcome: What if Jenna was pulling away because she was leaving? It lingered at the edges of your mind, whispering possibilities you didn't want to believe.

The way her replies had become shorter, her texts less frequent, the way her calls felt rushed, like she couldn't wait to hang up. Was it just the stress of her work, or was she trying to create distance before breaking things off completely?

It felt absurd, cruel even, to think that way about her. But those doubts had a way of twisting everything, making every interaction feel like a confirmation of your worst fears.

Still, you clung to one fragile belief: it couldn't be that easy for her. Jenna wasn't the kind of person to let go without a fight. She wasn't the kind of person to give up on something she cared about.

And wasn't she still calling, even if less often? Wasn't she still texting, even if her words felt half-hearted? Surely, if she wanted to leave, she wouldn't be holding onto these threads of connection.

Surely, she couldn't just walk away from everything you'd built together. It wasn't that simple—was it?

It can't be that easy.

But even as you thought it, the uncertainty lingered. Because sometimes, it was easier to leave quietly, to let things fade without confrontation.

And what if that's what she was doing? What if she was pulling away so subtly that by the time you noticed, it would already be too late?

You didn't know what scared you more—the possibility that Jenna was leaving or the thought that, deep down, she might already be gone.

You didn't know what scared you more—the possibility that Jenna was leaving or the thought that, deep down, she might already be gone. The uncertainty clawed at you, feeding off the spaces between her words, the silences that stretched just a little too long.

Every time you hung up the phone, you'd sit there, staring at the darkened screen, trying to convince yourself that you were imagining things. That there was no way she could leave without a word.

But then she mentioned it. Casually, like it wasn't supposed to mean anything at all.

"We just wrapped the last scenes today. I'll be flying home soon," she said one night, her voice smooth and even. It was the sort of news that should've lit up your entire world, something that should've made you count the days until she walked through the door again.

But as much as you wanted to believe her, there was something in the way she said it that didn't sit right.

Her smile—soft, rehearsed—didn't reach her eyes. Her voice carried the right notes, hitting every expected beat, but none of it felt real. Not the way it used to.

She said she couldn't wait to see you, to hold you, to console you after being apart for so long, but it sounded like a line from one of her scripts—memorized, polished, and distant.

And the way her eyes darted away from the camera only added to the weight in your chest. You watched as her attention flickered to something else, something out of reach—a notification, a script, maybe just the corner of the room she was sitting in. It didn't matter what it was. What mattered was that it wasn't you.

She looked like she was about to disappear, like she couldn't wait to hang up.

The thought clung to you, sharp and unrelenting. You wanted to believe her, to hold onto the version of Jenna who used to make you feel like the center of her universe. But that Jenna was slipping through your fingers, one short call at a time.

Still, you smiled through it. You nodded when she said she'd be home soon, when she promised things would feel better once she was back. You told her you couldn't wait, forcing enthusiasm into your voice even though the words felt heavy on your tongue.

What else could you do? Confront her? Push her to say something she might not even be ready to admit? You didn't know if you were prepared to hear the answer, especially if it confirmed the worst of your fears.

So you kept quiet. You waited, holding onto the hope that maybe this time, when she walked through the door, she'd prove you wrong. That she'd wrap you in her arms and make you feel like everything was okay again.

But that hope, thin as it was, didn't erase the nagging feeling in the back of your mind. It didn't stop you from replaying her words over and over, searching for something that wasn't there.

And deep down, you knew—this time wasn't like every other time.

And deep down, you knew—this time wasn't like every other time. But that didn't stop you from trying to convince yourself otherwise.

If she was coming home, maybe things could go back to how they used to be. Maybe the woman who noticed every small detail, who could read your emotions before you even knew how to name them, was still there. You clung to that possibility, desperate for it to be true. It felt like your last thread of hope, fragile and fraying, but still holding on.

Unable to sit in your spiraling thoughts any longer, you booked a flight to her city. It wasn't a decision you made lightly—flights weren't cheap, and it wasn't like you had money to throw away.

But logic didn't matter anymore. You told yourself it was worth it, that seeing her in person, surprising her as she was about to board her flight home, would make her remember what you had. It was reckless, maybe even unnecessary, but you didn't care.

You told yourself it was about the surprise. Showing up unannounced at the airport, catching her before she stepped on the plane home—it felt romantic in a way that you hadn't felt in months. A grand gesture to prove, not only to Jenna but to yourself, that there was still something worth fighting for.

If she saw you there, waiting for her at the airport before she even boarded her flight home, maybe it would remind her of what you had. Maybe it would remind her of the love that had once felt so natural, so easy.

You weren't packing bags or planning to stay; this wasn't about extending your time together. It was about showing her that you still cared enough to make the effort. That even when everything felt wrong, you were willing to fight for what you had. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to remind her why she had once fought for you, too.

You spent the entire flight running through scenarios in your mind. She'd see you across the terminal, and maybe her face would light up the way it used to when you surprised her.

Or maybe she'd be confused, unsure why you'd gone to such lengths when she'd already promised to come home. And then there was the other possibility, the one you couldn't bear to entertain for long: what if she didn't seem happy to see you at all?

What if her smile didn't reach her eyes, and she asked, gently but firmly, why you'd bothered?

Still, you clung to the hope. It was all you had left.

The plan was simple: show up unannounced, surprise her at the airport, and make her feel the way you used to. You pictured her running into your arms, her words spilling over with apologies for how distant she'd been.

Maybe she'd tell you she'd missed you just as much as you'd missed her. Maybe this would be the moment everything changed, the turning point you'd been waiting for.

But beneath that hope, there was a voice you couldn't silence. It whispered doubts you didn't want to hear: What if she'd already let go? What if this trip wasn't the romantic gesture you'd built it up to be, but just another reminder of how far apart you'd drifted?

You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the idea of seeing her again. That was what mattered. She was coming home, and you were going to make sure that this time, it felt like coming home to you.

When you arrived at the airport, the rush of excitement coursing through you made your hands tremble.

The overhead announcements blended with the distant hum of engines and the chatter of travelers, but all of it felt like background noise. Your focus was sharp, your mind singular: find Jenna.

You moved through the terminal with purpose, your eyes scanning every face in the crowd. Each time someone walked by, your heart jumped, only to settle back when it wasn't her. It was almost overwhelming—the sheer volume of people, the endless possibilities of where she might be.

But you didn't let it deter you. You kept walking, your sneakers squeaking against the polished floors as you weaved between bustling families and travelers clutching their luggage. The excitement hadn't dulled; it thrummed in your chest with every step.

You were just excited to see her face.

There was something surreal about the thought of seeing Jenna in person again. For months, your interactions had been reduced to grainy screens and lagging calls. The details of her face—once so familiar—had started to feel distant, like a memory that wasn't quite sharp anymore. But now, you'd see her clearly. No pixelation, no delays, no guessing whether her tone matched the look in her eyes.

You found yourself craning your neck, peering through the crowd, your pulse quickening with each new face that wasn't hers. Every person walking by seemed to blur together, but you didn't care. The anticipation was too strong, too consuming.

She'd be here soon. You were sure of it. And when you saw her—when she looked at you and realized you'd come all this way just to surprise her—you felt certain everything would fall back into place. You'd wrap her in your arms, and she'd smile that smile that made you feel like the only person in the world. Everything would go back to normal.

Your excitement only grew as you kept moving, your gaze darting across the terminal. The weight of the past few months seemed lighter here, replaced by the spark of hope that seeing her again brought.

You were so ready to leave behind the grainy screens, the clipped conversations, and the gnawing loneliness. Soon, you'd have her here—right in front of you.

Every brunette you spotted sent a rush of anticipation through you, only for it to fade as you realized it wasn't her. But the thought of seeing her in person kept you moving, your steps light despite the weight of everything you'd been carrying inside.

Then, you saw her.

For a split second, you felt like the air had been knocked from your lungs. She was just ahead, standing near one of the boarding gates, her familiar figure unmistakable even from this distance. Your heart swelled with relief and excitement, your hand twitching at your side as if it already itched to reach out to her. She was right there, and everything you'd been holding onto—the doubts, the fears—seemed to melt away.

But the joy that had begun to bloom in your chest withered almost instantly.

She wasn't alone.

There was someone standing next to her—a blonde, their features partially obscured by the way they were leaning close to Jenna. The scene in front of you felt like a punch to the stomach, your body freezing as the sight registered.

It wasn't just the proximity of their bodies; it was the way they seemed so at ease with one another. Jenna's laughter rang out, soft and warm, a sound you hadn't heard in weeks.

You took a shaky step closer, trying to convince yourself that there was some reasonable explanation. Maybe it was a colleague, a friend—someone who worked with her.

It had to be.

But the way Jenna tilted her head toward the person, her gaze soft and unguarded, made it impossible to ignore the intimacy between them.

Your breath caught when she reached out, her fingers brushing a strand of blonde hair away from the other person's face. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, and it felt like someone had grabbed your chest and squeezed. You couldn't tear your eyes away, even as your stomach churned with a sickening mix of disbelief and hurt.

She hadn't looked at you like that in months. Maybe longer.

The thought hit you before you could stop it, an unwelcome truth that only deepened the ache spreading through your chest. You tried to rationalize it—tried to tell yourself that you were overthinking, that you didn't know the full story—but the way they leaned toward each other, the way Jenna's lips curled into a smile that felt entirely too genuine, shattered every excuse you could muster.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, the bustling crowd around you fading into the background. Your fingers clenched at your sides, the hope you'd clung to so tightly now slipping through your grasp like sand.

The excitement that had carried you here dissolved, leaving behind a hollow ache that spread through your entire body.

You didn't know who the blonde was, couldn't make out their features fully, but it didn't matter.

All you could see was the way Jenna looked at them—the way she leaned in to whisper something, her expression so open and free. It was a look that once belonged to you, and now, it felt like a memory you could barely hold onto.

Your mind raced, your emotions a whirlwind of confusion, anger, and heartbreak. Part of you wanted to march up to her, to demand answers, to ask her why she hadn't looked at you like that in so long. But another part of you—the quieter, more vulnerable part—knew you wouldn't.

Because what if the answer was exactly what you feared?

So, you stayed where you were, your chest tightening with every second that passed. The Jenna you'd come here to surprise, the one you'd hoped to reconnect with, felt farther away than ever—even though she was standing just a few feet in front of you.

You had wanted so badly to see her face, to feel like everything could be okay again. But now, as the scene played out before you, all you could think about was how foolish you'd been to hope.

You couldn't look away, no matter how much it hurt. It was like watching a glass shatter in slow motion—every crack and splinter dragging out the inevitable.

Jenna didn't even glance around the terminal, didn't seem to notice anyone but the blonde in front of her. Her focus was entirely on them, like the rest of the world didn't exist.

You tried to remind yourself that she couldn't have been looking for you—there was no reason for her to. She didn't know you were here, waiting, desperate to surprise her. Still, it didn't dull the sting. It didn't stop the ache in your chest as you watched her laugh, completely unaware of your presence. She looked so... comfortable. So at ease. She didn't even flinch when someone brushed past her shoulder, her attention glued to the person in front of her.

You felt rooted to the spot, your legs heavy and unwilling to move. All you could do was watch it unfold—the way her smile seemed unguarded, the way her body tilted slightly toward theirs as though pulled by an invisible string. It didn't matter that you couldn't hear what they were saying; their body language spoke louder than words ever could.

You wanted to believe that you were overreacting, that there was some innocent explanation for what you were seeing. But the longer you stood there, the harder it became to convince yourself. Jenna didn't look like someone who was holding back. She didn't look like someone who was keeping anyone at arm's length.

And it hit you—how easy it all seemed for her.

Maybe leaving you really had been that easy for her.

The thought clawed at your insides, tearing through the fragile hope you'd carried with you. You'd thought it wouldn't be simple for her to drift away, that the bond you shared was too strong to break so easily. You'd convinced yourself that, deep down, she'd be struggling as much as you were, that her distance was temporary, that she still cared.

But now? Watching her like this, so at ease, so unbothered, you couldn't help but feel foolish. Maybe it really hadn't been hard for her to let go. Maybe she'd been letting go for a long time—so slowly, so quietly, that you hadn't even noticed until it was too late.

Your chest tightened as the realization sunk in. You'd spent weeks, months, holding on to the hope that she would come back to you, that the distance between you wasn't as wide as it felt. And yet, here she was, looking happier and more present than you'd seen her in months—just not with you.

You blinked rapidly, your throat burning as you fought the urge to cry. It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

Seeing her again, being here, was supposed to remind you why you'd fought so hard to hold on. Instead, it was like a door being slammed shut in your face, a reminder of just how far apart you'd grown.

The irony wasn't lost on you: she was finally here, right in front of you, but it felt like you'd already lost her a long time ago.

You stood frozen, watching Jenna and the girl, their conversation seeming so effortless, so natural.

Their laughter was soft, shared like a secret, and it pulled them closer. You didn't need to hear what they were saying to know where it was heading.

The way Jenna leaned in just slightly, her head tilting toward the blonde, was enough to make your stomach drop.

You'd waited so long for this moment—for Jenna to come home, for her to hold you again, to console you with promises that everything was going to be okay. But as you watched her now, it was clear that wasn't going to happen. Not here. Not now. Not with you.

Your chest felt heavy, a knot tightening in your throat as you took a shaky step back, then another.

The world around you blurred, but it wasn't until you felt the wet streak on your cheek that you realized you were crying. The tears came slow and small, a quiet betrayal of everything you'd tried so hard to hold in.

You couldn't watch anymore. You couldn't stay there, hoping for something that had already slipped through your fingers. Without a second thought, you turned and started walking, weaving through the crowd with no real direction, just an aching need to get away.

You left before Jenna could see you, before she could ever know you were there.

And as you disappeared into the throng of travelers, you felt the weight of it—the emptiness, the quiet finality of leaving without a trace.

[screamingforests]

This is a shoot off of the amazing @beloveds-embrace designationless!reader au! All credit for this A/B/O AU goes to her and go give her support!!!

Based on this specific scenario

Cw: Heavy angst, medical torture, inaccurate medical things, very little comfort

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Maybe it was the way no one noticed you when you walked into the room that made you think you were normal. Maybe it was the way people around you edged away, put off by your lack of scent. The way everyone looked at you with pity.

