#lark spark

[shrimp-and-company]

melting the dog, a series

[manitapaleta]

Thank you for your time, thank you for your mind,

But I don’t ever want to fall in love again,

GONE,GONE/THANK YOU Tyler, the Creator

clean vers.

[lunarrosette]

Shout out domestic post-canon nark you make me sick (/pos)

[bruxbea]

there's a reason she handled Act 1 so well-

[risetherivermoon]

sometimes i think abt lark & sparrow and henry and start crying btw

[chelsea-lat3ly]

[fertbutt]

went into a fugue state and drew a bunch of fucking warrior cats again. fuck my stupid baka life -_-

fire/sand notes:

sandstorm has short ears LOL i think it's cute

firestar gets anime protag squiggle lines cause hes epic

squilf/bramble notes:

alderheart has his grandma's markings cause their relationship was cute

leaf/crow notes:

yeah these guys are a genetic nightmare. too bad i dont care that much about genetics though

definitely not super proud of these i might redo them later

spark/lark notes:

I had no idea what to do for larksong sorryy

nightheart is undeserving of his firestar anime protag squiggle lines..... Hes annoying

tiger/golden notes:

Idk if i like goldenflowers design she looks too meek and round.... and i think i shouldve made her colors warmer

Tiger/sasha notes:

tigerstar would you rather have a gay son or a thot daughter

flamepoint Sasha yass

if you give tigerstar, brambleclaw and alderheart a beard but not mothwing....... Do Better 😡

I think i made hawkfrost just a teensy eensy bit too long. Just a little

[emjayewrites]

Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton) (14.3/15) - Part III

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @a-moment-captured, @boujiestpoet, @avngrsfangirl, @cocobutterqwueen @yeea-nah @alika-4466 @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @saturnville @weetjy @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @niahxo @purplelewlew @f1-football-fiend @imjustheretomanifest @gg-trini @kinggbl @iamryanl @mitruscity @nichmeddar @xoscar03 @eugene-emt-roe @cherry2stems @louvrepool @tremendousstarlighttragedy @ggaslyp1 @lewisroscoelove

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist.

CHAPTER 14.3: Waiting Game

A month and a half later...

Since the end of summer break, the season had gone from promising to frustrating. The Mercedes was temperamental at best, leaving Lewis fighting for points rather than podiums. Azerbaijan and Singapore had been particularly shaky - a P9 and P6 that had him questioning if his decision to leave Mercedes was premature. But watching George struggle with the same issues confirmed what he already knew: it was time for a change.

At least things at home were peaceful. With Rorie entering her eighth month, they'd decided to base themselves in LA until after the baby came. Their daughter was active as ever, especially during Lewis's races, leading Rorie to joke that she was already a motorsport fan. Marian had practically moved in, bringing that particular brand of Black mother energy that meant Rorie was never allowed to lift a finger, while Aaliyah kept Lyric entertained with endless art projects and dance parties.

The sibling situation had evolved too. Athena was a constant presence in the paddock now, her F1 journalism career flourishing. Aaron had made genuine efforts to make amends, even flying to Singapore just to have dinner with him after the race. And Azariah... well, Azariah had proven to be exactly the kind of big brother Rorie deserved - protective, wise, and unfailingly kind.

Martin, on the other hand, had faded into the background. His attempts to control the narrative had backfired, leaving him on the periphery of his children's lives. It was his loss, really.

The upscale vegan restaurant in Austin was quiet as Lewis made his way to where Azariah and Aaron sat at a corner table. Both men stood to greet him, the handshakes and hugs feeling natural now.

"How's our sister?" Azariah asked as they settled in.

"Ready to not be pregnant anymore," Lewis chuckled. "Your niece is giving her a workout."

"Still not telling us the name?" Aaron raised an eyebrow, signaling for drinks.

"You know what? I'm gonna tell y'all something, but it stays between us," Lewis leaned forward. "We're announcing it soon anyway, with some maternity shots we took." Both brothers perked up. "Her name is Larke Atlas Hamilton."

"Meaning?" Azariah asked, intrigued.

"Larke means 'song bird' - for music, obviously. Atlas is for carrying the weight of the world, being strong. Plus I love mythology."

"Wait, you named her?" Aaron asked.

"Yeah, named both of them actually. Lyric and Larke."

"The L name legacy, huh?" Azariah grinned.

"Just something small, you know how it is," teased Lewis as he took a sip of his water.

"For real though, what if y'all had another one?" Azariah asked. "Just hypothetically. I'm curious now."

Lewis thought for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Lennon, after my favorite Beatle."

"Nigga, what?" Aaron laughed. "You really got it all picked out?"

Lewis shrugged. "I got names for at least ten kids."

"And all their names begin with an L?" Azariah asked, flabbergasted.

"Yeah, check this out - Lyric, Larke, Lennon, Lyanna, Locklyn, Ledger, Landen, Luca, Loyal, and Liberty."

They all burst out laughing.

"By the way, that investment opportunity we discussed for Mission 44? The numbers are looking good," Aaron shifted topics, and Lewis appreciated how his brother-in-law had grown into more than just Martin's angry son.

The conversation flowed easily between racing, business, the announcement of him being a co-chair for next year's MET Gala, and family. Lewis found himself studying these two men who'd become such an unexpected but welcome part of his life. He'd been ready to throw down with Aaron in Barcelona. Now here they were, sharing meals and making plans.

When a nearby diner's phone rang with Martin's signature ringtone, Lewis noticed how both brothers tensed slightly. Some wounds were still fresh, some patterns hard to break. He understood that better than most - the complicated dance of fathers and sons.

"You know," Azariah said thoughtfully, pushing around his quinoa bowl, "it's weird how life works out. A year ago, we didn't even know Rorie existed. Now I can't imagine our family without her."

"Speaking of family," Aaron added, his voice careful, "Mom's been asking about meeting her. For real this time."

Lewis studied both men carefully, thinking of Rorie at home, their daughter kicking away while Marian fussed over her. His protective instincts kicked in - they'd been through so much in the last year with Deja's betrayal, the court case, all of it.

"I'll talk to Rorie about it. But no pressure, yeah? She's got enough on her plate right now."

They nodded in understanding, and Lewis felt grateful for how far they'd all come. From that tense first meeting to now sharing their unborn daughter's name, planning investments together, building something real. Sometimes family wasn't what you were born into, but what you chose to build together.

And watching these brothers who'd chosen to build bridges rather than walls, Lewis knew they'd made the right choice in letting them in. Larke Atlas Hamilton would be born into a family that had learned the hard way what really mattered - and was stronger for it.

_______________________________________________

Qualifying had been a disaster.

P8. Fucking P8.

Lewis sat in his driver's room, still in his race suit, the urge to put his fist through something growing stronger by the minute. The car was a mess - unpredictable, temperamental, like trying to tame a wild animal that had no interest in cooperating.

He wanted to break something. Specifically, he wanted to break this fucking car that had been giving him hell all season. Five world championships together and this was how it would end? With a car that couldn't decide if it wanted to understeer or oversteer, that ate through tires like they were snacks, that…

His phone buzzed - a video call from Rorie. He took a deep breath, centering himself before answering.

But before he could say anything, Lyric's face filled the screen. "Dada fast!"

Despite his mood, Lewis felt a smile tug at his lips. "Not fast enough today, big man."

"You did great," Rorie's voice came through, the camera shifting to show her lounging on their LA couch, bump prominent under one of his hoodies. "That last sector was intense."

"The car's fucked," he said bluntly, then quickly added, "Sorry, Lyric, don't repeat that word."

"I know you're frustrated," Rorie said softly. "But tomorrow's another day. And your daughter's been doing somersaults all through qualifying, so at least someone enjoyed the show."

Lewis laughed despite himself. "Already my biggest critic, huh?"

"More like biggest fan. She goes crazy whenever Bono comes on the radio."

The rage that had been building started to dissipate. Yes, the car was a nightmare. Yes, P8 was nowhere near where he wanted to be. But watching his pregnant wife trying to make him feel better while their son made race car noises in the background… some things were more important than qualifying position.

Still, as he ended the call with promises to FaceTime later, Lewis couldn't help but glare at his reflection in the mirror. Nine races left in this chapter of his career, and right now, the ending wasn't looking like what he'd imagined.

His phone buzzed - this time a text from Toto: "My office when you're ready."

Lewis closed his eyes, leaning back against the cool wall. These conversations were getting harder. Years of championships, victories, making history together... and now they couldn't even get the fucking car to behave for one qualifying session.

Another buzz - Aaron this time: "That car looking rough bro. But tomorrow's another day. Athena's got some intel about Ferrari's tire strategy if you want it 👀"

Despite everything, Lewis smiled. Who would've thought Aaron would become one of his biggest supporters in the paddock?

His mind drifted to Rorie and Lyric back in LA. To Larke, doing her qualifying analysis via kicks. To the future beyond Mercedes, beyond this frustrating season. He'd announced his departure early, to be transparent with the team and fans. But damn if these last races weren't testing his patience.

