#it was a perfectly sensible comment

[crazy-pages]

See I get this, but also, holy shit sometimes those gripe groupchats become an awful stew of shitting on everyone constantly for any and no reason. It's very easy to forget that "thoughts and feelings aren't bad, just how you act on them" and "you need to have a safe space to speak authentically" is not the same thing as a space where all your thoughts and feelings are validated and reflected back at you. There's no such thing as thoughtcrime, but there sure are thoughts we need to hear friends say "uhhh, no" to.

Places to gripe about your boss are great. Place to vent about a disappointing fanfic where you aren't shitting on someone who shared something for free are good. Places to ask friends "hey is it just me who's getting a worrying vibe off the new guy?" are important. But unless you're willing to hear that you're in the wrong, that's not a private place to vent you've got, it's an echo chamber for all your most hateful impulses.

Safe places to put your inside thoughts are important, but sometimes "safe" means a safe place to have them rejected. It means a place where you trust your loved ones enough to hear them say "I think you're in the wrong" and know to your bones that they don't mean "I hate you".

Safe doesn't mean the absence of negative feedback, it means a place where negative feedback is safe to receive. You might have deliberately curated positive spaces to calm down or recover from shit, but those cannot be the spaces where you shit on people. That's not creating a space for deliberate positivity, that's creating a place where no one is allowed to say anything if someone steps over a line.

There is no thoughtcrime, but working yourself into a frenzy over nothing because you and your friends don't know how to calm each other down or question the righteousness of your petty grievances is in fact a bad thing.

i cannot emphasize enough how important it is to have gossipy bitchy littl pirvate group chats or discord servers with like 4 people in them whose stated purpose is posting “new kind of guy” or “this reddit post is so fuckin dumb” or “i got into a fight on twitter today look at this idiot’s reply” so your homies can still see it and laugh and back you up but more importantly, so you are not tempted to post these kind of things on main

[marzipanandminutiae]

I think some of the accuracy critiques of 2019 LW are totally legitimate (the hair, my god), but Jo wearing men’s clothes has never flown for me as something “wrong” with the movie. She generally does so around her family and apart from what the actors said (actors are....actors) it would make sense that she had some access to men’s clothing through theater costumes and Laurie and would want to wear them. I think it’s a perfectly legitimate interpretation of how her character would dress and I’ve never understood critiques of it. (I know Abbie Cox has said this is well—in her “not like other girls” video (where she. wildly misunderstands that term) which makes me extremely uncomfortable in general. So that may bias me but.)

I don't think it's WRONG exactly; I do think it's lazy and belies their claims of historical authenticity. because she doesn't just wear those clothes in private- she wears them while working as a governess AND in her freaking publisher's office

would that have worked for an already-famous author? yes. look up George Sand; she pulled it off splendidly. for a young woman just starting out in the professional world, c. 1870? hell no. she'd have been hewing much closer to the line of respectibility- in an accurate setting, which again is a standard they set for themselves

it would have been more Authentic, in my view, to dig into how a woman like Jo would actually have incorporated masculine elements into her clothing to feel at ease while still maintaining baseline Respectable Female AttireTM. but, you know. that would have required effort and a respect for the lived reality of Victorian women's experiences, neither of which this movie's team had

also...I liked that Abby Cox video. I think a lot of viewers wildly misunderstood her meaning- she was talking about tropes used in historical fiction and a tendency going back centuries for writers to use androgynous or masculine presentation- or simple disinterest in clothing -as "proof" that a woman is more clever/innovative/generally interesting than her feminine peers. not whether GNC women existed in history- which is, of course, indisputable. so there's that

(don't even get me started on the How Dare You Criticize Perfect Infallible Saint Mary Wollstonecraft discourse that said video sparked. or the misogyny and professional invalidation leveled at Cox herself by many of those responses)

[sargebarnesx]

Jealousy

Pairing: Jim Hopper x female reader

Rating: 18+ ONLY

Warnings: Age gap, dirty talk, unprotected sex, sex in his office, Hop’s a bit of a dom

Words: 2.3k ish?

Summary: Phil Callahan has a massive crush on you and Jim Hopper doesn’t want to admit that he’s jealous.

Author’s Note: please forgive me for two things: 1. If Hopper seems a bit OOC, it’s been a while since I’ve watched ST but I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while. 2. If I missed any warning/info that should have been provided. I haven’t posted fanfic on tumblr in about a decade so I’m out of practice. Hope y’all enjoy though!

Jim Hopper would never admit to being jealous.

He would describe himself as laid back when it came to relationships. Besides, when was he ever tied down to anyone long enough to get jealous? He would go with the flow, which usually meant he would have one night stand after one night stand and never call any of them ever again.

Until he met you.

You were a decade younger, but that didn’t bother him. You had a past, hell, so did he. He didn’t care. You started working at the station, that was great, he could see you every day and he definitely didn’t mind that. There was only one thing that seemed to be bothering him lately…

Phil Callahan had a massive crush on you.

Jim Hopper would never admit to being jealous, especially not of Phil Callahan.

You wore tight skirts and cute heels to work, a stark contrast from Flo’s ankle-length dresses and sensible shoes. You were young and pretty, what did he expect? You spent a lot of your time flittering around the station, helping where you could, filing, cleaning, making and answering calls. In between all of that, you found time to innocently flirt with Phil. You knew what you were doing; you knew it was going to make Jim’s blood boil every time he caught you sitting on the corner of Phil’s desk in your tight black skirt that hugged the curve of your ass perfectly. You were putting on a show, albeit one that had maybe gone on for too long. But you wanted to see how long it would take Hopper to crack.

Your white button-up top exposed your collarbone, giving everyone at the station a tiny peek of the smooth skin hiding underneath it. The black pumps that adorned your feet made a clicking sound as you walked back and forth and back and forth. Every time you passed by Jim’s open office door, he looked up from his paperwork in the hope of catching a glimpse. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.

Neither could Phil.

Why did that make him seethe with jealousy?

Deep down, he knew why. He knew why seeing another man’s eyes rake over your body drove him absolutely insane.

He knew it was because that body had been writhing underneath him a mere seven hours ago. He knew it was because when you woke up next to him this morning, all you wanted was his dick in your mouth. He knew that you were probably still thinking about the way he railed you before your morning shower with your hair wrapped around his fist. How could you not be? He certainly was.

You were walking around the station with a familiar swing in your hips, a skip in your step, humming one of your favorite songs. Flo had commented that you were in a surprisingly good mood for a Monday morning. No one knew the things the two of you did off the clock and Jim wasn’t sure if they should. He didn’t want people to think you only had a job because you were screwing the chief. You deserved a better reputation than the one he had earned.

Jim heard the clicking of your heels getting closer as you approached his office. “Hey chief,” you say, rapping your knuckles against the door frame. You held a brown folder in your hand. “Whatcha got?” Hopper asks, holding his hand out to take the folder. Before you could respond, you slowly pushed the door closed. “Somethin’ serious?” Jim raises an eyebrow at your actions but doesn’t question you further. You set the folder down on his desk gently.

“I can feel your eyes on me every time I walk by,” you say, sitting in the chair opposite his desk and crossing your legs at the knee. Hopper leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out. You can feel the tip of his shoe rub against your ankle. “Yeah?” He remarks, “Can you feel Callahan’s too?” You nod, rolling your eyes, “Of course I can, but you looking up from your paperwork each time I walk by is what’s got me distracted.”

Hopper smirks, dragging his eyes over your exposed thighs. “Is that so?” He asks, “Not Callahan panting like a dog at your feet?”

You run a hand slowly through your hair, flipping it to one side. “Phil has been like that since high school. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to realize that if he hasn’t gotten any from me by now, he never will,” you explain. Hopper nods, his face emotionless as he moves his legs away from you. You follow his actions and lean in toward his desk.

“Besides,” you say, “I’ve had a lot on my mind today and I can’t say Phil Callahan has crossed it even once. You, on the other hand…”

“Me?” Jim asks, leaning back in his chair with his hands crossed behind his head, “What about me?”

He knows what he’s doing. That was your invitation and he knows you’ll take it. He watches as your mouth quirks up the tiniest bit in the corner, always one for a challenge. Hopper watches intently as you stand and make your way around the desk. He happily obliges when you motion for him to push his chair back a bit.

His hands immediately fly to the backs of your thighs when you straddle him and he has to hold back a groan as your hot pussy brushes against him. He takes in a sharp breath as you lean close to his ear.

“The chief wants to know what I’m thinkin’?” Your breath is hot against the shell of his ear. He nods, rubbing his hands from the backs of your knees to the curve of your ass. “I’m thinkin’ about your cock, chief, and how it feels when you’re filling up my pussy,” you place a kiss on the side of his neck, “I’m thinkin’ about laying back on this desk so you can fuck me right now.”

Jim presses his face in the crook of your neck to hide his groan. He hopes his office is far enough away from everyone so they can’t hear him. “You feel too good, baby,” he thrusts his hips up, trying to get closer but there are too many layers, “You know I’ll be too loud.”

You kiss him, deep and hard, taking his hands and pushing them onto your ass. “Maybe Phil will hear you and realize he doesn’t stand a chance,” you whisper with a smirk against his mouth. Hopper squeezes your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, undoubtedly leaving a mark.

You push yourself back up into a standing position, then take a seat on his desk. “So, are you gonna help me?” You ask, placing your right foot on the arm of his chair, feeling your skirt ride up. His eyes rake over you, going from your hip to your ankle, and you can tell his fingers are itching to touch you. “Or am I gonna have to do it myself?” You lift your left leg and place it on the opposite arm, exposing yourself to him. You trail your fingers down between your legs, feeling the wet heat that has soaked your panties.

“Touch me,” you whine, pushing your panties to the side to thrust a finger deep into your throbbing pussy, “please.” He watches under hooded eyes, his hands resting on your ankles. Your finger circles your clit and you hold back a moan, remembering that there’s only a door separating the two of you from everyone else. His hands creep higher and he traces lightly across your skin. “Unbutton your shirt,” he murmurs. You pull your fingers away from your pussy, wet and glistening, and slowly slip your buttons open.

One by one, you expose the skin of your chest to him. He can see the black lace of your bra and the swell of your breasts, heaving up and down as you pull your shirt off. “Fuck,” he mutters, “You’re so damn beautiful.” He gets closer to you with these words, filling the space between your thighs. He places a kiss at the base of your throat and you gasp as his beard tickles your skin. “Jim…” you groan, “I need you right now.”

He stands, crowding you, towering over you, with one hand on his belt buckle. You can see how hard he is, how his big dick strains against his uniform pants. “You gonna be a good girl and let me fuck you on my desk?” He asks under his breath, palming himself over his pants. You nod, lying back over folders and papers. He hooks a finger in each cup of your bra and pulls, exposing your tight, hard nipples. “You are so turned on, baby,” he whispers against your nipple before wrapping his lips around you, “Bet that sweet pussy is soaked.”

A chill runs down your spine at his words. You want nothing more than to have him ram his thick cock inside of you, but his tongue on your tits is driving you absolutely insane. You wrap your legs around his waist. “Jim, please,” you’re getting desperate at this point. You want him inside you now.

His belt falls open first. Then he pops open the button and lowers the zipper. You’re one layer away from finally feeling him. You tighten your legs and pull him into you, whining when you feel his length pressed against you. “Easy, baby,” he says softly, “Be patient.”

