#soft place to land verse

[felixferitas]

would love some more threads / plots in felix's 2nd verse post the saltburn aftermath where he's a little bit frayed around the edges and a much more damaged version of himself.

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

Home coming

Pairing :Alpha Daemon Targaryen x Omega Targaryen Male reader Tags: Omega verse, Targcest Word count :1516

Daemon had seen many strange things in his long and bloody life, but the news from King’s Landing felt the strangest by far. Viserys, that soft, ineffectual fool, had somehow managed to sire an Omega son. An Omega Targaryen. A gift from the gods, a whisper in the blood that echoed of old Valyria.

The very notion had tugged at something primal within him. Alphas, especially those with dragon blood like himself, were drawn to Omegas in a way that transcended mere desire. It was a claim, a need, etched into their very being. And a pure-blooded Targaryen Omega? Unheard of for generations.

He’d left Essos the moment the raven arrived, leaving behind bored courtesans and half-finished battles. Let them squabble. He had an Omega to claim.

Now, standing within the familiar, yet stiflingly dull, halls of the Red Keep, Daemon felt a familiar impatience prick at him. Viserys, bless his easily-pleased heart, had thrown a feast in his honor. How typical. All pomp and circumstance, and not enough fire.

But within the sea of faces, one stood out. A figure, slightly shorter than most men his age, with the unmistakable silver-gold hair of their house.Ten and Six, according to the whispers he had bothered to listen to.(Insert Name) .

He watched (Insert Name) from across the hall, his eyes narrowed, assessing. The boy was pale, almost ethereally so, and moved with a quiet grace that belied the strength of his blood.He seemed almost out of place amidst the boisterous revelry, his gaze darting nervously around the room. He spoke politely to those who approached him, but his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes. Daemon could scent the Omega anxiety rolling off of him and he couldn't help but feel possessive of the nervous prince.

Daemon observed the young prince at the long table beside his father. All of the lords were loud and crass, a bunch of Alphas already vying for positions in the kingdom. But not (Insert Name), he wasn't roaring for attention, he was silent, and in Daemon's expert eye, afraid. Of course he would be, A newly presented Omega forced to be around hoards of Alpha’s.

The feast droned on, filled with endless courses and tedious toasts. Daemon forced himself to endure it, his gaze rarely straying far from (Insert Name).He noticed the way Viserys dismissed his son causing an eyebrow raise. But Daemon also saw the subtle tension in (Insert Name)’s shoulders, the almost imperceptible flinch whenever someone touched him without warning. He wanted nothing more than to tear the boy away from this suffocating court, to spirit him away to Dragonstone where they could finally breathe, and where he could finally scent him.

And then, as the musicians struck up a particularly grating tune, (Insert Name) slipped away.

Daemon watched him go, melting into the shadows that clung to the edges of the hall. He made his excuses to Viserys, something about needing fresh air, and followed.

He found (Insert Name) in the gardens, a small, secluded courtyard bathed in the pale glow of the moon. He seemed lost in thought, oblivious to the world around him.

Daemon approached slowly, his footsteps muffled by the soft earth, and took a deep breath of the night air, letting the scent of flowers and damp earth mingle with the uniquely intoxicating aroma that clung to (Insert Name).It was a subtle, sweet scent, laced with a hint of something wild and untamed, a promise of vulnerability and strength. It stirred something deep within Daemon, a fierce protective instinct he hadn’t known he possessed.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough to be heard, but far enough not to startle him. “A beautiful night for a walk, wouldn’t you agree, nephew?”

(Insert Name) jumped, turning to face him, his eyes wide with surprise. Daemon saw a flash of fear in them, quickly masked by a polite, if somewhat hesitant, smile.

“Uncle Daemon,” he said, his voice soft. “I… I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” Daemon said with a wry smile. He gestured to a small package he held in his hand, wrapped in dark velvet. “I brought you a gift. From Essos.”

He stepped closer, offering the package to (Insert Name).The boy hesitated, his eyes darting from the gift to Daemon’s face, clearly unsure. “I… I couldn’t possibly,” he stammered.

“Nonsense,” Daemon said, his voice softening. “Consider it a welcome home gift. Or perhaps… a Presenting gift.”

He placed the package in (Insert Name)’s hands. The boy’s fingers brushed against his, and Daemon felt a jolt of electricity shoot through him. He suppressed a growl, forcing himself to maintain a neutral expression.

(Insert Name) looked down at the package, his fingers tracing the soft velvet. He seemed hesitant, almost afraid to open it. “What is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Open it and see,” Daemon said, his eyes fixed on the boy’s face, watching for any sign of discomfort or distress.

With a deep breath, (Insert Name) carefully unwrapped the package. Inside, nestled on a bed of silk, was a delicate silver Necklace, polished to a high sheen. It shimmered in the moonlight, reflecting the silver light.

(Insert Name)’s breath hitched, his eyes widening in awe. He lifted the necklace from its bed of silk, holding it up to the moonlight. “It’s… beautiful,” he breathed.

“It is Valyrian steel, The very same that forged Dark sister,” Daemon said, watching the boy carefully. “I thought it… suited you.”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out, almost involuntarily, to touch the boy’s cheek. (Insert Name) flinched, but didn’t pull away. Daemon let his fingers linger for a moment, feeling the soft, delicate skin beneath his touch.

“You are a rare and precious thing, (Insert Name),” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

(Insert Name)’s. He lowered the necklace, his gaze fixed on Daemon, his eyes wide and uncertain. He was clearly caught between a desire to trust and a deep-seated fear. Daemon could practically taste the omega's anxiety. He had to tread carefully.

“I... I don’t understand,”(Insert Name) stammered, his voice barely audible. "Why would you bring me this?"

Daemon stepped back, giving the boy some much-needed space. Too much pressure too soon would only frighten him. He needed to build trust, to show him that he wasn't some monster looking to take advantage. Though Daemon knew, the desire to claim him was building rapidly and it was becoming harder to control.

"Because, (Insert Name), you are family," Daemon said, injecting a touch of warmth into his voice. A lie, but a necessary one. "And because The world is a dangerous place, especially for one such as you." He let the words hang in the air, allowing the implication to sink in.

(Insert Name) swallowed visibly, his fingers tightening around the necklace. He knew exactly what Daemon meant. His presentation as an Omega had made him a target, a prize to be won or a weakness to be exploited. The looks he got from the Alpha lords at court were enough to make his skin crawl.

"The court... they don't understand," (Insert Name) whispered, his voice laced with a quiet despair. "They see an Omega and they assume... they assume..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the crude assumptions that dogged his every step.

Daemon's jaw tightened. He could imagine the leering gazes, the whispered offers. It made his blood boil. This boy, this jewel of their house, deserved respect, protection, and a love that transcended the base desires of lesser men.

"Then let us not concern ourselves with the court," Daemon said, his voice firm. "Let them wallow in their ignorance. What matters is what you know to be true."

(Insert Name) looked down at the Necklace, his fingers tracing its smooth surface. He seemed to absorb Daemon's words, drawing strength from them. A flicker of hope ignited in his eyes.

"What... what should I do?" he asked, his voice regaining a measure of confidence.

Daemon smiled, a genuine, reassuring smile that rarely graced his features. "That,(Insert Name), is entirely up to you. But know this, I am here. And I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety"

He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Perhaps... perhaps we could meet again? Tomorrow, in the gardens? We could talk, away from the prying eyes and poisonous tongues of the court."

(Insert Name)hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I would like that very much." The scent of the omega was calmer with his agreement, not so heavy with anxiety and more sweet. The alpha in Daemon wanted to stay and relish in the moment.

Daemon inclined his head, a silent promise passing between them. "Good," he said. "Until tomorrow, then, nephew."

He turned and walked away, leaving (Insert Name) alone in the moonlight, cradling the necklace. As he disappeared into the shadows, Daemon allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. 

[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

the tension between you and miguel rises to an all-time high —a ficlet featuring a grumpy miguel and a flirty, distracted spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. fem!reader, 1k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Miguel has asked you multiple times to leave him alone while he's working. The strike force can't run itself (or so he claims —Margo and Lyla seem plenty capable, in your eyes) and he needs time and solitude to organise the protection of canon events, and—

"Blah, blah, blah," you say, dropping your voice to a soft, teasing melody as you skirt around his frankly audaciously jacked chest. 

"Don't blah, blah, blah me," Miguel says. You'd be intimidated if you weren't so happy to mess with him. "I'm not kidding around." 

Okay, maybe you are intimidated. That just makes messing with him more fun. 

The room he operates from, as you've so fondly monikered The Office, is in organised chaos, and much too dark. You drag a lone chair toward his control panel and set yourself down in front of all his screens and computers. 

"Ooh," you hum, reaching for an unlabelled switch with a purposeful slowness. 

Predictably, Miguel slams his hand over yours, yanking your chair back with an annoyed, "No." 

"Come on, Miguel. What harm could I possibly do?"

"You could–" 

"Topple the multiverse?" you suggest. "I've heard." 

"You could turn off every member of the Society's DMW. That's what that does. Potentially endangering each of their lives by stranding them in unfamiliar dimensions, and preventing them from correcting canon events." 

You feel bad for teasing him when you see the look on his face, anger and exhaustion and the slimmest allowance of defeat. It must be tough to lead the Spider-Society. Tougher to micromanage more than half of its members. 

Pulling your hand from under his, you cross your arms over your stomach and give him an apologetic frown. "Sorry, Miguel."

Evidence of his sweet spot for you lines his expression, softening his sharp jaw and the stoic set of his brow. It's gone as quick as it came, and his mask falls back into place. He turns away from you as though pretending you aren't there and scans one of his holographic screens, his face glowing with a yellow-orange haze. 