You didn't want that. Your entire life you had just wanted to fit in. You wanted to be someone that someone else loved.

Maybe it was your family that was the root of the problem, the ones who separated you from your siblings who were all normal. The family that never let you into their mest, claiming your lack of scent, would destroy the atmosphere. That family ignored you, never responding to you. The ones who left to grasping for a relationship, only to realize you would never have one because you were less.

"I've noticed the way people edge away from me, the way they stare! I'm not normal, and this is my chance!" Desperation edged in your voice. "I just- it would be easier this way!"

Johnny chewed on his lip, "easier for who? We all accept you for you, lad."

"This procedure, it's downright inhumane," Simon adds, his brows furrowed as he looked at you, as if truly seeing /you/ for the first time. The scared child you were, wanting to be normal. "It changes you on a base level - I could kill you, dove. It's barely even out of its testing phase."

You sighed. Weren't you allowed to be selfish for once, to want?

"I know," Your voice is quiet but resolute, mind stuck in its decision. "But I want it."

John looks at you. Kyle looks between you and John, eyes full of nervousness. His arms were crossed, looking down his nose at you.

It reminds you so much of the look your dad would give you, the few times he was forced to interact with you.

"No - I won't allow you to get this procedure," John's voice almost rings in your ears. Out of all of them, you thought he might be able to understand.

Of course you were wrong.

You pull away from them, eyes burning. Your mind was made up, it had been since the moment the idea was out into you.

The pack just looks at you with sad eyes, as if understanding the pain you have lived with. As if they could ever understand the feeling of looking into a world, living in it for short amounts of time, but never really belonging.

~

It's weeks later, but you finally have your appointment. You hadn't told anyone about it, you didn't want them to worry.

It had to be fine, right?

~

It hurt, so bad. Pain sang throughout your body, needles sticking out of your skin, and probes stuck with adhesive. You screamed in pain but no one was coming.

You had checked in alone, even told the nurses you didn't want visitors.

No one soothed the pain like Simon did, no one cooed comforts into your ear like Kyle. John and Johnny weren't there to ground you. You were alone, packless.

And only had yourself to blame.

~

It started out small, the loss of sense in your fingers and toes. The doctors assured you it would come back, even if their voice was condescending. Like talking to a child.

(Simon and Kyle would've tag teamed together to massage feeling back into them - They had once, when you feel through ice on a frozen lake.)

You were constantly tired now, something you chalked up to the amount of tests you had been put through the few days you were checked in.

(John would always purr to help you sleep, a commodity you missed. You wished he was here.)

The hunger was easily explained, the staff did forget to bring you food but you didn't want to bother them. They probably forgot because you still had no scent and were easily overlooked. You didn't blame them.

(Johmny would've never forgot, he was always making sure your plate was piled high.)

~

Everything was blurry now, your sight starting to go. Another temporary side effect someone assured you. You couldn't remember whose voice it was.

But it didn't matter, a scent was starting to form. You were going to be normal soon. And even if your body was in constant flight or fight, you were going to fit in.

The way the doctors were seemingly cruel didn't matter. The way the nurses purposefully took more blood to keep you dizzy and compliant was suddenly okay.

You didn't need to know the more your pack pleaded to be with you, the crueler they were. You didn't need to know it was an enemy in disguise, slowly killing you to get back at your pack. The "scent" was just a chemical by-product of your body reacting to all the medications it was being put through.

It would stay, of-course, you might even present with a second gender if it went on long enough.

You didn't need to know so they didn't tell you.

~

Time was getting hard to keep track of. Your sight was nearly gone, and your wounds were slow to heal. Every day was pain. You started to forget why you checked in.

~

It was harder to move now. Your limbs refused to respond to your commands. They were heavy and your mind was too clouded to question it.

Your scent was turning sickly and almost sweet. As if prepping itself for a reactionary heat.

~

The next time you came to, you didn't know what was happening. You could hear shouting and a monotone sound. You felt like you were floating.

That should worry you, you think.

Eletricity rakes your body suddenly, and you're grounded again. Sightless and unable to move. Pain wracking every thought that appears.

You lose yourself to the inky darkness again. Unable to place the fact that you could smell other's scents now.

~

More shouting. These voices were more familiar. It almost sounded like your pack but that couldn't be right, could it?

Hadn't they left you? Or had you left them? You couldn't remember, your mind too slow. You wanted to know, though.

You're able to force a small whine to leave your throat, the first sound besides screaming you had made in what felt like months. There's loud footsteps as someone rushes to your side.

"It's okay, it's okay, we've got you, lad," a familiar voice says. He smells like the ocean and the smoke that comes after an explosion. You like it, it wraps around you like a blanket. "...christ- look at 'em- what've they done to them?"

"We'll figure it out later, for now, its time to go," Another voice says, roughened by what you can assume is years of smoking. He smells like high-quality cigars and soft cedar wood, like the ones surrounding your house when you grew up. "Guns up, we go out blazing."

A new person picks you up, your body immediately curling into him. He smells like petricor and bourbon, tinged with cigarette smoke. He doesn't say another but you decide you like both of the new scents.

A hand smoothes your hair. The last person, he smells like ozone and the forest. You can't describe it, but his voice is low and soothing when he says, "we'll get you home sweets."

And that's the last thing you know before you lose yourself again. Comforted by people you can't remember but you were obviously important to them.

~

It takes months to heal in a normal hospital. Your sight still hasn't fully returned, but glasses help.

So does your pack. While the procedure somewhat worked, your scent came and went. You were more normal than before and even if everything hurt now and you had to do physical therapy, you felt like you belonged.

When you were first admitted, your body had gone through a heat. It presented as an omega, but that was the only instance of it. The staff had you on regular blockers now until your new hormones stabled out. It felt okay, for now.

That didn't change the hurt and all you went through, but it would be okay.

Especially when you were curled up in a temporary nest with your pack in the hospital.

~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: HELLO PEOPLE! I wrote this on my phone in under an hour so I hope everyone enjoys <3

[maretinelli]

A NON-SEPARATION²

DadLewis Hamilton X Mom!fem!reader

Summary: When Lewis and the girls return from their trip, and things with Y/n start to improve. And then, he confesses something that was on his mind during the days they were apart.

Words: 5.8K+

Warnings: Mentions of the past fight, Lewis being a loving husband, Pietra being very funny, Marie's cuteness and a happy ending.

Author: English is not my first language, so apologies for any spelling, grammar and slang mistakes that may be in the story. You can request stories on my profile, in questions. By the way, I loved writing for these four, if you want, I can make a parallel world and write more stories about this family!!!!! (Comment if you want, so I know)

Part 1

MASTERLIST

The weekend passed more quickly than Y/n expected. With Anne in town, she had a chance to take her mind off things, even though the silence in the house still bothered her. They went out to lunch, watched movies, and talked about everything but Lewis—at least until the last day, when Y/n finally admitted that she missed him. Anne wasn’t surprised, but she didn’t press her either.

Meanwhile, Lewis and the girls had an emotional weekend. The race was intense, and the girls cheered in the Ferrari garage alongside grandma Carmen, cheering for their father.

Pietra, always spontaneous, made a point of shouting "Go, daddy!" right in the middle of the post-race interview, making the journalists laugh. Marie, more reserved, just covered her face with her hands, pretending she didn't know her sister.

Now it was Tuesday, and Y/n had already returned to her routine—or at least she tried to. She was on vacation from the office, Anne had already left, and the big house was silent again. Too silent.

She had never spent so much time away from her daughters, and every corner of the house felt empty without them. Roscoe was her only company, but not even the dog could fill the void left by Marie and Pietra. And, of course, by Lewis.

Y/n sighed, sitting on the couch, fiddling with her phone without really paying attention. But suddenly, a loud horn echoed through the condominium, and she practically jumped off the couch, running to the door. Roscoe ran after her, knowing exactly who had arrived.

Opening the door, Y/n saw the two girls getting out of the car, their faces lit up with huge smiles.

Marie wore the denim jacket she had asked her mother to pack, paired with her black pants and white sneakers. Always stylish and authentic. Pietra, on the other hand, well, she looked different. Very different.

The sparkly dress was expected. But braids in her hair?

Yes. The same braids Lewis wore.

Y/n's eyes widened, holding back a laugh as Pietra and Marie ran to hug her. She bent down, wrapping her arms around her daughters, feeling their familiar scent.

"I missed you guys so much" She murmured, closing her eyes.

"We miss you too, Mommy!" Marie replied, squeezing her tighter.

In the middle of the hug, Y/n looked up and found Lewis. He was leaning against the car, watching the scene with a smile. And God, how handsome he was. How handsome he IS.

His eyes lit up when he saw his wife looking at him like that, and he smiled even wider when she whispered a brief "Hi."

Lewis returned the greeting with a loving look, but then Y/n looked at Pietra's braids again. She arched an eyebrow and pointed at her youngest daughter's hair, exchanging an amused look with Lewis.

He just laughed and gestured with his hand, signaling that he would explain later.

Marie pulled out of the hug and looked at her sister. "Grandma took Pietra to the salon and she wanted to do the same as daddy."

"Exactly the same!" Pietra said excitedly, bending down to pet Roscoe.

Y/n smiled, running her fingers through Marie's straight hair. "And you, my love? You look beautiful in that jacket." Marie smiled shyly and pulled her mother into another hug.

Y/n melted. Since the girls were born, it was like this: Marie was her shadow, and Pietra was her father's copy. Even though physically the two had inherited more of Lewis's features, their personalities balanced everything out.

Suddenly, Pietra looked up at her mother, excited. "Daddy bought you flowers, Mommy!"

Lewis rolled his eyes near the car, while Yin looked at her daughter and then at him, holding back a laugh.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes! And they're red flowers and they have a pretty bow and..."

"PIETRA!" Marie and Lewis said together. The girl's tone was one of authority, her father's was one of amusement.

Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. "That little girl needs to learn how to keep secrets."

Y/n laughed, standing up, but still keeping one hand in Marie's hair. Pietra, oblivious to the small chaos she caused, ran with Roscoe into the house.

Marie looked up at her mother. "I'll go in too."

Y/n kissed the top of her head. "It's okay, love."

As Marie entered, Y/n looked at her eldest daughter and then, Lewis finally approached. He was holding a beautiful bouquet of red roses. Y/n's favorites.

He handed it to her, his gaze soft. "I know a bouquet can't fix everything...but I want you to remember that I still love you very much."

Y/n's heart sank. She held the flowers tenderly, inhaling their scent and blinking back a few tears. "Thank you, Lew. They're beautiful." There was a brief silence between the two, just the soft wind blowing through the garden. "Do you want to come in and talk about it?"

He hesitated for a moment, as if choosing the right words. His gaze softened, and the way he held his car keys indicated he was more nervous than he wanted to show.

"I don't want to talk about this here, with the girls around," he said, his voice filled with genuine regret. "I want to do this right, without rushing, without distractions. I want to take you out to dinner, like before. So we can have some time alone."

There was something vulnerable in his expression, a mixture of guilt and a sincere desire to make amends for whatever harm he had caused. As much as they had both said hurtful words, he clearly carried the weight of it in a deeper way.

Y/n felt her chest warm, gripping the bouquet tighter. Lewis had never been good with words when it came to deep feelings, but she knew that when he tried like that, it was because it really meant something.

He didn't just want to settle the fight. He wanted to reaffirm that, despite everything, the love between them was still unshakable.

Y/n took a deep breath and nodded, her voice as soft as his. "I'd also rather we not talk about this in front of the girls."

Lewis nodded silently, and Y/n stepped aside, making room in the doorway for him to enter.

But he smiled and shook his head. "Actually, I just came to drop off the girls and the bags. My dad is in town with Linda, we planned to meet up."

Y/n smiled slightly, knowing that Lewis didn't see his father that often and that those moments were important.

However, he sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck, suddenly looking uneasy. "But I promised that nothing would be more important than you. That I would pay more attention to you and the girls." He began to stumble over his words nervously. "If you want, I'll cancel. It's no problem, really. I-"

Y/n's eyes widened, smiling at his sudden rambling. She gently reached up and touched Lewis's face, calming him down. "Lew, it's okay," She said, looking deep into his eyes. "Your father and Linda are your family too. They deserve priority sometimes."

Lewis blinked, absorbing her words, before letting out a small sigh of relief. A grateful smile appeared on his face.

"Thank you, love."

The nickname came out so natural and full of affection that Y/n felt her heart beat faster.

It was as if he were truly giving himself over, breaking the distance that had formed between them over the past few days. The way he called her, with the softness and vulnerability that touched her so much, made her feel reconnected to him, as if everything that had happened up until that moment was something temporary, a storm that would soon pass.

Before they could say anything else, Pietra shouted something inside, making them both laugh.

Y/n laughed and shook her head, calling out, "Marie, help your sister with whatever she's asking for, please!"

Lewis smiled and went to the car to get the girls' bags, placing them in the entrance hall. When he returned, he approached his wife and placed a light kiss on her cheek.

“You’re free tomorrow night” He said, a twinkle in his eye. “I already have some restaurant ideas for us.”

Y/n smiled. "I'll stay."

Lewis gave one last smile before leaving, and Y/n closed the door, now surrounded by the sound of her daughters' cute laughter echoing through the house. But even so, she felt like something was still missing. And she knew exactly what it was.

Holding the bouquet, she walked to the kitchen to put the flowers in water. The girls followed her, excited.

She smiled at the two of them, leaning slightly over the counter. "Now, girls... tell us all the cool things you did on your trip!"

••••••••••••••••••••••••

The day dawned softly, with the first rays of sunlight crossing the bedroom curtains. The house, previously silent, was filled with lively laughter and small, hurried footsteps down the hallway.

Marie and Pietra, full of energy, ran to their mother's room and, without hesitation, jumped on the bed. Roscoe, excited by the excitement, climbed right behind, wagging his tail and settling down next to Y/n.

The daughters' laughter mixed with the dog's low, happy barks, while Y/n, still sleepy, received the girls' excited hugs. She felt the warmth and love in the contact, enjoying that moment of purity before finally promising to get up.

At the mention of breakfast, the girls rushed down the hallway, eagerly leaving the room in an instant. As Y/n turned to get out of bed, her gaze fell on the empty side of the mattress. Still empty.