He pulls away from you and pushes his boxers down, finally. His cock bobs between the two of you and he hisses when the cool air hits him. He pumps himself a few times while you watch, wetness pooling between your legs. You want your panties off, you want him to fill you up, you want to feel him. “You ready for this cock, baby?” He says. You nod, “I’ve been ready. You know this pussy is yours.” He smirks, reaches under your skirt, and pulls your panties down your legs in one movement. You squirm as he takes his place back between your thighs. The head of his cock brushes against you and you moan, bucking your hips towards him.

Jim is grinning; he loves seeing how much you want him, how much you need him.

“You want it all?”

You nod again.

He pushes into you, so familiar, so filling. He groans into your mouth, bites down on your lip, and pumps his hips back and forth. You’re gripping his biceps, your noses are touching, and his eyes are trained on yours.

“Atta girl,” he groans, “Atta fuckin’ girl, taking my cock like this. Taking my cock on my desk at the station. You think Callahan could take you like this? You think Callahan could make your pussy this wet?”

You shake your head.

“You want Callahan to fuck you on his desk out there? You wanna tease him until he can’t take it anymore?”

His thrusts are getting sloppy, his desk is creaking beneath you. He’s already gotten you there twice and is working towards a third. “Oh…baby…girl…fuck,” he moans, his words each enunciated by a snap of his hips. Your hands are gripping the hair at the base of his neck and you know without a doubt that your bottom lip will have an intense indent from your teeth.

“You want my cum? You want it deep inside this pussy?” He growls. You nod, unable to form words, unable to think with the cloud of bliss that is currently fogging up your brain. “Use your words, baby. I wanna hear you…” he says, gripping your wrists and slamming them down on his desk above your head. “Yes,” you whisper, your voice shaking, “Yes, please, cum inside me.”

Suddenly, you feel like a rubber band snaps somewhere deep inside of you. Your back arches off of the desk and your eyes squeeze shut; you wish he didn’t have your hands pinned above your head because you’d love to dig your nails into his strong shoulders. Then he’s moaning - loud and deep, while he spills himself inside of you. Your body goes limp as he wraps his arms around you. He’s so warm and you cry out at the absence of his heat when he pulls out of you. “Jim…” you whine.

“Shh,” he says, digging through his drawers to find a random towel that he knows is buried in there somewhere. It’s scratchy and has a couple of holes, but he uses it to clean you up. His rough grips have turned to soft touches. He gingerly puts your heels back on your feet while you fix your bra and pull your shirt back on. When you stand, he pulls the bottom of your skirt down and gives your ass a gentle squeeze.

It’s a silent remark, something that tells you he enjoyed himself, that he loves you, and that he wouldn’t mind a round two this evening when you both get home.

“How do I look?” You ask, gesturing to your hair. Hopper leans back in his chair and lights a cigarette, “Gorgeous, as always.”

You smooth your hands through your hair and quickly swipe under your eyes, realizing then that you’ve been in Hopper’s office for far too long, your mascara is far too smeared, and your once crisp and perfect shirt is far too wrinkled.

With one last glance at him, you reach for his office door handle and pull it open. An officer is standing there, frozen in place with his fist in the air as though he was about to knock. You slip past him, grab a stack of folders on your way back to your desk, and call over your shoulder, “Oh, hi Phil!”

[the-boy-meets-evil]

not according to plan | hjs (teaser)

summary: your ex-fiance is getting married and everyone you know is going to be there. when he calls to ask if you're coming, you accidentally mention a boyfriend. which would be fine, if you weren't very single. thankfully your best friend comes through with the perfect solution when he sets you up with a friend of his.

pairing: joshua x f.reader genre: fake dating, strangers to ?? | fluff, slight angst, smut rating: explicit (in the full fic), minors DNI word count: ~1.1k in this teaser (full fic ~22k) notes: johnny suh as the ex (sorry!), also includes other idols not in seventeen solely as face claims, there's a heavy focus on the fake dating, mentions of food & drink, warnings to be added to the final fic fic post date: friday, april 26th (full fic here)

a/n: i started this legit months ago as kind of a joke, talking about it with @shuadotcom but it's finally done (and a lot longer than i anticipated).

thank you to: @wonwussy & @kwanisms who read over this for me (too long ago), and to @cheolism @wooahaeproductions @hannieween, & sj for all the brainstorming help along the way. tagging: @aaniag @gyuminusone @crepecakeu

if you'd like to be tagged in this fic (or any of my fics), comment, click here for my tag list, or send an ask 💕

You still think this is a terrible idea, yet agree to meet Jeonghan’s friend, Joshua, anyway. Apparently, he’s somewhat new to the area, doesn’t know many people, and is incredibly easy to be around. There’s no mention of why Jeonghan thinks he might be willing to pretend to be your boyfriend. A part of you wonders if your friend even told him, but he’s not that cruel. So, whatever the case, Joshua must at least have some idea of what he’s walking into. 

Several days pass between the nightmare of a call from Johnny and you actually meeting Joshua, which only adds to your anxiety about whether or not this is going to work. Johnny is asking for a name for the seating chart and for dinner selections. Your mom wants to know when they’ll be able to meet this new boyfriend before the wedding (because “meeting him for the first time at a wedding is gauche” and we wouldn’t want that). Your sister is convinced that he doesn’t actually exist since you haven’t posted him on social media. That you can at least answer to say that not everyone posts their entire life online like she does. It doesn’t seem to allay her suspicions, though. 

Then, there’s the fact that you’re actually meeting Joshua for the first time at dinner. All you wanted was to go for coffee, yet he insisted. You couldn’t exactly press the point. Not when you’re planning to ask this stranger to pretend to date you just so that you can avoid the embarrassment at your ex’s wedding. On top of that, because Jeonghan really is a demon at his core, you don’t know what Joshua looks like. Don’t know who to look for. Which leads to you doing the only sensible thing and showing up 5 minutes late for dinner, hoping that he’ll already be at the table when you get there.

It works.

When you give the reservation name at the host stand, you’re immediately led back to a table. Without even thinking about it, you smooth your hands down the front of your dress, looking for a small amount of comfort in this situation. It’s not even that you struggle around new people, this is just…well, it’s a lot. It’s out of anyone’s comfort zone. Whatever you’re expecting, it’s not the man sitting at the table the host leads you to. He nearly stops you in your tracks. 

His black hair is perfectly styled down to the pieces on one side that come down over his forehead. The black dress shirt he wears is open at least one button too many, but he makes the exposed chest look work in a way models would envy. Even though his pants are black as well, he makes it look classic and effortless, rather than too dark. That’s all without even acknowledging the soft smile on his face. This man would break a thousand hearts without even saying a damn word. While you’re appreciating him, you miss the way his eyes rake over you appreciatively. Miss the way his eyes trace your curves and the way the dress clings to you. 

In one fluid motion, he’s standing up to greet you, a gentle kiss placed on your cheek. Is it weird if your knees are a little weak? Well, even if it is, there’s nothing you can do. You’re completely captivated. 

“You must be Joshua,” you say. Brilliant, you think. That’s obvious.

“It’s nice to meet you. Jeonghan had nothing but good things to say,” he answers with another smile as he pulls your seat out for you. 

“I feel like he hardly told me about you,” you respond. Joshua raises a perfect eyebrow at that.

“Then why did you agree to go out with me?” Joshua asks. 

“Go out with…is this a date?” The question comes tumbling out. 

Joshua’s eyes widen in genuine confusion. “Is it not?” 

“What, exactly, did Jeonghan say to you?” 

A lot and nothing at all, it turns out. Joshua tells you about how he’s somewhat new to the area, which you knew. About how he met Jeonghan through work, kind of. They work in the same building doing very different things and happened to run into each other getting coffee a handful of times before Jeonghan introduced himself. The two had hung out several times, something Jeonghan had not really mentioned, and gotten to know each other over drinks more than once. The very first time, Jeonghan had mentioned you and Joshua admits immediately being intrigued without pressing for more information. 

In any case, Jeonghan talked about you pretty freely, a fact that’s hardly surprising. Before Joshua texted you, Jeonghan had mentioned, in what Joshua calls an offhand way, that you were sick of dating the same people. According to Joshua, through Jeonghan, you were looking to possibly be set up. (Read: Jeonghan thinks he’s crafty and isn’t going to come out and tell this man what you’re really looking for. Typical Jeonghan, honestly. You know that “offhand comment” was anything but. And you had the audacity to think Jeonghan would have to tell Joshua what he’s getting into. Rookie move.)

Now you’re in a bit of an awkward situation because this man is honestly gorgeous, one of the prettiest humans you’ve ever met. And, already, he seems like he might be sweet with a pretty good sense of humor. It’s just…well, you’re absolutely not looking for a relationship and this is the last person you want to get involved in your mess. Thankfully, you get a moment to catch your breath when someone comes by to take a drink order and suggest an appetizer. It’s just enough time for you to talk yourself into telling Joshua the real story.

To his credit, he only looks mildly surprised as you outline your whole situation, inform him that yes, Jeonghan does know all of this, and clarify why you didn’t actually realize it was a date. It’s hard to miss the way his eyes seem to sparkle a bit when you also admit that he’s absolutely stunning in a way that hurts your feelings. Easier to miss is the way his face barely falls when you say that you’re not actually looking for something right now. Interesting. 

“So that’s the whole thing and now that I’ve embarrassed myself in front of you, I’m sure you’ll understand if we never see each other after tonight,” you finish.

“How am I supposed to go to a wedding as your boyfriend in a matter of weeks if we don’t see each other after tonight?” Joshua wonders.

let me know if you want to be tagged when i post the full fic next week 💕 (and what you think so far)

[mahtariel-of-himring]

When Elrond stepped upon the ship that was to take him, Galadriel, Gandalf, Bilbo, Frodo and a few others to Valinor he was nervous. So long had imagined what it might be like, and for some time even questioned if he would ever sail.

But here he was, stood upon their ship with the undying lands finally in sight after months of sailing across the unending ocean. He might be a mariners son but he certainly had no great love for boats, he didn’t have a problem with them, but the knowledge of not having ground beneath his feet still made him uneasy.

At their arrival many awaited them, to welcome the newcomers into the blessed lands.

High King Arafinwë, in Middle Earth better known as Finarfin, and his other children had come to welcome Galadriel.

Gandalf reunited with some old Maia friends of his and then escorted the hobbits that had joined them to a nice little cottage for them to spend their days in.

He himself recognized many of the faces in the small crowd. First he spotted Gil-Galad, who welcomed him with open arms. Then his beloved Celebrian, who pulled him into a hug the moment he saw her, she was much better now.

A few soldiers of Rivendell were there as well, happy to see their Lord again.

Elrond ended up settling in Tirion with all the others and moved into Celebrian‘s home. It was a nice house with a good view and easy access to the marked and other nearby shops and market places.

Tirion was flawless. The white towers with their pointy roofs, the elegant guards with their silver spears, the marked place with its various stalls and merchants.

He met many of his ancestors, some he got along with and some he didn’t.

The first he met was Turgon, it took half an hour for them to end up in an argument about the moralities of handling delicate situations within one‘s own city and when to help those in need.

Luckily his second meeting went much better. His great grandfather, Fingolfin, was much more sensible and they got along quickly due to their shared knowledge on leadership and experience of hardships throughout their lives. Though the late High King did comment to his wife Anairë later about how he was sure he‘d bite his teeth out on Elrond eventually, comparing his stubbornness to someone else’s.

When he at last met Fingon it took the elf exactly five minutes to ask if he had been raised by Maedhros. To this day Elrond didn’t understand how he did it, for he himself wasn’t aware of the small details. Like how he did his hair exactly like the fëanorian had or that he held himself with something of Valinorian regalness he definitely didn’t pick up in Lindon.