Miguel has to tolerate you, because you're a Spider-Girl. Though you've never called yourself that aloud, and you're not sure anyone else has, either, it's an undeniable truth. You were bitten by a radioactive spider that gave you super mutant abilities, though yours aren't as potent as others. You're not especially strong, you probably couldn't stop a bus with your bare hands, but you're smart. You haven't saved the world or anything, but you lost your Uncle Ben. You paid the toll. 

Every spider person has lost someone. Miguel seems to have lost more than that. 

"You know," you mumble, kicking the ground lightly to make your chair spin on its axle, "I've been thinking…" 

"That's never good." 

"Why do we wear our suits here?" you ask, spinning for a second time, the room moving past your eyes in flashes. "It seems performative." 

"Ah, I can answer that. Some of us work when we're here." 

You wrinkle your nose at his deadpan and kick the floor again, spinning so fast it makes you laugh. "What did you say? I can't hear you from your high horse– woah!" 

Miguel grabs the back of your chair, bringing you to a sudden and firm stop. You blink hoping it'll assuage the dizziness between your eyes, and when it doesn't work you keel forward, muttering, "Woah, I'm gonna die." 

"You won't die." 

"How do you know?" you ask. 

"You're under my watch, aren't you?" 

"I knew you liked me," you say. "Oh, I don't feel well." 

"You brought it on yourself." 

You catch your breath. When you feel okay enough to stand you almost trip, and Miguel doesn't bother pretending that he had any intention of stopping you from landing flat on your face. The you before the spider bite would've wiped out. This you giggles and holds Miguel's elbow for a second while you plant your feet. 

"Okay, boss-man," you ask, looking up at the unnaturally high screen he's investigating. "What are we doing today?" 

"I'm supervising a task force operation on Earth-31913. You're going home." 

"Miguel," you say, not sure if you want to flirt with him or piss him off. He looks incredibly pissed off already, so you choose flirtation. "Have I told you how handsome you look this evening?" 

He doesn't react. His hands don't so much as shift where they're akimbo on his hips. 

"You really have the most handsome eyes," you continue, weaving around his arm to stand in front of him. You have to crane your neck to see them. "Sulky. Do I really have to go home? I'd rather stay here with you." 

He looks down his nose at you. "Yeah?" he asks quietly, his voice rough as hewn stone.

"Yeah," you say, taking a small step back. 

"And do what?" 

You mirror his stance, hands on your hips. Your suit isn't form fitting like his, doesn't showcase nearly so much lean muscle, but you like it. You'd chosen a simple black ensemble to match the spider who bit you with a pinky purple heart over your stomach. Miguel had asked about it once, just once, when you'd first met and he had no idea how much of a problem for him you were going to become. 

Why there? 

Why do you think? you'd asked, giving him a sticky-sweet smile. 

Forget I asked. 

He lifts a hand to your chin, pinching it between two deft fingers. You're lucky he isn't wearing his gloves; his claws would pierce your jaw. 

"What do you want to do?" he asks, again so quietly. "If you stay?" 

"I could help with the task force." 

"That's what you want to do?" 

You flush with heat but refuse to let him know how you're feeling. Your heart bumps against your ribs, breath caught in your throat as he tilts your head up, as he leans down. 

"No," he says near your lips, "that's not it." 

"I could help you?" you offer. 

Something flashes in his eyes. You hesitate to call it lust. It reminds you of a cat with a mouse in it’s clutches, only his pupils are blown, black and inky and wide as dimes. 

"You want to help me?" he asks, his lips an inch, half of that from yours. 

You nod minutely. "Yes," you say under your breath. 

His hand moves to your cheek. He leans in closer and closer, until there's a hair's width of air between his mouth and yours, the tips of your noses bent together. His breath fans over your bottom lip and it's hot. You swear you can feel his heart as his chest presses to yours. He lingers there for an endless handful of seconds, silently egging you on.

You call his bluff and refuse to close the distance. 

Miguel pushes you away from him, far from cruel but certainly not sweet. "I have a tower of paperwork you can file," he says. 

"Here I thought you were finally going to bite my head off," you hum. "You're a sore loser, Miguel." 

"And you're my pest," he says, holding your gaze for a half-second too long. He turns away. "Lyla? Arrange the recounts from the last canon event for Spider-Girl's perusal, please." 

"So you've remembered I'm here?" Lyla asks wryly.

You don't mind the paperwork. You sign each one with a winky face and a pink gel pen heart, knowing Miguel will go over them all again, and knowing he'll grow angrier and angrier with each heart.

He'll kiss you and mean it one day. You just have to play the waiting game.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!

[papermonkeyism]

Very sorry if you've talked about this before, but how much do you focus on/care about making the plantlife in your Dinosaur Project Thingy accurate for the time and place?

Asking both because I'm generally very curious, and because personally, every time I make it past my anxieties about not knowing enough about dinosaurs to be "allowed" to draw them, I run right up against "oh shoot, if I draw a grass in the background, people are going to kill me."

Having a cartoonier art style helps! If your style is photorealistic, the style is going to require more details that also make errors way more present and visible, but like, the way I draw trees for example you can't really tell if I'm drawing an aspen, an oak or a basswood, you know? It's just a leaf blob with a trunk in the middle. There's no identifying that.

Also, like 99% of my audience who follows my art follows it for creatures and characters, not plant life, and those more well versed on plants aren't as likely to care. At least nobody has come to bark at me because of it this far!

Considering the amount of actual, professional palaeoartists who basically use memes in their art, I think it's okay and fine for hobbyists and cartoonists to not know everything, right?

(Seriously, the amount of artists who draw theropods with no soft tissue around the jawline is wild! You know that classic look where the entire face splits along the skull all the way to the back of the jaw joint, and drawing that pink skin flap at the corner of the mouth? That's the jaw muscles. Why would a giant land apex predator not have skin protecting its jaw muscles? [Also, is that really what jaw muscles look like? A skin flap? Come on.] I've seen some Actual Professional Artists draw these giant cavities inside the cheek area of things like T. rex, that's where the muscles should be! Where do you think the legendary bite force -which this specific animal is known for- comes from? I mean, it works for animatronics, like in Jurassic Park, because it's hard to give soft tissue to robots that would hold up, but it's less of a thing for art, I think.)

I have a field guide book for Hell Creek formation that I'm gonna reference from when needed. Years ago I backed this kickstarter for a dinosaur video game, specifically so that I could get my hands on the book for this exact reason. It has plants section!

Few rules of thumb:

Trees Big. No, bigger!

No grass (if very late Cretaceous, then maybe grass? but research first!)

No flowers, unless Cretaceous. Might be worth googling "Cretaceous flowers" for specifics

When in doubt, ferns and/or conifers.

Also, finally, this is just me, but it can help to set yourself a "target audience" (with quotes). Personally, I'm making my project for myself and maybe a handful of people I know IRL. I only aim for the joy of these specific bunch of friends and family. Anyone beyond that is just bonus, and while I am very glad there are great many more people who do enjoy my work, it's less important than if my friends like it. And if there's one of the extra bonus people who thinks this one plant on the background of my art ruins their enjoyment of my work and me as a person, then that's a them-problem, not a me-problem, if my friend Satu still thinks the drawing is cool.

(Honestly, knowing these specific people, I wouldn't even have to be as accurate as I am, but unfortunately I did include "myself" in my target audience, so here I am.)

[cloevers]

tapestry of love

alhaitham × reader

ꕤ w.c ~ 0.7k, gn! reader, you guys have been married for a while, discussions of poetry

a/n: not beta read! i yearn for this man deeply.

the afternoon sun cast its golden glow, blessing the land with a sweet warmth. the curtains were open wide, and the two of you were cuddled up close on the sofa. with ‘leaves of grass’ in his hands, alhaitham read out to you in his baritone voice a great selection of walt whitman’s poems.

moments of such intimacy are priceless to you. the soft rumbles of his chest against your ear as you lay close to him, his voice a soothing lullaby, and his sweater clinging to your skin so tenderly. you feel surrounded by him.

he takes his time with the poems. after all, walt whitman’s poetry is to be savoured. with a gentle squeeze to your waist, he signals to you that it’s time to flip the page. a smile adorns your face as you comply, turning the page to reveal a bold, ‘me imperturbe’, on the forefront. he begins to read.

me imperturbe, standing at ease in nature,

master of all, or mistress of all–aplomb in the midst

of irrational things.

all the while, his hand migrates to play with your hair, further amplifying the serenity of the experience. as the poem goes on, you couldn’t help but let your gaze drift away from the printed words. it wasn’t that you weren’t paying attention–you simply wanted to look at alhaitham as he read. gazing up at him, you marvel at the curves and dips of his face; how the sunlight manages to further beautify them. up was his forehead, hidden away by his bangs, and those plump lips of his, moving with grace as he uttered out the verses. next comes his nose, with a beautiful hook to it.

and then you come to observe his scrutinizing gaze. while not directed at you, it is still of much intensity. it's in alhaitham’s nature to observe all that is around him. was he squinting at the book? it kind of looks like it.

“do you, um, a- are you having trouble with the words?” you softly interrupt. “i can get you your glasses or something.”

“i would’ve already grabbed them before sitting down to read. the words are pretty clear to me.”

you look at him with slight curiosity. you could’ve sworn that he was squinting. it’s ridiculous.

you tilt your head, sitting up and gently brushing his bangs away from his face. observing the area around his eyes, you come to a realization.

crow’s feet.

in fascination, your lips part. soft fingers linger near the delicate lines etched at the corners of his eyes. they are subtle, barely noticeable unless at a close proximity. these lines tell so much about the man before you. the human body is a living assemblage– a tangible amalgamation of everything the soul has felt. within each crevice and dip, annals lay bare. countless words, tears, smiles, and naps with his face carelessly squished up against a pillow despite knowing better– the fine lines around alhaitham’s eyes are a testament to every day he’s lived up to this moment.

o to confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents,

rebuffs, as the trees and animals do.

upon observing him for a few milliseconds longer, you experience an epiphany. you’ve been married for years, and never before throughout this relationship had you wished to notice smile lines on him with such fervence.