She knew what she wanted. And no matter what conversation they would have later, one thing was certain: she wanted Lewis back there. With her. With her daughters.

And before she could get out of bed, her cell phone beeped and a message from her husband appeared.

'Linda and my dad are excited to see the girls. They want to hang out with them tonight, and that's a good thing because we have plans later too. I'll pick you up at 7pm. Love you, babe!'

Night fell quickly and the house was silent, except for the distant sound of water running in the girls' bathroom. In the bedroom, Y/n looked at the clothing options spread out on the armchair: an elegant long dress and a more casual combination consisting of a black satin shirt, jeans and heels.

She ran her fingers through the fabric of his shirt, a soft smile playing on her lips. She felt as if she were preparing for a first date. Her heart was pounding with anticipation, something she hadn’t felt in a while. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the first time she had gone out with Lewis, all those years ago. She remembered the way he had looked at her that night, as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

The sound of footsteps interrupted her thoughts. Before she could react, a voice came from behind her. “Satin shirt and heels, Mommy.”

Y/n turned around and found Marie standing in the doorway, wrapped in a fluffy robe, with a towel too big for her head. The sight made Y/n laugh softly. Marie looked so small in the midst of so much fabric.

The girl shrugged, a shy smile on her lips. "You look beautiful in both, but I like it better when you wear a shirt. It makes you look... powerful."

Y/n let out a laugh and walked over to Marie, placing a loving hand on her shoulder. Her chest hurt a little from seeing her first baby girl grow up so fast.

"Thank you for the compliment, little one. Then I'll choose that one." She led her daughter out of the room and toward the girls' room. "Now it's your turn, Marie. Choose something just as powerful." Marie laughed and nodded, following her mother.

In the girls' room, Pietra was already wearing her going out clothes and Y/n just needed to help her put on her shoes, since she had her braids done.

As she tied her shoelaces, Y/n couldn't help but smile. The braids were still flawless, and she made a mental note to ask Lewis whose idea it had been in the first place.

She always made sure to respect her daughters’ personalities, helping them get ready with care and patience. As she adjusted Pietra’s clothes and fixed Marie’s hair, she felt grateful for those simple but loving moments.

Suddenly, the sound of a horn echoed outside. Marie and Pietra looked at each other and then looked at their mother.

"Daddy can't come yet!" Pietra exclaimed, starting to leave the room. "Mommy hasn't gotten ready yet!"

Y/n and Marie exchanged an amused look before laughing together. "It's Grandpa and Grandma Linda," Y/n said loudly, so that Pietra could hear her.

Marie smiled and left the room with her mother, she went downstairs excitedly too, happy to see Grandpa and Grandma Linda. When Y/n got to the door, Pietra was already anxious, jumping up and down.

"Open up, Mommy! Open up, Mommy!"

On the other side of the door, she heard the familiar laughter, they probably heard P's excited screams. As soon as she opened it, Pietra let out an excited little scream and threw herself into her grandfather and grandmother's arms.

Linda and Anthony laughed, hugging the little girl.

"You were really excited to see us, huh?" Linda joked.

Y/n laughs. "When Lew said you guys were coming to get them she wouldn't stop talking about you guys!"

Anthony and Linda give Y/n a warm smile as they hug their youngest granddaughter.

Marie soon joined in the group hug. "Miss you, Grandpa and Grandma Linda!"

"I miss you too, little one." Linda hugs her eldest and Anthony strokes his eldest granddaughter's straight hair.

Y/n smiled as she saw the scene.

Linda stepped back a little, studying Pietra and smiling. "I love the braids."

The little girl smiled proudly. "Right? Just like daddy's!" Everyone laughed.

Anthony then bent down and asked, "So, are you guys excited to go out?" The girls smiled and nodded excitedly.

Y/n bent down to their level, fixing Marie's hair and caressing Pietra's cheek, while giving some instructions to her daughters. "Behave yourselves and have fun, okay?"

Linda smiled. "They always behave, don't they, girls?"

They both nodded with shy smiles.

Anthony smiled and they walked towards the car, while Y/n watched the scene with a sweet smile on her face. Linda helps Marie and Pietra put on their seatbelts. Lewis's father waves to Y/n as he starts the car.

Y/n smiles friendly and when they leave the condominium, she closes the door behind her and runs to the stairs, climbing quickly, as now it was her turn to get ready.

When he arrived at his room, he stopped for a moment, looking at the clothes he had laid out earlier. The long dress was still there, but her eyes returned to the black satin shirt and jeans, already deciding what to wear. Marie was right—there was something powerful about that combination, something that made her feel confident and beautiful.

Calmly, Y/n took off the comfortable clothes she was wearing and put on the shirt, feeling the soft fabric slide over her skin. She continued to change her clothes and think about what awaited her tonight.

Y/n went to the large vanity she had and began to put on some light makeup, but something that matched the night and the outfit she was wearing.

As she finished applying mascara to her eyes, her cell phone beeped next to the products on the table, when she picked up the device and smiled when she saw Lewis's name on the screen, along with a message.

'Honey, coming in 10 minutes. Can't wait to see you.'

Her heart warmed, and the smile on her lips became even bigger, feeling a good shiver at the thought that, in a few minutes, she would be with her husband.

And exactly ten minutes later, when she finished arranging her hair in loose waves, a horn echoed outside her house. Y/n smiles and stands up, grabbing her bag and walking down the stairs excitedly, because Lewis had arrived.

When she opened it, she found Lewis standing a few feet from the door and a smile from someone who knew exactly the effect he was having on her. He wore an elegant formal outfit, but what caught her attention most were his loose braids, giving him a charming and relaxed look.

Y/n raised an eyebrow and smiled, tilting her head slightly. "Look at you... You look handsome, huh? Are you going out with someone special today?" She closed the door behind her and approached her husband.

Lewis chuckled softly, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. "Only with the love of my life and mother of our children." The touch was brief, but full of affection. "You look beautiful in that outfit!" He grabbed his wife's hand and twirled around. Making Y/n laugh and her heels make a satisfying click as she twirled around.

"Your eldest daughter chose the outfit" He said, shaking the shirt slightly, with an amused look.

Lewis smiled even wider, his eyes shining. "Marie has good taste." He leaned close to her ear. "But honestly? You'd look beautiful in anything. Even without."

Y/n laughed, feeling completely melted and hit by Lewis's teasing comment. He noticed and smiled. Satisfied that he had that effect on her for so many years.

Arriving near the car, Lewis opens the passenger door for Y/n and she gets in, smiling in gratitude and resting her bag on her lap, as she watches her husband walk around the Ferrari they had and get in on the driver's side.

Automatically placing one hand on Y/n's thigh, while with the other he put on his seatbelt and started the car.

The night was calm and illuminated by the silver lights of the streetlights and the luxurious facades of the buildings. The city glowed with a sophisticated charm, reflecting in the city's lakes.

Y/n, leaning comfortably on the bench, looked away at her husband and smiled. "Okay, now tell me... Whose idea was it for P's braids?"

Lewis laughed, shaking his head as he remembered the scene in the paddock. "Oh, that's a good story! I don't know if the girls told you," he began, still laughing. "While I was in the pit, Charles came out of nowhere saying that I had a "mini-me" walking around the paddock with my mother. I didn't understand until I looked to the side and saw Pietra with a Ferrari cap, sunglasses and her hair tied back, with defined curls." Y/n laughed out loud, already imagining the scene. "And it doesn't stop there! Pietra looked at me and said: "Daddy, I need to have braids like yours! So everyone knows that I'm your real daughter!"

Y/n covered her mouth, trying to contain her laughter. "Oh my God, Pietra!"

"And of course my mother was thrilled and the next day took her to get her braids done. You should have seen her happiness when she came back to the paddock showing off her hair."

"And what was Marie's reaction?" Y/n asked, amused. As she looked at her husband, with the tattoos of the girls' names tattooed on his neck, made on the day they were born.

"Ah, Marie rolled her eyes and said, "You don't need to have braids to look like Daddy, everyone already knows you look just like him!" Lewis imitated his eldest daughter's intonation, drawing more laughter from Y/n.

"Our daughter has an old soul, Lew!"

He chuckled, nodding. "I know, she talks like she's had 40 years of life experience." Lewis looks at his wife with amusement.

As the laughter faded, Y/n leaned over to fiddle with the car's dashboard, putting on some low music that matched the lightness of the moment.

Her eyes wandered around the brightly lit city, and suddenly she recognized the road. Her lips parted in surprise, and she turned her gaze to Lewis, who was driving with a smirk on the corner of her eye, clearly expecting this reaction.

"Lew..." Y/n began, suspicious. He just kept driving, keeping the suspense.

When they finally approached the restaurant, Y/n's eyes widened and she turned completely to him. "The restaurant where we first met!"

Lewis parked and looked at her with a warm glow in his eyes. "If you're going to work things out, let's go back a little bit." The comforting answer made Y/n's heart warm.

Lewis gently cupped her face and placed a kiss on her cheek before getting out of the car and walking around to open the door for his wife.

"Always the gentleman, Sir Hamilton." Y/n joked as she left.

"For you? Always."

He handed the keys to the valet and took Y/n's hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. The feeling of home, of belonging, of everything returning to its rightful place, took over Y/n.

As soon as they entered, Lewis approached the front desk. "I have a reservation for tonight. In the name of Lewis Hamilton and Y/n Hamilton."

The receptionist checked the list and smiled, nodding. "Of course, Mr. Hamilton. This way, please."

They followed the man through the restaurant, which had a welcoming yet elegant ambiance. The space combined warm wood tones with modern touches of glass and soft lighting. The tables were arranged to provide couples with some privacy, without losing the vibrant atmosphere of the place.

The receptionist led them to an outdoor area, a secluded balcony, where a few tables were set up. The lighting was perfect: fairy lights entwined in the trees around the large lake, which reflected the soft glow of the city. The setting was magical and captivating.

"I hope you enjoy the atmosphere. The waiter will be here to serve you soon." The receptionist said politely before walking away.

Lewis pulled out a chair for Y/n, who sat across from him. Seconds later, the waiter arrived with menus and a bottle of wine, serving them both before leaving.

"Thank you!" Lewis smiles gently.

When they were alone, a comfortable silence hung in the air, until, at the same time, they both opened their mouths to speak.

"I'm sorry!" They stopped and looked at each other, surprised that they had spoken at the same time, and then laughed.

"I guess that means we feel the same way." Y/n smiled, holding the wine glass.

"I guess so." Lewis agreed, leaning his elbows on the table and looking at her fondly.

Y/n lightly swirled the wine glass between her fingers, watching the red liquid move. She took a deep breath before looking up at Lewis.

"I'm... I'm so sorry it got to this point. Spending days apart and putting the girls through it too." Her voice was soft, but full of sincerity. "I hate fighting with you, I hate when things get like this between us." Lewis didn't answer right away, just watched her, allowing her to continue. "I didn't mean to turn our conversation into an argument. I just... I was just tired and frustrated, work was taking its toll on me and I ended up taking it out on you. It wasn't fair."

Lewis sighed, running his hand over his face before finally answering.

"I'm sorry too, love." Her voice sounded full of regret. "When you asked me to leave home... that was a shock. But thinking back now, I understand." Y/n he fell silent, allowing him to continue. “You were right.” He let out a weak, humorless laugh. “I was spending too much time in Maranello. I was so focused on work, on the team, on training… that I didn’t even realize what I was leaving behind.”

He looked away for a moment, staring at the reflection of the light on the wine glasses on the table.

"Three weeks away from you made me realize how much I was wrong. How much I was missing. I only really realized this when Pietra called me crying because I wasn't home to tell her the story before bed."

Y/n felt her chest tighten. She remembered that night. Pietra had clung to her, sobbing softly and asking if Daddy still liked them.

"Lewis..."

He shook his head, his eyes shining with restrained emotion.

"It destroyed me. Knowing that my daughter thought I didn't like her because I wasn't there. And it wasn't just her... Marie too. I realized how distant I was, how much I was letting you carry everything on your own."

Y/n took a deep breath, squeezing the glass a little between her fingers. "But you were also right..." She admitted, her voice lower. "I also buried myself in work. I was frustrated because I felt like you were distant, but the truth is, sometimes I was too."

Lewis reached across the table, waiting for her to take it. "I don't want this anymore, Y/n. I don't want to fight with you anymore, or put our daughters through this. I want to be a present father, I want to be a better husband."

Y/n's eyes filled with tears, but she smiled, holding his hand tightly. "I want to be a better mother and wife too."

Lewis squeezed her fingers between his, as if afraid that if he let go, everything would fall apart again. "Shall we fix this together?"

Y/n nodded, her heart pounding. "Sure. Of course." She smiled.

Lewis smiled, bringing her hand to his lips and placing a soft kiss on her fingers.

"I love you, Y/n."

"I love you, Lewis"

In that moment, they knew they were on the right path to finding each other again, to rebuilding what they had almost lost. Because, at the end of the day, they were still a team. They always had been.

"Now, let's enjoy our evening." Lewis smiled and looked at the menu. "So, do you want the same order as the first time?"

Y/n laughs at the memory and shakes her head. "No! You know, I didn't know you were allergic to shrimp and you had to spend two days with me in the hospital. And we were only on our first date, how embarrassing." She puts her hand over her face.

Lewis laughs out loud. "But that was a reminder, wasn't it? That no matter what, I'd be by your side."

Y/n smiles lovingly. "It was, and I love it."

Dinner was lighthearted, the weight of the argument that had kept them apart for weeks seemed to have been lifted, giving way to smiles and natural conversations. They talked about past moments, laughed at old stories and shared knowing glances, as if they had rediscovered the comfort of each other's company.

Between a glass of wine and another, they also discussed ways to better balance their routine so that the family could spend more time together. It was a sincere dialogue, without demands, just with the mutual desire to do better.

As they left the restaurant, Lewis linked his fingers with Y/n's, walking with her to where the car was parked. The valet handed over the keys, and Lewis nodded in thanks before opening the car door for his wife.

"I had an idea on how we can spend more time together, especially with the girls." He says as he walks in too.

Y/n turned her face to him, curious. "Oh yeah? What did you think?"

"Well... I realized that I need to organize my schedule better so that I don't spend so much time away from home. So, I want to reduce the number of days in Maranello and make up for that time by being here more. Also, I thought about taking Pietra and Marie to see the Ferrari factory. They always ask what it's like there, and I think it would be an incredible experience for them."