But as time went on Elrond began to realize something.

Tirion was truly perfect.

Too perfect.

Everyone seemed to have collectively decided to ignore any pains and hardships experienced in Middle Earth or Beleriand and live their lives as if everything was perfectly fine.

When bringing this up to Gil-Galad he just said that they preferred it that way, even if it wasn’t perfect, not everyone had made the journey and seen war, and those who didn’t weren’t comfortable of discussing or displaying it.

The more time Elrond spend in the white city the lonelier he felt. It seemed as if he was the only one prepared to speak of or even mention anything of the things that happened to so many of them.

The more he realized that the more he felt out of place.

Because he wasn’t perfect, he was far from it actually.

He had gone through things most couldn’t imagine in their worst nightmares and had seen horrors he wished he could forget.

He had seen his city attacked, had been kidnapped, even though that did turn out positively in the end. Had witnessed war and bloodshed from young on, had served as Herald and later taken on the mantel of Lord. He had seen so much that he just couldn’t ignore.

So one day he mounted his horse and rode out of Tirion. He didn’t have a destination or any idea where he was going but he just kept riding until he was exhausted.

When he looked up he saw a large city with high towers, but no pointy roofs were atop them, instead there stood guards. The walls weren’t made of white stone and marble but steadfast and resistant cobblestone and tall pillars.

The front guards let him in after he explained his situation, and the moment he stepped through those gates it was as if he had entered another world. No excessive jewelry was worn, but rather detailed braids and head dresses or simple circlets.

Scars of all types were openly portrayed instead of covered up and hidden as if they were sometimes to be ashamed of.

Elrond saw elves with walking sticks and missing limbs and crippled bodies. They were warriors, they were survivors, they were the ugly but real truth, and it felt so relieving too see them.

He had no idea where he had ended up in, but he already knew it was much better than Tirion.

No one was putting on a fake mask of perfection and instead just acted as they truly were.

Elrond walked through the streets, talked with some of the locals and listened to their stories.

He heard everything from ex soldiers to healers like him to guards and even some escaped thralls of Angband.

It was so much better than the flawlessly perfect white city. It wasn’t fake.

Elrond ended up in what seemed to be a throne room. At the end of it stood a elf, dressed in a long robe, his hair littered with many braids and a elegant silver hammer in hand.

His eyes were of piercing grey and his hair as black as the night, but his gaze familiarly gentle.

Elrond knew before he spoke.

Elrond knew before he looked up.

Elrond knew before he stepped closer.

Elrond knew before he even acknowledged him.

He knew where he was, and he knew he would stay.

[eu-nicola]

via part 2

and final

summary: In the dazzling world of high society, you are a young woman who lives an apparently perfect relationship with the pilot Pierre Gasly. However, when you discover that your boyfriend of years Pierre was unfaithful to you with one of your best friends you decide to walk away and what better idea than a vacation in the break of Formula 1 in Italy with one of your friends, Charles.

warnings: nothing

word counter: 7713

author's note: english is not my first language

tag: @pookiesnukoms

It had been two weeks since you returned from that trip with Charles, a trip that had turned everything in your life upside down. Emotions still felt like turbulent waves beneath the surface, but in the world you shared with Pierre, things seemed to be on hold. When he asked you to try again, to take a step back to remember what united you, you couldn’t say no. It was a decision you made with your head more than your heart; it was the most sensible thing to do, what the world expected of you. Pierre had been your refuge for so long that the idea of ​​completely moving away from him seemed inconceivable. 

That night, you were holding his hand as you walked down the red carpet of a charity event, one of those that brought together pilots, models, and high society figures. The flash lights dazzled you, exploding like shooting stars around you, blinding you with their relentless glow. You could feel the warmth of Pierre's palm against yours, a touch that once would have meant security, but now felt different, almost distant.

Pierre turned and smiled at you, that smile the whole world knew: calm, charismatic, perfectly calculated for the cameras. You smiled back, the cameras capturing every moment, freezing images that would later circulate in magazines and social media under headlines of the perfect couple.

You walked beside Pierre, greeting acquaintances and responding politely when someone approached to talk. Pierre kept his arm around your waist, a public demonstration that you were still together, that betrayal and doubts were hidden under the facade of a perfect relationship.

Your mind, however, kept wandering. Every time a laugh mixed in the atmosphere, every time a conversation became ephemeral, you thought of Charles. You remembered the intensity of those days, the glances that lasted a second longer than necessary, the whispered confessions under the starry sky. You had shared a world of your own, one in which attraction and complicity had arisen unexpectedly, like a fire in the middle of the fog. But now, the communication between you had been reduced to cold and short messages, as if everything that happened had never happened, as if the warmth you felt when you were close to him was a distant fantasy.

Pierre squeezed your hand lightly, bringing you back to the present moment. You turned your head and looked at him; in his clear eyes was a silent question, one that didn’t need to be asked: Are you okay? You nodded almost imperceptibly, giving him the answer he wanted. 

During dinner, the conversation flowed between jokes and anecdotes from the racetrack. Pierre relaxed, laughing and sharing stories with other drivers and their companions. You listened, nodding at the right moments and laughing when the mood called for it. 

Across the table, someone mentioned Charles, and your heart stopped for a moment before resuming its rhythm. They talked about his recent achievements, about his impulsive and passionate character that so distinguished him. Pierre laughed, commenting on Charles’s recklessness on the track, and everyone laughed, except you. You took a sip of wine, trying to ignore the pang of nostalgia and longing that threatened to break your calm. You were surprised at how strong that feeling was, how you could still feel his gaze on you even when he wasn’t present.

When the event was over and you stepped outside, the lights of the night and the murmur of the city enveloped you. Pierre, ever attentive, helped you into the car before coming around the vehicle and sitting beside you. The silence between you was comfortable.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he finally said, his voice low and soft, as he turned his head slightly toward you. You noticed the shadow of fatigue in his eyes, a sign that the weight of the season and his own thoughts was affecting him as much as it was you.

“You know I’ll always be here, Pierre,” you replied, and though your words were sincere, they carried a tinge of sadness that he didn’t seem to notice.

The car glided through the illuminated streets, and as the city lights flickered in the distance, you wondered if you could ever feel whole again, if this new beginning with Pierre would be enough to paper over the cracks in your heart, or if there would always be a part of you that would still look back, searching through the memories of that trip with Charles for what once made you feel alive. 

The weeks following the charity event were an endless parade of social engagements and public appearances. The Formula 1 season was in full swing, and almost every weekend meant a new city, a new track, and a new spectacle in front of the press and fans. Cameras followed you everywhere, capturing every smile. The world saw the couple that had overcome a difficult time, the story that fit perfectly into the headlines: the solid couple that had weathered the storm.

Pierre worked hard to regain the trust he had broken. Calls and messages that could once have gone unnoticed now came frequently, always looking to make sure you were okay, that you were still by his side. In public, he was more attentive than ever, placing a protective hand on your back, leaning in to speak in your ear amid laughter and comments that only you could hear. There was a certain sparkle in his eyes, as if he was clinging to the hope that things would go back to the way they were. And you, used to being the image of loyalty and forgiveness, kept up that facade, doubting whether time would be enough to repair what had been broken. 

Yet no matter how many times you reminded yourself that you were doing the right thing, the feeling of emptiness persisted. Every event, every gala night or high society gathering was further proof of your ability to maintain your composure, to show yourself as Pierre’s ideal partner, the woman who knew how to forgive and move on. Sometimes, amidst the hustle and bustle and small talk, you felt your mind wandering to another place, another time. You remembered the laughter and moments shared with Charles, those days of freedom when there was no need to pretend or hide feelings. 

Charles was there too, at every event and every race, but he kept his distance. He had learned to position himself on the periphery, close enough to be seen, but far enough away that no one could detect the tension between you. When your eyes met his, he would quickly look away, but not before letting a spark of something you couldn’t define shine through them. It was a mix of pain, nostalgia, and perhaps a hint of defiance, as if he wanted to remind you that what had happened between you couldn’t be erased so easily. 

One night, during a post-race reception in Monaco, the air felt especially thick. The terrace of the hotel where the event was being held was filled with laughter, clinking glasses and raised voices. Pierre was chatting animatedly with a group of drivers, and you were making polite conversation with the couples of other drivers, all smiles and harmless comments. But you could feel Charles’ presence, even if you weren’t looking at him. He was a few meters away, talking to a journalist, but your heart beat faster every time he moved, as if your body instinctively responded to his proximity. 

You decided to take a breather and excused yourself to go to the terrace railing. The sea breeze caressed your skin and you looked out to sea, dark and dotted with the lights of yachts in the distance. This moment of solitude was a necessary respite, a pause amidst the spectacle of appearances. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the night envelop you and, for an instant, you wished you could disappear into the sound of the sea, far from the expectations and doubts that tormented you.

“Pretty sight, don’t you think?” Charles’ voice made your eyes snap open. You hadn’t heard him approach, and now he was standing beside you, hands in his pockets and that expression somewhere between wary and defiant.

“It is,” you replied, feeling the space between you fill with palpable tension. You didn’t look at him right away, afraid that a single glance might betray the feelings you’d tried so hard to hide.

“You look… different tonight,” Charles continued, his tone barely concealing his concern. There was something in his words, a nuance you couldn’t ignore.

“It’s the same as always, Charles,” you tried to joke, but your voice shook slightly and the lie hung in the air, heavier than you expected.

He let out a soft sigh and leaned in a little, just enough for his words to be for your ears only. “No, you’re not. And we both know it.”

The echo of his words reverberated through your mind as an awkward silence took over the moment. You turned to look at him, finally meeting those eyes you knew so well, the same ones that had looked at you with a mix of affection and desire during that trip. And suddenly, all the coldness and distance of the past few weeks felt like a useless barrier, a paper wall that a simple glance had broken through. 

Before you could respond, a growing murmur interrupted the moment. Turning your head, you saw Pierre approaching, his smile disappearing as he noticed the proximity between you and Charles. The weight of his gaze said it all, and in that instant, you knew that the night would not end like any other. 

And you knew it, Camille's return was like a bolt of lightning on a quiet night: unexpected, blinding, and leaving behind a silence full of uncertainty. No one had anticipated it, and when she showed up again in the circle of friends, she did so with a carefree smile and the same confident attitude that had always characterized her. Her reappearance occurred at an informal meeting in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city, where the group used to gather to celebrate after a race. 

The first sign of her return was a murmur among some acquaintances and a couple of furtive glances. The soft music and the clinking of glasses seemed to stop for a second when Camille entered the place, tall and slender, with a dress that hugged her figure and the same elegance that used to provoke admiration. At your side, Pierre tensed at the sight of her, his fingers, which were resting on your hand, contracted slightly. You didn't need to look at Charles to know that he had noticed her too; the way the energy changed in the air was enough. 

“Wow, it looks like tonight will be more interesting than I thought,” one of Pierre’s friends murmured jokingly, not noticing the awkwardness spreading across the table.

Camille strode confidently toward the group and raised a hand in a carefree wave. “I hope you saved me a spot!” she said with a light laugh, as if the circumstances surrounding her were nothing more than a passing misunderstanding.

The silence that followed was thick. Conversations had stopped, and only the soft sound of music and the murmur of the city beyond the windows could be heard. It was Pierre who broke the silence, trying to regain his composure. “Camille, I didn’t expect to see you… here,” he said with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Camille tilted her head and smiled in a way that made you feel like everything was calculated. “I thought it was about time I got back. I couldn’t keep running away, could I?” His eyes met yours, and the challenge in his gaze was undeniable. For a moment, you didn't know what to do, caught between anger and surprise.