"you're staring," alhaitham murmurs, his voice still low and steady.

you hum in response, brushing your thumb gently over the faint creases. "i just never noticed before..."

he raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to elaborate.

"you’ve got crow’s feet," you clarify, tracing the tiny lines with featherlight touches.

a short pause. then, in classic alhaitham fashion, he responds with a simple "hm."

a soft smile tugs at your lips. "they're pretty."

“pretty,” he echoes. an exhale through his nose follows, something between a scoff and a laugh.

“yeah.” you sigh against his skin, placing a gentle little kiss right below his lower eyelid.

you’re not met with a verbal response afterwards, but you feel the way his hand tightens ever so slightly around your waist, grounding you in his warmth. then, with quiet finality, he turns the page, and continues to read.

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

The Tortured Poets Department

Charlie Dalton x Reader

Summary: You and Charlie were always more than just friends too bad Charlies too scared to admit it

Word Count: 9K

The cave loomed before her, its entrance bathed in soft shadows, while faint candlelight flickered from deep within. Y/N paused at the threshold, the cool night air brushing against her skin. The sounds of voices—laughter, snippets of poetry, and the occasional hushed murmur—floated out to her like a familiar melody. This place had always been her refuge, ever since Neil Perry had taken the chance and brought her into the fold. It wasn’t her school, and the legacy wasn’t hers to claim, but it didn’t matter. The poets had welcomed her as one of their own, and the cave had become her home in ways she hadn’t expected.

She shifted her weight, her fingers lightly brushing the rough surface of the stone. Inside, the group’s energy ebbed and flowed, alive with creativity and rebellion, each voice adding its own spark to the mix. This wasn’t just a gathering; it was freedom—the kind of freedom she could never find elsewhere. The words spoken here carried weight, every verse and line a quiet act of defiance against the world that tried to confine them.

And yet, as much as the society itself meant to her, there was one reason she couldn’t stay away. Charlie Dalton. He was the storm in this quiet sanctuary, the wild streak in the poetry, and the wildfire she could never ignore. His laughter rang out now, sharp and unrestrained, a sound that seemed to carry all the mischief and thrill he lived for. It sent a shiver through her, one that was as much anticipation as it was nervous energy.

Charlie had always been different. Where the others found solace in the safety of their words, he turned his into challenges. He pushed boundaries, dared authority, and refused to let anyone dictate who he should be. And yet, beneath that wild energy, there was something else—a passion, a brilliance, and a vulnerability he rarely showed. It was that combination that had drawn her in from the beginning, that kept her coming back to the cave night after night.

Her eyes scanned the group as she stepped inside, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating familiar faces. They turned to greet her with warm smiles and knowing glances, but her focus was already fixed. She found him easily—Charlie always had a way of standing out, even in the dim light. He sat perched on a rock near the back, his unruly hair catching the flicker of the candles as he gestured animatedly, no doubt telling a story or reciting a verse.

He noticed her almost instantly, his grin widening as their eyes met. That grin—so full of life, so full of trouble—sent her pulse racing. For all his chaos, for all the ways he drove her mad with his recklessness, Charlie Dalton had a gravity she couldn’t escape. And she didn’t want to. With his untamed energy and mischievous grin, had a way of drawing her in like no one else ever could. He was a wildfire, dangerous and beautiful, and she couldn’t help but get burned.

Y/N sank into her usual spot, the cold, uneven surface of the rock grounding her as Knox animatedly recounted the details of his latest victory: finally winning over Chris. His enthusiasm was infectious, and the group roared their approval, clapping him on the back and offering exaggerated toasts to his triumph. Y/N joined in with a soft smile, genuinely happy for him, but the ache in her chest persisted—a familiar weight she could never quite shake in moments like this.

Her eyes drifted across the flickering circle, landing on Charlie. He was sprawled out on his back, one arm tucked behind his head and the other holding a cigarette loosely between his fingers. The lazy grin on his face was pure Charlie—reckless, confident, and entirely at ease, like he had the world in the palm of his hand. He caught her staring and winked, a quick, casual gesture that set her pulse racing and her stomach twisting into knots. How did he do that? How did he always make her feel like the only girl in the room, even when he wasn’t trying? Even when he was chasing someone else?

She averted her gaze, biting down on the corner of her lip as Knox’s story came to an end. The group shifted seamlessly back to their poetry, the warm, familiar cadence of voices reading aloud by candlelight filling the cave once again. But no matter how she tried, Y/N couldn’t focus on the words. Her mind was elsewhere, drawn back to the boy across the circle—the boy who drove her mad in ways no one else could.

They weren’t together. Not officially, anyway. But sometimes, it felt like they were. The stolen glances, the late-night whispers, the way he sprawled across her lap during their quiet moments, tracing lazy patterns on her arm—it all blurred the lines. It was more than friendship, but less than certainty. And it was slowly tearing her apart.

Charlie was a flirt—always had been, probably always would be. His charm was magnetic, his boldness impossible to ignore. He’d flirt with anyone, and he made it look so effortless. It didn’t matter if it was a fleeting smile, a well-placed joke, or an offhand compliment—he always knew exactly what to say to leave people wanting more. Sometimes, that person was her. And sometimes, it wasn’t.

Her chest tightened at the thought, her smile faltering. Who else holds him like I do? she wondered bitterly. Who else deciphers the chaos behind his smirk, sees the cracks he hides so well? Who else knows him, if not me?

But knowing him wasn’t enough. Not when he turned those same grins and careless winks to anyone who crossed his path. Not when his attention, so intoxicating when it was hers, could so easily shift to someone else. It was a cruel game, one she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep playing—but one she couldn’t bring herself to quit.

The Summer Before, the memory came to her unbidden, vivid as if it had happened yesterday. Pulling her back to a warm August evening that felt like a lifetime ago. It was the last stretch of summer, the kind that tasted of freedom and endings all at once. The school year loomed just over the horizon, but for one fleeting day, none of it mattered.

She had spent the afternoon at the Dalton house, sprawled across Charlie’s bed as sunlight streamed through the half-drawn blinds, painting the room in a muted gold. The air was thick and lazy, and she’d made herself comfortable while he disappeared downstairs, claiming he needed to “liberate” something from his father’s liquor cabinet. His room was unmistakably his—a cluttered chaos of books, vinyl records, crumpled clothes, and scrawled notes on scraps of paper. It smelled faintly of cigarettes and cologne, a scent she could still recall with aching clarity.

When Charlie returned, triumphant and grinning, he carried two mismatched glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “The finest my old man has to offer,” he declared with a mock bow, pouring them each a generous measure. The whiskey burned her throat, making her cough and wince, but she drank it anyway, unwilling to let him see her flinch.

The hours passed in a haze of conversation and laughter. They dissected song lyrics like philosophers, debated poets like scholars, and mocked their own pretentiousness until they were doubled over with laughter.

“We’re not Patti Smith and Dylan Thomas, you know,” she teased, lying back against the pillows. Her fingers trailed absently over the worn quilt on his bed, the fabric soft and familiar under her touch. “This isn’t the Chelsea Hotel.”

Charlie snorted, settling beside her with a cigarette dangling from his lips. “We’re modern idiots,” he agreed, his voice warm and full of mischief. In his other hand, he clutched a half-eaten chocolate bar, and she watched as he absentmindedly alternated between taking a bite and flicking his lighter open and closed.

The afternoon melted into evening, the air cooling as the golden light gave way to a soft, dusky glow. Somewhere between their debates about the superiority of punk rock versus jazz and their shared musings about life’s absurdities, Charlie’s head found its way to her lap. She didn’t question it, didn’t hesitate, only smoothed his unruly hair with gentle fingers. His hair was soft, messier than usual, and tickled her skin when he shifted. He was unusually quiet now, his endless energy dimming as the day wore on.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and almost drowsy. The cigarette in his mouth bobbed slightly as he spoke, his words slurring just enough to reveal how tired he was. “You get me, you know that? Like, really get me.”

Her hand froze for a moment, mid-motion, as her heart stumbled in her chest. The simplicity of the statement caught her off guard. Charlie wasn’t one for heartfelt confessions, at least not ones that felt this raw, this real. She opened her mouth to respond, her mind scrambling for something to match the weight of his words, something that would let him know she felt the same. But before she could speak, his eyes slipped closed, the cigarette still loosely balanced between his fingers.

She eased it from his grasp and crushed it in the ashtray beside the bed, watching as his breathing evened out. His face was so different like this—peaceful, unguarded. Vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see. She stayed there for hours, running her fingers through his hair, memorizing every detail of the moment, knowing she’d carry it with her long after the summer faded.

That night became a part of her, etched into her memory like an old photograph—beautiful, bittersweet, and impossible to let go.

Sitting in the cave now, the air thick with candle smoke and murmured poetry, Y/N’s thoughts swirled like restless waves. She stared at the flickering light on the walls, trying to make sense of the ache in her chest. The cycle with Charlie—the stolen moments, the blurred lines, the lingering looks that promised everything but delivered nothing—was wearing her down. It felt like chasing shadows, reaching for something just beyond her grasp.

She’d thought about walking away more times than she could count. Maybe if she distanced herself, the pain of wanting more than he was willing to give would finally subside. Maybe the hollow ache that followed her home after nights like this would stop gnawing at her. The idea of pulling away, of reclaiming her peace, had a kind of seductive appeal. But just as quickly as the thought came, it unraveled, replaced by the fear of what that distance might mean��for her, for him, for whatever fragile connection they shared.