"They'll love it. They'll want to touch everything and ask every detail about the cars." Y/n smiled at the idea. "Marie especially, she loves taking part in the races"

Lewis laughed.

"Yes, I'm already preparing to answer a thousand questions about engines and front wings. He starts driving around the city.

Y/n leaned her head back against the bench, thoughtful. "I can also adjust my office routine better so I can spend more time at home. We can arrange a few days to do something just the four of us."

Lewis nodded, satisfied. "That sounds perfect."

They talked a little more about the details of the plan, and when the topic came to an end, Lewis asked, "Do you want to go anywhere else before we go home?"

Y/n smiled and shook her head. "No, we're too old to stay out all night."

Lewis laughed, shaking his head. "Speak for yourself. I could hold out for a few more hours."

"Oh, sure, Lew. As if. Another half hour and you'd be asleep in the middle of the conversation."

He laughed and, without arguing, turned around and headed home.

The journey was peaceful and surrounded by a pleasant atmosphere, the feeling between them was light, filled with genuine joy, as if the storm of the last few weeks had finally dissipated.

When they arrived home, Lewis parked the car in the garage and got out, accompanying Y/n to the door. Even on the short journey, he kept one of his hands on her waist, a natural and instinctive gesture.

"Anne brought some great wine back from France when she traveled. I saved it for us to open together. Would you like to try it?"

"Sure" Lewis replied, following his wife into the kitchen.

Before they could do anything, Roscoe came running up to Lewis, barking and wagging his tail excitedly.

"Hey, buddy" Lewis smiled, bending down to pet the dog, who soon settled down next to him.

"He missed you too, you know? You're the oldest son in the house, Roscoe."

"Good to know at least he wasn't mad at me." Lewis laughed.

As Y/n opened the wine, Lewis approached from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder. She smiled, enjoying that affection, and handed him a glass before turning around, facing her husband.

It was then that she realized he was deep in thought. His expression changed subtly, his eyebrows slightly furrowed.

"What it was?"

"There's something I've been thinking about since our fight..." Y/n waited, curious, until he finally revealed: "I want to retire from racing."

Y/n's world seemed to stop for a second. "WHAT?!" She exclaimed, looking at him in surprise. And almost dropping the glass she was holding.

Lewis remained calm and repeated: "I want to retire."

Y/n blinked, processing that, and stepped back a little, starting to pace around the kitchen. "Lewis, you can't do this!" Her voice came out fast, almost nervous. "You're only in your second season with Ferrari! You can still win so many titles! And, my God, I never wanted you to give up on your dream because of a silly fight we had. We've worked this out! You can't give up on your dreams!"

Her words came out in a rush, her mind wandering, and she felt her eyes fill with tears.

Lewis smiled and walked closer to her, cupping her face gently. "Y/n, I'm not letting go of a dream," he said softly. "Because everything I've ever dreamed of is right here, right in front of me."

Her eyes filled even more, and a tear fell silently.

"But..." She whispered, not knowing exactly what to say. Without the strength to argue any further, she let herself be wrapped in Lewis's arms, resting her head on his shoulder. "You've always dreamed of this..." Her voice was muffled against his chest.

Lewis stroked her hair and smiled against the side of her head. "My dream has always been to have a family. To have you guys. Racing has been a big part of my life, but it's not my whole life. I want to be here for every moment of the girls, for every phase of our life together. That...that's what really matters to me."

Y/n closed her eyes, absorbing those words, feeling herself overcome by an intense wave of emotion.

"Do you really want this?"

"I do. With all my heart." She pulled back a little, looking into his eyes, and Lewis smiled, touching her face tenderly. "I love you" he said softly.

Y/n smiled, still with tears in her eyes, and shook her head. "I love you too, Lewis."

Lewis slid his fingers down Y/n's face before finally sealing his lips on hers. The kiss was slow, full of feelings, as if it sealed everything they had just said. Their lips moved in perfect sync, and a small smile formed in the middle of the kiss, as if they were celebrating that moment. It was a kiss of love, of understanding, of silent promises.

Suddenly, a horn honked loudly from outside, breaking the moment. Y/n smiled against Lewis's lips and pulled away, chuckling softly.

"The girls are here" she said, giving him one last peck before walking away completely. "I'll go get them."

Lewis smiled, watching her rush towards the door. As soon as she opened it, the girls practically threw themselves into her arms, laughing and hugging their mother tightly.

"Mommy!" Pietra exclaimed excitedly, while Marie held tightly onto Y/n's waist.

Y/n laughed and bent down, planting kisses on them before saying in a mysterious voice, "I think there's something waiting for you in the kitchen."

Pietra's eyes widened, always the most excited, and suddenly screamed: "OH MY GOD, IS THERE STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM?"

She ran into the house with her sister, running towards the kitchen without even confirming if what she said was true. Linda, Anthony and Y/n burst out laughing, infected by the girl's naive excitement.

"Thank you for keeping them" Y/n said, smiling at them.

"Imagine, dear" Linda replied. "We are the ones who appreciate you spending time with our granddaughters."

Y/n smiles. "We can arrange dinner here tomorrow. Are you up for it?"

"Sure!" Linda says smiling.

"We'd love it!"

"Great then" Y/n smiles. With that, they say their goodbyes, exchanging hugs before Linda and Anthony leave.

Y/n closed the door and began walking to the kitchen, hearing the mix of her daughters' and Lewis' voices echoing through the room. The sound filled her chest with a cozy warmth, and an involuntary smile appeared on her face.

When he entered the kitchen, he saw a scene that made his heart warm even more: Marie was on Lewis' lap, along with Pietra, while the two laughed and chatted excitedly.

Suddenly, Marie turned to Y/n with a bright smile and asked, "Did Daddy come home?"

Y/n looked at Lewis, who was already watching her with a tender smile. Her heart clenched with love.

"Yes, my dear. Daddy's back!" She said softly.

The girls squealed excitedly and wrapped their father in a tight hug, making Lewis laugh. He then looked at Y/n and extended one of his arms to her.

"Come here, love"

Y/n smiled and walked over to them, joining the family's embrace. Between laughter, kisses and hugs, she knew, in that moment, that they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

Author: So, my initial idea was to have the ending with Y/n saying she was pregnant with her third child, but I didn't know if you guys would like it, so I changed it to the idea of Lewis retiring. I don't know, which one would you like more? (By the way, whoever read the introduction above, could you answer the question I left? About continuing with a parallel universe of this family?)

[happilivedelicativecollective86]

0. I "repeat myself" because you repeat the same lies over and over again. My answers won't change unless your lies do.

1. Except January 6th doesn't just fit the blanket definition of an insurrection, it fits the definition that's implied and inferred under federal law. The term insurrection is never defined in US law. Since it was a violent uprising against the government. January 6th is OBJECTIVELY AN INSURRECTION. And now amount of denial from you people (trump supporters) will change this fact.

2. I understand the difference and have literally explained it. An insurrection is a violent uprising against an authority (most commonly a government), and a coup is the unlawful seizure of power from a government. January 6th is an insurrection because it was a violent uprising against the US government. January 6th was not a coup because they failed to illegally seize power from the government and prevent the peaceful transfer of power. January 6th is an insurrection but only an attempted/failed coup.

3. I didn't nullify any point. I pointed out how despite the general definition of the term insurrection being applicable to a wide number of things, both the general definition and the commonly agreed upon legal definition apply to January 6th. Even under the most reserved definition of an insurrection, January 6th is still an insurrection.

4. You people as in trump supporters. Not that hard to understand. Heavily implied even.

5. I do have a basis considering you perpetuated 3 easily refutable lies about them.

Plus the antifascist movement is not made of "real actual Nazis". Read up on the paradox of Intolerance. Society should not extend tolerance to the intolerant, because the intolerant would eventually dominate and wipe out tolerant. The most tolerant of people should and must be intolerant of people who identify as Nazis.

Even though the antifascist movement engages in political violence and censorship, it's mostly good since they almost exclusively target neo Nazis, people who already engage in political violence and censorship. They just treat them with their own medicine.

It's OKAY to oppress self identified Nazis, since Nazis want to oppress (and kill) YOU.

You cannot and should not peacefully accept the political existence of those who want you oppressed, silenced, and dead. And labeling the antifascist movement as evil for treating neo Nazis how they try to treat others is like shaming a child for grabbing his father's belt.

6. Some officers were severely beaten and it's well documented.

There may not be video proof of officers slipping in blood, but more than just Edwards has claimed it.

They opened more doors do avoid a stampede, which is a perfect valid reasons since one of the people who died that day was literally crushed in a stampede, and there easily could have been more if they didn't open more doors.

I think you're glossing over the fact that the first doors weren't opened by staff, they were opened by people who BROKE IN. Officers never "invited" anyone in. They opened more doors for safety reasons after people had already begun flooding the building.

7. It's not an error and I'm not lying.

It's well documented that there were still Congress members on the house floor when Babbit was shot because they weren't done evacuating yet, despite what you have claimed about the floor being empty except for the guards.

It's well documented that Byrd did warn Babbit that he would shoot her if she didn't stand down multiple times.

Video of the shooting shows that Byrd only fired a single shot at Babbit, who was the only person he could clearly shoot and did not fire "blindly into a group of people" as you have claimed.

The very nature of Babbit trying to break down a barricade separating the house floor and the members on it from a group of potentialy violent rioters was enough for Byrd's decision to be considered self defense.

Babbit endangered every guard and Congress member there with her actions, and her own inability to stand down and follow directions even when being justifiably held a gunpoint was the reason she lost her life.

It's an open notes test and some dense motherfuckers still can't figure out the answers.

[marauroon]

I have a Lupin request where reader has back dimples and Remus hands rest there out of habit

Or maybe like three separate occasions, it happened something like that

Or just a really fluffy one-a shot that maybe it leads into something 🤨 but maybe kind it tv-14

𝐇𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬. (𝐫.𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧)

remus seems to have an unconscious habit of resting his hand at your lower back. it fits perfectly.

remus lupin x gn!reader | 1.1k | fluff | masterlist.

You never really thought much about your back dimples. They were just there—small, barely noticeable, not something people commented on.

Not something you ever expected to feel self-conscious about or, on the other hand, take pride in.

But then there was Remus.

And suddenly, they were all you could think about.

—

The Gryffindor common room is too loud, filled with the frenzied energy of students cramming for N.E.W.T.s. The library, while quieter, isn’t much better—every available table is occupied by students murmuring spells under their breath, scribbling furiously on parchment, or flipping through textbooks with the kind of desperation that only comes from impending exams.

You manage to find a space at the farthest end of the library, tucked away in a dusty corner where the lamps are dimmer, and the smell of old parchment and ink is stronger.

It’s peaceful here, quieter than the rest of the castle.

You’re halfway through a particularly dull passage in ‘Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts’ when a familiar voice murmurs near your ear.

“Mind if I sit?”

You glance up to see Remus standing there, looking exhausted but offering you a small, tired smile. His tie is loosened slightly, the sleeves of his jumper pushed up to his elbows, revealing ink-stained fingers.

You nod, shifting your things to make space.

For a while, it’s just the two of you, working in silence. Occasionally, Remus scratches something onto his parchment, his quill moving in quick, deliberate strokes. You try to focus, but it’s difficult.

His presence is calming, but distracting in a way you don’t quite understand.

At some point, you shift in your chair, stretching slightly to ease the stiffness in your spine. It’s then that you feel it—the lightest touch at the small of your back.

You freeze. It’s barely there, just the faintest brush of fingertips against fabric. A fleeting moment.

Before you can turn around, the warmth disappears.

“Sorry,” Remus murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes don’t leave his book, and his expression is carefully neutral.

You blink, shaking your head slightly. “It’s fine,”

And it is. Probably just an accident, a brief lapse in awareness. His hands must have drifted when he adjusted his position, or maybe he was reaching for something.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least.

But for the rest of the study session, you can’t stop thinking about it.

—

It’s freezing.

You hadn’t planned on being here, honestly—Quidditch has never been your thing. But James had insisted—“It’s Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, you *have* to come!”—and Lily had promised hot chocolate afterward, so you found yourself bundled up in too many layers, squeezed into the stands alongside your friends.

The match is intense if the way Peter’s shouting is anything to go by, flinching every time a bludger comes too close.

Remus is beside you, watching the game with quiet interest. He isn’t loud like Peter or grinning like Dorcas, but his gaze follows the players carefully, taking in every movement.

You shift slightly, adjusting your scarf around your neck. The cold wind bites at your skin, and you shiver involuntarily.

And then it happens.

One arm slips around your waist—steady, grounding. The other hand finds its place at the small of your back, thumb sliding into that tiny duvet beside your spine.

It’s warm. Even through the layers of your coat and jumper, his touch lingers, seeping into your skin.

You glance at him, but he doesn’t seem to realize what he’s done. His focus is still on the game, his expression unchanged. His thumb moves absently, brushing against the fabric of your jumper in slow, thoughtless circles.

For a moment, you let yourself believe it’s intentional.

But then he seems to catch himself. His hand slips away just as naturally as it had found its place, returning to his lap as if it had never been there at all.

And yet, the warmth stays with you.

—

The fire in the Gryffindor common room crackles low in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the worn furniture and scattered books.

Most students have gone to bed, leaving only a few stragglers, their heads bent over last-minute assignments.

You’re one of them.

Your Charms essay sits half-finished in front of you, but your quill is still, your mind too sluggish to focus. You rub at your tired eyes, exhaling slowly.

You don’t even hear Remus approach until he’s beside you.

“You’re still up?” His voice is soft, amused.

You hum in response, too tired to form proper words.

A quiet chuckle, and then—there it is again.

His hand.

Warm. Steady. Placed so naturally at the small of your back that it feels like it belongs there.

And this time, he doesn’t move away.

Instead, his thumb brushes over the spot in slow, absentminded circles. It’s soothing, grounding. He’s done this before—so many times now that it shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does. But it does.

And for the first time, you lean into it.

It’s subtle. Barely noticeable. But you feel the way his fingers press just a bit more firmly in response, the way his breath catches for half a second before he schools his expression.

The fire crackles, and the room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of parchment from across the room.

You turn your head slightly, looking at him through the dim light. “You do that a lot, you know,”

His brows furrow slightly. “Do what?”