Charles, who had remained silent until then, stood up from the table with a forced smile. “I need a drink,” he said, and headed to the bar without looking back. The gesture was so abrupt that it elicited a couple of curious glances. You knew it was his way of avoiding a confrontation, of not being part of the spectacle that was about to unfold. 

Camille sat down in an empty chair, right in front of you. Her eyes locked with yours for an eternal moment before she turned to Pierre. “How have you been?” she asked, as if the betrayal they shared was a secret only they understood, a bond that, despite everything, kept them together somehow. 

Pierre responded with a curt nod, keeping his gaze down and avoiding yours. Awkwardness crept in like a shadow, and you noticed how some of the other members of the group exchanged glances, aware that the night had become much more tense than they expected. 

“Camille, it’s been a while,” you finally said, breaking the silence that hung over the table. The words came out firmer than you had anticipated, and the surprise on her face was evident for a fleeting moment. But soon, Camille regained her smile.

“Too long, yes. But, you know, things change. And I’m here to stay,” she said, as if that simple sentence could erase everything.

At the bar, you could see Charles with his back turned, his figure rigid as he spoke to the bartender. You wondered what he was thinking, if like you, he felt like things were about to explode at any moment. You turned your attention to Pierre, who was now staring at Camille with an expression that oscillated between discomfort and guilt.

The evening continued, but the laughter and banter felt forced. Camille joined in the conversations, seemingly oblivious to the wary glances and tension her presence generated. With every comment he made, with every smile he threw, the memory of the betrayal was renewed in your mind, fueling a silent rage that only you could feel. Pierre tried to maintain an apparent calm, but the sweat on his forehead and the nervous gestures with which he swirled his glass gave him away.

For his part, Charles returned to the table after a while, his expression neutral, but his eyes filled with a contained emotion. When he sat down again, his fingers drummed on the table for a moment before interlacing, as if trying to anchor his patience. Camille glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and sketched a crooked smile, a gesture that made him clench his jaw.

After that night, Camille's presence became an uncomfortable constant. Where before there had been laughter and carefree chatter, now there was a tension that crept into every conversation. Camille appeared at events and group meetings with the same confidence as always, as if she were unaware of the emotional whirlwinds that her return had caused. But you knew it wasn't ignorance. Camille was smart, and her apparent nonchalance was just a mask.

Pierre tried to act as if nothing had changed, but his efforts to appear normal only made doubts crowd your mind. The small details, once insignificant, now shone with new relevance: the shifty glances, the pauses in the middle of a conversation, the meaningful silences when Camille was around. You began to notice how Pierre tensed every time she spoke, how his answers were more cautious, more measured. And you, who had previously trusted him blindly, began to question whether the story he had told you was the whole truth.

It was during a quiet afternoon, on the terrace of a café, that your world began to crack. One of Camille's friends, a young woman with a sharp smile and a quick tongue, sat next to you without warning while you waited for Pierre. "It's funny how things repeat themselves, don't you think?" he said, his tone bordering on joking and venom. His eyes, bright with the satisfaction of someone who knew more than he should, studied you carefully.

“What do you mean?” You asked, trying to stay calm, even though your heart began to beat faster.

“Oh, nothing, just that Camille always knew how to make Pierre pay attention, even before that night in Monaco,” she commented with a shrug, as if her comment wasn’t going to set every corner of your mind on fire.

That night in Monaco. You thought you knew everything about her, but Camille’s friend’s words planted a seed of doubt that quickly germinated. What else had happened? What other secrets were Pierre and Camille hiding? Her return, their meaningful glances, Pierre’s discomfort, everything fit together in a way that you had previously ignored for fear of seeing the reality.

The tension reached an unbearable point when, days later, you received an anonymous message. It was a blurry photo, taken in what looked like a dark corner of a party. In it, you recognized Camille and Pierre, too close for it to be a friendly gesture. The caption, simple but devastating, read: “Do you know everything?”

The ground beneath your feet seemed to fade away. That night, you confronted Pierre. The conversation was a whirlwind of accusations, justifications, and tears. “It wasn’t like you think!” Pierre exclaimed, his voice desperate as he looked at you with eyes that sought to find in you some of the lost trust. “What happened with Camille was a mistake, one I immediately regretted, but… there was no more.”

“There was no more?” you repeated, your words barely a whisper. Anger and betrayal mixed in your chest, making you feel like you were short of breath. “Why did you never say so? Why did you let me believe it was all over when it clearly wasn’t?”

Pierre brought his hands to his head, a gesture that revealed his frustration. "Because I knew that if you said it, you would have left me. I wanted to protect what we had, what we were."

What we were. Those words echoed in your mind like a cruel taunt. What had been your relationship now felt like a fragile illusion, a carefully maintained image that had been broken beyond repair.

You had enough of those days with Pierre and you didn't want to have any more inconveniences, but there was always something or someone that made it possible. In the midst of all this chaos, Charles began to appear even more than you were used to: at social events, at meetings with friends, even at the coffee shop you used to frequent. At first, you thought it was a coincidence, but the way his eyes searched for you in the crowd, the way his words hung in the air, made you doubt. No matter how much you both tried to ignore what had happened between you, there was something that persisted, something that could not be erased by the passage of time or Pierre's lies.

One such encounter occurred at a dinner hosted by Pierre's team, where all the drivers were present. You were talking to other couples, pretending that everything was fine, when you felt a gaze fixed on you. You looked up to find Charles across the room, a glass in his hand and an expression that was a mix of curiosity and concern. There were no words, but the weight of that gaze was enough to disarm you. When Pierre came over and touched your arm, a gesture of possession and reassurance, the discomfort became tangible. Charles looked away, but not before a shadow of disappointment crossed his face.

The passage of time did not make the situation any easier, but quite the opposite. The weeks that followed the confrontation with Pierre and Camille's return felt terrible. The glances you exchanged with Charles became open secrets, electrifying and tense, always charged with everything that had not been said and everything that could not be.

One evening, while you were flipping through a magazine in the living room of your apartment, your phone rang with a message. It was from one of your friends, someone who was always up to date with the latest gossip from the paddock and the social life that surrounded it. The notification contained a link and a simple sentence: “Have you seen it yet?”

The link took you to an article on a celebrity gossip site. The headline, in large, bold letters, read: “Charles Leclerc spotted with mystery woman at intimate dinner in Monaco.” The accompanying photo showed Charles, standing next to a tall, elegantly dressed, brown-haired woman. Their laughter seemed genuine and their bodies were leaning towards each other with a familiarity that made your heart ache. You could see the spark in his eyes, the spark you recognized well because you’d seen it when he looked at you. 

The text described how the evening had been relaxed and full of complicity, quoting a witness who claimed that Charles and the woman seemed more than friends. You felt a pang of jealousy shoot through you, unexpected and hot. You knew you had no right to feel that way; after all, you had decided to get back together with Pierre, you had tried to put what happened with Charles in the past. But jealousy didn't follow logic, and the image of Charles smiling at someone else stuck in your mind like a thorn.

It didn't take long for the rumors to spread. During events, conversations and barely veiled comments reached your ears. "Did you see Charles and his new friend?", "He seems to be moving on, don't you think?", "After everything that happened, it's good that he found someone." You tried hard not to show a reaction, to keep your composure and pretend you didn't care. But every mention, every whisper, fueled a fire in your chest that you couldn't put out.

Confirmation came one afternoon during a team meeting at the Monza circuit. As you chatted with other team members, your eyes met Charles. He was across the pit lane, talking to a group of people, but something in his expression changed when he saw you. He paused for a moment, as if he was hesitating whether to approach her or not, but before he could do anything, a female figure approached him and took his arm. The same woman from the article. She laughed and Charles, albeit briefly, smiled and returned to his conversation. The complicity between them was evident, and you felt a wave of emotions ranging from frustration to sadness. 

The rest of the day passed in a haze. The laughter and comments of the others seemed to come from a far away place, and Pierre, busy with his own concerns with the team, didn't notice your silence. You glanced at Charles from time to time, looking for some indication that what was between him and that woman wasn't so serious, that there was still something left of what he had shared with you. But every smile he gave you, every kind gesture, made the hope you had kept secret fade little by little. 

One night, after an event where Camille had also made an appearance, you decided to leave early. The atmosphere had become stifling, and you needed air. You walked across the hotel terrace, the city lights stretching out before you like a sea of ​​stars. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside you.

“Is everything okay?” Charles’s voice broke the silence, soft but firm. You opened your eyes to see him standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets and worried looking.

“Yeah, I just needed a moment alone,” you replied, your voice colder than you intended. You couldn’t bring yourself to show him how much he affected you.

Charles nodded, but didn’t move. He stood there, as if he was debating whether to move closer or respect the distance you had imposed between the two of you. “I saw you left earlier… I thought maybe you needed company.”

The irony of his words didn’t go unnoticed. “Looks like you have enough company already,” you said, unable to stop a tinge of jealousy from seeping into your tone. You regretted it instantly, but the damage was done. Charles narrowed his eyes and took a step towards you.

“Is that what you think?” he asked, his voice low and laden with emotions you couldn’t quite identify. “That this is all simple for me?”

“I don’t know, Charles,” you replied, feeling the barrier you had built begin to crumble. “All I know is that it hurts to see you move on so easily.”

He sighed, and for a moment, the sadness in his eyes mirrored yours. “Nothing has been easy. But you decided to walk away, you decided to go back to something you knew was broken. And I… I couldn’t wait forever.”

The words hung in the air, full of painful truths and silences loaded with meaning. And in that instant, you knew that the wound left by everything that happened between the two of you was still open, and that the rumors and new presences were only part of the challenge you both would have to face.

After the conversation on the terrace with Charles, you didn’t go back inside. The air felt heavy, and every step you took away from the party was a conscious decision to get away from the chaos. You couldn’t just stand there while your inner world fell apart. 

The drive home was silent, broken only by the low hum of the radio you didn’t really listen to. Deserted streets passed by as your thoughts circled around what Charles had said, his words echoing in your mind like a persistent echo. “You chose to walk away.” You couldn’t deny the truth in those words, but you also couldn’t help but feel like circumstances, lies, and Pierre and Camille’s secrets had pushed you to do so. 

When you got home, you dropped your jacket on the couch and collapsed into bed, not bothering to turn on the lights. You knew that the next day you would have to face another facade: a party where perfection and fake smiles were the norm. You took a deep breath, trying to erase the shadow of Charles and the jealousy that still gnawed at you from your mind.

The next day came faster than you expected. You meticulously prepared yourself for the party, selecting an elegant dress, adjusting your makeup, and practicing that smile you had learned to hold under any circumstances. When you arrived, the place was already packed with people, music and laughter echoing in the air. Pierre was waiting for you along with some colleagues, and although he greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, you felt there was a distance between the two of you that you could no longer ignore.

The hours passed between conversations and toasts, and although you did your best to maintain your composure, your mind wandered. It wasn't until you saw Camille walk in, wearing a red dress that caught everyone's attention, that your heart raced. She smiled at you with that familiar mix of confidence and mystery she had always had, and you tried not to respond. But the tension became palpable when, minutes later, Charles appeared. His eyes met yours for a moment before he looked away. His expression was serious, as if this evening was more than just a social appearance.

Pierre and Charles had barely exchanged words since the start of the evening, but that all changed when the two ended up close together in the same conversation group. A casual comment from one of Pierre’s friends about “how life takes unexpected turns” lit the fuse. Charles set his glass down with a thud and looked at Pierre with an intensity you couldn’t ignore.