Her resolve had wavered countless times, but there was one moment that kept her tethered, one confession she hadn’t been able to forget. It had come from Meeks, of all people, on a night when the Dead Poets Society had celebrated a little too freely. She remembered the slurred edges of his words, the glassy look in his eyes as he leaned toward her, his sincerity cutting through the haze of whiskey and laughter.

“Charlie told me once,” Meeks had said, his voice low and unsteady, “if you ever left, he wouldn’t know what to do.”

The words had stunned her, slicing through her doubts like a blade. She’d pressed him for more, her pulse racing, but he’d only shrugged, as if it was the most obvious truth in the world. At the time, she’d dismissed it as drunken rambling, a loose thread of half-truths spun in the moment. But the memory had lingered, replaying itself in her mind over and over, as vivid and persistent as a song she couldn’t shake.

It had become an ember she couldn’t extinguish, no matter how much it hurt to keep it alive. It burned quietly in the back of her mind, a stubborn flicker of hope that refused to die. What if Meeks had been right? What if there was more to Charlie’s carelessness, his charm, his aloofness than she’d let herself believe? What if, behind the easy grins and bold declarations, he was just as lost as she was?

The possibility both thrilled and terrified her. Because if it was true, if there was something real beneath all the layers Charlie used to keep the world at bay, then leaving wouldn’t just be an escape. It would be a betrayal of something fragile, something she wasn’t sure either of them knew how to name. And if it wasn’t true? If she was clinging to a hope that didn’t exist? Then she’d only be prolonging the inevitable heartbreak.

The uncertainty was maddening, but still, she stayed. Still, she waited. Still, she burned.

The breaking point came a week later, during one of those evenings that felt deceptively ordinary. Charlie had invited her over, as he so often did, and they sat across from each other at the long, polished dining table, the soft clinking of silverware filling the spaces between their laughter. The Dalton house had always felt cold, more like a museum than a home, but Charlie’s presence had a way of softening the edges, making it bearable.

His parents barely acknowledged them, as usual. His father sat at the head of the table, eyes buried in a newspaper, while his mother moved in and out of the room, her focus elsewhere. It was always like this—a hollow kind of civility that Charlie seemed determined to fill with his wit and charm. Y/N had grown used to it, though it never stopped tugging at her heart. She knew how much he hated the emptiness of it all, even if he never said so outright.

They bantered easily, trading jokes and teasing each other like they always did. For a while, it was enough to keep her grounded, to remind her why she stayed, why she kept coming back even when it hurt. But then, in a moment so casual it felt almost unintentional, everything shifted.

Charlie reached beside her, his fingers brushing hers as he picked up her hand. His touch was light, almost absentminded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her breath caught as he toyed with the ring on her finger, sliding it off and holding it up to the light with a mock-critical eye.

“Nice ring,” he said, his voice smooth and teasing, though there was an edge of something else beneath it. Mischief, maybe, or something quieter, harder to define.

He slid the ring onto his own finger, grinning as he wiggled it in the air. “Think it suits me?” he asked, his tone light, though his gaze lingered on her in a way that made her stomach flip. Before she could answer, he pulled it off again and reached for her hand. This time, he slipped it back onto her finger, but not where it had been. Instead, he placed it on her left hand, on finger one reserved for promises neither of them had made.

Y/N froze, her heart lurching into her throat as she stared down at the ring. It gleamed faintly in the soft light, impossibly small but suddenly heavy. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she looked back up at Charlie, searching for some kind of explanation.

He didn’t offer one. Instead, he smirked, his thumb brushing lazily against her knuckles, the gesture so casual it felt almost dismissive. But his eyes… his eyes held something else entirely. A flicker of something she couldn’t name.

Her heart exploded in that moment, a chaotic mess of hope and despair that left her breathless. Did he even realize what he was doing to her? Did he have any idea how much weight that single action carried, how it sent her thoughts spiraling in every direction?

It was Charlie in his purest form—effortless, infuriating, and entirely unaware of the havoc he wreaked on her heart. Or worse, maybe he did know. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing, and he just didn’t care. The thought made her chest tighten, the ache of uncertainty threatening to swallow her whole.

Y/N didn’t make the decision all at once. It wasn’t a grand epiphany or a sudden resolve to cut Charlie out of her life entirely. Instead, it came in quiet moments, in the spaces between his laughter and her silence. It was the ache in her chest after nights spent waiting for something more, the hollow feeling that lingered after he turned his charm to someone else. Slowly, she began to pull away—not enough for anyone to notice at first, but enough to protect herself.

It started the next time he tried to sprawl across her lap during one of their quieter gatherings in the cave. Normally, she would have let him, her hands instinctively finding their way into his unruly hair. This time, she shifted slightly, leaning forward just enough to make the gesture awkward. He paused mid-movement, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before he laughed it off, settling against the rock beside her instead.

“You’re getting stingy with the lap space, Y/N,” he teased, shooting her that boyish grin that used to undo her. She forced a laugh, light and unbothered, and Knox jumped in with a joke that shifted the group’s attention. She was grateful for the distraction, even as she felt Charlie’s gaze linger on her a second too long.

She didn’t stop coming to the cave, didn’t stop sitting beside him during meetings. That would have raised questions, drawn attention she didn’t want. But she started drawing boundaries—subtle ones that only she noticed at first. When his fingers brushed hers, she pulled away just a little too soon. When his touch lingered on her arm or her shoulder, she found excuses to move, to shift her focus elsewhere. She stopped letting him hold her gaze for too long, stopped answering his teasing remarks with the same soft warmth she once had. Her responses grew neutral, her smiles polite but distant, her laughter quieter, less personal.

The hardest part was changing the way she spoke to him. She started to choose her words more carefully, deliberately moving their conversations away from the intimate territory they’d once inhabited. She spoke to him the way she spoke to Knox, or Neil, or Meeks—warm but friendly, never crossing the line into something more. When he teased her, she teased back, but the softness in her tone was gone. When he leaned in close, whispering some private joke just for her, she pulled back, laughing lightly but keeping the space between them.

Charlie noticed, of course. He wasn’t oblivious, even if he sometimes pretended to be. At first, he brushed it off with jokes, playfully calling her “cold-hearted” or “aloof.” But as the days turned into weeks, his remarks grew sharper, edged with a frustration he didn’t bother to hide.

One evening, after the group had dispersed and the boys were walking back toward Welton, her the other way, he finally called her out.

“You’ve been weird lately,” he said, his voice more serious than she’d expected. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his steps slower than usual as they walked side by side.

“Weird?” she asked, feigning confusion. “How so?”

He stopped, turning to face her. The dim light from the nearby lamppost cast shadows across his face, making his expression harder to read. “Don’t play dumb, Y/N,” he said, his tone softer now, almost pleading. “You’re pulling away. I can feel it.”

Her stomach twisted at the raw honesty in his voice, but she held her ground. “I’m not pulling away,” she said, keeping her tone even. “I’m just... trying to make things easier. For both of us.”

“Easier?” He frowned, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” she began, taking a steadying breath, “that I think we need to set some boundaries. Clear ones. You’re my friend, Charlie. That’s all we’ve ever been, and that’s all we’ll ever be.”

Her words hung in the air between them, heavy and final. She saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes, quickly masked by a smirk that didn’t quite reach his usual bravado.

“Boundaries, huh?” he said, his voice tight with forced humor. “Didn’t realize you were such a rule-follower, Y/N.”

“I’m not,” she said quietly. “But I can’t keep doing this—not when it feels like I’m the only one who doesn’t know where we stand.”

His smirk faltered, and for a moment, she thought he might argue, might try to convince her to stay. But then he shrugged, his usual nonchalance sliding back into place like armor. “Whatever you say,” he said, turning and walking ahead without another word.

She stood there for a long time after he disappeared into the night, the ache in her chest sharper than it had ever been. But this time, it wasn’t unbearable. This time, she felt the faintest stirrings of relief beneath the pain—relief that she’d finally taken a step toward reclaiming her heart, even if it meant leaving part of it behind.

The shift was palpable, and everyone in the Dead Poets Society felt it. Where Y/N and Charlie had once been inseparable, now there was only a careful, deliberate distance. She no longer sat beside him in the cave. Instead, she found a spot near Knox or Neil, her focus firmly on the poetry or the discussions at hand. She laughed with the others, joked with them, even debated them—but with Charlie, there was only silence.

Charlie didn’t handle it well.

At first, he tried to keep things normal, filling the gap with his usual charm. He’d toss jokes her way, flash his signature grin, lean casually in her direction as though daring her to ignore him. But when her responses came clipped and polite, or worse, not at all, he started retreating too. His jokes turned sharper, tinged with bitterness he didn’t bother to hide. When she ignored those, he stopped trying altogether.

The quiet between them wasn’t hostile—it wasn’t anything at all. It was the absence of everything they’d once shared, and that was worse than any argument could have been. The others noticed, of course, though none of them dared to bring it up directly. Neil, ever the peacekeeper, occasionally tried to draw them both into group conversations, but it always ended awkwardly, with Y/N excusing herself early or Charlie storming off. Knox exchanged worried glances with Meeks and Pitts, but even they didn’t know how to fix something that had already fallen apart.

One evening, as the group gathered in the cave for another meeting, the tension came to a head. Y/N sat near Neil, her notebook open in her lap, the candlelight casting soft shadows across her face. Charlie was at the far end of the circle, sprawled on the ground with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He wasn’t paying attention to the poetry being read, his eyes instead fixed on her, unrelenting and unreadable.

She felt his gaze but refused to look up, her focus firmly on the poem Neil was reciting. Her heart beat faster, her pulse loud in her ears, but she forced herself to stay composed. This was what she’d chosen—distance, clarity, self-preservation—and she wasn’t going to backtrack now.

When Neil finished reading, the group broke into soft applause, and the conversation turned to the next meeting’s plans. Charlie stayed silent, which was unusual enough that it drew attention. Knox nudged him lightly, murmuring something she couldn’t hear, but Charlie only shook his head, his expression dark.