"Fuck it," he said. Tomorrow was race day. He'd started from worse positions, fought harder battles. And at least he had something many drivers didn't - a family waiting for him, win or lose.

Still, as he headed toward Toto's office, Lewis couldn't shake the feeling that this car had one last surprise in store for him. He just hoped it would be a good one.

The Mexico City paddock buzzed with its usual energy, but Lewis felt disconnected from it all, like he was watching himself go through the motions. The Austin DNF still stung - another race, another technical issue, another reminder that this wasn't how he'd imagined his final season with Mercedes.

"How's the car feeling heading into the weekend?" Will Buxton asked, microphone extended.

Like a fucking nightmare, Lewis thought darkly. "It's going," he said instead, maintaining his media-trained smile. "We're always working to improve, always pushing forward."

Between interviews, he found himself gravitating toward the younger drivers. Franco Colapinto's enthusiasm was infectious, the Argentinian rookie's eyes lighting up as they discussed racing lines through Turn 1. Ollie Bearman reminded him of himself at that age - hungry, determined, full of dreams about what F1 could be.

"Any advice for managing the altitude here?" Ollie asked during a quiet moment.

Lewis actually smiled genuinely for the first time that day. These conversations felt real, unlike the endless questions about the car's performance that made him want to scream in frustration.

"Lewis, can you talk about the development direction for these final races?" another journalist called out.

I'd rather talk about how this car seems determined to break my spirit, he thought. "We're focused on maximizing our package," he said diplomatically. "Every race is an opportunity to learn."

His phone buzzed - a photo from Rorie of Lyric watching his Austin race replay.

"My boy," Lewis muttered under his breath, before turning back to the next interview.

"What are your expectations for this weekend?"

To get through it without this car finding another creative way to fail, his mind supplied. "We're taking it one session at a time," he answered smoothly. "Mexico always presents unique challenges."

The contrast between his internal monologue and his measured responses was giving him whiplash, but years of experience had taught him how to maintain the façade. As he watched Franco and Ollie's excitement about their first Mexican GP, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for when it all felt that new, that full of possibility.

His final Mexican GP with Mercedes. Another last in a season full of them. At least Aaliyah and Lyric would arrive tomorrow - having his son in the paddock always made everything better, even when the car was determined to test his last nerve.

"You're finally escaping these Mercedes media days soon," Ollie joked during a break between interviews, both of them hiding in a quiet corner of the building.

"Trust me, they don't get easier. No matter the team," Lewis chuckled, though his mind was already on his next commitment - a sit-down with Sky where they'd inevitably ask about Austin.

His phone lit up with a text from Rorie: "Liyah and Lyric’s flight is confirmed. Lyric's already asking if we'll make it in time to see 'Dada's silver car.' Also, your daughter is doing backflips. ❤️"

That brought a genuine smile to his face, one that didn't go unnoticed by the next journalist who approached.

The Sky interview was exactly what he expected. Ted tried to get technical about the DNF, while Naomi probed about his emotions heading into these final races.

"It must be bittersweet," she pressed.

"It's definitely emotional," he answered diplomatically. "Mercedes has been such a huge part of my journey."

Franco caught his eye from across the room, the rookie giving him a sympathetic look. These kids understood more than people realized - they'd grown up watching his battles, his victories, his dominance. Seeing him struggle with this year's car must be strange for them too.

Another text came through - a picture of their at-home ultrasound machine and sure enough, Larke was doing somersaults in Rorie’s stomach.

This time he couldn't suppress his laugh, earning curious looks from the media gathered around him.

"Care to share the joke?" someone asked.

"Just my baby’s recent sonogram," Lewis replied, feeling more like himself for a moment. "May have a little gymnast on my hands."

As the day wound down, he found himself back with the rookies, their energy somehow making this endless parade of interviews more bearable. They talked about their karting days, their dreams, everything except the current state of his Mercedes.

It was refreshing. Almost enough to make him forget about the mechanical time bomb waiting in the garage.

Almost.

_______________________________________________

Lewis spotted them first - Lyric running ahead of Aaliyah, his little Mercedes cap slightly crooked on his head.

"Dada!" Lyric launched himself forward, Lewis squatting down to catch him.

"Oof," Lewis exaggerated as he lifted his son. "Getting too big for this, big man. What's Mama been feeding you?"

"Pancakes!" Lyric announced proudly, making Aaliyah laugh.

"Of course she is," Lewis grinned, adjusting Lyric on his hip. "How was the flight?"

"Your son gave a full race analysis to everyone in first class," Aaliyah shook her head. "Complete with sound effects for when 'Dada's car went night-night.'"

"Car sleeping," Lyric nodded seriously. "Like Roscoe!"

"Exactly like Roscoe," Lewis chuckled. "Ready to see the garage?"

"Franco!" Lyric suddenly called out, spotting the Argentinian driver approaching.

Lewis watched with amusement as Franco jogged over, but the moment the young driver caught sight of Aaliyah, his whole demeanor shifted. The confident swagger that emerged was something Lewis hadn't seen from his usually focused rookie colleague.

"You must be Rorie's sister," Franco smoothly transitioned from high-fiving Lyric to extending his hand to Aaliyah. "I've seen you in some of Lewis's Instagram stories. I'm Franco."

Lewis's eyebrows shot up, still holding Lyric who was babbling about wanting to see the "silver car." The confidence in Franco's tone was unexpected - this was the same kid who'd been nervously asking him about racing lines just hours ago.

"Aaliyah," she replied, her hand lingering in his just a moment longer than necessary. "Nice to meet you."

"You know," Franco leaned slightly closer, his accent somehow thicker than usual, "I could give you a tour of the paddock later. Show you where all the real action happens."

"Is that right?" Aaliyah's lips curved into a slight smile.

"Among other things," Franco winked, managing to make it charming rather than cheesy. "Maybe we could grab dinner after? I know this amazing place in the city..."

"Franco come see car?" Lyric interrupted, completely oblivious to the flirting happening in front of him.

"Of course, pequeño," Franco said, but his eyes stayed on Aaliyah. "Maybe your beautiful aunt would like to join us?"

Lewis bit back a laugh. The boldness of it all - hitting on his sister-in-law right in front of him. The kid was twenty-one and Aaliyah was twenty-four, and yet here he was, shooting his shot with the smoothness of a veteran.

After Franco reluctantly headed off for his media commitments, Lewis couldn't resist. "Just got here and got the whole paddock in a tizzy."

Aaliyah scoffed, adjusting her bag. "Don't start, Lew. He isn't really my type anyways."

But Lewis caught her glancing back in the direction Franco had disappeared, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Mhmm," Lewis smirked. "Lies."

"Whatever," Aaliyah rolled her eyes, but her slight smile told a different story. "I can't wait to tell Rorie about these thirsty F1 drivers you work with."

"Pssh," he blew out a raspberry and rolled his eyes at her. Aaliyah was undoubtedly going to call Rorie later and have a venting session about what just happened, but from the way Aaliyah was looking at Franco – she was just as interested in him as he was in her.

_____________________________________________________

The garage screens showed Franco's Williams dancing through the final sector. Lewis paused, balaclava in hand, to watch the young driver push through Turn 15.

P10 - not bad for a rookie in a Williams.

He waited near the Williams garage, watching Franco emerge from his car with that unmistakable rookie enthusiasm. The moment Franco spotted him, his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas.

"You were watching my qualifying?" Franco's accent was thick with excitement. "That's so cool, man."

"Not bad out there," Lewis nodded, then decided to seize the moment. "Listen, about Aaliyah..."

Franco immediately stood straighter, all attention.

"She's a free spirit," Lewis started, placing a hand on Franco's shoulder. "Vegetarian, loves Legos more than people most days. Takes her coffee black but her tea with honey. Can't stand pretense or games."

"You're giving me intel?" Franco's grin was infectious.

"I like you, Franco. I do." Lewis's tone shifted slightly. "But let me make this clear: Aaliyah is my sister, and if you break her fucking heart..."

"It's my neck?" Franco finished, still grinning but with understanding in his eyes.

Lewis chuckled. "You catch on quick."

"I sometimes do," Franco chuckled.

"I usually wouldn't help a driver get with her," Lewis continued. "Lando was bothering me about it before, but I think you're alright, Franco."

Franco's face scrunched up in disgust. "Lando? He wouldn't know what to do with a woman like Aaliyah."

Well, damn…

Lewis raised his eyebrows, impressed and amused by the kid's confidence. Before he could respond, the sound of children's laughter filled the air as Lyric and Laura came tearing around the corner, Aaliyah in pursuit.

"No running in the paddock!" she called out, but she was laughing too as the kids circled Lewis and Franco before darting off again.

"She's so good with kids," Franco said in awe, watching her chase after them.

"Yeah, she's a great aunt," Lewis replied, studying Franco's expression. The kid was already smitten. This would either be highly entertaining or complete chaos.

Probably both.

______________________________________________

Aaliyah Phillips turned heads without trying. At 5'7" with a slim waist, wide hips, and the kind of curves that made men walk into walls, she was used to the attention. Her straight black hair fell to the middle of her back today, though she often let it free in its natural curls. While she didn't have her sister's designer wardrobe or brother-in-law's fashion empire connections, her simple high-waisted jeans and cropped white button-down showed she understood how to dress her figure.