“Yes, unexpected turns,” Charles said, his tone hiding deep reproach. “Like the times when truths come out, even when everyone pretends they don’t exist.”

Pierre looked at him, his jaw tensing. “What do you mean by that, Charles?” he asked, his voice defiant but shaky.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Charles replied, taking a step toward him. “To the lies, to the betrayal, to everything you tried to hide while pretending to be the perfect man.”

Silence fell over the group, the murmurs of the others fading away as the guests watched the confrontation. You felt trapped, unable to move, as the atmosphere became charged with an electricity that announced an inevitable outcome.

Camille, who had been standing to the side until then, suddenly raised her voice, breaking the tension. “Enough! There’s no point in continuing this.” Her gaze flicked from Pierre to Charles and then settled on you, reflecting a mix of guilt and resolve. “It’s time for everyone to know the truth. That night, in Monaco, Pierre and I… it wasn’t just a kiss, it was more. It was a mistake, a mistake I immediately regretted, but one he never wanted to admit.”

The air escaped from your lungs as Camille’s words reverberated in your head. Pierre tried to say something, his face pale and drawn, but the words died in his throat. The murmurs became a dull rumble, and everyone’s eyes fell on you.

“Why now?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. Camille looked at you with an expression you’d never seen on her: genuine remorse.

“Because it’s time for it all to end,” she replied. “I can’t continue to be the shadow of what happened. You deserve to know.”

Without another word, Camille walked away, and the emptiness she left seemed to engulf everything in her path. Charles, who had observed the scene with a mixture of fury and sadness, turned on his heel and walked out of the room without looking back. You couldn’t just stand there. Without a second thought, you followed him.

You found Charles in the garden outside, the moonlight bathing his tense figure. He turned when he heard you arrive, and for a moment, the full weight of the night was reflected in his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice broken and tired.

“I couldn’t just stand there,” you replied, tears threatening to fall. “Charles, all of this… I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t you know?” he replied, taking a step towards you. “I’ve been waiting for you to admit how you feel, to stop clinging to lies and appearances. But you always come back to what hurts you. Tell me, will you ever be able to admit how you really feel about me? Or will you still choose the easy way out, even if it destroys you?”

Charles’ question hung in the air, a broken heartbeat echoing in the silence of the garden. His eyes, which had so often looked at you with tenderness, were now filled with a mix of pain and despair. The intensity of his gaze made the words get stuck in your throat, unable to answer, unable to admit out loud what you both knew but had avoided acknowledging.

“It’s not that simple, Charles,” you finally said, your voice cracking, barely a whisper. “I’ve tried to hold it all together, to keep from breaking down. But it seems that in the process I’ve only been lying to myself.”

Charles stepped closer, his jaw set and his hands clenched at his sides. "Why do you keep choosing what hurts you? Why do you keep going back to Pierre, when you know he's not what you want, when you know there's something more between us that you can't ignore?"

A tear rolled down your cheek, cold in the night air, and you looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “Because I’m scared,” you confessed, voice shaking under the weight of the truth. “Scared of what it means, scared of what I could lose. And because, somehow, going back to him seemed the easiest, the most familiar.”

Charles let out a sigh, a sound laden with frustration and sadness. “Familiar doesn’t mean happy, and you know it. I’ve seen you pretend, I’ve seen you force yourself to smile when your heart is broken. How much longer are you going to allow yourself to continue to suffer over something that isn’t worth it? When are you going to choose yourself?”

His words echoed in your chest, a truth you had tried to ignore for far too long. Tears spilled over, and before you could stop yourself, you sobbed, covering your face with your hands as your body shook under the weight of pent-up emotions. Charles, without saying anything, stepped forward and wrapped you in a hug, strong and secure, as if he wanted to protect you from all the pain you had been carrying. His hand rested on your hair, and his breathing, slow and deep, mixed with yours as you tried to calm yourself down.

"I'm so sorry, Charles," you managed to say through tears, resting your forehead on his shoulder. "I'm sorry for not being honest with you, or with myself."

"It's not about apologies anymore," he murmured, pulling away just enough to look you in the eyes. "It's about you making a decision, a real one. One that sets you free."

You took a deep breath, feeling the cold of the night give you a clarity you hadn't had in a long time. You knew at that moment what you had to do. You had spent too much time living under the shadow of mistakes, lies, and expectations. It was time to break the cycle.

The conversation with Pierre happened the next day, in the living room of your house. The curtains let in a ray of light that illuminated the room with a deceptive softness. Pierre arrived unsuspectingly, with the same smile he had learned to use to mask his own demons. But as soon as he noticed your serious expression, his face changed.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes searching for answers in yours.

You took a breath, gathering the necessary courage. "Pierre, I've been thinking about everything that's happened, about us, and about what I want for my life."

He frowned, a shadow of worry passing through his gaze. "What do you mean? I thought we were trying to fix things."

You shook your head, feeling the lump in your throat slowly unravel. "That's what we've been doing: trying, pretending that everything is okay. But the truth is that it isn't, and you know that as well as I do. What we had was beautiful, Pierre, but it broke, and no matter how hard we try, we can't go back to what it was before."

The discomfort in his eyes turned into a mix of hurt and resignation. “Is this because of Camille? Because of what happened?”

“It’s because of everything,” you said, your voice firmer than you expected. “For the lies, for the doubts, for the times I tried to convince myself that this was what I wanted when I was really betraying myself.”

Pierre ran a hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh. “I always knew there was something broken about us. But I thought we could fix it. I thought you… that we…”

“I don’t want to keep pretending,” you cut him off softly, taking a step toward him. “I want to be honest, and I know you need it too. This is what’s best for both of us.”

Silence stretched between the two of you, and Pierre nodded slowly, his eyes shining with suppressed emotion. “I always wanted the best for you,” he murmured, his voice muffled. “And if this is what you need, then I accept it.”

The moment felt like the end of a painful phase, a necessary closure that, though it hurt, brought with it the promise of something new. When Pierre left your apartment, the feeling of relief was immediate. You felt lighter, as if you had finally let go of the weight you had carried for so long.

You walked over to the window, looking out at the city lights with a small but genuine smile. For the first time in a long time, you felt that the path you had chosen, as painful as it was, was the one that truly belonged to you.

A few days passed in which the house became your refuge and your thoughts, although turbulent, found space to flow freely. You were not looking for immediate answers or solutions, you just wanted to be with yourself, to understand what you wanted and to let the emotions settle. The mornings were spent reading and enjoying the peace of a hot coffee by the window, while the world continued to turn outside. The afternoons, on the other hand, allowed you solitary walks in the park, feeling the sun and the fresh air on your face, as if it were a reminder that you were alive and that, despite everything, you could find moments of serenity.

Charles' call came on a Friday night. It was brief, his voice tense but restrained. "We need to talk. If you agree, we could meet tomorrow." You did not hesitate to answer, although your heart was pounding. "Okay, Charles. See you tomorrow."

The next day, the sunset was turning the sky into shades of orange and pink when Charles arrived at your door. He was dressed simply, a dark jacket and a white t-shirt that accentuated his eyes, which looked at you with a mix of nervousness and determination. You stepped aside to let him in.

He sat down on the couch, and you took a seat across from him, hugging your legs as you watched him. There was a moment of stillness where neither of you seemed to know where to begin, as if words were too big to break the silence.

“How are you?” he asked at last, breaking the barrier that separated you.

You sighed, a small, wry smile appearing on your lips. “I’ve been better, but I’ve also been worse. I’ve spent these days thinking, trying to figure out what I really want.”

Charles nodded, his hands resting on his knees, knuckles white with tension. “I’ve been thinking too. I can’t keep pretending none of this affects me.” I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when you know as well as I do that I’m not.”

“I know,” you admitted, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I know what’s happened between us isn’t something that can be ignored, but I also don’t know what it means or where it’s going.”

Charles leaned forward, his gaze meeting yours. There was something in his eyes, a glint of vulnerability you’d rarely seen. “I’m scared of what I feel for you,” he confessed. “It’s always scared me, because you’re more than someone I can love. You’re someone I’m afraid to lose, someone I’ve always wanted to protect, even from myself.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest, warm and painful at the same time. You bit your lip, feeling the emotions building up in your throat. “And I’ve been afraid to admit what I feel,” you replied, looking down. “Because to do so means changing everything, losing the security of what I know. But I can’t deny it anymore.”

Charles stepped closer, his hand brushing yours with a softness that made your skin crawl. “I’m not asking you to have all the answers,” he said, his voice so low it was barely a whisper. “I just want to know if there’s something in you that I want to try, no promises, no guarantees, but for real.”

You felt the tears threaten to fall, but this time they weren’t from sadness, but from relief. “I want to try, Charles. But I also need time, I need to learn to be okay with myself before I can be with someone else.”

The understanding on his face was immediate. He moved away just enough to give you space, but he didn’t break contact. His fingers intertwined with yours were a reminder that you weren’t alone, that even though the answers weren’t clear yet, you were both willing to try, step by step.

The conversation continued until the light of day faded completely, and the shadows of night crept into the room, enveloping you in an intimate, quiet bubble. There were no promises, no commitments, just the certainty that you were both willing to face your fears and desires, to explore the possibility of a future that you didn’t fully understand yet, but that belonged to you both.

Meanwhile, you weren’t the only ones making a decision, Camille was making one too, and one that would change the course of everyone. She had spent days facing the stares, the rumors, and most of all, her own guilt. She knew she couldn’t stay, that her presence only perpetuated the damage she had caused. One afternoon, as the golden sun bathed the city streets, she wrote a short, simple letter, saying goodbye to those who were once her friends and promising to find her own path, one that would help her rediscover who she was without the shadows of her mistakes. 

She left quietly, leaving an empty space that, although painful, was necessary for everyone to heal and move on. 

After all the time passed and the turbulence that had enveloped their lives began to settle like dust after a storm. Weeks turned into months, and little by little, the emotional debris of everything that had happened was cleared away. Pierre, in particular, seemed to have found a new direction. Acceptance had arrived, slowly but surely, and with it, a renewed focus on his career. Training and racing became his sanctuary, an escape where he could feel the adrenaline rush without the weight of emotional complications. He had learned to separate his personal life from his professional life, and although he still watched you with a mix of nostalgia and respect when your paths crossed, there was a clear distance that you both had chosen to maintain. 

The last time you saw him was at a meeting of the racing community, a formal event where Formula 1 stars and their loved ones met under a glittering roof of lights and lively conversation. Pierre greeted you with a slight nod and a restrained smile, a gesture that showed that, although the memories were still vivid, he had accepted that what once existed between you belonged to the past.

For your part, the rebuilding process was arduous but rewarding. You immersed yourself in new personal projects, exploring interests you had put aside for too long. You put modeling aside for a few months and began collaborating with a charity that promoted youth education programs, using your experience and knowledge to create campaigns and events that left a positive mark.

Confidence and self-esteem, which had suffered the ravages of betrayal and insecurity, began to flourish again. There were days of doubt, nights when you wondered if you would ever be completely at peace, but each step forward was a reminder of your strength.

It was on one of those calm days, when summer was beginning to tint the afternoons with a warm glow, that Charles reappeared in your life. Communication between the two of you had been sporadic at first, small messages that served more as reminders that you were still in each other's lives than as a true conversation. But over time, those shy words turned into longer, more meaningful chats. At first, it was anecdotes about racing or comments on the photos you posted of your projects. Slowly, the tone became more intimate, more reflective. 