Finally, he broke the silence. “So, what? We’re just pretending this is fine?” he asked, his voice cutting through the chatter like a blade.

The group froze, everyone turning to look at him.

“Charlie,” Neil said cautiously, “what are you talking about?”

Charlie’s eyes stayed locked on Y/N. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

She felt the weight of his words like a physical blow, but she refused to rise to it. She closed her notebook slowly, meeting his gaze with a calm she didn’t feel. “This isn’t the time or place for whatever you’re trying to start,” she said evenly.

“Isn’t it?” he shot back, sitting up now, his cigarette forgotten. “Because it seems like you’ve been avoiding this conversation for weeks. Or avoiding me, more like.”

The others exchanged uncomfortable glances, clearly unsure whether to intervene or let it play out.

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Y/N said, her voice firm. “We’ve already talked about this, Charlie. There’s nothing left to say.”

His laugh was bitter, humorless. “Nothing left to say? That’s rich, coming from you. You used to never shut up around me.”

“That was before,” she said softly, her tone steady despite the ache in her chest. “Before I realized I needed to step back. For my own sake.”

“For your sake,” he repeated, the words laced with disbelief. “And what about my sake, huh? Did you ever think about that?”

Her composure wavered for a moment, but she held her ground. “You don’t even like me like that, Charlie,” she said quietly. “You never have. And I can’t keep letting myself believe otherwise.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Charlie stared at her, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. For a moment, she thought he might argue, might try to tear down the walls she’d built around herself. But then he laughed again, low and bitter, and stood abruptly.

“Fine,” he said, his voice cold. “If that’s how you feel, I won’t bother anymore.”

He turned and walked out of the cave without another word, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. The group sat frozen, the tension lingering like smoke in the air.

Y/N exhaled slowly, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her notebook to her chest. She could feel the others’ eyes on her, their unspoken questions heavy with concern, but she didn’t have the energy to explain. Instead, she stood and followed the path Charlie had taken—not to chase him, but to leave the cave entirely.

Outside, the cool night air hit her like a balm, soothing the raw edges of her emotions. She looked up at the stars, their distant light a stark contrast to the turmoil in her heart. She’d done what she needed to do, what she should have done months ago.

So why did it feel like she’d lost something she could never get back?

Y/N, once a vibrant and steady presence among the group, had grown quieter, more reserved. She still came to the meetings, still participated in the discussions and laughed at the jokes, but something in her had pulled inward. She became deliberate, careful, every word she spoke measured and free of vulnerability. It was as though she’d wrapped herself in armor, impenetrable and unyielding.

Charlie, on the other hand, was chaos. His laughter was louder, his jokes sharper, his need for attention almost desperate. He’d started flirting more—brazenly, recklessly—with anyone who would entertain him. Girls from other schools, waitresses at the diner, even strangers at the train station. It wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t lost on the boys, who exchanged worried glances every time he sauntered into the cave smelling faintly of perfume and cigarettes, a cocky grin plastered on his face.

“Where’ve you been, Dalton?” Neil asked one evening when Charlie arrived halfway through their meeting, his tie loosened and his shirt rumpled.

Charlie shrugged, leaning lazily against the cave wall. “Busy,” he said with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know me—always finding trouble.”

The others laughed uneasily, but Y/N didn’t look up from her notebook. She could feel his eyes on her, searching for some reaction, but she gave him nothing. Her pen moved steadily across the page, her posture calm and detached.

“You’ve missed three meetings this month,” Neil pressed, his tone gentle but firm. “That’s not like you.”

Charlie scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Relax, Captain. Poetry isn’t going anywhere.”

“Neither is your mess,” Meeks muttered under his breath, earning a nudge from Pitts.

Y/N’s chest tightened, but she didn’t lift her gaze. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Distance. Separation. A clear, definitive line between them. She had no right to feel hurt by the way he threw himself into distractions, just as he had no right to demand anything more from her. They were nothing but friends now—or less than that, perhaps. Just two people occupying the same space, their connection unraveling thread by thread.

But Charlie was unraveling in his own way, too.

He stopped coming to the meetings altogether for a while, and when he did show up, it was always late, his energy frayed and restless. The easy charm that had once defined him now felt like a mask, a shield he wielded to deflect attention from the cracks forming beneath the surface. The boys tried to pull him back in, tried to anchor him, but Charlie only laughed and brushed them off, his bravado growing more transparent with each passing day.

And Y/N… she stayed silent.

She didn’t ask where he went or who he was with. She didn’t press him to stay when he left early or try to fill the space he left behind. She told herself it wasn’t her place, that this was the natural progression of the distance she’d chosen. But late at night, when the meetings were over and the others had gone home, she’d lie awake replaying every moment in her mind—the sharpness in his voice, the emptiness in his laughter, the way his eyes lingered on her even when he pretended not to care.

It wasn’t until one particularly quiet night in the cave that the weight of it all came crashing down. The group was smaller than usual—just Neil, Knox, Pitts, and Y/N. The absence of Charlie’s energy was stark, the silence stretching long between recitations.

“Have any of you talked to him?” Neil asked finally, his voice low.

Pitts shook his head. “He’s… distracted, I guess.”

“More like self-destructive,” Knox muttered, earning a sharp glance from Neil.

“What are we supposed to do?” Pitts asked, his tone heavy with resignation. “He won’t listen to us.”

The conversation hung in the air, fragile and unresolved. Y/N didn’t speak, her gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight. She knew the boys were looking at her, waiting for her to say something, but what could she offer? She’d made her choice. She’d drawn her lines.

She told herself it wasn’t her responsibility to fix him.

And yet, as the meeting ended and the others began to pack up, Y/N found herself lingering, her notebook forgotten in her lap. She didn’t know what she was waiting for—an answer, a sign, or maybe just the courage to admit that no amount of distance could stop her from caring.

Because for all the defenses she’d built, for all the ways she’d tried to let him go, one truth remained: she wasn’t sure she could.

Charlie had always been the one who could keep his cool, who could laugh off anything and never let the weight of the world get to him. But now, as the boys confronted him, his carefully constructed walls were crumbling. They found him in his room that day, pacing back and forth, looking more disheveled than any of them had ever seen him. His eyes were bloodshot, his usually perfect hair was messy, and there was a distinct emptiness to his movements.

“Charlie,” Neil started, his voice firm but gentle, “this isn’t you. You’ve been avoiding us. Avoiding everything.”

“I’m fine,” Charlie muttered, brushing a hand through his hair in frustration, as if trying to push the emotions down. “I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

But the boys weren’t buying it anymore. They had seen it for weeks—the cracks in his facade. It wasn’t just about missing meetings. It was the way he was drowning in distraction, pushing everyone away. And they all knew why.

“You’re not fine, man,” Pitts added, his voice hard with concern. “We’ve seen how you’ve been acting. You’re hurting. You’re pushing Y/N away, and you’re not talking about it.”

At that, Charlie’s expression darkened. “Don’t bring her into this,” he snapped, his fists tightening. But it was clear the mention of Y/N hit a nerve, and Charlie couldn’t mask the raw frustration that bubbled up inside of him. “I don’t get it, okay? I don’t get why I didn’t just make it official, why I danced around it for so long. I liked her. I always did...”

His voice faltered. He sank onto the edge of his bed, his hands in his lap, staring down at the floor as though trying to find some sense of direction. “I kept thinking she would stick around, that it would just work itself out somehow. And now she’s gone, and I’ve got no one to blame but myself.”

The boys exchanged uneasy glances, each of them uncomfortable with seeing their friend so broken, but it was clear that Charlie needed to hear this. He needed to hear what they were all thinking, needed to confront the reality of what he had done.

“You can’t just shut people out, Charlie,” Knox said, stepping forward with his usual calm voice but a hard edge to it. “You can’t keep running from your feelings. You had something real with her, and you messed it up. But you’re not beyond fixing things.”

Charlie didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the floor, the weight of it all pressing down on him. Finally, he mumbled, “I don’t even know if she’d want to fix it. I didn’t do anything, anything right. I just... I didn’t make it real. I let it slip away, and now she’s gone.”

He collapsed back onto the bed, his voice breaking as he admitted what he couldn’t say before. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I deserve to.”

The boys stood around him, all of them unsure of what to say. But Neil finally spoke, his voice softer than before. “You don’t fix things by running away, Charlie. You show up. You make it right. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll meet you halfway. But you have to do the work.”

Charlie’s gaze softened slightly, but he couldn’t shake the heavy weight in his chest. He had lost her. It felt final. And the thought of walking into that silence, of confronting the mess he had made, terrified him. But the boys wouldn’t let him off the hook. Not this time.

A few days later, Charlie started showing up to meetings again, his presence there a little less chaotic, a little less desperate. He was still messy, still a little broken, but there was an attempt to pull himself together. He threw himself into the work, into the distractions. But each time he looked around, there was something missing. And it wasn’t just his usual spark; it was her.

Y/N wasn’t at the meetings anymore.

At first, Charlie assumed it was just an off day. But then the days turned into weeks. Others tried calling her, but the replies were few and far between. She didn’t show up at the hangouts, didn’t respond to calls. Slowly, the silence between them grew louder.

He didn’t understand it. He hadn’t expected her to come running back, but he had hoped—hoped—that she would at least reach out. That she would be there. But she wasn’t. She had distanced herself completely.

The boys had no answers either. She was simply gone.

But Charlie couldn’t just sit idly by, pretending like everything was fine. He missed her. He missed her laugh, the way she used to tease him, how everything seemed lighter when she was around. He hadn’t known what he had until it was too late.

Still no sign of her. It was as if she had vanished into thin air. Charlie felt it in the pit of his stomach, the gnawing emptiness that had begun to fill the space where her smile used to be. He had lost his chance.