But what people didn't see was the woman who spent weekends building intricate Lego Architecture sets, who had an entire room in her Jersey apartment dedicated to magnetic tiles and architectural models. The entry-level architect who stayed late at her firm sketching designs for her dream home - a modern Pueblo Revival style house she hoped to build someday in Arizona or New Mexico, all clean lines and adobe walls with a courtyard full of succulents and desert wildflowers.

"Aaliyah! You look so good girl," Lando's voice interrupted her thoughts as she made her way through the paddock. His attempt at smooth came off try-hard, as usual.

"Thanks, Lando," she replied politely, though her mind drifted to a different accent, one that actually made her stomach flutter.

"We should grab dinner sometime," he pressed on. "Or we could–"

"Still not interested," she cut in gently but firmly. Lando was alright, but his cockiness felt forced, unlike Franco's natural confidence that seemed to flow as easily as his Spanish.

Franco. She hadn't meant to let any F1 driver catch her attention – she'd seen enough through Lewis and Rorie to know how complicated that world could be. But there was something about the young Argentinian that made her want to break her own rules. Maybe it was the way his curls fell into his eyes when he talked, or how he'd managed to be smooth without being arrogant, or the genuine enthusiasm he showed when talking about his passions.

The Mexico City paddock buzzed with pre-race energy as she found her way to the Mercedes garage. At twenty-four, she was established enough to know what she wanted - and what she didn't want. Lando's manufactured swagger wasn't it. But Franco...

"Earth to Liyah," Lewis's voice broke through her reverie. "You good? Or still thinking about a certain P10 qualifier?"

She rolled her eyes at her brother-in-law, but couldn't help glancing toward the Williams garage where Franco was preparing for his first Mexican GP.

Maybe it was time to take a chance. After all, she was single, and that accent was something else.

Aaliyah settled into a chair, Lyric bouncing on her lap as they watched Lewis prepare for the race. Her architecture brain couldn't help but appreciate the engineering marvel of these cars, even if most of the technical talk went over her head.

"Aunt Liyah, look!" Lyric pointed excitedly as Franco's Williams rolled past their window. She tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach when the Argentinian driver glanced up, his smile visible even through his visor.

"Still not your type?" Lewis teased as he stopped by before heading to the grid.

"Don't you have a race to focus on?" she shot back, but her smile gave her away.

The race itself was chaos that somehow made sense to everyone except her. Lyric seemed to understand more than she did, cheering at appropriate moments while she mostly just followed Lewis's silver car and, occasionally, a certain blue Williams.

"Remember what Mama says," Lyric told her seriously during a pit stop. "Always bet on black."

Aaliyah burst out laughing. That was such a Rorie thing to say - her sister had probably been teaching Lyric that since birth. But watching Lewis fight his way to P4, she had to admit the saying held true.

Franco's P12 wasn't bad either, though she pretended not to notice how many times she'd checked his position throughout the race. The way he handled the car through those tight corners was actually impressive, not that she'd admit that to anyone.

After the race, she found herself lingering in the paddock, ostensibly helping Lyric collect signatures on his little racing suit. When Franco approached, still in his race gear with curls damp from the helmet, she blamed the Mexican heat for the sudden warmth in her cheeks.

"Get any good signatures?" he asked Lyric, but his eyes were on her.

Maybe her sister was right - sometimes you had to bet on what felt right, even if it wasn't part of your careful plans. And this curly-headed rookie with the smooth accent and genuine smile definitely hadn't been part of her plans.

"There you go, campeón," Franco handed the marker back to Lyric after signing his suit.

"Actually," Aaliyah said, surprising herself with her boldness as she took the Sharpie from him. "Give me your hand."

Franco's eyebrows rose but he extended his palm, a slow smile spreading across his face as she wrote her WhatsApp number in neat architect's handwriting.

"About that dinner you mentioned..." she started.

"I know the perfect place," he finished, studying the numbers on his hand like they were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. "You coming to Brazil?"

"I can go," she replied casually, though she'd already arranged two weeks of PTO from the firm to help her sister and Lewis out with Lyric, but aunties need some down time too.

"Lucky me," Franco grinned, that accent somehow getting thicker. "I'll text you later about dinner, yeah?"

"Yeah," she replied, pretending not to notice Lewis and Lyric making exaggerated kissing faces behind Franco's back.

As Franco walked away, clearly trying not to look too eager to program her number into his phone, Lewis sidled up beside her.

"Smooth moves, sis," he teased. "Very smooth."

"Shut up," she laughed, but she couldn't help watching Franco's retreating figure. "Why are you always in my business?"

"Because I can be, and this is very entertaining."

The Las Vegas strip had been transformed into an F1 circus, neon lights competing with camera flashes as Lewis navigated through what felt like half of the world's population crammed into the paddock. His custom bedazzled Tommy Hilfiger tracksuit caught the artificial light, the matching Timbs completing a look that screamed Vegas baby - even if his mind was firmly fixed on Los Angeles.

Nothing.

He checked his phone for the hundredth time. Still nothing from Rorie. The helicopter was on standby, ready to whisk him to LA the moment she texted that their daughter was ready to make her debut. Toto had already arranged everything - Mick was ready to step in, though there were whispers that Kimi might even drive. Because fuck a race when his baby girl was being born.

"Lewis," Bono called out, trying to get his attention during the pre-race briefing. "The tire strategy…"

"Sorry," Lewis muttered, eyes still glued to his phone. "Just…"

Bono's expression softened. "How about this - you focus on the race, and I'll keep you updated if Rorie calls or texts. Deal?"

"Yeah, okay," Lewis agreed, though his hand still twitched toward his pocket. "Thanks, man."

The paddock was a maze of VIP areas and pop-up clubs - because only Vegas would turn an F1 race into a full-blown festival. Under normal circumstances, Lewis would have been living for this energy, this spectacle. But right now, all he could think about was Rorie at home, their daughter seemingly content to keep everyone waiting.

"Any news?" Toto asked as he made his way to the garage.

"Nothing," Lewis shook his head. "Larke's taking after her mama - showing up whenever she damn well pleases."

After another meeting, he made his way to his driver's room to get ready for the race.

Lewis pulled his race suit on, phone pressed to his ear. "Anything? Any contractions?"

"Nope," Rorie sighed. "I'm bouncing on this ball, drinking this nasty labor-inducing juice from TikTok… nothing. Though these celebrities showing up to Vegas are wild-"

"I don't care about that, Rorie, honey. I'll say fuck this race if you're going into labor." The sound of her laughter made him pull the phone away from his ear, staring at it in disbelief. "Rorie, I'm serious," he said once her giggles subsided.

"What if you're driving?" she asked.

"Bono is on baby watch and he'll tell me over the radio. I'll stop like I'm doing a pit and just leave."

"What- Lewis, you can't leave in the middle of a race!"

"Like I said, I don't give a fuck. Besides, this car is ass and I'm not missing her birth like I did Lyric's."

"Lewis…"

His jaw tightened. He hated that being an F1 driver meant missing important moments. Missing Lyric's birth because of a race still haunted him. Yes, he'd made it to the hospital while Rorie was still there, but he should have been the one holding her hand, telling her to push, feeding her ice cubes, even being the target of her labor-induced rage.

"Sweetheart, I know how you feel but trust me when I say this, I think she's waiting until you're officially done."

"Rorie, your due date is tomorrow. You could go into labor any time today," he pointed out.

"She's stubborn. More than you, actually. Trust me. When you are done with your last race and it's the end of the season - Larke will be here."

"You sure you're okay?" Lewis asked for the third time.

"Yes, baby. Go race. Win something for our girl."

"I just… I need you to promise me you'll tell someone to call if anything happens. Even if it's just a twinge."

"Lewis Hamilton," Rorie's voice took on that tone he knew well. "I have your mother, my mother, my sister, and about fifteen other people here watching me like hawks. Trust me, if this baby so much as hiccups, you'll know."

"Okay, okay," he conceded. "I love you. Both of you."

"We love you too. Now go show Vegas what you've got."

After hanging up, a knock came at his door. "Lewis? It's time," Rosa called.

The walk to the garage felt surreal, Las Vegas lights reflecting off his visor as he settled into the car and then lined up in his spot on the grid.

Lights out, and away we go.

The start was clean, Lewis immediately picking off two cars into Turn 1. "How's the grip, Lewis?" Bono asked.

"Anything from Rorie?" Lewis countered.

"No mate, nothing yet."

Lewis groaned, both from the lack of news and the understeer he was fighting. "Car's pushing wide in Turn 6… Should we add a crib mobile? I feel like we forgot a crib mobile."

Despite his distracted mind, he was flying through the field. Another overtake into Turn 1. "Nice move, Lewis!"

"Thanks. Do you think we need a humidifier? The nursery might need a humidifier." Another pass, up to P5 now. "And maybe one of those sound machines? Lyric loved his sound machine."

Bono's chuckle came through the radio. "You're doing brilliant, mate. Just brilliant."