One afternoon, you met Charles at a small café you both used to go to in the past, a secluded place where shared memories intertwined with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of distant traffic. He looked fine, relaxed but with that restless spark that had always characterized him. When he looked into your eyes, you noticed something new about him, a serenity that had previously been absent. 

“I’m glad to see you like this,” he said after a while, breaking the comfortable silence between you. “You look… like yourself again.”

You smiled, grateful for the compliment, but also for what it meant. “I’ve worked hard to get here,” you admitted. 

Charles nodded, his gaze reflecting genuine understanding. “That’s something I had to learn too.”

You’d both grown, stumbled and learned, and while there were still unanswered questions, there was something liberating about not feeling the urgency to figure it all out right away.

“Do you think we could ever have something more?” you asked, your voice soft but not shaky. It wasn’t a desperate question, but a sincere curiosity.

Charles looked at you with a small, honest smile, the one that usually appeared when he let his guard down. “I think so,” he replied.

You nodded, feeling a comforting warmth in your chest. You didn’t need anything else at that moment, just the promise that no matter what, you’d both walk the path with the lesson learned, willing to explore whatever might arise between you, but always prioritizing truth and mutual respect.

And as the afternoon progressed, with the murmur of the city and the back and forth of conversations in the café, you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[collapseintonever]

mcr at project revolution in charlotte, nc. august 8 2007. photos by buttertooth on livejournal. picture commentary under the cut

pic 2:

When MCR first came out onstage, Gerard strutted on like he was all badass with a black bandana on his face. For some reason, he reminded me of an anime cartoon character when he was wearing that. Anyway, the decision to wear the bandana came back to bite him in the ass later because he couldn't get it to untie from his neck when he realized how ridiculously fucking hot it was out there. I didn't realize it was still around his neck but he made a comment about it between songs when he was trying to catch his breath. Haha. Oh well, everything can't always go perfectly, right?

Anyway, since the picture of him (that I tried to take) with the bandana turned out all blurry and awful, here is a picture of Gerard just after he took it off. Might I point out how foxy his hair looks. Hooray for Gerard not looking like a mad scientist when I saw them perform!

Gerard made multiple comments on the heat, but you know what? He sort of deserved being hot since he was out there in his JACKET! It's a wonder he didn't pass out. He did spend a lot of the time lying on the stage or sitting. Early in their set (maybe three or so songs in?) he said something to the effect of (this is NOT a direct quote, just a paraphrase) "I was going to say something later about guys taking their shirts off, but, fuck it, it's too hot. Go ahead and take them off now." Then when they got to "Prison" he said it again about just the guys taking off their shirts and that he didn't care what size you are, you're still attractive. Gotta love Gerard and how he tries to make the fans feel good about themselves. I think he was just trying to charm the guys out of their clothes, though, really. He stressed that only the guys should take their shirts off and swing them around their heads. I think some guy threw his shirt up there and he picked it up and swung it around, but it could've been a rag or something. It was a black cloth of some kind, anyway. And of course, someone threw the obligatory feather boa up there, and Gerard put it on. I swear, Gerard must be crazy because he's in a jacket, singing his lungs out, on a stage with PYRO in the 103-degree heat for fuck's sake and he puts one of those itchy feather boas on.

pic 3 & 4: Unfortunately, these were the only two pics that had Ray in them since he stayed wayyyyy over on his side and I couldn't see him. But his playing and singing was amazing as usual!

pic 5: Right before the pyro came on Gerard said "Shit!" which I took to mean that he knew it was about to happen and he didn't want to feel the heat. I could be wrong, but that's what it seemed like.

pic 6: Towards the end of the concert Gerard said (again just a paraphrase because i didn't get it all, unfortunately!) that he was sweaty and nasty and everyone should "make some noise" because of it. I love MCR and all of the band members, genuinely I do, but if Gerard didn't take a shower after that concert, he is officially a nasty motherfucker. :P

Frank was a little more sensible with his attire, since he was wearing a sleeveless shirt. He flopped down at one point and it just looked like he was hating the heat.

On the second song (which I managed to get video of! Woot Woot!) Frank's guitar string broke (I think that's what inspired his fit of rage) so he smashed up his guitar. Then he picked up the one with the zombie on it and started playing again. The picture above came after he smashed up the first guitar.

pic 7: When he came down to my end of the stage, I could see that Gerard had something written on his neck again. I think it said "Truth" but it could just as well have said "Truce" because I could only see the first three letters. I don't know why it would say "Truce," but it could've (ETA: I read a review somewhere that it did indeed say "Truth". Stil havent seen any pics of it though). I tried to get a picture of his neck, but it came out blurry. Boo! Hiss! If anyone else has proof of what it said, I'd love to see the photo.

pic 8-10: And for those of you out there wondering, there was some mild Frank/Gerard action going on. By the time it happened, I had already used up all my video space and could only take photos. But the good news is that my camera has a photo burst option which lets you take three photos in a row. They're not the best photos ever, but I did get the shots when Frank walked past Gerard and grabbed Gerard's crotch. And I got Gerard's reaction to it. It happened really quickly so it was easy to miss.

pic 11: Oh and about halfway through, Frank put either a shirt over his head (one of the one's that got thrown onstage when Gerard told the guys in the audience to take their shirts off), presumably to mop up the sweat, but maybe he just wanted to be a weirdo. In the first photo it looks like Frank is smelling his armpits but really he's trying to wrap the cloth around his head.

pic 12-14: He played with the cloth over his head for most of the song.

pic 15: Gerard singing and Bob drumming away…

pic 16: Just Gerard…

pic 17-18: Frank taking a sip of water in the dark… …then spitting it on the audience. It didn't land on me. Not to sound horridly grungy or anything, but I kinda wished the water would've landed on me because I would've welcomed anything that would help cool me off at that point.

pic 19: Frank and Matt in the same stance. And yes, Matt, Frank does have a nice ass.

pic 20: Gerard pointing….

pic 21: And now for a little Matt Cortez: Gerard said he's got "arms of steel" and he ain't lyin'…

pic 22: Matt Cortez, being awesome. Gerard even gave a shout out to him and walked by and ruffled his hair…

pic 24: Matt's back…

pic 25: Matt's so cool, you can see through him!

[ninsletamain]

Happy B-day to one of the sweetest people I know @quarantineddreamer! Much love from myself and @frostbitepandaaaaa!

We hope you enjoy your gift! A certain someone told me you’d like an X-Files AU. (:

“I think you’d have better luck interviewing the victim, Andor.”

Cassian turns around, undeniably relieved to see his partner, Special Agent Jyn Erso, perched on the bottom stair of the half-rotted stoop. She blinks up at him from under the brim of her almost comically large umbrella. Her eyes are knowing, her expression as lucid as ever. She had, no doubt, witnessed the entire debacle between him and the local law enforcement on her short trip from the car to the sway-backed and moss-fringed front porch of their newest crime scene investigation.

“Ah, that’s not my job, Erso, that’s all you,” Cassian tosses back archly. Jyn rolls her eyes and he comes to join her on the bottom stair. He assumes that she does not wish to venture inside the rotted, sodden prairie Colonial until absolutely necessary (and perhaps is wanting to dodge the ire of the local sheriff that Cassian had just pissed off in almost record time).

“Lay it on me, Andor. What is it this time?” Jyn asks, trying to sound bored but he knows better. His partner likes to evoke the straight-laced, no-nonsense career woman but Agent Jyn Erso is also the most accomplished forensic pathologist and scalpel wielder in the FBI… perhaps in the whole damn country. And one doesn’t reach such lofty acclaim by being squeamish. She had also quietly denied several career opportunities over the years that could be considered, well, more sane, in favor of chasing lights in the sky and slicing and dicing in backwater morgue bays.

Had stuck with him. But he tries not to think about that part.

He ducks under the umbrella and they venture out in the weedy front yard in tandem. Jyn makes no effort to accommodate his seven inch height advantage and Cassian does not expect her too. The rain is a dismal, steady drizzle and much of his back is damp within a few steps.

“The victim— 34, male— looks to have been frightened to death,” he announces as if commenting on the shitty weather.

“Cassian,” she groans, stopping to look at him like he had just expressed his desire to join the circus. He knows that tone well. It’s also never a good sign whenever she uses his first name. “Frightened to death?”

He nods, trying, and apparently failing, to keep the amusement off his face because Jyn’s eyes close and she sighs mightily as they continue on their way. “You ever heard of the Boogey Man, Erso?”

“There’s no such thing—“

“Look, I’ll leave it to you, Dr. Erso. Once you get the autopsy done and dusted then you can call me crazy.”

They reach the car and Jyn pulls the door handle on the passenger side. She drove here, but she is not fond of driving— especially when there is a perfectly good man to do it for her— and Cassian is always happy to oblige her in her few glints of prissiness.

She closes the umbrella, shakes out the rain and swings her sensible kitten heels into the car. “Cassian, I’ll save us both some time.” She leans precariously close to him, elbow on the center console of their little rented Cabriolet. He freezes in the midst of fastening his seatbelt (after having to push the seat back what felt like a good four feet). Her hair is damp and a bit wild despite the shelter of the umbrella (her hair always gets frizzy in the humidity— he thinks it’s unbearably cute) and he can smell her perfume. His heart stops in his chest.

“You’re crazy,” she pronounces sagely and falls back into her seat.

He puffs out a laugh, shakes his head, and fires up the car.

[theofficialpresidentofmars]

okay so Zuko would be so into (if he isn’t already) competitive improv/theatresports.

like this is the guy that for two seasons straight threw himself at the Avatar with no plan. no nothing. entirely just the hope that he would think of SOMETHING, at some point.

this is Zuko ‘… yes. I juggle.’ and not only that, but this is Zuko proceeds-to-attempt-to-juggle-with-the-skill-of-a-travelling-actor-with-no-prior-experience-because-he-cannot-help-but-yes-and-a-prompt. and he justifies his immediate failure as well.

this is also established Theatre Kid ‘They butchered Love Amongst Dragons every year!’ Zuko. he’s no stranger to the stage.

I reckon he’d be really good at the bonus-point high-pressure games (Story Story Die, What Are You Doing, etc) and his strengths would lie in having all the game techniques perfectly memorised (and being able to give effective feedback at the end of each round), being willing to throw himself across the stage for a bit, and NEVER backing down from an offer. he’s also unintentionally hilarious because he’s an intimidating looking guy and he can’t always commit realistically to all character types but Oh Boy can he get himself into Situations. and he just says the darnedest rich kid things onstage when he’s not trying. he would also have Opinions on the judging and make small comments about the other team’s scores (‘that story was NOT a seven. they didn’t even get establish that the rocket got back to the gummy worm queen!’)

he’d make for a really good Director (three years captaining a ship does that to you), and i reckon he’d probably be adept with the book in Actor’s Nightmare. the ideal position to put him in Space Jump is first and you’ll get the best offers from him when you’re playing New Choice and you New Choice him juuuust enough so that he runs out of sensible things to say and panics and says perhaps the craziest thing that both of you are just now hearing for the first time.

anyway theatresports Zuko when

[thisliminalspacedaydreams]

Do not confuse Enthusiasm with Entitlement.

Hello!

I’m relatively unknown in the fanfiction world which is great, but I’ve got some friends who are known, and I’ve got things to say, from an outsider perspective.

I’m a writer, but I’m also a reader. I participate in the fandom in the way I know how, which is through writing stories.