Meanwhile, Y/N was going through her own quiet spiral. Cutting off contact with the boys had been easier than she expected. She and Charlie no longer shared the same circles, and the distance between them felt... necessary. The absence of Charlie in her life was heavy, but it was also a relief. She had needed space, needed time to reclaim herself after everything had fallen apart. The constant reminders of him, the brief, desperate calls she couldn’t bring herself to answer, were all too much.

She didn’t show up to meetings, didn’t respond to group invitations. The boys didn’t know what to think, but they knew Y/N had made up her mind.

It hurt. It hurt more than anything she had ever felt before. But it was the only way she could breathe again.

Y/N’s mind had been racing for weeks. Every moment of silence, every unanswered call, every time she passed by their usual hangouts, it was like a weight on her chest. She had let go of so many things to protect herself from the fallout. But deep down, she couldn’t stop questioning everything. Maybe I’m the childish one—the thought had haunted her.

She couldn’t focus anymore. Her grades were slipping, her friends at school barely knew her, and the loneliness kept seeping in like an endless tide. She had lost more than just Charlie—she’d lost the version of herself that had been full of hope, that had been able to laugh through the awkwardness. Everything had been wrapped in him, and now that he wasn’t there, she felt like she was floating in a sea of nothing.

She couldn’t help but replay everything. Their late-night talks, the stolen glances, the laughter... but the part that stung the most was that she hadn’t gotten the closure she needed. She had cut off all contact, telling herself that it was the only way to move forward, but it had come at a cost. The truth was, she had never stopped loving him.

But moving was the final step. It felt like the only way out. Another prep school, in a different state, far enough from everything to finally heal—or at least, to try to. She hoped that the distance would give her space to breathe, to find herself again without the constant reminder of a love she couldn’t have.

Packing up her things felt surreal. It was like she was closing the door on so much more than just a school—she was leaving behind the girl who had once laughed with Charlie, the girl who had dreamed of what they could have been. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to go back, to talk to him again. But she had to do it. She had to move on.

Still, as she looked at the empty room, the reality of what she was doing hit her. She couldn’t deny it—leaving him behind didn’t stop her from still caring. And maybe, just maybe, it didn’t stop him from thinking of her too.

But for now, she was going to face the next chapter alone, hoping that the distance would help her forget the pain and allow her to rebuild herself from the pieces left behind. She didn’t know how long it would take or if she’d ever fully heal, but the decision was made. She had to move on, even if it meant leaving everything behind.

The moving van was parked outside the gates of the all-girls prep school, a stark reminder that Y/N was leaving. It had been a quiet afternoon, most students still milling about after classes. The air was heavy with the fading warmth of the day, and the bustle of Welton kids heading out was like a dull hum in the background. But there, on the far side of the field, Charlie stood frozen, his eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him.

Y/N’s parents were in the process of packing the last of her things into the van, a finality to the motion that seemed to pierce through the haze of everything else. Charlie’s chest tightened at the sight, his mind spiraling as his fingers ran through his already messy hair. His breath came out in short bursts, his heartbeat racing in anticipation.

What the hell am I doing?

He had been circling the field for what felt like hours, rehearsing his lines in his head. He had a plan, didn’t he? A speech. Something that would fix this mess he had made. He was supposed to be calm, collected. He was supposed to tell her everything—the truth about how he felt, how sorry he was, how much he wanted to make it right. But the more he practiced, the more the words seemed to slip through his fingers like smoke.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I should have told you how I felt rather than protecting my ego. I should have told you from the start that I was afraid of losing you... that I never meant to hurt you.”

It sounded so simple in his mind, but when it came to saying it out loud, it all felt so... impossible.

His eyes darted back to the van. It wasn’t just any van. It was the symbol of everything he was about to lose. Y/N was leaving, and he was just standing here, caught in his own head.

Why didn't I just tell her? Why did I wait so damn long?

His stomach churned with the realization that he hadn’t done enough. He had let her slip through his fingers. He’d taken too long to make up his mind, and now it felt like it was all slipping away, out of his reach, and he couldn't fix it in time.

His heart pounded as he moved closer to the edge of the field, his feet dragging like they were stuck in quicksand. He could see her parents now, their backs turned as they focused on the last few things to load up. Y/N wasn’t in sight, and that made everything worse. She wasn’t even there to hear him out, to let him try.

He reached the fence line and stopped, staring at the van. This is it. She’s leaving.

Charlie closed his eyes, shaking his head. He had to act. He had to move. There was no more time for hesitation.

And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approach—the unmistakable outline of Y/N. She was walking toward the van, her movements slow and deliberate. Every step she took made his chest tighten. He opened his mouth, but the words stuck, choked by the knot in his throat.

I can’t lose her. I won’t.

With a sudden burst of clarity, he pushed forward, determined to speak his truth before it was too late. As he crossed the field, the world around him seemed to slow, the sounds of laughter from other students fading into the background. There was only Y/N now, and the desperate need to make things right.

Charlie’s feet moved faster now, the space between him and the van growing smaller with each hurried step. His mind raced, the words he’d rehearsed countless times rushing through his head, but none of them felt right. He wasn’t prepared for this moment. He’d spent so long hiding behind jokes, distractions, and that perfect mask of arrogance, but now it was just him—raw, vulnerable, and completely terrified of what he was about to admit.

As he reached her, Y/N was just turning away from her parents, adjusting the strap of her bag. The moment she saw him, her expression faltered—just for a second—before the familiar walls went up, that guarded look he had become all too familiar with. It was that same look she’d been wearing ever since he’d distanced himself, ever since he'd messed everything up.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice breaking slightly as he approached her, stepping into her personal space without thinking. She paused, and for a brief, stupid second, he thought she might walk away again. But instead, she just stood there, silent, watching him with those unreadable eyes.

He swallowed hard, heart hammering in his chest. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” His voice was barely above a whisper, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I’ve been an idiot, Y/N. And I’m so sorry for... all of it.”

Her eyes flickered, but she said nothing, and it pushed him to keep going, to explain what had been gnawing at him for so long.

“I’ve always loved you. I know that sounds insane,” he laughed bitterly, shaking his head, “but it’s the truth. I’ve always known. Even when I was with someone else, or when I was being an asshole and pretending I didn’t care, it was always you. I was just... scared, okay? I was scared to change what we had, scared that if I admitted it, it would ruin everything. You... you were always there for me, and I didn’t want to lose that. I didn’t want to mess it up.” He took a shaky breath, his gaze never leaving hers.

“I didn’t know how to deal with how I felt. So I pushed you away. And I got confused, and I lashed out.” His chest tightened, words getting harder to force out. “I was emotional. I didn't know how to handle it, how to handle you—what I wanted with you. I didn't know how to be the kind of person you deserve."

His hands, which had been shaking, curled into fists at his sides, but his eyes never left hers. "All I ever wanted was to be with you. But I kept screwing it up. And now, here you are, and I—" He stopped, frustrated. "I'm not good at this. But I need you to know, Y/N... I've loved you for so long. And I don't want you to go without knowing that."

His voice broke as the weight of it all hit him, all at once—the guilt, the pain of knowing he was losing her, and the overwhelming feeling of having waited too long.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, his throat tight, his heart aching with every word. “I don’t know why I waited. But it’s always been you. And if I lose you now... I don’t know how to fix it. I’m so in love with you, and I’m so scared.”

Y/N’s face was unreadable. For a moment, she said nothing, her gaze flickering between him and the van. Charlie’s chest tightened as the silence stretched between them, and he could feel his heart pounding so loud he was certain she could hear it. She slowly turned away.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said, each word feeling like it took all of his courage to speak, but it was the truth. “I don’t expect you to just forget everything and come running back, but you need to hear this, okay?”

She hesitated, her fingers gripping the strap of her bag, but she didn’t say anything.

“I’m not perfect,” Charlie continued, his voice thick with emotion, “I’ve never been perfect, and I was a damn fool to not see how much you meant to me. You were never just a ‘friend,’ and I know now that I’ve been holding onto something—stupid pride, fear of change, who knows—but it’s you. You’ve always been it for me. I was scared of what we could be, scared of losing you if I messed it up. But I messed it up anyway.”

Charlie’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as he took a step closer. “I’ve spent so much time telling myself I could move on, that I could just... distract myself with all this other nonsense. But no matter what I did, it was always you. Always.”

His voice softened, and now it was all that was left to say. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to be this person anymore—someone who hides from what he feels, someone who runs away from the one person who truly makes him feel like he belongs somewhere. Y/N, I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I’m asking you to let me prove to you that I’m ready to be with you. I want us. I want to try. I want you to know that this... us... this is real. It’s always been real.”

Y/N’s back was still turned, but Charlie could see the slight shift in her posture—the hesitation, the quiet battle inside her. And then, after a long pause, she slowly turned around, her eyes no longer as guarded, but still cautious. Her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but she didn’t.

Instead, she took a step closer, her gaze searching his. "Charlie, you hurt me," she said, her voice quieter now, not angry, just sad. "You made me feel like I was nothing more than an option, someone to keep around until you figured things out. I couldn’t just sit there waiting for you to wake up." Her words were heavy, but they held a sense of vulnerability that Charlie had never heard before.

He nodded slowly, his chest tightening at the honesty in her voice. "I know, and I’ll regret that for the rest of my life. But you don’t have to wait for me anymore. I’ve been waiting for you, Y/N. I’ve been waiting for us, for the right time, and I was wrong. I know I can’t change the past, but I want to be with you. I want to make it right. Please, let me try. Let us try."

Her eyes softened, just a little, but she took another step back, as if unsure. "I don’t know, Charlie. I can’t just go back to how things were. I can’t pretend it didn’t hurt."