P4.

P3.

Lewis barely registered the positions, too busy mental shopping for the nursery. "The changing table - did we get enough supplies for the changing table?"

"Box this lap, Lewis," Bono managed through his laughter. "Whatever you want, mate. You're absolutely flying out there."

As Lewis hit his marks in the pit box, he was already planning his next Amazon order. Somehow, racing while planning for Larke was bringing out his best driving.

10 more laps.

5 more laps.

Then the final lap.

The fireworks exploded over the Vegas strip as Lewis brought the car home in P2, George just ahead in P1. The garage was erupting - their first 1-2 of the season, and in Vegas of all places.

"Anything from Rorie?" Lewis immediately asked over the radio.

"Nothing mate, but bloody brilliant drive!" Bono's voice was gleaming with pride.

Lewis placed his forehead against the steering wheel, then gently banged it a few times. "Yeah, yeah… thanks man."

The crowd was deafening in parc fermé, casino lights mixing with camera flashes as he climbed out of the car. George was already there, grinning ear to ear.

Maybe Rorie was right. Maybe Larke was really waiting for his final race with Mercedes. Their stubborn little girl, already showing that Hamilton determination before even making her debut.

"Lewis! What a drive!" George pulled him into a hug. "The old Mercedes magic is back!"

"Yeah," Lewis managed a genuine smile, pride in their team's achievement breaking through his baby-focused thoughts. "Hell of a way to light up Vegas."

But even as he went through the motions of celebration, his thoughts kept drifting to Rorie and their baby. Their daughter was definitely taking after her mother - making her own plans, everyone else's schedule be damned.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

Next is the final chapter then there's the epilogue.

Do you like my work? Buy me a coffee to support

[dgrailwar]

Round 7, Day 2 - Pretender versus Gunner versus Avenger

A lone figure walked through the forest, idly looking around before his eyes fell on a figure-- the de-facto ruler of this part of the map. The Gunner smirked, hand resting on a hidden pocket, ready to draw weapons.

"And there he is, the Servant of the hour. How about we put on a show? You seem like the type that'll like that."

"Maybe-- but we're not alone."

A moment passed, as the Pretender jumped out of the way, narrowly dodging a flaming sword that ripped through one of the trees.

"Wow. would you look at that? Avenger finally shuffled out of his dusty little hole. Did you finally remember there was a Grail War going on?"

"Joke all you like, you cannot stall me. Now, behold the all-consuming flames of an Avenger!"

The Avenger swung his dark blade, black flames striking at the dense woods around them. Of course, when flame hits kindling, the sparks quickly lead to calamity. The quiet forest erupted into flames, the sparks backlighting the ghastly grin of the Avenger, and the amused smirk of the Gunner.

The Pretender frowned.

"Oho? Am I seeing a spark in your eyes, Pretender? We haven't spoken much, but you seemed rather unflappable before. And you, Gunner... let this serve as my formal introduction! Hahahaha!"

"Look at that! Ladies and gentlemen, keep your eyes peeled! It seems like this fight is going to be pretty interesting!"

"...Yeah, alright. Let's rumble!"

Pretender has 1 wound! 2 more and he'll be defeated!

Gunner has 1 wound! 2 more and he'll be defeated!

Due to Avenger's Defensive Play choices, Avenger gains a +1% bonus to Free-for-All's!

Due to the boost from Avenger's Defensive Play bonus, Gunner's 'Unconventional Child Prodigy' skill activates!

The boosts for this round are...

Oberon: +3%

Takasugi Shinsaku: +5%

The Count of Monte Cristo: +4%

Servant Skills:

Oberon (Pretender)

Evening Shroud (EX Rank) - In the cover of night, even the most unconfident warriors can at least feign greatness. When engaged in a Free-for-All, gain a +3% boost.

Morning Lark (EX Rank) - As morning comes, as does a boost in morale. Demerits against Oberon are reduced in effectiveness by 3%, and he gains a +3% boost in one-on-one battles.

A Midsummer Night's Dream (EX Rank): Rather than just reducing the effectiveness of Servant-imposed demerits, he is immune to them entirely.

PRETENDER-CLASS Servants possess an inherent trickster nature. If they fall in last place during a Free-for-All, if there is a gap of 3% within their final score and that of the Servant in 2nd place, they can evade taking a wound. Additionally, if they're victorious against other Servants, other teams cannot attempt to study the Pretender in order to gain a percentage bonus against them.

Takasugi Shinsaku (Gunner)

Unconventional Child Prodigy (A Rank): When fighting someone with a higher boost than Gunner, gain +2%.

Innovate - Armaments Reformation (B Rank): Defeating a Servant once will net special 'components' from them. When at least 4 of those 'components' are gathered, a secondary Noble Phantasm will be unlocked. If 6 are gathered, then the utility and power of 'Kiheitai' will be upgraded.

Current Components: N/A

(Winning first place in a Free-for-All will count for gathering 2 components- one for each Servant beneath you).

Retaining the Japanese Spirit (A Rank): When Gunner is about to take a fatal blow and the difference between scores is less than 5%, survive with one 'health' remaining. If this is triggered, gain a persistent +2% bonus that cannot be reduced or removed.

GUNNER-Class Servants are quick to action and yet methodical with their attacks. When engaged in combat, gain a +3% boost. Additionally, if in last place during a Free-for-All, inflict a -4% demerit on the 1st place Servant.

The Count of Monte Cristo (Avenger)

Determination of Steel (EX Rank): If Avenger is about to take a fatal wound, if there's at least a 3% difference in their score and the victor above him, he may avoid damage. When facing a single-target (1-on-1), he will gain a +3% boost.

Monte Cristo Mythologie: The King of the Cavern (C Rank): When battling enemies, his flames are like a poison. He reduces demerits against him by 3%, and when he is victorious against another, he inflicts a -2% demerit for their next round. This demerit increases by 2% by every 10% difference in scores.

Wisdom of Predicament (A Rank): When engaged in a Free-for-All, gain a +3% boost. Additionally, if Avenger earns last place, both the victor and the 2nd place Servant gain a -2% demerit, rather than simply the 2nd place Servant.

AVENGER-CLASS Servants are vengeful by nature. The first time they are defeated by a Servant, they gain an automatic +2% bonus against that specific Servant, without needing to study them (but can in order to increase the bonus). They gain a permanent +3% bonus per wound they attain that will remain if the wound remains, but will disappear if the wound is healed.

[hd-junglebook]

"Hey Sugar"

-said with rizz

Luke Hughes x F!Reader, Trevor Zegras x Reader (platonic)

Masterlist Link

a:n This has still remained my favorite gif of him, he's so perfect.

Warnings: throuple jumpscare, flirting, maybe cursing, suggestive flirting, nausea/vomiting, arguing

Summary: You and your close-knit group of friends, including Luke, are vacationing at the Hughes Lake house. During a dinner out, the sight of a fish dish causes you to become violently ill, leading to questions about what's going on.

Word Count - 4877

Part 2

You pretended not to see Maggy openly mime gagging at the two of you before falling in step with Trevor and Jess. Luke kept easy pace beside you as your mismatched band made their way towards the ramshackle building.

Perhaps it was the alcohol still thrumming warmly in your veins or the effervescent energy of the group, but you couldn't quite bite back the impish grin tugging at your lips. As you walked, you affected an exaggerated sway to your hips - very aware of Luke's heated stare searing into you from your periphery.

You didn't dare look over at him, fearful of what delicious torture might be simmering behind those eyes as dark as the sky around you.

Still, you couldn't resist reaching out to trail your fingertips along the firm musculature of his forearm as you sauntered past - a blatant tease that had his breath catching audibly.

By the time the five of you were settled at one of the plastic picnic tables scattered outside the bustling takeout counter, the dynamic had shifted almost imperceptibly.

What started as a silly lark with your nearest and dearest had devolved into outright cat-and-mouse flirtation between you and Luke.

Your friends, bless their oblivious hearts, were too caught up in their usual shenanigans to notice the escalating tension. Maggy and Jessica took great delight in heckling the poor teenaged cashiers over their "amateur" slushy techniques while Trevor tried valiantly to rein in the madness.

Luke, for his part, was a vision of ease - leaning back on the warped wooden bench with one arm thrown over the back in an effortless display of casual dominance.

You couldn't help but sneak sidelong glances at the hard ridges of his profile, at the way his worn Henley stretched deliciously across the broad span of his chest.

At one point, while Trevor was preoccupied with the drink orders, Luke must have caught you staring. His head swiveled infinitesimally, causing your eyes to meet and hold in a white-hot burst of awareness. One devilish brow inched higher as that knee-weakening half-smirk bloomed across his face.

"See something you like?"

The rough timbre of his voice had you suppressing an involuntary shiver. Rather than give him the satisfaction of a flustered response, you simply hummed noncommittally and dragged your eyes away with great effort.

That only earned you a rich chuckle as Luke inched imperceptibly closer, near enough for you to now feel the delicious burn of his body heat.

This continued teasing back-and-forth persisted until the food and drinks arrived - a riotous din of playful bickering over shared fry baskets and who was going to sample whose garish slushy concoction.