Here’s what fandom should be. It’s a village, called Fandom, and people all interact in the village in some way. Write, Art, Ideas, Comments, Reblogs, Kudos, Podfics, Bookbinding, Etc etc etc. It’s a Smurf village, because currency doesn’t exist, and everyone does what they can for the community to thrive, for fucking free. They offer gifts, and encouragement, and once a week we all gather round in the center of the village and scream about it in a very unhealthy way. Some people are more active than others, some like to be known, some prefer to remain anonymous, some watch from the sidelines and everything is done with care and a warm heart between our teeth.

There are pockets of that, which, great.

Here’s what fandom is, sometimes.

1/People elevating others to the point of God, sometimes dragging other writers down (for no reason, no one asked to be rated as the best fic writer of all time) to make a point. What is the point? Is there one?

2/People harassing writers for more things. Write an epilogue, write another chapter, write this and that. Writers aren’t your own personal AI machine to make what you want to write. A lot is blamed on age, and perhaps there is an element to it, but I believe it’s just decency. An 18 years old kid is capable of making sensible decisions, just like a 24 years old, just like a 14 years old. Your age doesn’t give you a passe-droit to be a dick to people you admire (!!!???!)

3/I won’t even touch on the subject of hate reading because that’s just straight up insanity.

But it’s just… hate and tantrums and anger breeds more hate and tantrums and anger. There isn’t a virtuous way out of that, and I’d love for people to…just, cater to a more positive experience for everyone.

When your fingers are typing rot on your computer, you are venomizing everything that it touches: the people who will read it AND the people who will respond to it.

So far, from what I have seen, this behaviour leads to only one thing: depressed writers/artists/etc who stop writing/drawing/etc, or pull their work, or take breaks, or retreat from the limelight because it is too much.

You are pushing too much.

Enthusiasm is wonderful. It’s a powerful tool and should be used, everyone on this fandom is posting because we looked at The Thing and thought, “yeah.” No one in the history of the world (I hope) has posted after thinking “that is straight up shit and I hate it with a passion.”

Enthusiasm does need to be curated in a healthy way. I understand that Fandom is for fans, but it is also by fans. No one here is better, everyone here is different.

Some writers have a voice that resonate with more people, or stories that resonate with more people, and that is perfectly fine, but, once again for the people in the back, do not confuse Enthusiasm with Entitlement.

In what universe, in what galaxy do you believe complaining about someone’s work will make them go “oh right, nevermind all the work I put into this thing I love, let me just do the thing a random stranger is asking me to do.”

Do not confuse Enthusiasm with Entitlement.

Maybe I sound like bitch, but by god, the shit I’ve heard from my “popular” friends the past few months is absolutely mad. Mad, people.

You are normal people, and SO ARE THEY.

They have lives and interests and they are people. Treat them as such.

Do not confuse Enthusiasm with Entitlement.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk, I hope everyone enjoys Le Mange Dieu et le Dévoreur de Mondes, which we wrote and enjoyed writing, and which does not mean other writers weren't doing their own thing and writing other stuff in the meantime, and I HOPE we can all start to have some fucking respect for the people who spend hoursdaysweeksmonths pouring over a project and posting it for fucking free, all at once, so it’s not stressful for the reader. YOU.

Because against all fucking odds, we actually care about our readers. When you’re being nice.

Thank you and good day from a Fandom Elder.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for laughing at my friend's black eye?

I (30NB) live in a country where english isn't out first language but is highly encouraged to be learned.

Now my work friend (32M) is always bragging about his "perfect english" and how he "has family living at the US" and "goes to visit them regularly" but he isnt socially aware (or just plainly ignores them to this point im not sure) of many social queues and topics that are very sensitive say at the states.

He particularly loves to use the n-word in his day to day vocabulary. I have pointed out to him that that word is a word he shouldn't be using at all in his vocabulary (not helping that he is very white passing) specially if he goes to visit family at the states with all of the racial sensibilities that are particular of the country.

He has always shrugged it off and said that he perfectly capable of not using it over there. Fast forward to this month, he went to the States to visit family for Thanksgiving.

He returned on monday to work and he had this big black eye. I asked him what happened to him and he said that the last day that he was visiting, he slipped and said the n-word repetidely in front of a group of black men that jumped him (i honestly think he is not telling me the whole story).

I started laughing and told him it was his own fault for having that word in his vocabulary and that i had warned him about it and that he was lucky he only got a black eye.

He is now mad at me and hasnt said a word to me since i made the comment.

AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[charlieg1rl]

𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐘 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐖!

𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄!𝐀𝐔 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀!𝐀𝐔

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝟏𝐊

𝐒𝐒: 𝟏

Karina and Cherry were seated right across from you, both leaning in, clearly itching for more details. Felix, Hyunjin’s close friend, sat beside you with an amused grin playing on his lips. Seungmin, your childhood friend and forever the sensible one, had his arms crossed, while Jisung and Minho exchanged looks, probably plotting the next sarcastic comment they’d make.

“So…” Cherry started, tapping her perfectly manicured nails against the table. “Are we seriously going to ignore the bombshell you just dropped? Spill everything. Why the hell did Hyunjin ask you to be his fake girlfriend?”

You groaned, rubbing your temples as you tried to figure out where to even begin. “Okay, listen. It’s not that big of a deal—”

Karina shot you a look. “Not a big deal? Y/N, you posted about this on your private Twitter, and now we're all here. This screams BIG DEAL.”

“She’s right,” Minho chimed in, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s not every day someone like you ends up pretending to date Hwang Hyunjin. So, what’s going on?”

Felix chuckled, leaning back in his chair, obviously enjoying the situation more than he should. “Yeah, I need to hear this. How did Hyunjin convince you?”

Taking a deep breath, you launched into the story. “He came up to me out of nowhere and said he needed a fake girlfriend. Something about avoiding the drama of dating someone who might actually want a real relationship. He figured I wouldn’t get caught up in all the attention since I’m, apparently, ‘safe.’” You made air quotes, rolling your eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Safe?” Seungmin raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

You shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. But he offered to pay me, and... well, you all know I’m broke.” You paused, looking around at their expectant faces. “So, I said yes.”

Jisung gasped dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “Sis! You’re getting paid to be Hyunjin’s fake girlfriend?! That’s the ultimate scam! I love this for you!”

Cherry rolled her eyes. “Not the point, Jisung. Y/N, do you really think you can pull this off? You’re not worried?”

You sighed. “Of course, I’m worried! This is Hyunjin we’re talking about. The guy has people watching his every move. But I figured... how hard could it be? It’s just an act, right?”

“Right,” Karina said, her expression softening slightly. “But still, why you? Hyunjin could’ve asked anyone.”

Felix smirked. “Because Y/N isn’t like the other girls on campus. He probably thought she wouldn’t fall for him, and let’s face it—most girls would.”

“Oh, so now I’m immune to his charms?” you scoffed, though you could see why Hyunjin might think that. “Anyway, I’m not gonna fall for him. We’re keeping it strictly professional. He’s paying me, and I’ll play the role.”

“Right,” Minho said dryly. “Because nothing ever gets complicated in situations like this. It’s all gonna stay perfectly fake.” His sarcasm was almost palpable.

“You’ll be fine, Y/N,” Felix said, giving you a reassuring nudge. “Hyunjin’s a good guy. Just... keep your cool, and everything will go smoothly.”

Before you could even respond, Jisung shot up from his seat, as if remembering something. “Wait! Are you going to meet any of his friends? I mean, besides Lix, obviously.” He gave Felix a teasing glance.

You paused, biting your lip nervously. This was the moment to drop the real bombshell. “Actually... It might be a bad time to tell you that he asked me to meet his parents.”

The entire table fell into a stunned silence.

“WHAT?!” Karina was the first to break the silence, her voice so loud that a few customers turned to look at your table. She ignored them completely, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Y/N, you’re already meeting his parents? You’ve only been fake dating for like... what? A few hours?!”

Seungmin blinked slowly, clearly trying to process the information. “Okay, so this is worse than I thought.”

Felix, who had been mostly amused up to this point, suddenly sat up straighter. “Wait, he asked you to meet his parents? Like, for real?”

You nodded, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. “Yeah. Apparently, they’re hosting some fancy family dinner this weekend, and Hyunjin’s bringing me as his ‘girlfriend.’ He said it’ll make his parents back off from pressuring him to date someone for real.”

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Girl, you’re in deep now.”

Cherry’s jaw dropped as she stared at you. “Meeting the parents already? This isn’t just some casual fake dating thing. This is serious. What if they like you?”

You blinked, suddenly realizing how real this was becoming. “I mean... that’s the point, right? To sell the whole ‘girlfriend’ thing.”

Jisung grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Oh man, this is gonna be so good. You’re meeting Hwang Hyunjin’s parents as his fake girlfriend. This is practically a K-drama in the making.”

Karina shook her head, clearly concerned. “Y/N, you need to be careful. Meeting his parents? That’s huge. What if they think this is real?”

“I know,” you muttered, feeling the weight of it all sink in. “I didn’t expect this to get so intense so quickly.”

Felix, who had remained quiet for a moment, leaned in and gave you a reassuring smile. “Hey, you’ve got this. You’re one of the most level-headed people I know. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you. But... just be prepared. Hyunjin’s parents are pretty serious about things like this.”

Seungmin nodded in agreement. “We’ll help you figure it out. But remember, if it starts feeling too real or too overwhelming, you can always walk away.”

You smiled, feeling comforted by your friends’ support. “Thanks, guys. I just... I didn’t think it’d get to the ‘meet the parents’ stage so fast.”

Minho laughed softly. “Fake dating turning into a meet-the-parents situation. Classic.”

Cherry raised her iced coffee in a mock toast. “Here’s to Y/N and her fake boyfriend. May she survive the parents’ dinner and come out unscathed.”

The others laughed, lifting their drinks in unison.

You joined in, but deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder: what if things started to feel more real than you’d anticipated?

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 | 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

[xenostalgic]

personally I feel that "this is like pederasty" is a perfectly sensible comment to make wrt that tweet whereas "this is pedophilia" is completely absurd. fortunately I'm sure this bright line is obvious to all my followers

[ominis]

I find it interesting that after people’s interaction with Ominis outside of the Undercroft where he gets upset with them, people label him as a “privileged Slytherin” akin to Draco Malfoy, but that really can only be taken from his comment about using his family’s ties to the headmaster against the MC. Beyond that, Ominis and all the Gaunts are far from privileged. 

By this point in the HP universe, the Gaunts are incredibly poor and they are very isolated from a lot of the wizarding world because of their aversion to anything Muggle (a view which Ominis states clearly that he disagrees with and isn’t proud to be related to people who have those views.) In the Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore literally says the Gaunts lived in poverty due to previous generations having little sensibility when it came to indulgences and that was the case for a while before Ominis was born. All Gaunts lived in a run down shack that was a poor excuse for a home.

I think Ominis’s connection to the headmaster really just comes from them all coming from pure-blooded families, so they’re related in some way. The Gaunts aren’t very well-respected for a number of reasons. It’s only their history and their blood status that they really have to stand on (two things that Ominis rejects), not the current state of their family. His threat to use that only came from fear because of his perfectly understandable trust issues and the fact that one of his family’s secrets he wished to keep hidden had been exposed to a stranger without his knowledge. 

[smthabsolutelyunhinged]

~ INTRODUCTION ~

HI MY LOVES, IM EMI <3

she/her. pansexual. cisfem. pisces sun. cancer moon. white. american. INFP. 4w5. hufflepuff. marauders stan. james potter + remus lupin + pandora rosier kinnie. aspiring writer/author. artist. bookworm. music lover. halloween enthusiast. broadway lover. massive fan of anything whimsy/gothic/romantic/etc. at some point i might link my spotify/pintrest, but idk yet.