"I don’t want to go back to what we were either," Charlie said quickly, his voice firm. "I want something real with you. Not games. Not confusion. I’m not asking for everything at once. I’m asking for a chance—just a chance to show you that I’m not the same person I was before." He paused, stepping forward. "I know we’re both scared. Hell, I’ve been terrified the whole time, but I’m not running anymore. I want to be with you. That’s all I know for sure."

She was silent for a moment, studying him, the conflict clear on her face. Charlie’s heart raced in his chest, the waiting unbearable.

And then, finally, she took a deep breath and smiled, just a little. Not the carefree, sarcastic smile he remembered from before, but something softer, more tentative. “You’ve got one chance, Charlie,” she said, her voice steady but warm. “One. Don’t make me regret it.”

Charlie felt something light and pure spread through him, like the weight of the world had finally lifted. He smiled, his heart leaping. “I won’t. I swear.”

And with that, she stepped closer, her hand brushing his in the briefest touch. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was enough. Enough to tell him that maybe—just maybe—they could make it through this together.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she whispered.

“I know,” Charlie said, his voice quiet, but full of the promise of everything he was willing to give to make it right.

Charlie couldn’t believe this moment was actually happening. All the fear, the confusion, the mistakes—all of it had led him here, standing in front of her, heart racing as he waited for her to make her decision. She wasn’t just someone he cared about anymore—she was everything. And now, after all the time apart, he couldn’t let this chance slip away.

Y/N’s eyes softened, her lips parting as if she was about to say something, but for once, Charlie didn’t need to hear the words. He could feel everything she was trying to say in the way she looked at him. The hesitation in her eyes was still there, but there was something else now—something warmer, something that told him she was willing to take that first step toward them again.

"Charlie..." she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, and he could see her vulnerability mirrored in his own.

He took another step toward her, his pulse hammering in his ears, but he wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of her, not of what might happen. He just knew he couldn’t walk away again. Not without knowing if they could truly have what they’d both wanted for so long.

For a moment, everything was still. Her gaze flickered down to his lips, and that was all it took. With a breath that seemed to catch in her chest, she closed the distance between them, her hand reaching up to rest lightly on his chest. She leaned in, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Charlie closed his eyes, letting everything around them fade away.

When their lips finally met, it wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything he’d been holding back—the months of silence, the longing, the regret—and in that single touch, it all came crashing down. Her lips were soft and warm, and Charlie felt like he was breathing again, as if the weight of everything that had gone wrong could somehow be erased in this one moment.

She kissed him back with the same intensity, her hands moving to rest against his neck as they held each other, both of them finally understanding what they’d been too afraid to admit before: they were meant to be together.

As they pulled away just slightly, their foreheads resting against one another, Charlie couldn’t help but smile. "I swear to you, Y/N, I’m never letting you go again."

Y/N chuckled softly, her voice still full of warmth. "Good. Because I’m not going anywhere either."

And in that moment, surrounded by the soft glow of the fading afternoon light, everything felt right. The past didn’t matter anymore. They had found their way back to each other, and this time, Charlie knew he wasn’t going to let fear or doubt take it all away.

They were finally together, and that was all that mattered.

[lovings4turn]

જ⁀➴  𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐄  . . .  (𝐋. 𝐍.)

— whilst you love the excitement that comes with dating a formula one driver, you cherish the quiet, private moments with lando far more

+ part of my 'be my valentine' mixtape series ! inspired by 'kiss me' by sixpence none the richer, which is one of my fav songs of all time <3

whenever you told someone that your boyfriend drove formula one cars for a living, their initial response was always to 'ooh' and 'ahh' over how luxurious that must be for you. you must be so well travelled, spoiled with tons of gifts, showered with champagne any time he did well on track.

and you would agree - it was true, after all - but those were never your favourite parts of dating lando norris.

what you loved most about lando was how himself he was, no matter how bright the spotlight that shone on him became. it was lando being so quintessentially, well, lando, that had led you to the dreamlike date you were currently on together.

no longer phased by late night texts requesting your company at any hour of the day, you'd wasted no time in getting yourself dressed up for a mystery date the moment lando had messaged you about it.

and now, sat beneath the stars on the hood of his car, you felt like the luckiest person to walk the earth. how lando had found such a pretty, secluded location, you'd never know. part of the beauty was not knowing.

bar the moon acting as your chaperone, it was just you and lando for as far as you were aware. for one night, you were granted your own part of the earth, a land that could be your own.

lando, cheesy as ever, had began to play some romantic old love song from his car speakers, a gesture that was only briefly delayed by the house song he'd accidentally queued up first.

once you'd controlled your giggles, lando had held out his hand, stooping down into a bow and playing the part of a gentleman.

"can i have this dance?" he asked, grin so wide his eyes began to crinkle up at the corners.

hesitant was a feeling you never experienced around lando. your hand was in his before you had time to think.

neither of you were particularly well versed in the art of dance, but you knew each other like the back of your own hands, and each step and movement was fluid, second nature after years together.

the silver moon cast a glittering glow over your intertwined frames, a spotlight for your personal duet that caught lando's face perfectly in it's light.

"you're staring," lando mused, eyes sparkling in amusement as he realised he'd caught you.

"you're making it hard not to," you admitted, eyes flitting down to the curve of his top lip briefly before you met his eyes once more.

"so i'm a distraction, am i?"

it was a joke, yet his fondness for you outweighed the humour in the tone of his voice.

"well, you said it not me."

lando laughed at this, a sound that never failed to make your heart skip a beat.

"i think i can be even more of a distraction," he hummed.

in one swift move, lando's lips were on yours as his hands gripped your waist firmly. the kiss was soft, yet passionate, the movements of his tongue somehow tracing everything he could never say to you into the cavern of your mouth.

being at the track with lando was fun, as was the winter trips to ski lodges and summer holidays in resorts. but without a doubt, your favourite place to be with lando was underneath the haze of the milky twilight, lips locked as his heart bore roots into your own chest.

[arabe11as]

Studio Sessions

warnings: nothing much just making out xx and fluff xx

Matt had invited you down to the studio while the lads were working on their fourth album, Suck It and See. You’d known them all for a while, but still, you kept to yourself—tucked into a corner, quietly watching as they ran through a few tracks. You didn’t want to get in the way, just happy to be there, soaking it all in.

One by one, the boys packed up their gear and drifted out of the studio, each offering you a casual goodbye—Jamie with a grin and a nod, Matt giving your shoulder a quick squeeze, Nick flashing a tired smile. Soon, it was just you and Alex. He was still behind the glass in the control room, hunched over a notebook, scribbling something with that familiar furrow in his brow. You stood up, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and tapped lightly on the glass to get his attention.

“I’m heading off,” you called through the small crack in the door. But instead of just waving you off, Alex looked up, held your gaze for a second, then jerked his chin in a small motion—beckoning.

“Come here a sec,” he said, voice muffled but clear, and you hesitated only a moment before slipping inside.

You walked over, weaving through stray cables and half-drunk mugs of tea, until you were standing just beside him. Alex barely looked up, still focused on the page in front of him.

“What’s up?” you asked softly.

He tapped the seat next to him. “Sit down.”

You dropped your bag and sank into the office chair. He turned the notebook around so it faced you, his handwriting messy but strangely poetic, and pointed to the title scrawled at the top: She’s Thunderstorms.

“What do you think about this?” he asked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. Then, without waiting for a reply, he started singing—quiet at first, almost to himself, but each word wrapped in that smoky, drawling tone only he could pull off.

You listened, entirely still, letting the melody wash over you. There was something electric in it—raw and a little chaotic, but delicate too.

“I love ‘She came and substituted the peace and quiet’,” you said, smiling as you echoed the line back to him. “That’s such a beautiful kind of disruption.”

He looked pleased—maybe a little proud. “Yeah?” he asked, a grin tugging at his lips. “Thought you might like that one.”

“I don’t know what to add for verse two,” Alex sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His notebook sat open between you, pages littered with half-formed ideas and scratched-out lines. The studio had gone quiet, save for the low hum of equipment still buzzing in the background, and the occasional scribble of a pen as the two of you threw out ideas.

You leaned in, tapping your finger against the margin. “What if it’s something about how she’s stuck in your head… like, she’s always there, even when you don’t want her to be?”

Alex looked at you, intrigued. “Go on.”

You thought for a moment, then said, “‘She’s been loop-the-looping around my mind.’”

As soon as the words left your mouth, he froze. Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face—one of those rare, quiet ones that meant you’d struck gold.

“That’s brilliant,” he muttered, already jotting it down. “Loop-the-looping… that’s perfect.”

He slotted it seamlessly into the verse, saying it aloud a few times, tasting the rhythm. Then he found it—whatever he’d been chasing in the melody clicked into place, and he strummed a few chords under his breath, the line fitting like it had always belonged there.

Within an hour or two, the song was finished—front to back. You hadn’t planned to stay that long, but time slipped past unnoticed, wrapped up in the flow of ideas, shared glances, and the scribble of pens on paper. The studio lights had dimmed slightly, casting everything in a soft amber glow. Alex leaned back in his chair, reading over the final lyrics of She’s Thunderstorms, mouthing the words like he couldn’t quite believe they’d landed.

You watched him for a moment, chin propped in your hand. “So…” you began, tone laced with mischief, “who is she, then?”

Alex raised a brow. “Who?”

You gestured toward the page. “She’s Thunderstorms. Bit full-on. Sounds like an ex” You leaned in slightly, eyes teasing.

He scoffed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Alex turned to face you fully now, one arm slung over the back of your chair. “And what if it’s not about an ex?” he asked, voice low, deliberate. “What if it’s about someone else?”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Like who?”

He held your gaze, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Dunno. Someone who gets under my skin. Makes it a bit hard to concentrate. Keeps coming back even when I think I’ve written her out.”

Your breath caught slightly, but you managed a smirk. “Sounds like a nightmare. You should stop letting her write songs with you.”