Luke, ever the easygoing rogue, watched the madness unfold with ill-disguised amusement, happily sipping a beer and indulging your friends' antics.

Despite their disruptive presence, however, the chemistry between you and Luke remained an undeniable force - a smoldering current arcing through the balmy sea breezes.

Simple things like the brush of his knuckles on your arm when reaching for a napkin or the searing weight of his hooded stare sent delicious frissons of electricity sparking through your nerve endings.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity lost in that heady tension, the revelry began to wind down. Maggy was the first to push back from the remains of your communal feast with an exaggerated belly pat and groan.

"Well, kids, much as I hate to call it a night...this former party animal needs her beauty rest," she proclaimed to the group at large.

Trevor heaved an overly dramatic sigh of relief. "Thanks be to God! I didn't know how much longer I could have hung on with you heathens."

Luke chuckled at that, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. You felt the brief brush of his shoulder against yours as he shifted slightly.

"No arguments here," he cut in easily, draining the last of his beer. "You guys ready to walk it off?"

The two of you exchanged a meaningful look that didn't go unmissed by Jessica - the astute blonde tracking the heated undercurrents with arched interest.

"Oh hell yes, we are WALKING this off," she piped up airily, rising from the bench and linking arms with Maggy and Trevor. "You crazy kids feel free to take the scenic route. We'll see you back at the house!"

And with that parting wink of insinuation, the three of them turned and struck out in the direction of the parking lot. You opened your mouth, intending to protest or at least offer parting sentiments, but Luke beat you to the punch.

"Don't even think about it, Sugar," he rumbled at your side, utterly unconcerned by your friends' ribald implications. "We both know where this is headed."

You felt your breath catch at the blatant flirtation as you turned to face him fully. Up this close, you could make out the poem of freckles smattered across the bridge of his straight nose, the faint laugh lines crinkled at the corners of those searing brown eyes.

Luke's nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as his gaze roamed over your features with unhurried intensity. You couldn't help mirroring the path, drinking in the sharp masculine beauty of him like a woman dying of thirst.

"Is that so?" you finally managed in a tone considerably breathier than anticipated.

Rather than answer directly, Luke reached out with one large hand to toy with a flyaway strand of your hair - allowing the backs of his knuckles to graze your flushed cheek in a scorching caress. You shivered at the contact, instinctively leaning into the calloused warmth of his palm as it cradled your jaw.

"We've been dancing around this all night," he murmured in that midnight rasp, holding your heated stare unblinkingly. "The flirting, the innuendos...you can't tell me you haven't felt this gravitational pull between us."

You couldn't have looked away even if you wanted - utterly transfixed by the molten promise in Luke's expression, in the exquisite agonies playing out behind those blazing irises. God, he was glorious like this - all simmering intensity and effortless masculinity.

Luke's thumb traced your lower lip in a feather-light caress, voice dropping to a hushed rumble. "I've got to know what those pretty lips taste like. Just this once, just to get it out of my system."

A tremulous whimper slipped unbidden from your throat at the naked yearning in his tone. In that heated breath, there was an ultimatum being issued - one you were powerless to refuse even if you'd wanted.

Taking his ardent silence as assent, Luke slowly began to close the scant distance between your parted lips...

…

1 year later…

The familiar crunch of tires over gravel roused you from your pensive reverie. You blinked rapidly, peering out the Uber's window to find the lake house's rustic facade coming into view. Your breath hitched ever so slightly as that old ache blossomed anew in your chest.

So much had changed over this whirlwind year, yet your relationship with Luke seemed suspended in a permanent holding pattern - all heated flirtation and vague intimations of something more without ever taking that fateful step.

You worried your lower lip, chewing the soft flesh as the driver killed the engine outside the small parking area. Was this just the way Luke operated? A permanent tango of push and pull without any lasting commitment? The prospect caused a leaden knot of anxiety to form in the pit of your stomach.

Drawing a fortifying breath, you gathered your things and slid from the backseat - offering the driver a tight smile of thanks. You were so preoccupied with the tangled mess of emotions, in fact, that you very nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of Luke's rich timbre.

"Hey there, pretty girl! Need a hand with your bag?"

You spun toward the unmistakable rumble to find Luke loping down the porch steps, arms outstretched and that knee-weakening grin splitting his whiskered jaw. The warm spring sunlight gilded the artful tumble of his chestnut curls and cast his chiseled features in an almost ethereal glow.

He looked...outrageously beautiful, as always. The realization caused a fresh pang just beneath your breastbone.

Pasting on what you hoped was a convincing smile, you shook your head at his oferrit. "I'm good, but thanks for the rescue."

Luke reached you then in a few easy strides, folding you into a fierce embrace without preamble. You melted into the solid warmth of his broad chest despite yourself, muscles going lax as he cradled you against the firm plane of his body.

This was the rub of your torturous relationship - the dizzying highs of Luke's nearness juxtaposed with the maddening ambiguity of whatever it was you actually meant to each other.

For a few blissful moments, you simply held him close and drank him in...the clean, crisp scent of his cotton shirt, the scorching brand of his hands at your lower back, the reassuring thud of his heart against your cheek. Then, all too soon, Luke was pulling away with one final lingering squeeze.

"Jesus, I missed you," he rasped in that midnight timbre, holding you at arm's length for a beat as his searing eyes roved hungrily over your face.

You could only nod mutely, afraid your brittle composure might shatter completely if you attempted words. Luke seemed to sense the undercurrent of tension, however, if his slightly furrowed brow was any indication.

"Hey..." His calloused palm found your jaw, tilting your chin up to meet his molten stare unblinkingly. "You okay? Talk to me."

And just like that, the precariously constructed dam inside you fragmented - emotions bubbling up in a roiling torrent of longing, frustration, and bone-deep weariness.

"I...yeah, of course," you heard yourself rasp, hating how painfully unconvincing you sounded even to your own ears. "It's just been...a really long day, y'know?"

Some imperceptible shift occurred behind Luke's blazing irises at the vague admission. His achingly familiar features seemed to shutter ever so slightly as he regarded you with new intensity, as if truly seeing you for the first time in ages. When he spoke again, his deep timbre was laced with an undercurrent of flinty steel.

"I'm starting to get that feeling, yeah." His grip on your face tightened a fraction, forcing you to hold his potent stare as those beloved lips twisted into a rueful grimace. "Why do I get the feeling we've got some things to hash out this weekend?"

You opened your mouth, intending to deflect or make light of Luke's weighted remark. But his piercing gaze seemed to strip away any half-truths before they could take shape. A small sigh escaped your lips as candor won out.

“We won’t be Luke, I’m just a little tired from having to get up early,” you found yourself replying in a small, hoarse tone that brokered no argument. “Lets get inside.”

Luke simply stared at you, seeming to weigh the ramifications of your simple demand as he carded his fingers over your hair in an unconscious caress.

Finally, after what felt like an agonizing eternity, he exhaled a low rumble and gave a slight nod - the barest dip of his stubbled jaw. Pulling you flush against his solid frame once more, Luke pressed his lips to your crown in a lingering caress.

"You're right, Sugar," he murmured, the timbre of his voice vibrating through you. "They're waiting for you. Come on."

With that, Luke released you from the circle of his arms but kept one large palm anchored at the small of your back as he guided you towards the lake house's entrance. You felt the rigid tension slowly ebb from your shoulders at the familiar weight of his reassuring touch.

No sooner had you crossed the threshold than a raucous din of greetings assailed you from the open living area. Maggy, as always, was the first to barrel into you - her wildly curling hair a ruby cyclone as she enveloped you in a fierce embrace.

"Y/N! You made it!" she crowed into the crown of your head before releasing you with an exaggerated sniff. "And you didn't get mauled by any psychopathic Uber drivers this time. Progress!"

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly at her typical dramatic flair, unable to repress the grin tugging at your lips. "Living on the edge as always, Mags."

Before you could so much as draw another breath, Jessica was sweeping in for her turn - golden tresses shining like haloed silk as she squeezed you tightly.

"We missed you, girl!" The familiar sugary lilt of her voice washed over you like a balm as she rocked you gently. "This lakehouse is way too quiet without your laugh."

You savored the simple intimacy of their warm embraces for a few beats, feeling the last lingering tendrils of fatigue dissipate. God, you'd missed these beautiful disasters more than you could have fathomed.

It was only when you turned to find Trevor hovering awkwardly nearby that the breath caught in your throat. The sweet, teddy bear-ish man seemed to have only grown more handsome in your weeks apart - his warm hazel eyes crinkling endearingly behind those thick-framed glasses as he flashed you a lopsided grin.

"Well don't just stand there gawking, Trevbear!" you teased, the old nickname rolling effortlessly off your tongue as you closed the distance between you. "You know the rules."

Trevor's unassuming features stretched into a radiant smile at that. Without hesitation, he swept you up into one of his patented, all-encompassing bear hugs - the kind where he lifted you clean off your feet and spun you in a dizzying circle amid a chorus of bright laughter.