You shift just enough to make him aware of where his hand is resting. His lips part slightly, realisation flickering across his face.

“Oh,” he says. And then, more quietly, “I guess I do,”

You could make a joke. You could tease him, brush it off, pretend it’s nothing. But you don’t want to.

Instead, you let yourself lean into him, just a little, and say, “I don’t mind,”

Remus swallows, his fingers flexing against your back. His voice, when he speaks, is softer than before.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t think I want to stop,”

You smile. “I was hoping you’d say that,”

And just like that, something shifts. Something small, but important. Something that feels a lot like the beginning of something new.

[insidekatmind]

High p1- Pope Heyward

You had always been the quieter one in the group. You and Pope, two of the most withdrawn people. He had always kept his distance, and you, being the new person, didn’t know just how much you could really connect with everyone yet. You didn’t smoke or drink much—just a little here and there, but nothing too crazy. Pope was the same. You both had your own quiet worlds, separate from the noise of the party.

Kiara, the girl who seemed to light up the whole group, had always been the one Pope adored. You could tell, even if he never said it out loud. But something had shifted in him recently, something you couldn’t quite figure out. He didn’t look at her the same way anymore. It was like there was some invisible wall between them, and neither of them could break it down.

One evening, everyone gathered around the usual bonfire. It was dark, the flames crackling, and the air was filled with the familiar hum of laughter and conversation. But Pope wasn’t there. He hadn’t shown up. You were left to the sidelines, unsure if you should be a part of the chaos or just remain a quiet observer.

JJ, always the one to get people involved, noticed you sitting alone and, with a mischievous grin, offered you some weed. Normally, you would’ve turned him down, but that night was different. Maybe it was the loneliness, maybe it was the pressure of fitting in. You didn’t even think twice before you agreed. The moment it hit you, everything felt different. The laughter around you was louder, everything seemed funnier, and the world took on a hazy glow. You were completely high, acting silly and laughing at things that made no sense at all. You felt light, free, and for the first time, you weren’t holding back.

Then, like a ghost out of the past, Pope showed up late. He had his usual look of calm composure, his hoodie and jeans, like he didn’t care about the chaos around him. But when he saw you, something flickered in his eyes. His gaze shifted from the group to you, and the shock was visible on his face. You were completely out of it, giggling uncontrollably at something someone had said, completely unaware of how absurd you must have looked.

Pope didn’t say anything at first. He just walked over to you, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. You, still caught in the high, gave him a goofy grin.

“Didn’t think you were the type to join in on this kind of fun,” Pope said, his voice dry but not unkind. There was a hint of mockery in it, but it was warm, almost teasing, like he was trying to gauge if you were still the same person he thought he knew. “Didn’t expect you to be the party animal.”

You snickered, barely able to form a coherent sentence. "I… I didn’t expect it either… but… it’s not so bad," you managed, your voice a little too high-pitched as you laughed.

Pope chuckled softly, shaking his head, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. Maybe it was amusement, or maybe a touch of sadness—something you couldn’t quite read.

You smiled amusedly as you twirled around while showing off your little white dress. Pope's eyes followed your every movement, watching as you twirled around in your little white dress. He had to admit, it looked great on you, and he was struck once again by how different you were when you were like this—giggly, carefree, so unlike your usual quiet, reserved self.Pope felt a pang in his heart, a sudden realization of just how much he loved your laugh, the way you seemed blissfully carefree. He found himself wondering just how often he *got* to see you like this.

You giggle, stopping by touching your head because it was spinning. "Pope, it's beautiful, it turns everything around" you say amused.

Pope watched as you stopped giggling for a moment, touched your head as if you were dizzy. Pope couldn't help but chuckles a little as he said, "Well, that's what weed does to you, it makes the world look a lot prettier."He took a step closer to you and leaned against a tree, his eyes still locked on you. "You're having a lot of fun, huh?" he asked, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

You lean into him, laughing and resting your head on his chest. You were so short compared to him. Pope's eyes widened when you leaned into him, resting your head on his chest. The sudden closeness caught him off guard, but he found himself quite enjoying it. He wrapped an arm around your waist, his hand resting against the small of your back, just holding you there."You're awfully giggly tonight," he said, his voice a little lower, his tone a little softer. "Can you even walk straight?"

Smile amused. “No I don’t think so” you murmur into his chest. Pope chuckled, feeling your words against his chest. You were so honest, so open when you were high. It was almost endearing. He kept his arm firmly around you, supporting your weight as if you were going to fall over at any moment.“Well, that’s not good,” he teased. “How am I supposed to get you home in this state?”

You look at him with your cute little doe eyes. "I don't want to go home, I want to have fun" you say placing your hands on his shoulders. Pope looked down at you, his expression a mixture of amusement and affection. Your cute little doe eyes were looking up at him with a pleading expression, and he was struggling to resist the urge to give in to whatever you wanted."You’re going to regret this tomorrow, you know" he said, his voice a mix of warning and humor. "But fine, let’s have fun… within reason."

You smile sweetly and hug him. “Thank you, thank you,” you say enthusiastically. Pope let out a sigh, pretending to be exasperated, but in truth, he was finding it all quite endearing. You were all over the place, and he couldn’t help but enjoy every second of it.

“You’re welcome,” he said, returning your hug and giving you a small smile. “But no more weed for you, okay?”You giggle in amusement in his embrace. “We’ll see,” you hum and try to drag him to the lounge chair.

Pope couldn’t help but chuckle at your determination despite your current state. He let you drag him by the hand towards the lounge chair, his mind a mix of worry and amusement.“Hey, take it easy,” he cautioned, sitting down on the lounge chair and pulling you to sit on his lap.

You smile and lean into him putting your arms around his shoulders as you look up at the stars. Pope's heart skipped a beat as you leaned into him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. He could feel your warmth against his chest, and he instinctively placed an arm around your waist to stabilize you.

Pope followed your gaze upwards, looking at the stars that were twinkling in the night sky. He couldn't help but smile at your fascination, your face glowing under the starlight."You really like the stars, don't you?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur against your ear.

You turn and look at him and nod, smiling softly. "Yes". Pope was caught off guard by the sudden shift in your attention, your smile and the look in your eyes. In that moment, he forgot all the reasons he was trying to keep his distance, all the reasons he was trying not to get too close.

He found himself looking at you, his gaze roaming over your face as if he was seeing you for the first time. In the soft light of the stars, you looked softer, more vulnerable—yet undeniably lovely.“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

You smile softly while blushing. "Thanks, you too" Pope's heart skipped a beat, his mind trying to process what had just happened. Did you just call him beautiful? He was caught off guard, a mixture of surprise and disbelief on his face.

He was used to being the one to express admiration, to give compliments, not receive them. But there was something about your sincerity, your gentle voice as you said the words, that made him feel fluttery, as if his heart was in his throat.“You really mean that?” Pope asked, his voice a little hoarse.

You nod, smiling softly and hugging him. Pope felt a warmth spread through him as you nodded and hugged him. He held you close, his arms wrapping around you in a protective yet tender embrace.“You really are something else,” he said, the words coming out a little gruff as he tried to keep his emotions in check. Pope could feel your heart beating against his chest, and he realized how much he liked having you like this, close, vulnerable, in his arms.

They sat like this for a moment, your head resting against his chest, his arms wrapped around you. The sounds of the party around them faded into background noise as they were lost in their own little world.Pope took a deep breath, the scent of your hair filling his nostrils, the feeling of your body against his strangely comfortable. He found himself looking down at you, his eyes tracing your features.“You know, I’ve never seen you like this before,” he said quietly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

You look up at him with those big doe eyes, your expression a mix of innocence and vulnerability. In that moment, you were the complete opposite of the quiet persona he knew. You were open, carefree, uninhibited—and it was utterly captivating.Pope found himself struggling to keep his thoughts straight. He had to remind himself that you were high, that you weren’t your usual self. But it was impossible to ignore the way his heart was pounding in his chest, the way his body ached to pull you closer.

He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself, but the words that came out were a little huskier than intended.“You’re so…” he trailed off, struggling to find the right word to describe how you were making him feel in this moment. “Free.”

You smile softly at his words and look at his lips. Pope felt a tingle go through his body as he noticed your gaze drifting to his lips. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe, his heart rate increasing at the unspoken implication.He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to your face, his own gaze lingering on your lips. The idea of closing the gap between them suddenly seemed incredibly appealing, but he forced himself to resist. You were high, he reminded himself. He couldn’t take advantage of you in this state.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said quietly, his voice a little strangled.No matter how much he was struggling to keep his composure, there was no denying the desire that was building within him. The way you were looking at him, the way that your body was pressed against his, it was driving him wild.

"Why not?" You whisper softly. Pope felt his resolve crumbling, your soft whisper and the way you were looking at him stirring something within him that he couldn’t ignore. He wanted—no, needed—to touch you, to pull you even closer than you already were.

He swallowed, his throat becoming dry. “You know why,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You’re high. I can’t… I shouldn’t—”

You silence him by kissing him softly.

Continue…

[hexhomos]

Hey man, I follow you on bluesky, but I’m too shy to interact openly 😔 Could you maybe share more about the state of the fandom before season 2? I was watching Arcane as it was coming out in 2021, but I never interacted with the fandom back then so a lot of things that you say come as a surprise… Even I knew that a lot of people disliked Jayce tho which was crazy to me because he was my favorite after Jinx and Silco and I always found him to very compellingly written. But I never thought that he was hated to such an extent! Was Jayvik really a crackship with a small fanbase as some people say? I knew it was much smaller than Caitvi which I thought was totally fair and understandable, but I’m pretty sure that I saw a decent amount of fan art on my Twitter TL back then…

Its very inaccurate to call jayvik a crackship during season 1 LOLLLL s1act1 had such a JV boom it was partially marketed by word of mouth as possible canon yaoi. And I say "marketed" with intent, netflix official pages and riot official pages made posts/memes with these two, including some sexual innuendo. Keep in mind, vikjayce was an old ship: from 2012 onwards there's already faint niches in the community and even fanfics.

I have some of those social media posts here.

The marketing yaoi memes became a problem after act2 came out and a lot of the audience felt rightfully betrayed/led on by corporate; i think on the netflix side they got confused on who the canon gay pair was but old time players were well acquainted with riot's HORRID handling of mlm couples - the disappointment wrt jayvik in season 1 was palpable and impossible to ignore, partially because their stories WERE well liked ingame as their lore selves, and in act1 as a potential couple.

for a little while back there "riot HATES gay men" became a whole memetic chorus repeated ad nauseam, and this did affect the decisionmaking process. In the following months they got lil nas X to collab on their yearly esports theme and collab on the new gay champion release (a man permanently separated from his ex partner because he was terrible in the relationship. no comment) and we also got the pride month reconfirmation that tfgraves are gay for eachother, though once again not in a relationship and not allowed to even confess, they were just posing in general proximity under the rainbow flag; an obvious step down from the pitch where they had Old Romantic History. Not even a kiss. You can sense the pattern on how riot approaches gay men here, and /why/ a lot of people on the fence have rallied behind jayvik after season 2. It would finally subvert the trend.

I would say post season 1 it was obviously caitvi city, with some other niches, biggest ones being timebomb and jayvik. Caitvi were Mega viral, successfully tricked general audiences into calling the game "league of lesbians" for a while back there, ascribing progressivity to the company where it was pinkmoneying at best. People's general hatred of jayce made it so he was underutilized, misread and mischaracterized at large, INCLUDING in caitvi or general fanworks. He was a republican trumpian dumbjock stocks guy, insert your least liked man here. It was not uncommon to click on a jayvik fic/fanart and see some sort of sentiment related to "oh jayce sucks but someone needs to kiss viktor", and this was mild ribbings when compared to people who DIDN'T ship it. On these other waters it was common to see "Viktor deserves much better!!!!!!" plastered on all the walls. hence the massive y/n stats on viktors page.

still, people who stuck by jayvik were generally doubly invested on it, and they even got a couple of zines made! Secret santa projects were also up and running for some years. There was fanmerch though not as much as we are seeing now, and also a recapture of league vikjayce content in much, much smaller numbers. Even back then and in the years before season 2 some rioters would already share and interact with these fanworks; people insisting that jayvik is "new" or was uncommon before are extremely wrong. In AO3 stats alone they were in the top 3 league ships of all time after season 1, and they are firmly #2 as of now, rapidly growing. The fanbase is cosmically larger now but the seed was always there.

[callipraxia]

I’ll admit it - thinking of ‘but what will people think of me?’ has stopped me short of writing things before, in everything from writing actual content to writing part of a review on a friend’s story. “What will [Friend] think, seeing that I know that? Even if I explain the actually relatively innocuous reason why I know it, would they even believe me? This is an issue of how something is portrayed in media that I feel pretty strongly about, but in context, it might be better to just…drop it.”

I…tried actually including a detailed example of my next point here, drawing from Anon’s Robert Jordan remark, but it ended up breaking the thousand-word limit before I even got past the introductory explanations, so I guess I’ll write a separate essay about why I don’t really agree with the “dudebro is secretly obsessed with lesbians and BDSM” line of thinking, maybe link it back here later if I remember. In the meantime, the point was - if I start thinking “dang, I think Author X has an Issue with Y,” it’s usually a lot less because of what the author leaves in than what the author leaves out. As an author, one deliberately chooses to explore certain topics, including dark ones that reflect the issues that preoccupy us (isn’t Anne Rice’s work supposed to be kinda messed up? I mean, I’ve never read a word she wrote that I can recall, but aren’t they all, y’know, horror novels?). As distasteful as we might find it, incest and pedophilia and sexual assault and suicide and all those other words you can’t use on YouTube are real things that happen every day. There’s a plethora of reasons why any given author might want to explore such issues in writing, and at least half of ‘em have nothing to do with sex. I’ve never heard anyone imply that Dostoyevsky must have been really, really turned on by the thought of attacking pawnbrokers with axes, much less that he ever committed a murder in real life just for the heck of it. From what I’ve read - though to be fair, my reading on the subject is not extensive - Nabokov probably wasn’t really a pedophile, and Mario Puzo probably had nothing to do with real-life organized crime. I have heard a few people suggest Stephen King must be a perverted serial killer in real life to write what he writes, but those people were idiots. And so forth. Point is, an author examining evil through a certain point of view really should not lead to the assumption that the author has done or wants to do any of those bad things. That’s why we say that authors use their imaginations when they’re working.