IMPORTANT INFO UNDER THE CUT <3

*i am a minor (17), but i do interact with nsfw content at my own discretion. i am perfectly ok with asks/requests for nsfw headcanons—or thoughts about existing nsfw headcanons—for characters from my fandoms (please understand that while i allow them, i might choose not to answer them based on my own comfort levels at the time of receiving them). HOWEVER as of this moment, i do not actively write smut/nsfw one shots, fan fics, drabbles, etc.*

[any of this can change at any point and i will make it known if it does, but for the time being i do ask that any nsfw requests be for headcanons/thoughts about hcs only].

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

please do ~ dm me (please i’ll literally marry you idc, also talk to me i’m cool), asks, anonymous asks, reblog (obviously), comment, like, send me random thoughts/ideas/headcanons/music recs, interact with me in any way that isn’t like hateful/gross/weird (i’ll cry. dont do it. i’ll cry and it’ll be your fault.) {flirting is allowed tho - i’ll flirt back and then marry you, again idc‼️} also moots and anons are allowed (please do) to come up with other nicknames/use petnames/etc {i like them, i’m a chronically depressed, anxious, words of affirmation girlie with family issues, and i like the validation :)}.

please don’t ~ be weird, hateful, creepy, or gross in any way because i will block you immediately, (and release my scary, aggressive, friend *cough cough ace cough cough* on you, and they will bite you (not in a hot and sexy way either)).

<3 shows ~

the vampire diaries. criminal minds. one tree hill. the originals. outer banks. the 100. gilmore girls. supernatural. heartstopper. boy meets world. downton abbey. chesapeake shores. daisy jones and the six.

<3 movies ~

twister (1996). little women (1994/2019). hocus pocus. princess and the frog. the harry potter movies. the hunger games. divergent. twilight. coraline. the nightmare before christmas. notting hill. two weeks notice. a cinderella story (2001). the princess diaries. scream (the og trilogy). st elmos fire. the dark knight. pride and predjudice (2005). the many adventures of winnie the pooh. titanic. five feet apart. pirates of the carribean. captain america: civil war. avengers: infinity war. sense and sensibility. the addams family. the family man.

<3 books ~

daisy jones and the six. the harry potter series. the inheritance games trilogy. shatter me. frankenstein. the picture of dorian grey. warrior cats. tales from redwall series. the hunger games trilogy. divergent trilogy. the twilight saga. the chronicles of narnia. the land of stories. the cheerleaders.

<3 other fandoms & music ~

marauders, one direction, harry styles, taylor swift, sabrina carpenter, lana del rey, michael jackson, hozier, noah kahan, abba, fleetwood mac, chappel roan, olivia rodrigo, daisy jones and the six, the weeknd, childish gambino, shawn mendes, jonas brothers, guns and roses, birdy, etc.. (i can almost always find something to like about music- so i listen to a lot of it aside from whats listed)…

<3 tags ~ i might not have actually added these yet :)

#emi thinks - headcanons, fandom thoughts, and fandom ideas

#emi rants - rants and rambles about any and everything

#emi writes - anything i write even tho i havent posted any yet

#emiasks - questions for you guys, questions to the void, anything of that vibe

#emithirsts - me simping over people that don’t exist, being thirsty on the main, that’s it-

#my loves - asks, anons, etc

#gayfroggie<3 - noni’s tag

*there will be individual tags for moots if you want them, so just pick/ask for one, and i’ll assign them <333*

*i currently don’t have any specified anons ~ all emojis are available so if you want to be one just ask :)*

<3 moots ~ i’ll add more as i get them >:)

@xaviisconfused @dilutedmayowater @therewasnofloorbtw @aesthetic-writer18 @crybabygh0sty @noh07

[slytherheign]

THE WAY I LOVED YOU | max verstappen

PART 3/4 OF BROKEN GLASS AND HONEY SERIES.

CAN ALSO BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT.

PAIRINGS: ex!max verstappen x fem!reader, daniel ricciardo x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

SUMMARY: you're with someone new now, but memories of the past still haunt you relentlessly.

WARNINGS: feelings of hurt and guilt, mentions of an unhealthy relationship, and allusion to sex. let me know if i missed any warnings. [⚠︎︎RATING: 16+]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: inspired by taylor swift's song with the same title. reader's choice is made in this one. sorry in advance for hurting y'all but trust me all will be well in the last part.

DESTINATION: Angst Avenue | GO TO SERIES MASTERLIST or GO BACK TO THE STATION.

Those two sets of three little words.

I miss you. 

I love you.

And you swore your heart jumped and your world stopped again.

How did you end up here? You thought you were past this. 

You were with Daniel now, someone who cared and loved you wholeheartedly. He was wonderful, and he deserved all of your affection. But, truth be told, there were times when your mind wandered off to a place you wished it wouldn't.

Memories, like fragments of a broken mirror, haunted you relentlessly. The laughter you shared with Max, your late-night conversations, the way he looked at you... It was all so beautiful, so genuine. And now, you felt guilty for even acknowledging those memories.

But love wasn't something that faded easily, was it? It lingered, hidden in the darkest corners of your soul, reminding you of what was once pure and electric. It was as if you were two puzzle pieces, fitting perfectly together. But life had different plans, and the road you walked upon veered in opposite directions.

You wished you could erase the unwanted emotions, and replace them with unwavering loyalty and devotion. But the heart was a complicated thing, a labyrinth of contradictions. It was telling you to stay committed, to cherish what you have. Yet, it whispered Max's name when you least expected it, tugging at your heartstrings with every beat.

You couldn't help but question yourself. Were you being unfair to Daniel? To your relationship? How could you truly be present when scattered fragments of your heart remained entwined with someone from the past?

But there was a reason why the heart was situated on the left side of our bodies.

It was because it was not always right.

Max told you to use your brain, and that was what you needed to do.

You needed to confront the residual emotions, for the sake of both your present and your future. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was necessary. You owed it to Daniel, to yourself, and to love itself.

6 MONTHS LATER.

You couldn’t ask for anything better.

Daniel Ricciardo was the embodiment of peace and the personification of sunshine. He gave the biggest smile a person could ever see—the type that once was shown to you, your mouth would automatically mirror his.

He was a sensible man—an incredible feat he had that made all your single friends jealous of you and your relationship. He was the special someone you would dream about every night.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said, opening the door for you as you entered his car. You wore a gorgeous dark blue velvet dress that highlighted the shape of your body. “Thank you,” you replied, feeling… perfectly fine.

You watched him walk around the car until he settled on the driver’s seat and locked the door. He glanced at you with that contagious smile of his. You looked at him. “What?” you chuckled.

“Nothing,” he shrugged but he was still grinning. “You seem excited about something,” you commented. “Where are we going, Dan?”

He turned the key and started the engine. But before he could push the pedal down and drive the car, he looked at your confused face again. “You’ll see,” he winked.

You couldn’t ask for anything better.

Daniel Ricciardo was the type of man you’d wish upon the stars and that someone you’d wish for as you blew the candles out. A true gentleman who made sure you were happy at all times—always putting your needs and wants above his.

He always respected your space and your boundaries. He never made you wait and would call exactly when he said he would. He was close to your mother and talked with your father who was a businessman, though most times he probably didn’t even understand what your father was saying. He was charming, endearing, and with him, you were comfortable.

The ride ended and he took you to an exclusive restaurant on a rooftop where you could see the skyline beneath the starry night sky. 

Deep inside you, you could already feel the anxiety creeping up on you. You had no idea why, but something about this night made you extremely nervous and uneasy. You just hoped he didn’t notice it.

You were in awe when you realized he booked the entire rooftop for just the two of you. In the middle, laid a table for two with white sheets. Atop were expensive wine, two glasses, and luxurious cutlery. 

He led you to the table, pulling your chair for you to sit on. You thanked him as you adjusted yourself into a comfortable position. He smiled and then winked again.

It made you even more nervous.

A waiter made their way to your table, serving you your meal which was pre-ordered by Daniel. He never asked you what your favorite type of food was, but he knew the exact food that you would love.

“How did you know?” you asked him, looking at your plate with your favorite food.

“I observe you every time. Whenever we go out to eat, I take note of what you always order. This wasn’t actually on their menu, but I managed to convince them to cook it.”

Truly, you couldn’t ask for anything better.

You have felt your heart beat fast countless times when he was around you.

But your heart never skipped around him.

It never jumped and fell for him.

Daniel Ricciardo was the man of your dreams.

But Max.

Max Verstappen.

He was the man of your desires.

All the screaming and the never-ending arguments with him, the fighting almost every night before you went to bed, the throwing of items at each other when things got intense—you missed all of them.

The raised voices, the shattered glasses, the rough way he touched you when you made up in your bed after each argument…

The crying. The breaking up. The making up. The kissing in the rain.

You missed it.

You knew you shouldn’t, but you terribly missed it all.

There were times you found yourself cursing his name in your head at 2 a.m., while you rested with Daniel next to your bed. 

You shouldn’t even think of him. This was wrong.

But the breaking down and the coming undone, the way he always pushed you into a wall as he shut you up with a kiss, the way he pulled your hair while he destroyed you from behind—you missed the roller coaster kind of rush. You craved the toxicity.

Max Verstappen was toxic and the type of man your mother taught you to avoid when you were just a child. But the toxicity of everything made you live for the thrill of it all. Both of you, so in love, that you acted insane. You never even knew you could feel that much when you were around him.

That was the way you loved him.

You looked at your boyfriend, Daniel, who happily told you some of his favorite memories. You weren’t even listening to him, you just laughed along every time he laughed. He couldn’t see the smile you were faking. 

When he stood up and guided you to a slow dance, you followed his moves and looked deep into his eyes.

For a second you swore you saw his face. The wild, crazy, frustrating, intoxicating, and complicated man. But after a blink, it returned to Daniel.

How was it, that after all this time, Max Verstappen still haunted you? 

And how was it, that after all this time, you still let him?

All of a sudden Daniel pulled away from you and you looked at him confusingly. Your heart started beating fast again. He took a few steps back…

And then he knelt down on one knee. He pulled a small box from his suit, opening it to reveal a beautiful ring. He had shown that ring to you before. It was his mom’s.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”

He was proposing.

It was now or never.

Present or past.

Calm or chaos.

Sweet or toxic.

Dream or desire.

Honey or broken glass.

Daniel or Max.

“Danny…” you said his name, a tear falling down your face. You crouched down to his level, hugging him.

And then you stood up, still crying.

“I’m sorry…” 

You turned your back on him immediately, not wanting to see his face after you broke his heart. You wanted to look back, but you decided not to. You didn’t want to know the sight of him breaking down.

If you were going to remember Daniel’s face, you wanted to remember his big smile. Not his broken expression after you killed his heart.

You just shattered the heart of the sweetest man you have ever known. You just killed his butterflies.

You couldn’t ask for anything better from him, because you knew the best you’ve ever felt was with Max Verstappen.

So you ran away. From the place and from him.

You traded serenity with madness and chose the rocky road instead of the smooth sailing waves of the sea.

And now you found yourself at the place where Max and you had your first date.

It was 2 a.m. and it started raining. There was a streetlight above you from where you were standing.

You closed your eyes, basking in the feeling of rain that was pouring heavily. It was kind of comforting because the raindrops concealed your tears. 

And then the rain suddenly stopped touching you and all that was left on your face was the drops that your eyes teared.

You opened your eyes, only to see a shadow of an umbrella and a man holding it to stop you from getting wet any longer.

You turned around to see his face.

Max Verstappen.

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