As your arms wound instinctively around his broad shoulders and the familiar, comforting scent of his woodsy cologne enveloped you, you found yourself momentarily awestruck.

In the span of a few whirlwind revolutions, the simplicity of Trevor's affection seemed to unlock something profound in your heart - an awakening of sorts.

This...this was what you'd been sorely lacking all these months. Not torrid flirtation or vague promises of something more, but the purest expression of unwavering friendship and acceptance.

The utter certainty that no matter how frazzled or lost you became in this haphazard journey called life, your people would always,  always be there to catch you.

By the time Trevor carefully set you back on your feet, his concerned hazel eyes were scanning your features intently.

"You good, kiddo?" he asked, endearingly casual timbre laced with the faintest hint of confusion.

You could only nod mutely, blinking back the telltale prickle of grateful tears as you disentangled yourself from his solid embrace. Allowing your eyes to roam over each of their familiar faces, you felt your heart swell almost painfully.

"I'm good, Trev," you said at last, aiming for a confident smile despite the quaver in your voice. "I'm home."

...

Later that evening, the decision was made to venture into town for dinner at one of the local restaurants. The drive there held its own sort of anticipatory energy - luke's rugged Mustang growling along the sleepy rural roads as your mismatched crew chattered and bantered amidst peals of laughter.

You found yourself wedged into the front seat beside Luke, the occasional brush of his denim-clad thigh against yours sending tiny frissons sparking beneath your skin.

Maggy, Jessica and Trevor bickered good-naturedly in the backseat like rambunctious children, leaving you and Luke to share sidelong glances and suppressed grins.

"So," Luke began at one point, deft fingers toying with the radio dial before settling on a grungy classic rock station. "How long you think it'll be before those three idiots finally make it official?"

You shot him a confused look as The Black Keys thrummed from the speakers. "Make what official?"

Rather than respond outright, Luke simply cocked one brow meaningfully and jerked his chin towards the reflection in the rearview.

You followed his gesture to find Maggy and Jessica sandwiching Trevor between them - a trio of tousled heads bent together in secretive whispers and muffled snickering.

Comprehension blossomed like a slow dawn, your eyes widening almost comically. "Oh? Oh! You mean like...an official throuple situation?"

The answering rumble of Luke's laughter was rich and gravelly, the sound seeming to reverberate straight through to your bones.

"That's exactly what I mean," he confirmed with a salacious wink. "I'm giving it til the end of the week before they just say 'screw it' and start swapping fluids."

You couldn't help but dissolve into unbridled giggles at that delightfully crass remark - shoulders shaking with mirth as you aimed a ineffectual swat at Luke's rock-solid bicep.

"Oh my god, you're disgusting!" you managed to gasp out between peals of laughter. "Also...probably not wrong though."

That merely earned you another of Luke's knee-weakening smirks, the dimple in his stubbled cheek winking roguishly. "That's why you keep me around. For my sparkling wit and insight."

With a derisive snort, you shook your head and turned your attention back towards the darkened scenery whipping past - though you couldn't quite bite back your answering grin. Luke was far from wrong in his assessment, after all.

You'd been witness to the slow-burn flirtation brewing between the three of them for years now. What had started as harmless overfamiliarity had slowly, inexorably blossomed into something richer and infinitely more layered.

The lingering caresses, the heated glances, the borderline inappropriate innuendos...it was only a matter of time before that tension combusted into actualized desire.

Hell, you mused as your gaze drifted to the rearview mirror once more, they were practically daring you to acknowledge the elephant in the room with their shameless canoodling. Perhaps a small part of you even envied their easy intimacy - the utter certainty with which they seemed to fit together, like corresponding pieces of a larger whole.

Your idle reflections were interrupted as Luke suddenly merged onto the main drag, the quaint storefronts of the town's center materialized amid a warm glow of streetlamps.

"There's that new Italian place," he said by way of explanation, gesturing with a tilt of his stubbled jaw.

A raucous cheer erupted from the backseat at that, with Maggy crowing her emphatic approval. "Oh hell yes! I could demolish some fettuccine alfredo right about now."

You shot Luke a bemused grin and shrug, to which he simply laughed and signaled towards the cramped parking lot adjacent to the restaurant.

By the time the Mustang's twin exhaust pipes had quieted to a purr, you were all piling out onto the sidewalk amid a fresh bluster of conversation - Luke's steadying palm finding the small of your back as per usual.

Once you gained entry, the welcoming aromas of garlic and tomato sauce seemed to envelop you like a well-worn blanket. Stepping inside revealed an intimate but boisterous space - a cacophony of lilting Italian pop competing with the clatter of dishes and lively chatter.

Before you could so much as blink, your mismatched crew had been whisked away to a cozy booth tucked in the back corner. You settled onto the worn burgundy leather with a contented sigh, ceding to Luke's gentle insistence as he ushered you towards the innermost seat.

The following two hours seemed to blaze by in a whirlwind of laughter, familiar ribbing, and outrageously embellished stories. Courses of piping hot breadsticks, caesar salad, and copious glasses of reasonably-priced Chianti made their merry way around your table amid riotous pow-wows.

Even Trevor seemed to be in exceptionally high spirits - regaling your crew with the increasingly risque exploits of his latest Dungeons and Dragons characters between enthusiastic pulls from a basket of garlic knots.

"So this tavern wench is laying it on thick, right?" he crowed through a mouthful of doughy bread. "Like she's practically undressing me with her eyes while I'm just trying to order a pint!"

Maggy cackled indelicately beside him, idly tracing patterns along the sloping musculature of his forearm as she savored the tale. "Of course she was, Trev! She could smell your virility from across the room."

"Damn straight!" Jessica chimed in from your other side with a shameless leer. "We've all witnessed the raw, animalistic power of your lovemaking firsthand."

A sudden spray of Chianti fountained from Trevor's lips as he dissolved into a spluttering cough - eyes bulging comically behind his smudged lenses. You couldn't help but join in the chorus of bright laughter at that, instinctively reaching over to pat his broad back through the fit.

"You three are utterly incorrigible tonight," he managed once he'd recovered, attempting in vain to dab at the red wine stains blooming across the front of his pale blue button-up.

"Hey, we're just being supportive girlfriends!" Maggy countered with an impish flutter of her lashes.

There it was again - that playful acknowledgment that seemed to take on deeper intimations the more the wine flowed freely. You found your eyes instinctively tracking towards Luke, curious to gauge his response to the escalating flirtation.

To your mild surprise, the roguish sparkle in his eyes and the uptick of that damnable half-grin spoke volumes. He clearly took no issue with their blatant suggestions, instead leaning back with his powerful forearms splayed casually to either side.

As if feeling the weight of your speculative stare, Luke cocked one brow meaningfully before lifting his wine glass in a subtle toast of acknowledgment.

The blatant understanding in that singular gesture caused a small thrill to ricochet through your nerve endings. Maybe he wasn't so far off in his earlier prediction after all...

...

Any further musings were interrupted as your waiter finally reappeared with your entrees balanced precariously on a burdened tray.

You watched with detached amusement as he carefully maneuvered the steaming dishes onto the table - a mouthwatering array of hearty pastas and artfully arranged proteins.

Luke's meal - the rigatoni alla vodka - landed first with a dull clatter directly in front of him. You had to actively resist the urge to lean over and inhale the rich, creamy aroma wafting from his plate as he murmured his thanks.

Trevor's gargantuan meatball parmesan followed close behind, causing the table to groan beneath its considerable heft. Then came Jessica's margherita pizza...

Finally, with tremendous care, the waiter settled Maggy's order immediately across from you. You watched with detached interest as he arranged the dish, unaware of the delicate porcelain plate's contents until the very last moment.

Then, like a swift upending of your stomach, realization struck in one sickeningly potent wave - immediately wiping the contented smile from your lips.

There, nestled in a delicate swirl of cauliflower puree and roasted fennel, was a glistening fillet of some indeterminate white fish - the pearlescent flesh gaping in a grotesque mimicry of a gasping maw.

You must have paled several shades because Luke immediately tensed beside you - his scorching palm finding your knee beneath the table in a steadying grip.

"Y/N? You good?" he murmured beneath the din of Maggy's enthusiastic compliments towards the waiter.

But you couldn't bring yourself to respond, every survival instinct flatlining beneath the sudden onslaught of visceral nausea roiling in your gut. Your jaw clenched spasmodically as you struggled to contain the rising tide of revulsion, to maintain some semblance of composure.

When that failed, you had no other recourse but to abruptly shove away from the table and make a beeline for the bathroom - Luke's urgent calls and the concerned eyes of your companions quickly receding in your peripheral vision.

…

The bolt slammed home seconds before you crumpled onto the mercifully cool tile, hands braced against the sides of the stall as your stomach clenched painfully. A strangled groan tore from your throat just before the first wave of nausea broke.

"Occupied!" you managed to grumble out between convulsive retches, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the slick porcelain.

Each spasm seemed to tear through your abdomen with white-hot lances of agony until, finally, you were left shuddering and empty - forehead beaded with a clammy sheen of sweat. You heaved in ragged gulps of air, throat feeling savagely raw and abused.