Plus, well…nine times out of ten, nobody’s going to make you read a book. If you really can’t read a book without getting uncomfortable because you can’t stop thinking that X or Y means that the author might have wanted his wife to put him on a leash and spank him, you can almost always just…put down the book and go read something else. You can also do this if you’re uncomfortable with Anne Rice apparently having conflicting feelings about God - that isn’t a potential theme that bothers me, but I know people who would be upset for days about reading something that even hinted at someone Having Questions about the divine. Heck, I have a few books I 99% enjoy and I just skim over or entirely skip parts that involve actions I find uncomfortable - my one hard rule is that I won’t willingly even skim anything where bad things happen to pets, but even then, I don’t assume that everybody who ever earned a Newbury Medal is a bad person who likes thinking about such things. I just don’t read their books. Unless you are compelled to do otherwise for a class* or the like, just do thou likewise.

*I was, very reluctantly, compelled to read two books in my undergraduate Adolescent Literature class where bad things happened to dogs; it was the first and last time in my life that I’ve ever tried to get out of reading something, but the professor didn’t believe what I could bring myself to explain about just how negative of a reaction I knew I would have if I read any books with dying dogs in them. Now I still have one of those scenes lodged in my carousel of intrusive thoughts that drive my anxiety level up and make it really difficult not to engage in compulsive behaviors whenever they rudely shove their way up to the front of my brain, but I don’t think badly of Sherman Alexie because of it.

Do you think authors sometimes don't realize how their, uh, interests creep into their writing? I'm talking about stuff like Robert Jordan's obvious femdom kink, or Anne Rice's preoccupation with inc*st and p*dophilia. Did their editors ever gently ask them if they've ever actually read what they've written?

Firstly, a reminder: This is not tiktok and we just say the words incest and pedophilia here.

Secondly, I don't know if I would call them 'interests' so much as fixations or even concerns. There are monstrous things that people think about, and I think writing is a place to engage with those monstrous things. It doesn't bother me that people engage with those things. I exist somewhere within the whump scale, and I would hope no one would think less of me just because sooner or later I like to rough a good character up a bit, you know? It's fun to torture characters, as a treat!

But, anyway, assuming this question isn't, "Do writers know they're gross when I think they are gross" which I'm going to take the kind road and assume it isn't, but is instead, "Do you think authors are aware of the things they constantly come back to?"

Sometimes. It can be jarring to read your own writing and realize that there are things you CLEARLY are preoccupied with. (mm, I like that word more than concerns). There are things you think about over and over, your run your mind over them and they keep working their way back in. I think this is true of most authors, when you read enough of them. Where you almost want to ask, "So...what's up with that?" or sometimes I read enough of someone's work that I have a PRETTY good idea what's up with that.

I've never read Robert Jordan and I don't intend to start (I think it would bore me this is not a moral stance) and I've really never read Rice's erotica. In erotica especially I think you have all the right in the world to get fucking weird about it! But so, when I was young I read the whole Vampire Chronicles series. I don't remember it perfectly, but there's plenty in it to reveal VERY plainly that Anne Rice has issues with God but deeply believes in God, and Anne Rice has a preoccupation with the idea of what should stay dead, and what it means to become. So, when i found out her daughter died at the age of six, before Rice wrote all of this, and she grew up very very Catholic' I said, 'yeah, that fucking checks out'.

Was Rice herself aware of how those things formed her writing? I think at a certain point probably yes. The character of Claudia is in every way too on the nose for her not to have SOME idea unless she was REAL REAL dense about her own inner workings. But, sometimes I know where something I write about comes from, that doesn't mean I'm interested in sharing it with the class. I would never ever fucking say, 'The reasons I seem to write so much of x as y is that z happened to me years ago' ahaha FUCK THAT NOISE. NYET. RIDE ON, COWBOY.

But I've known some people in fandom works who clearly have something going on and don't seem to realize it. Or they're very good at hiding it. Based on the people I'm talking about I would say it's more a lack of self-knowledge, and I don't even mean that unkindly. I have, in many ways, taken myself down to the studs and rebuilt it all, so I unfortunately am very aware of why I do and write the things I do most of the time. It's extremely annoying not to be able to blame something. I imagine it must be very freeing. But it ain't me, babe.

Anyway, a lot of words to say: Maybe! But that might not stop them from writing it, it might be a useful thing for them to engage with, and you can always just not read it.

Also, we don't censor words here.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Zelda had already picked up her book and set it back down half a dozen times since midnight. Even from inside her bedroom, she could hear the crickets’ song growing louder, just the way it always did a few hours before sunrise. The rest of the world was fast asleep.

Admittedly, she must have read this book over a hundred times, so it was only natural that she was beginning to grow bored of it. Even still, she usually found each memorized line comforting, like an old friend or a long-loved pair of shoes. Only now, when she most needed a distraction, the well trodden paths of the plot kept leading her back to the corners of her own mind.

With the book open at her side, she once again tried to close her eyes. They hurt, the way they so often did when she hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks. Only closing them brought no relief. The pain shot into her head like vivid flashes of light, so she snapped them open again.

She reached for the card that had haunted her from the bedside table for weeks. Alexander Barnes, Librarian. Immediately she felt foolish, just the way she did every other time she looked at it. What was she going to do? Stroll into someone’s office with her credentials as a farmer? A bloody jazz singer? Abandon Gio in the farmyard and let the chores pile up until the house fell apart? And she was getting ahead of herself. He had never said there was any job. What was the point of all this worry and dreaming? A library. A library so full of stories that there would never be any worries ever again.

She turned away from the pillow that had been cold for months. The room behind her began to blur, like a foggy memory creeping its way through her mind. She kept her eyes focused on the card. Alexander Barnes, Librarian. His name grew blurrier as her lids grew heavier, imagined visions populating the dark space beneath.

A library full of books, Victorian manors lined with wall after wall of shelves. Manors with greenhouses where women met to talk, or gardens where children ran laughing, free of the constraints of their schoolwork and the meticulously trimmed hedges of the past. Hallways hushed with young lovers or people who had never seen such homes in person before. 

Shelf after shelf of books, books and books as far as the eye could see…

Zelda Darlington, Librarian.

It had never been easy for Zelda to tell dreams from reality…🎶

There were signs, of course; but especially when her insomnia got worse, the hazy gauze that separated sleep from wakefulness grew thin, and reality grew blurrier as her dreams became ever more lucid. 

When she woke, the first sign that it was a dresm was just how quiet it was - blissfully quiet, like the air was full of promise and wonder. Her body lifted upward, opening her eyes to what appeared to be a small study. There were shelves and shelves of books, all of them seemingly well loved and free of dust. 

Her bare feet hit the cold parquet floor, but they made no sound. She knew that that could be because it wasn’t real, or just because her feet had never seemed to make any sound. Even when she was young, she had seemingly been soundless to everyone around her. So it may have been real. And everything felt so…familiar. 

No, it was too real to be a dream. Too deeply locked in her mind. Too solid. But it was so beautiful, just like many of her best dreams were. Only it was something far older than what she saw every day - quiet and melancholy in the way a misty morning was. There was never any mist in the desert. 

What a lovely house. But so quiet. So unused. Why weren’t there people here? Laughing children and gossiping circles of women. It should be full of life. Was it once? What had happened? Why wasn’t it welcoming people who had never seen such splendor and sheltering innocent lovers in the alcoves of its past? It should be filled with shelves and shelves of books, the quiet not from forced sadness, but from young women lost in a story.

But the quiet was sad here, wasn’t it? All at once the air grew heavy and the mist became a fog, the blissful silence a burden. The lack of sound was deafening, and she became acutely aware that there was no one here, not any longer. She was alone. They had abandoned her. Or was she the one who had abandoned them?

From behind her a grandfather clock chimed like glass shattering, and she spun to face it. No. There wasn’t supposed to be any sound, not here. She had brought that horrible, shrill noise to this quiet place. It was her fault. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Or was she? Is that why it had been silent? Because she wasn’t here?

She ran back into the room where she had awoken, the shelves of books insulating her from the silence of the house. Protecting her from it. Just the way they always had. 

As she shut her eyes the silence swirled and contorted the way the world did when you held a glass to your eyes. Through the vortex of returning sounds she could hear footsteps entering the house. She shut her eyes tighter. Sleep. Go back to sleep. If you do, there are better dreams waiting for you. Ones where you won’t be alone. Sleep.

The footsteps sounded further into the house before they came to a stop. Quiet. Like the quiet of a library, or the silence of a well loved house. But the quiet usually meant that she was alone now, didn’t it?

The gauze fell back over her, so that she was somewhere between sleep and wakefulness when a pair of familiar arms wrapped themselves around her. She would have known them no matter what reality she was in. “You’re not really here. You're not supposed to be home for days.”

His voice somehow sounded like the smell of flowers on a breeze. You could sense it in the air, even if you couldn’t quite see it; and then there was a brief moment where it was real, just before it disappeared in the still air. “I convinced Jo to drive through the night after the show rather than stay at the court again. I’m home.”

Sleepily, she mumbled in disagreement, thankful for the phantom that her dreams had given her to lull her back to sleep. She could even hear the crickets outside again. It was so nice to have them. At least when they sung it wasn’t quiet. She pressed herself against the air as he spoke. “I am home, my little dream child. I am. I am…”

When she didn’t answer, his hand moved from her stomach, up to her hair. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning.”

She followed the movement, trapping his hand in hers. It was warm and real, as impressive as any dream she had ever had. Then she interlaced her fingers with his, bringing his hand to where it had been before to ensure that even if he was a phantom of her imagination, he couldn’t leave again.

Previous / Next

[nekrosmos]

AO3

Loving Simon Riley was easy. From the moment they had first met, Soap had been endeared by the man. The Halloween costume? Kind of charming. Intimidating, sure, to constantly be by someone’s side whose stare could make any recruit shit themselves, face hidden behind a patched up mask meant to remove one’s identity, separating the man from the soldier. Anyone who saw Ghost from far away assumed him to be a legend, a broken shell of a man who had gone through so much that all was left behind was the echo of what he used. He was, in some ways, but he was so much more than that. 

It was the small things that Soap quickly learned to love. The way the corner of his eyes crinkled when he told a bad joke, visible despite the black makeup. How he would turn his head before lifting his mask when they were eating together, trying to hide his face even then. How his dark eyes caught the sunrises, orange beams reflecting so perfectly in the brown hue of his irises. The horrible shirts he always wore at the gym, either with bad jokes or shitty band design on them. The way he always stood behind Soap, always watching his back, always. 

When the two of them became more than brothers in arms, it was an entirely new person that Johnny learned to love, so many more details to discover. The way Simon loved to grab Johnny from the back, his big arms wrapping themselves around his form and pulling him closer to his chest, silent, placing kisses in the back of Soap’s neck, hot breath against his skin, as if he was afraid to lose him. How he always slept with his head facing the door, his back never turned to it. The light gray hair on his temples he always sighed when spotting. How he always stared at the rest of the world like he wasn’t truly a part of it, gaze losing itself for a moment as he watched people go by their lives, only coming back to his senses when Johnny approached him. 

It was easy to love Simon Riley, but Simon Riley didn’t believe that. 

Nothing had made this more obvious than the first time he had allowed Johnny inside his apartment. A small, cheap flat in Manchester, two rooms, a bedroom, a small balcony, elderly neighbors, cracks in the walls and mold in the corners, the kind of place you would expect for him. Simon had obviously been nervous about bringing Johnny home, even if the two had been together for a while then, the entire thing being unexpected as they had found themselves more drunk than they had anticipated and in need of a place to sleep for the night.

The inside was pretty much what Soap had expected. Bare-bones. No real decorum. No pictures on the walls. Neat for the most part. 

The kitchen was small, packed with the bare minimum, the fridge full of quick meals, cans and not much more. No plants, he had tried when he was younger but kept killing them, apparently. No animals, of course, who had time to take care of them with the job they both had. There was a shelf with books in them, although most of them were coated in a thick layer of dust. No mirrors, except for the one in the bathroom, which had clearly been broken by a large fist. One toothbrush, one towel, one razor, one bottle of shampoo. 

His bedroom had been the worst offender. A single person bed in a corner of the room. “We’ll make it work” he had told him. Again, no pictures, just a few postcards up on the wall near his desk. Soap recognized a few he had mailed him when the two had been sent on different side of the world. That made him smile. 

Fitting in the bed was difficult. It already would have been complicated to fit two normal-sized people in a single person bed, but two buff guys like them was a whole other challenge. Simon kept apologizing, his tone way too close to being shameful for Johnny’s liking. They found a comfortable enough position eventually, Ghost’s back against the cold wall while he held Soap tightly in his arms, their legs intertwined as best they could. 

There was silence as soon as they went to bed, but Johnny could feel that Simon wasn’t sleeping. His breathing against the back of his neck was steady, his fingers digging into his flesh, not painfully, but purposely. It had been difficult, then, to find the right words, but Johnny eventually talked, his voice almost a whisper in the strange quiet of the night. 

“Am I the first person you ever took home?” 

He knew the answer, of course, only confirmed by a quiet “yeah” he could feel against his skin. 

Johnny wanted to ask him why, but the signs around the flat were pretty telling. Simon had never settled here, never took root. It wasn’t uncommon, for men like them, to feel at odds with their civilian lives. The man versus the soldier. Simon versus Ghost. Of course, it was different for him. Rare were the soldiers who had gone through what he had gone through. The job had taken literally everything from him. His purpose, his family, his identity. Whoever Simon had been before all of this was long gone, replaced by an echo of the man he used to be, floating through life like a ghost, never really belonging anywhere, no tether to bring him back to the living, no one to remember him. 

Loneliness was a cruel affliction. Soap couldn’t recall how many times he had spotted Ghost back at base when he should have been gone and on leave. He asked him, then, many times, what he was doing here, and every single time, Simon would shrug, making up excuses about “catching up on some paperwork while he could”. 

Now that Johnny had seen what waited for Ghost once he got back “home”, it suddenly made a lot more sense.

Gently, Soap grabbed one of Simon’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the pale skin of his knuckles and intertwining his fingers with his, before turning around, almost falling out of the bed as he did so. 