Only then, in the fragile lull, did the confusion begin to set in.

What the hell was that? You'd felt absolutely fine mere moments ago - happily indulging in the warm cocoon of friendship and frivolity. So where had this sudden, debilitating bout of nausea sprung from?

You racked your muddled brain, trying in vain to isolate any potential causes as another unpleasant roll of queasiness settled in your roiling gut. Had it been something you'd eaten recently? No, you realized with a jolt, you hadn't consumed anything substantial since well before your flight that morning.

Maybe it was the start of a stomach bug then? That seemed the most plausible explanation, despite the utter randomness of it all. Except...you reasoned shakily, wouldn't there have been some sort of discernible build-up to indicate you were getting sick?

Before you could ponder it further, another series of convulsions doubled you over - this time accompanied by the unmistakable sound of the bathroom door creaking open. You stiffened, straining to hear over the tortured gurgles issuing from your abused stomach.

"Y/N?" It was Jessica's sugary lilt, muffled but recognizable. "Babe, are you okay in there?"

You opened your mouth with every intention of reassuring her, or at the very least calling out that you were still alive. But the words shriveled into an anguished moan as another piercing cramp lanced through your tender abdomen. There was a pregnant pause on the other side of the stall door, followed by your friend's increasingly worried tones.

"Y/N? I'm coming in..."

The latch rattled precariously as Jessica shouldered her way inside, wisps of honeyed hair filtering through the crack first. You tried weakly to protest - to summon some semblance of dignity or determination to be left in peace.

But then her stunning features swam into view, and the flimsy pretense shattered beneath the naked concern etched into those delicate features.

"Oh sweetie..." Jessica breathed, all traces of her usual saucy bravado evaporating as she dropped into an urgent crouch beside you.

One slender hand immediately found the damp nape of your neck, fingers soothing over your flushed skin as her brow furrowed. You could only manage a pitiful whine in response, too consumed by the roiling anguish to formulate actual words.

"You're clammy as hell," she murmured, mostly to herself as her free hand roamed over your forehead and cheeks. "What's going on? Did you eat something that messed with your stomach?"

You shook your head weakly, too mortified to fully engage the line of questioning. What could you possibly say? That the mere sight of Maggy's half-eaten fish fillet had sent you into a full-body revolt? Just the memory of those dead, glassy eyes staring back at you had your gorge rising anew...

Unable to bite it back this time, you lurched forward with a guttural retch - every muscle straining as another vicious bout assailed you. Dimly, you registered Jessica's comforting murmurs and the soothing strokes along your trembling shoulders. But even her tender consolations couldn't prevent the piercing embarrassment from seeping into your churning gut.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the punishing waves subsided into a queasy lull. You sagged back against the damp tiles, boneless and utterly spent as you sucked in ragged gasps. Jessica immediately moved to cradle you against her side, slender fingers sifting through your damp tresses.

"Better?" she asked once your breathing had steadied somewhat, brow still furrowed.

You could only manage a feeble nod, still stunned by the ferocity of the episode. Jessica seemed to sense your mortification because she leaned in to press a consoling kiss to your clammy temple.

"Don't even trip, babe," she soothed in that sweet, maternal tone. "We've all been there. The last time I got hit with food poisoning was no damn joke."

The tender gesture, coupled with her easy reassurances, seemed to thaw some of the icy tendrils of shame entangling your gut. You found the residual strength to curl gratefully into her slender form, savoring the simple comfort of her embrace.

How long the two of you remained like that - tangled on the gritty bathroom floor in a silent cocoon of commiseration - was anyone's guess. But eventually, the faint murmurings from the other side of the door reminded you that the rest of the world still existed beyond your misery.

"You think you can stand?" Jessica's query was gentle, implied concern lacing her sugary soprano.

With extreme effort, you managed a slight incline of your head. Jessica didn't seem convinced, however, because she shifted to disengage herself before carefully maneuvering to her feet.

"Come on, sweetie," she urged, stout hands finding your elbows and tugging insistently. "Let's at least get you off this nasty ass floor and cleaned up a bit."

Too wrung out to protest further, you allowed Jessica to coax you upright - every muscle screaming in exertion. She looped a steadying arm around your waist as you swayed perilously. Then, with exaggerated care, she began leading you towards the sinks.

…

[shrimp-and-company]

he pulled the cushion out and is obsessed with it now

[wanderingibon]

inquisitor, take your breath

some oc rambles + closeup below the cut!

(i was inspired by sculpture/wall murals, also specifically those wooden carved murals found in filipino culture :>)

Lark Lavellan, sometime just before the events of Veilguard, comes across a mural of themself from when they were Inquisitor. They have a lot of emotions about it- after all, they struggled tremendously with the burden of Inquisitor placed upon them at such a young age. At nineteen, they were only expecting to get their Vallaslin, to be a fully fledged Hunter for their clan- and instead, they found themself one of the most important figureheads in all of Thedas. All eyes were suddenly on them- expecting them to save the world- fix everything that needed to be fixed. Needless to say, it shook their very sense of self, and very nearly destroyed them come Trespasser. However, in the years that have passed, they have come to peace with their identity and are much more secure in themself, able to discern 'Lark' from the very heavy title 'Inquisitor.' Still, their willingness to help the world become a better place has not wavered since their younger days. If anything, it has only grown stronger, like a spark becomes a raging flame. What was once a young person wrought with fear over making the slightest misstep, over not doing enough- has grown into a fine Hunter who simply wants to do what they can to help.

[teamoakills]

an assortment of spark and arrows </333

if you wish to read my long-winded Hair Headcanons for Lark & Sparrow please continue on below vvvvvv

Ok so, like Lark & Sparrow, I myself am a L&S twin. We've had to keep our hair at certain lengths in order for others to help them memorize whos-who and I always thought it would be funny if I forced these guys to suffer that same curse.

Lark had long-ish hair (L for Long) and Sparrow had short-ish hair (S for short)

I feel like Sparrow would be more agreeable in keeping his hair maintained anyway, and he would be able to convince Lark to tie his hair up lest his long hair get in the way of BATTLE! So in my head, they would keep this pattern throughout most of season 1.

Anyways after you-know-what happens, Lark stops tying his hair up at all. It's his first act of defiance, or at least his attempt to show his emotions on the surface. Even Sparrow can't convince him to let him do anything with it anymore. Lark just stops caring.

At the end of season 1, probably during the in-between of s1-s2, Lark cuts his hair short almost completely. I imagine it to be an act fueled with desperation, cutting his long hair to further himself from who he used to be and to place his internal struggles into physical action. Now their silly little childhood pattern is ruined!

In response, s2 Sparrow starts to grow his hair out longer. It is now his desperation making him attempt to reconnect with how their bond used to be by maintaining their Long-Short pattern (only now it's swapped). The Silly Hair Pattern is back, but it's wrong. It's wrong in a way that just goes to show no matter how much Sparrow tries, things in their family won't go back to being like how they used to be!

so baasically s1 Sparrow had short hair and Lark had long hair s2 Sparrow has long hair and Lark has short hair that's about it <3

[thelarksang]

Clues on Neil Gaiman's Tumblr

Three identical posts of a script preview with one changed word

Crowley's Present-Day Filter

No nightingale

I'm still combing through Neil's Tumblr and I'll add to this if I find any more.

Case 1: Neil posting this message about the script three times; twice with the word "Dailies" and the most recent one with "Sides". Neil claims it was a Tumblr error but it's too fishy to not be intentional.

Case 2: Anytime the screen is slightly darker, it's considered "Crowley's present-day storyline".

For example, Tiffen Bronze Glimmerglass were paired with bookshop scenes; Black Pro-Mist was used for Hell; and Black Diffusion FX for Crowley’s present-day storyline.

Neil mentions there are a lot of secrets in that article and this stood out the most. I'm going to rewatch the series and see which scenes are dark.

The Gabriel memory scene seems to also be a clue which I'll expand on at a later time.

Case 3: There was indeed "No nightingale" but there was a lark

There's a huge emphasis on Crowley saying "It's too late" throughout the series (plus Anges Nutter and her time of execution) and the "No nightingale" line comes from Romeo's speech to Juliet. which is another metaphor for lateness.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn,  No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks  Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:  Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day  Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.  I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Which seems to mean: 

"No nightingale; the lark was there instead. It is morning and it is too late. I must leave." 

If the lark was there instead of a nightingale, does this point to a wrong timeline? Or maybe that their story doesn't end here and they must continue on?

The lark can be heard when Crowley leaves the bookshop.

Scene:

Lark sound:

Morever I feel like "Night's candles are burnt out" can go hand-in-hand with Job's passage on the matchbox which is "Out of his mouth go burning lamps, and sparks of fire leap out."

Side Thoughts:

Is Crowley the key to all of this? His memories being different from everyone else's, the oddly specific filter for "his present-day" scenes, the fire needed to light the lamps/keep the lamps going, him noticing there is no nightingale singing... (Btw, he is now one step closer to be eligible to ask God questions after fulfilling the ostrich question; not too sure about the peacock part though.)