“What are you doing?” Ghost asked, the darkness not enough to hide his puzzled expression. 

“Turn around, I want to hold ya.” 

A snort escaped Simon’s lips, almost mocking, as if he didn’t believe him. Well, he probably didn’t, and so Johnny insisted. 

“What? Don’t think I can spoon ya?” 

“The fuck you want to do this for, Johnny?” 

“Do I need a fucking reason? Jesus Christ, just turn around and let me hold you.” 

After another second of hesitation, Simon relented, turning around, face facing the wall as Johnny laid back down, his arms going around his bigger shape and getting as close to him as possible. Half of his ass was hanging from the bed but it was manageable, especially after Simon grabbed one of his arm, Johnny’s hand coming to rest on top of his heart. 

It was his turn to be able to kiss the back of Simon’s neck, lips gently meeting his cold skin while his free hands played with his hair, fingers tenderly brushing them as he felt his partner slowly relax in his arms. 

It was then that Johnny decided to offer Simon to come live with him. He would ask him, the next day, while the two would be preparing breakfast. He wouldn’t make a big deal out of it, just a casual mention. His flat was big enough for the both of them, Simon had been there already and liked the place, Johnny had a king-size bed, and a decorum that didn’t remind him of a prison cell. Hopefully, Simon would say yes, but if he didn’t, he would understand. Recovery was a slow process, and no matter what Simon decided, he would stick by his side, finding more ways every day to love the man he had fallen for. 

[lifefragments]

Chasing a Mirage

Pairing: Viktor x Reader Genre: Angst, Fluff, Longing, Bittersweet Romance Setting: Piltover, Post-Season 1, Viktor’s lab and your shared memories of what once was.

The rain tapped softly against the window of Viktor’s lab, a rhythmic, almost melancholic sound that mirrored the ache in your chest. You stood in the corner of the room, watching as Viktor worked tirelessly, his fingers moving with precision over his latest project. He barely looked up, his focus so intensely consumed by his inventions that it was as if you weren’t even there.

This had become routine—the silence, the distance. Viktor’s ambition had always driven him, but lately, it had felt like it was driving a wedge between you. The man who once found time for quiet moments, stolen kisses, and soft conversations now seemed unreachable, lost in his endless pursuit of progress. And yet, despite the growing chasm, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave.

Because no matter how far he drifted, you loved him. You always had. Even when it felt like loving him meant chasing something you could never quite catch.

You sighed softly, the sound almost drowned out by the hum of machinery. “Viktor,” you called out, your voice gentle but firm, cutting through the quiet like a whisper in the dark.

He didn’t answer right away, his head still bent over his work. For a moment, you thought he might not respond at all, but then he spoke, his voice strained and tired. “Yes?”

“I’ve been standing here for almost an hour,” you said, trying to keep the frustration from your tone but failing. “You didn’t even notice.”

Viktor’s hands stilled, his brow furrowing as he let out a soft sigh. He finally looked up at you, his golden eyes dull with exhaustion. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, the apology sounding hollow, like it was automatic. His gaze flickered back to his work, as if the weight of your presence was a distraction he didn’t have time for.

The distance between you had been growing for months, ever since Viktor had begun his experiments with Hextech. It had started with late nights and missed dinners, but now, it felt like you were living in separate worlds—his dominated by invention and progress, yours left behind in the quiet spaces he no longer seemed to care about.

You stepped forward, crossing the room until you were standing beside him, your hands resting on the workbench as you tried to bridge the gap. “You’ve been working yourself to death,” you said quietly, your voice soft but pleading. “You never stop anymore. You barely sleep, you barely eat, and it feels like… like I’m losing you.”

Viktor’s jaw tightened, and he turned slightly to face you, his expression conflicted. “You know how important this is,” he said, his tone both apologetic and frustrated. “There’s so much at stake. I can’t just stop now.”

“I’m not asking you to stop,” you said, your voice shaking slightly. “I’m asking you to remember that you don’t have to do this alone. That I’m still here. That I… I still need you.”

His eyes softened at that, but there was a weariness in them, a deep exhaustion that went beyond just the physical. “I know,” he whispered, his voice strained with guilt. “I’m trying. But there’s so much that needs to be done. Every day I feel like I’m falling further behind. Like I’ll never be enough.”

Your heart ached at his words. You knew how hard Viktor was on himself, how relentless his pursuit of perfection had become. But you also knew that it was tearing him apart—that it was tearing both of you apart.

Reaching out, you gently took his hand, the cold metal of his brace against your skin a stark reminder of the lengths he had gone to for his work. “You are enough, Viktor,” you said softly, your voice trembling with emotion. “You’ve always been enough.”

He stared down at your intertwined hands, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into his world of metal and machinery where emotions were secondary, where the only thing that mattered was the next breakthrough. But then, slowly, his fingers tightened around yours, a fragile acknowledgment of the connection he was so afraid of losing.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said quietly, his voice breaking ever so slightly. “But I don’t know how to stop.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them back, determined to stay strong for him. “You don’t have to stop,” you whispered, stepping closer until your body was pressed against his. “I’m not asking you to give up on your dreams, Viktor. I just want to be a part of them. I want to be with you, not just beside you.”

Viktor’s breath hitched at your words, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he turned fully toward you, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that cut through the layers of distance he had built. “I don’t want to lose you,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “But I don’t know if I can give you what you deserve.”

You shook your head, your hand reaching up to cup his face, your thumb brushing gently against his cheek. “You’ve already given me everything I need,” you said softly, your voice full of conviction. “I just need you.”

For a long moment, Viktor didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply stared at you, his eyes wide with disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite understand how you could still love him despite everything. But then, slowly, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. It was the closest you had felt to him in weeks, and the sheer relief of it made your heart ache.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice full of self-doubt.

“Maybe not,” you teased gently, your lips curving into a small smile despite the tears in your eyes. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

Viktor let out a shaky breath, and for the first time in a long time, you saw the faintest hint of a smile tug at his lips. It was small, barely there, but it was enough. Enough to remind you of the man you had fallen in love with—the man who still existed beneath the layers of ambition and exhaustion.

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, the world outside the lab fading away. It wasn’t perfect, and you knew there were still battles to be fought, both within Viktor and outside of him. But in that moment, you had each other, and that was enough.

Eventually, Viktor pulled back, his hand still holding yours as he looked at you with a mixture of love and guilt. “I’ll try,” he said quietly, his voice soft but full of sincerity. “I’ll try to be better.”

You smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “That’s all I need.”

[gorgeys]

90s baddie!reader with nipple piercings and driving Jackie insane with it 🙏🏽

jackie taylor x 90sbaddie!fem!reader with nipple piercings

before jackie met you, she barely knew what nipple piercings were.  sure, she'd heard of them, but that wasn't a thing that teenagers actually had...right?

it isn't until she's making out with you for the first time that she's proven wrong.  she pushes you back by the shoulders, causing you to flop back onto her bed.  in a second, she's crawling on top of you and straddling your waist.

you place a hand on each side of her neck and pull her down, forcing her to meet you in yet another hungry kiss.  her greedy hands find their way beneath your fitted shirt and start to tug on the hem.  reading in between the lines, you separate from her lips momentarily, allowing her to pull the fabric up and over your head.

when she catches sight of your bare, bra-less chest, her eyes look like they're going to pop out of her skull.

"what?" you question, eyebrows knitting together.  you look down at your own chest and everything looks normal.  "you've never seen boobs before?"

"well, um," jackie starts, fumbling on her words like you've never seen before.  "not pierced ones," she says, her shock morphing into fascination.  her warm hand trails up your ribcage, halting at your underboob.

"wait, i thought you knew."

"how would i know that!" jackie shouts, throwing her hands up.

"um, because you can seem them through my shirt?"

now it's her turn to be confused.  her hands fall back down to your stomach.

"what?  i thought-"

"jackie, i've not been wearing bras on purpose so you would see them, " you say, hands leaving her thighs to cup your tits.

her eyes widen in surprise, both at the revelation and the sight of you holding your tits in your hands.  she's practically drooling on your chest.

"oh," is all she can muster, mouth open like a fish.

"yes, oh," you say, chuckling at her reaction and swiping your thumbs over the piercings.

"i...just noticed," she says breathlessly, impatiently staring while you toy with your nipples.

"clearly!  i haven't been wearing bras, for like...the past two weeks!"

"jesus," she mumbles under her breath.

you laugh again, throwing your head back.

"i can't believe you didn't look at my boobs once!" you say, smiling up at her. "you're so cute, y'know that?"

from the way she's looking at you, you can tell everything you're saying is going in one ear and right out the other.

"do they...do they hurt?" she asks innocently, eyes meeting yours for the first time since she discarded your shirt.

"no.  you can touch, if that's what you're asking," you say, arching your back and pushing your chest toward her.

she doesn't have to be told twice, her fingers instantly finding your nipple, hardened by the cold air.  her touch is delicate, treating you like a glass pane that could shatter at any moment.  it's nice at first, but it's hard not to grow impatient.

"come on, you can do a little more," you say, grabbing her hand and applying the pressure you desire.  before she even knows what she's doing, she's pinching your nipple between her thumb and pointer finger, and you're releasing a delicious groan.  "just like that," you sigh.

minutes later, all jackie's hesitancy is gone and she's sucking on your nipple like her life depends on it.  it's euphoric: the cool metal against her tongue, your hands woven in her hair, the moans from your lips each time her teeth graze your skin.  she's sure to reach between your legs and rub your clit to completion as she alternates between your tits, showing them equal love.  the noises you make are just the cherry on top.

after that, jackie's life is divided into two eras: before she discovered your piercings and after.

now, she never misses the piercings poking out of your skin-tight shirts.  her eyes form a habit of glancing down at your tits each time she sees you, just to check if you've decided to go bra-less that particular day.

on the off chance she does see them, she's anything but normal about it.

her eyes can't stop looking down at them, as if they're staring back and taunting her.  she nods her head enthusiastically at whatever you're saying, only half-listening as she tries to recreate the image of your naked chest in her head.

you're no help at all as you purposely jut your chest out or accidentally spill water on your shirt, especially when you're around others.

"oops," you say, pouting your lips as jackie intently watches the water droplets trickle down the front of your top.  she's a moment away from losing her mind.  "i'm such a klutz!"

it doesn't matter where you are, whether it's school, a party, or with your friends, she grabs you by the hand and searches for the quickest escape route to a more secluded area.  fifty fifty chance it works, but she'll try it every single time.

and it doesn't even need to be sex.  she's fully content pinning you against a tree, pulling your shirt up, and going to town on your tits for as long as she wants, then walking back to the party like nothing happened.

but expect your boobs to hurt after.  she leaves reminders of herself in bite marks and hickeys anywhere and everywhere below (and sometimes above!) the neckline of your shirt.  you swear, she's all sweet and unassuming until your bare chest is in front of her and suddenly she's a feral animal.

she's also made a game out of trying to touch your piercings in public when no one's looking.  maybe your friends are too busy laughing at a joke and she quickly reaches out and swipes her thumb over your nipple.  or maybe she's defending you at practice, your back pressed against her front as you try to turn and take shot, and her hand "accidentally" claws at your chest, barely feeling the metal through your sports bra.  she lets you score after that.

"yeah, maybe you scored, but who really won," she says, smirking at you while you shake your head in faux disapproval.

all in all, jackie adores you're nipple piercings and she'd spend all day sucking and toying with them if she could.  you and your bratty antics also do a great job of not letting her forget about them.

[softlypaintedseafoam]

🍓ー thank you for your patronage at the strawberry witch’s bakery! here’s your order!

requested by: a lovely anon 🍓 -> law + strawberry tart (making up after a fight)

It's 2am when you drag yourself out of the sleeping quarters and Law is already in the kitchen. A small ache of discomfort forms in your chest, the two of you watching one another warily.

Your mouth opens, lips dry and stiff, but not one sound comes. Not a single word. With a grimace, your mouth closes again. It isn't until Law raises it that you notice the coffee pot nestled in his hands, "want a cup?" In spite of the question, his voice is strained and his brown eyes seem black.

It's bait, hesitant as it may be, it's bait.

Knowing this fact, it's difficult to make yourself ignore it and turn around promptly. Maybe it's how his eyebags seem more prominent in the Polar Tang's lighting and how his hair is messy at all sides. Law's isn't one who tosses and turns in his sleep. No, he sleeps much like a log once he's surrendered himself to sleep. A quick breath escapes you before you step forward, gently nudging Law away from the cupboards.

"2am isn't the right time for making coffee," you murmur, reaching for your collection of chamomile tea. "Doctors are the worst patients; you never listen to your own advice."

There's a pout in his voice when he replies, "I'm not sick, so there's no advice I'm breaking right now."

Your response is a subdued snort of disbelief. "Regardless, you won't get to sleep with coffee. We don't even have decaf." Another bold-faced lie that Law doesn't have the desire to press. The crew never buys anything decaffeinated coffee beans; it'd be a nightmare if Bepo and Shachi got their hands on anything but. "So put that thing down. Let the real kitchen master do their thing here."

With your orders, it's as if you're roles have switched and you're the captain of the Heart Pirates. Law steers clear of your way, far enough you won't bump into one another, but close enough. You don't feel the desire to snip at him because of it, not even as you awkwardly wait by the stovetop watching the kettle.

Close enough to feel one another's presence, but not so close you're pressing against one another either. Like there's an invisible line preventing the two of you from fully indulging in one another's touch. It's an uncomfortable feeling that not even a warming pot water can fix.

You're a couple that seldom has arguments. Regardless of how many battles you conquer, however, you'll never get used to this energy. You'll never get used to the feeling of not knowing how to function properly in this odd period after a fight's taken place. You wish your mind would stop going over the 'I could have done this differently's. You didn't do those things differently and no amount of reflection will take you back to that moment in time before things escalated.

A sigh escapes your mouth. There's no time like the present, at least. "Law-"

"I'm sorry," the dark-haired man says before you're able to truly start. You look to your left, eyebrows knit and lips pursed. "You were trying to help. I was being stubborn."

"I shouldn't have called you bullheaded and insensitive," you reply, your voice feeling too loud for the quiet of the kitchen. Even if Law can be stubborn, you know better than anyone Law is sensitive. There's too much care of his in that tall body of his than he knows what to do with. "I just worry sometimes that… you might go overboard. Like when you were dealing with Joker."

Separating himself from the crew to deal with the Warlord on his own was gut-wrenching on its own. Now with Wano on the horizon and an Emperor of the Sea along with it, your anxieties only feel heighten. "I just want you to rely on us more. We all do. No more trying to make yourself the only casualty; just trust that we'll be able to rise to the challenge once it's here. Please."

You're not sure what thoughts are swimming in the doctor's mind, watching carefully how his face contorts with your every word. Law cares. Too much at times. "I'm not asking you to change overnight," you start again, brushing the back of your hand against his. "But some baby steps would be nice, don't you think?"

His smile is tired but it can't hide itself, "baby steps are doable."

[maspers]

Oh! You're asking about Outer Darkness. Let's see if I can help out. Disclaimer tho I'm just a random guy on the internet so be aware that my personal understanding of my faith could be coloring my explanation somewhat, despite my efforts not to.

First: yes, as the existence of such a place implies, we do believe in a possibility for eternal punishment. If we're talking about permanent hell, this is the place. The reason tons of LDS folks like to act like it doesn't is because 1) it sounds nicer and unfortunately people care too much about their reputations and 2) the chances of going to Outer Darkness is like. ASTRONOMICALLY small.

There's an old joke that if you ask a Mormon what happens after you die, they'll draw you a map (as opposed to a Catholic who will tell you to ask your priest and a Protestant who will tell you to ask your Bible, iirc how the joke goes). And honestly, it's true. LDS theology has its afterlife occur in multiple stages. The Spirit World is when you go where you die. But EVENTUALLY Jesus is gonna show up again (probably at the end of the apocalypse because dramatic timing) and EVERYONE is gonna get resurrected. And while the resurrecting is going on there's like a thousand years of awesomeness and getting some last-minute ordinance work done. Shenanigans ensue, everyone teams up to beat up Satan one last time (long story) and THEN and only then do we get to the Final Judgement, when it's FINALLY decided where people are going to be for eternity.

At every point BEFORE the final judgement, everything is ultimately temporary and can be forgiven or whatever because Jesus is awesome. Immortality is a guarantee for literally everyone, and even the people who DONT repent and become good people will still get a spot in a Kingdom of Glory, which even the lowest is referred to as better than anything humanity can comprehend (LDS folk don't do what they do because they want to get into Heaven, they do what they do because they want ALL THE PERKS). Getting into a Kingdom of Glory is essentially the DEFAULT.

But, at the final judgement, it IS possible for someone to do something that can never be forgiven. If you stand at the final judgement, with a perfect knowledge of EVERYTHING (because like, it's the final judgement, your entire past and the past of the UNIVERSE is laid out in front of you, you have complete understanding of what the universe is, how it works, and God's role in all of it) and then essentially give God the middle finger and say "screw you God, I hate you and deny you and everything you stand for"... He still won't send you to Outer Darkness. You have to do that to Him, AND Jesus, AND the Holy Ghost (LDS folk believe they're separate people, not a long story but not worth going into here) and basically also give literally every thing that's good the middle finger as well in the process, because ultimately everything good in the world comes back to those three. Then, and ONLY then, will you be declared a Son of Perdition (though really it should be "Child of Perdition" now, the term originates from scriptural text, obviously people who aren't male could still in theory become a Son of Perdition) and you'll go to Outer Darkness to chill with Satan and be depressed for eternity. I cannot emphasize enough that the people who go to Outer Darkness will go there of their own free will and choice, with a perfect understanding of the decision they are making. Despite what some people might tell you (and what some very stupid LDS folk might believe) Mormonism is heavily built on the concept of free will, and getting sent to Outer Darkness is no exception. You only go there if you WANT to.

And honestly, that's a REALLY stupid thing to do? The amount of people who will end up as Sons of Perdition is INSANELY small, especially compared to the amount of humans that have lived and will live. In all of scripture we only know of to meet the criteria is Cain, and he was only able to meet the criteria because of the unique circumstances at the start of Genesis, it's pretty much impossible for ANYONE to qualify during mortality, or at any other point before Judgement. Cain just is Like That I guess. (Incidentally Cain will explicitly RULE the place, because Satan is a loser and doesn't have a body so he can't be in charge). Some people claim Judas Iscariot also qualifies but that's not backed up by any scriptural or prophetic text, and frankly that idea doesn't make much sense to me.

The kicker is in theory, Outer Darkness technically isn't permanent either. If a Son of Perdition were to recant their ultimate middle finger to God and everything else, they would in theory be allowed to leave. The only reason it IS permanent is because at that point the idea of spitefully rejecting the glory of God is so engrained in their being that they will never repent. It's become their entire nature. (I'll admit this part isn't stated explicitly in scripture anywhere, for obvious reasons Outer Darkness isn't talked about much in the text, but it can be reasonably extrapolated from what we know about the nature of God and mankind based ON the text).

So TLDR: Outer Darkness is a thing in LDS theology, and so is Eternal Punishment, but the only people who go there LITERALLY ask for it. You're almost certainly not going there. Don't worry about it.

As for how this affects the LDS perception of Hell... like every religion, YMMV. Different members view things differently. Some people mistakenly believe that if you're a member of the Church and then leave or otherwise start being a bad person, you'll go to Outer Darkness. This explicitly isn't the case. But Outer Darkness as we understand it is the part of our theology that most closely resembles the traditional Christian idea of hell (though with less fire and brimstone and more just eternal self-loathing and anger), so if a Latter-Day Saint is referring to Hell as a specific place, then they're probably referring to here.

However, when an LDS person mentions Hell, they could ALSO be referring to:

Spirit Prison, where the people who didn't do All The Right Things in life go when they die. Not as bad as it sounds. Like yeah there's suffering but as we understand it it's probably like the "You feel your sins crawling up your back" thing from Undertale where you're just hating yourself because of your guilt. Regardless of if you stay here or end up transferring to Spirit Paradise, you still probably won't go to Outer Darkness. This takes place before the Judgement (long before) but since it's IMMEDIATELY after mortality it sometimes gets conflated with Hell as "bad place you go when you die"

Spiritual Death, aka what Hell as a concept MOST likely is being referred to by LDS. Literally just referring to a spiritual separation from god. Physical Death is when your body dies (oof) and Spiritual Death is when you metaphorically die by not being Christlike, and can really happen at any time. Jesus, being the awesome person He is, provides salvation from BOTH kinds of death (He breaks the "chains of death and hell") so like. Don't even worry about it. Incidentally, since literally everyone is experiencing some level of Spiritual death right now because we're designed to be flawed during mortality, we're technically all in hell right now! Yayyyyyyyyy. Again, don't worry, this is part of the process, part of the point of mortality is to fail and get back up.

So Second TLDR: Outer Darkness is generally known and understood by LDS communities, but like. We don't worry about it too much. Usually when an LDS folk talks about hell in a religious sense they're talking about the concept of (ideally temporary) Spiritual Death.

"Maspers are you going to cite your sources" No, this is tumblr and I'm lazy. the other LDS folks can back me up and correct me if I'm wrong. Peer review ftw.

seeing people discussing the concept of hell and how cruel the idea of eternal punishment is like, wow! i know this belief system you would love if not for your knee-jerk reaction against its name

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

bar hopping •·.·''·.·•

summary: you take lando to a desi club.

‹𝟹 ln x desi!reader ⊹ ࣪ ˖

‹𝟹 fluff + humour ⊹ ࣪ ˖

masterlist ☾☼

lando had been to his fair share of clubs around the world, whether it was ibiza, or monaco, or even vegas. but honestly, nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared him for what he was about to experience in what you called, a "desi bar."

you had told him once during one of the many clubs you went with him after a race that while you loved partying as much as he did, the essence of a desi club was just completely different. so, he insisted that you drag him to a hidden gem of a bar in the heart of the city to prove your point. and, you did. it was a place you had sworn up and down would “change his life.” he had nodded along, expecting the usual—maybe a few neon lights, a decent dj, overpriced drinks.

instead, he was in a whirlwind of color, sound, and pure, unfiltered energy.

the bass thumped through the air, not with the usual edm beats he was used to, but with the unmistakable opening of kala chashma. the moment the first notes hit, the entire crowd erupted in cheers. glasses were lifted, voices shouted in perfect synchronization, and then—lando’s brain short-circuited.

because everyone, literally everyone, started doing the same dance moves.

it reminded him of the cowboy bars that daniel used to pull him to back when they were teammates.

“what—what is happening?!” he yelled over the music, eyes wide as he watched a sea of people drop their sunglasses onto their faces in unison and break into the hook step.

“this song is a bop,” you shouted back, grinning. “and this is just the beginning.”

safe to say, lando was slightly afraid.

lando spun around, watching in disbelief as strangers moved like they’d rehearsed this a thousand times. everyone was weirdly in sync, as if everyone had been to the same dance class to learn the same dance steps to the song. he swore the bartender was grooving while making drinks as well.

before he could even fully process it, you grabbed his wrist. “come on, norris. time to earn that reflex training of yours.”

he barely had time to protest before you pulled him into the middle of the crowd, seamlessly slotting the two of you into the choreography. you moved effortlessly—hips swaying, hands snapping into perfect formation, feet gliding across the floor with precision- as if you had been doing this since you were a child. meanwhile, lando? lando looked like a baby giraffe trying to separate its legs.

“why does everyone know this?!” he gasped, fumbling through the steps.

“it’s in our blood, love,” you teased, before you continued screaming the lyrics again.

to be honest, lando was sure that almost everyone at the bar was a bad singer if he heard them individually. he knew his girlfriend definitely was. but hearing them sing collectively, it sounded so harmonious, he had half a mind to record it and send it to martin for inspiration.

but, lando was not a quiter. so, lando huffed, determined now more than ever. he was a formula 1 driver. he had lightning-fast reactions, could handle a car at 300 km/h. surely, surely, he could handle some synchronized dancing.

…he could not.

he most definitely could not.

“left, lando! no—your other left!”

“i am going left—wait, no, never mind!”

his attempts were tragic but earnest. the crowd around him was equal parts entertained and encouraging. a group of aunties on the side cheered him on, while a group of guys dramatically mimed his worst mistakes, cackling. but he was committed now. he refused to be defeated by bollywood.

just as he managed to vaguely get a move right, the song switched.

“oh, you’re not ready for this one,” you grinned mischievously.

the opening beats of ghungroo started, and suddenly, the energy in the room tripled. the crowd seamlessly adapted to the new choreography, the transitions smooth as butter. lando really only had one question. how??? lando barely had time to breathe before he was swept into another whirlwind of movement.

and then—you taught him the hook step, gesturing for him to “break” the ankle bells like hrithik roshan had done in the official choreography.

lando blinked. “i have to—what?”

“just trust the process!” you laughed, and continued with the steps.

with the focus of a man attempting a daring overtake, he did it. he did the hook step. and for a moment—just a moment—it felt like the entire room cheered just for him.

by the end of the night, lando was sweaty, exhausted, and hooked. all he wanted was to go back inside and dance all night. he wanted to learn every choreography possible. he briefly wondered if jon would allow him to train by dancing instead of his usual weights and stuff.

as you both stumbled out of the bar, he turned to you, breathing hard. “that… was insane. i loved it.”

“told you it would change your life,” you laughed, handing him a bottle of water.

he took a sip, still dazed. then, suddenly, his face broke into a grin. because really, there was no stopping him now.

“so… same time next weekend?”

you laughed. “you’ll have to learn naatu naatu next time.”

lando groaned. he knew the song. he had watched the music video way too many times. it usually played on youtube on their tv when the two were cleaning. he knew just how many times he stopped and stared, transfixed at the speed that they danced. “oh god. i might need a pit stop halfway through that one.”

later, videos of lando attempting to dance to bollywood went viral. and all that people said was, "how to find a white boy in a brown bar."

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

this has been on my list for soooo long, and im sooo happy i finally got to write it. anyways, i hope you like this! im sorry it took me so long to write this one! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @greantii ; @anamiad00msday ; @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @justaf1girl ; @peterholland04 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry

[uniquethingtastemaker]

As everyone knows, I bounce between fics based on my creative inspiration and rn I’m writing a Rook x Reader fanfic.

Now, this one is interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this concept before…

The closest thing I’ve read is probably @solxamber’s Ruler of My Heart. It’s one of my favorite Rook x Reader fanfic of all time. She peels back the layers to Rook’s character, portraying something more honest and vulnerable. It’s fantastic. If you haven’t read it, do it now.

I read that fanfic and thought I could never even touch that level of artistry. However, I feel like I’ve come up with a solid base for something good.

I haven’t seen a lot of full fanfics where Rook feels threatened. I’ve seen some drabbles where he’s felt scared and is able to deal with the threat swiftly. However, those tend to be about MC being threatened. Even in the canon story, Rook is more concerned with the safety of others rather than himself. It makes sense considering his fantastic skills.

Therefore, the man tends to be unflappable. Even if he does feel unnerved, he covers it up expertly. He can manually adjust his heart rate and breathing. However, some people can see past the facade, like Trey. Look at the Halloween event for instance.

Rook has a weakness though. He’s a private person. He doesn’t like people knowing about his past too much. Other than what he portrays to the world, which is his more of his upbeat and over the top self, he doesn’t want people to know about him. That’s his weakness.

My fanfic idea is an observant reader. Someone that makes Rook feel uncomfortable and borderline threatened because they just guessed almost everything about him upon their first meeting. That is objectively terrifying. There’s someone who matches his level of observation. Unlike Trey, who’s low key about it, MC doesn’t know that, especially at first. They almost give away too much information. Rook deals with the situation but they both know what he’s done to intervene.

So, I plan to have the main inner conflict be Rook hesitating to trust the Reader. The external conflict will obviously be Vil. Once again, I have a strange obsession with Chapter 5. I think it’s because it’s the perfect set up. There’s so many different possible conflicts and resolutions. I also don’t have to think much in terms of coming up with my own situation and set up. It’s built in there. Work smarter not harder lol

Anyway, that’s my idea for now. Let me know your thoughts. Always love interacting with people about my works and ideas

I also have thoughts regarding Rook general behavior that might be interesting. However, I’m tired, so that’ll probably be a separate post. Let me know if you’re interested.

Tagging @es-sharezone because u love Rook lol