What if there are actually three timelines if you consider the rule of three in a lot of scenes? Including the three concept art illustrations of the bookshop, the three telephone booths on the promo posters, etc.

[ismyteadoneyet]

I took a break from the more serious piece with the throne and all to draw this quicker, silly thing because they have started airing Hallmark movies on TV and I was possessed by the Christmas Spirit :')

There's also a short lil drabble thingy underneath the 'Keep Reading', bcs I couldn't help myself 😭😭 If Tracy won't let her characters have some Silly Time™, I WILL. 😭😭😭

The snowball soars through the air in a high arch, and lands with a wet, satisfying "fwump".

Loud cheers and "woo"s chorus from the other team, and it takes everything in me to hold back my own laughter at the sight. Nick seems to fight just as hard to do the same.

"...Aaand Miss Chen hits the bullseye! Another point for team...what was your name, again?" Valec calls from the sidelines with his, by now, classic announcer-voice, acting judge for today's match.

Classic, because this is the third snowball fight we've had since the snow first fell, and our team has been losing every single one so far. Sel has been too busy dodging the snowballs to realize that he has been our opponents' only target, despite there being three people on our team.

Alice turns to Valec with a wide grin and high-fives William. Lark is doubled over behind them, laughing.

"Team Victory," She reminds him gleefully, and Valec nods with a snap of his fingers. More so to jab another thumb into Sel's side than actually needing the reminder.

Mariah sits at his side, trying to hide her own snicker behind a steaming cup of hot cocoa. She caught onto our pact halfway through the first game, and is now just as eager as the rest of us to see how long it takes the Kingsmage to notice.

"One more point to team Victory! Making the current score.... 5-2, their favor."

Sel tries to wipe the already melting snow off his cheek before it runs down under the collar of his coat. With a wet flick of his gloved hand, he uncovers the scowl underneath.

"What kind of defense are you two supposed to be if you are not defending the whole team?"

"I thought you were behind me, I swear," I say, but can't seem to disguise my lie well enough, because Sel's mouth curves further downwards even before I finish. "You know, behind the shield."

"What's the matter, Kingsmage? Lost yer spark?" Lark taunts from where he now stands straighter, only barely holding it together.

Sel spins around to face the other Merlin with a sneer before shaking more snow out of his hair. "Douglas, you better sleep with one eye open unless you like your dreams of 'White Christmases' very vivid," He growls, and the scheming smirk across his lips makes me certain that the threat of taking the snowball fight off-court and into Larkin's bedroom is a very real one.

He barks out a sarcastic laugh in return, but can't quite seem to keep the amused glint out of his eye, "I sure would like to see ye get 'merry and bright', Kane."

With another flick of Sel's wrist, aether flows to his hands as if he were to craft his usual staff, but instead forms something resembling a lacrosse racket, solid like a shovel. He twirls it in his hand once before bending down to scoop up fresh snow, muttering, more to himself than to the other Merlin;

"Oh, I'll show you 'merry and bright', you-"

"Would you look at that!" William cuts in, making all our heads turn to him.

He looks up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun, before taking a step back towards the wall of snow shielding us from Volition.

"Oh, shit!"

Nick understands faster than I do, and casts a new aether shield and grabs my arm in one swift movement. He pulls me along, laughing all the while. "Get down!"

Sel is frozen in place, shovel-racket still mid-scoop, and completely alone on our side of the battlefield. He doesn't bother looking at either of us, but his narrowed eyes and shift in his jaw makes the betrayal apparent.

William reaches out a hand to the wall and shoves it right into the snow. With no visible effort, he lifts up a chunk nearly as big as himself, easily balancing it in one hand. He slowly turns to the Kingsmage with a smirk, promise of perfect aim in his eyes and voice both;

"Midday, is it not?"

[breadvidence]

I'm going to table a two-pole concept as a useful tool when evaluating what you're building when you write meta/literary analysis.

So: say there's a distinction between what you can read out of a text and what you can read into a text: or, I'm going to use those prepositions as convenient shorthands for this post as I talk about one of many patterns in literary analysis. Both are the bread and butter equally of the academic industry and fan work, though I'd bet the former would pretend it uses reading into texts less, and I've seen fan work fail more genuinely to see the difference.

When we read out of the text, direct quotes, context, historical facts, etc. come together into a more complex idea or conclusion: one of my favorites in Les Misérables is the murder-suicide implication of Marius bringing Javert's pistols with him to his final (missed) meeting with Cosette at the Rue Plumet. It hinges on the context of Romantic tropes surrounding the death of lovers, his direct association with Ulbach via the Lark's meadow, his insistence that death will follow their separation, the fact of there being two pistols, and answers the otherwise puzzling question put to us when the narrator says "It would be difficult to say what vague thought [Marius] had in his mind when he took [the pistols] with him." (4.9.2). Now, whether Marius would have shot Cosette—or solicited her to commit suicide with him—is beyond what we can read out of the text, in my opinion, but the potential is inarguable.

What we can read out of a text is, I will note, haunted by the question of authorial intent. There's this guy named Barthes, I think it is, who fucked us up on that one.

"Why are you bringing up prepositions to talk about basic literary analysis, Bread?" I hear you ask. But wait! There's more. A preface this with: per my opening, I'm laying out a concept with two poles, and there's a gradient between them, nothing fits perfectly-neatly, and any analysis might be a blend of in and out—and almost all things read into a text must somewhat come out of it. That qualifier being said, I'll still argue for:

When we read into the text, while quotes, context, historical fact, etc. may spark the idea, ultimately the analysis begins with its conclusion, and we are seeking to find material to shore up a structure we've already built. So, so much professional queer literary criticism of works created without explicit queer intent fall into this category, bless 'em, and so does a lot of fan meta. Reading into a text is the entire game of fanfic, and it's a space in which creators can enrich the works of others. Often, what we bring into the text is ourselves—which is neat as fuck, particularly for a queer person like myself whose understanding of the world radically differs from an author like Victor Hugo (though of the ideas that I freely admit to reading into the text, my real darling is fear as Javert's primary emotional motivator [Hugo tells us at length about Javert's emotional motivation: I just think it's neat to ask why do we hate?, and find an answer that is less painful than for its own sake]). Analysis that has been read into the text can be intricate, built upon extensive evidence from the text and history, but ultimately it varies from what can be read out of the text in being indefensible: some portion, however compelling, relies upon an element that cannot be found in the text and its context: if the analysis could not be independently built by every reader possessed of the same basic facts, you got something read in. What we build this kind of analysis with often includes, without value judgment, our emotion, identity, and personal investments (ever-present in analysis of all types, but in these specific cases structurally integral). For a second example: to me, it's incredibly important that the bourgeois marriage at the end of Les Misérables is meant as a failure of the sociopolitical ethical argument made by the book as the whole, but I cannot read that out of the text. Trust me, I have tried to build that analysis, and I always find myself having to lean on feeling and inference and implication in a way that's so much air. To make Les Mis meaningful for myself, I stick to this idea of that failure: but I can't defend it to someone else.

I can still write an analysis of Javert motivated by fear or bourgeois marriage as failure, share that, have people read and (hopefully) enjoy it—that's meaningful fanwork (or academic work, for that matter; that's a thin line in literature). What I won't do is defend those points as definitive readings of the text, and I definitely ain't going to argue back if somebody tells me they have a different reading. Sometimes analysis can tip-toe right along the edge of being out of and into the text, but I can tell you when I'm doing the latter.

There are times when you can read into the text in a way that is fully indulgent in fan work in a way that academia generally avoids (or pretends to avoid): take, for example, building trans Enjolras out of canon material. There is precisely zero way to read out of Les Misérables that Victor Hugo wrote the novel imagining Enjolras had anything other than a dick—I am not altogether married to the question of authorial intent, but me and it are on friendly terms, and I'm dead confident here—but as fandom has made abundantly clear, you can read transness into the novel (which is not to say Hugo doesn't play with androgyny and gender in Enjolras' character—he's just not flying the pink-periwinkle-and-white). This is something that means a lot to a lot of people, and that's valuable. The fact that it's not in the novel does not invalidate the meaning. It simply means it's built on different ground (and, when we talk about the ways in which a text lacks or fucks up or can do more, we find going into it results in a more fertile reading than simply getting out of it).

There's no have to in meta or literary analysis—it's a game we're playing with stories that are themselves games—but I think this framework has a couple benefits as a tool to analyze analysis, particularly in a social environment. (1) If your goal is to make arguments about what can be firmly concluded from a text, recognizing that reading into it is a different style of analysis with a different level of portability to others is useful and (2) recognizing that what you have read into the text is refutable and idiosyncratic strengthens your ability to remain engaged with others who don't share or agree with your analysis. Now, sometimes you think you're reading out of the text, and additional information or a counterpoint prove you wrong: that's fine, inevitable, we all got our days where we didn't know the historical usage of a certain word or something, eh? On the other hand, if you're perfectly aware you're reading into the text, if someone tables a counterpoint or additional information, you can say: Yeah, cool, thank you, my investment in this idea is playful or personal or what-have-you, and its defensibility is irrelevant to its existence.

From personal experience? All beneficial.