Alex chuckled, eyes drifting briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured, “but then I wouldn’t get lines like ‘loop-the-looping.’”

You shook your head, grinning. “Flattery won’t get you out of telling me who the girl really is.”

He leaned in just a little closer. “Maybe I’ll let you figure it out. Might take another song or two, though.”

You leaned back in your chair, still grinning from the teasing. “So… do you have a flow for it yet? Or is that where I come in and save the day again?”

Alex gave you a look—half amused, half mock-offended. “I always have a flow,” he said, reaching for the guitar that had been resting against the amp.

He adjusted it in his lap, fingers settling onto the strings like it was second nature. Then, without another word, he started playing—those first few jangly chords of She’s Thunderstorms, rich and moody, echoing through the empty studio.

The intro rolled out slowly, hypnotic, the rhythm pulling you in. He was focused now, head bowed slightly, hair falling into his face as he played. You recognized the melody immediately—it had that distinct, magnetic pull, the kind that gave you goosebumps even though you’d just helped write it.

You watched him, caught somewhere between admiration and something warmer, softer.

“Holy shit, Al, that sounds amazing,” you breathed, a wide smile breaking across your face.

He looked up from the strings, surprised but clearly pleased. “Really?”

“Yes, you idiot,” you laughed, nudging his knee with yours.

He chuckled, head ducking a little like he was trying not to let the compliment go to his head.

“Is guitar hard?” you asked, tilting your head at the instrument still cradled in his hands.

He gave a small shrug. “Hmm… depends. It’s a bit of a bastard at first, but you get used to it.”

You leaned in, eyes curious. “Can you show me?”

A slow smile crept across his face, the kind that made your stomach flutter. “Go on then,” he said, nodding. He carefully handed you the guitar, his fingers brushing yours as he did.

You tried to hold it properly, but it felt awkward and oversized in your lap. “I don’t even know how to hold it,” you muttered, adjusting it clumsily.

Alex stood, circling behind you, and before you could ask what he was doing, you felt him—warm and close at your back. His chest almost brushed your shoulders as he leaned down, arms sliding around you.

“Right, let me…” His voice was low, the Sheffield lilt thicker this close. He reached for your hands, gently repositioning your fingers on the frets. “You want your thumb here, yeah? Then these three go across like that.”

You swallowed, nodding, though you barely heard a word he said. His breath grazed your neck as he spoke, and you could feel the heat of him pressed against your back, steady and intoxicating.

“Like this?” you asked, glancing back at him slightly, your cheek nearly brushing his.

“Nearly,” he murmured, lips hovering a little too close to your ear. “You’re tense.”

“Maybe ‘cause someone’s breathing down my neck,” you teased, pulse picking up.

He laughed, the sound low and rich. “What, this?” he said, blowing a gentle puff of air just under your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You turned your head, your noses almost touching now. “You’re such a dick,” you whispered, grinning.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes flicking between yours and your lips. “But you love it.”

The guitar rested forgotten in your lap, your fingers still frozen in place—his hands lingering a second longer than necessary. The air between you felt electric, charged with something that hadn’t quite tipped over the edge… yet.

Alex’s hands guided yours again, this time moving your fingers into a simple chord shape. His touch was light but deliberate, and the closeness of him made it impossible to focus on anything except the rhythm of your breathing.

“Alright,” he murmured, “press down there—yeah, just like that. Now strum it.”

You did as he said, the sound that came out surprisingly clean. You looked up at him in disbelief.

He grinned, eyes gleaming with approval. “There you go. Good girl.”

You paused, blinking. Then slowly turned your head to look up at him over your shoulder, a coy smile forming on your lips. “Really?” you giggled, raising a brow.

He pulled back just slightly, that smirk never leaving his face. “What? I’m just giving you a compliment.”

“Mmm,” you hummed playfully, twisting around more fully to face him. “Bit of a loaded compliment, that.”

“Only if you want it to be,” he said, eyes flicking to your mouth again.

For a beat, neither of you said anything. The air between you was thick, humming with unspoken tension, and the grin slowly faded from both your faces—replaced with something softer, heavier.

You turned toward him, knees brushing as you shifted in your seat, the guitar slipping slightly off your lap. His hands stayed at your sides, not quite touching, as if waiting for permission.

“I do want it to be,” you said quietly.

That was all it took.

Alex leaned in, closing the last inch between you, and kissed you—slow and warm, but confident, like he’d been thinking about it for a long time. His hand slid gently up the side of your neck, fingers curling into your hair, and you kissed him back without hesitation.

You stood up, lips still locked with his, barely breaking the kiss as you bent down blindly and moved the guitar out of the way, setting it gently beside the chair. Alex’s hands found your waist the moment you were upright again, tugging you closer until there was no space left between you.

His mouth trailed briefly from your lips to the edge of your jaw, then back again, like he couldn’t get enough. You let out a soft laugh against him, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as you kissed him deeper.

Then, in one smooth, impulsive motion, he spun you slightly and walked you backwards until your lower back bumped against the edge of a table cluttered with notebooks and stray picks.

“Up,” he said, voice low and breathless.

You barely had time to smirk before he gripped your hips and lifted you onto it, pushing aside the scattered papers with a careless sweep of his arm. His mouth was back on yours before you could say a word, hot and urgent now, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to grip the bare skin at your waist.

You wrapped your legs loosely around him, tugging him closer as he pressed himself against you, the tension that had been building between you both finally snapping loose.

His lips were everywhere—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make your breath hitch. You felt him pressed hard against you, the table creaking slightly beneath your weight as his hands roamed up under your shirt, fingertips teasing your bare waist.

“Fuck, Alex,” you exhaled, your head falling back slightly as a soft moan slipped out.

“If I could,” he murmured against your throat, voice rough and dripping with want, “I’d have you right here.”

Your heart pounded as he kissed you again and again, every touch lighting you up. “Then have me,” you breathed, eyes half-lidded, your hands already tugging at the hem of his shirt.

But before he could make a move—before he could even lift your top—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, guys!”

The voice cut through the haze like a brick through glass. You both froze.

Your head whipped around just in time to see Matt standing in the doorway, holding a forgotten jacket and looking thoroughly appalled. “This is a studio, not a bloody shag pad!”

You jumped down from the table like it had burned you, cheeks flushed, hastily adjusting your shirt. Alex stepped back, rubbing a hand over his face, trying and failing to hide a smirk.

“Christ, Matt, do you knock?” he muttered.

“It’s my studio too, you tosser!” Matt fired back, eyes wide with disbelief. “I was coming back for my jacket, not a live porno.”

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, even through the embarrassment. Alex grinned at you, then shot Matt a lazy look.

“Well,” he said, shrugging as he picked up his guitar from the floor, “guess we’ll save the encore for another time.”

Matt groaned. “I need a bleach bath for my eyes.”

You looked at Alex, still catching your breath, still flushed and a little dazed. He leaned in close, voice low in your ear.

“next time”

[changetyre]

Cupid

SUMMARY: After the harsh moments you endured with your husband there appear to be better days ahead. Part of the Verstappen Family Verse

WARNINGS: none? Short.

A/N: Lea is 6 and Ivy is 3

Things got better, not easily but they did. Max and you had decided that before anything else you had to talk through the hard months you had endured and also make sure both Lea and Ivy got some sort of explanation and apology for the way they were affected by their parent's miscommunication and being on the receiving end of the pent up anger and frustration.

That's not to say that Max and you spent another second away from each other physically, the same night as Max and you finally spoke you had a passionate night. It was one of the best nights you had perhaps because you'd been longing for each other again for so long, or because of all the emotion involved, or maybe both. 

Christmas luckily had been filled with love and joy around the house once more, both Daniel and Lando as well as their families had all spent the night with the family something which both Lea and Ivy had greatly enjoyed. 

Flashback **

You let out a deep breath as a soft breeze from the open window woke you up. You could feel your husband's arm wrapped tightly around your waist which immediately brought a smile to your face, weirdly also making you want to cry. 

"Morning" You heard Max's hushed voice behind you as he leaned closer burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

You giggled at the way his nose tickled your neck but leaned backward and deeper into his arms. "Hi." 

 "Merry Christmas liefde." He placed a kiss on your shoulder, then one on your jaw, on your cheek, and finally on your lips as you spun around to face him. 

"Merry-" 

"MAMA PAPA!" Your bubble of romance was interrupted as your screaming children burst into the room. 

"Woah!" Max huffed as they jumped on the bed landing on top of him. 

"PAPA SANTA CAME!" Lea had a hard time containing her excitement. 

"MAMA DEWS PWESENTS!" Ivy giggled happily as she sat on your lap. 

"PAPA MAMA COME QUICK!"  Lea hopped off her father pulling his arm for him to get up. 

"Why don't you go wake up Lando and Dani huh? I'm sure they'll be excited that Santa came." Max tempted the girls who happily obliged with his suggestion.

Despite the interruption, it was a happy and loud morning for everyone.

**

New years had been a little rougher since you'd been feeling a little sick a few days before, which you thought was probably simply from all the food that you'd been eating during the holidays since it'd happened to you before. 

But things became much clearer to you a month later. You'd stopped yourself from taking the test, pushing it as far back as you possibly could because you weren't sure how you'd handle another negative test, afraid that you'd lose yourself again. 

But finally, you did. You had to. You'd noticed you were becoming distracted and distant, losing yourself in other ways because of the worry of what might be and the stress of making the same mistakes again so you'd simply opted for finding out. 

So there you sat, a few days away from Valentine's Day, on the toilet lid staring at the numerous tests on the counter that indicated you were pregnant. There were far too many emotions coursing through your body a mix of joy and complete fear, it was so different from when you found out about Lea and Ivy. 

You were unsure of how long you'd sat there, just...staring. But it was long enough to worry Max who'd been left to entertain your girls downstairs. 

"Liefde?" You heard him call you from your bedroom. 

You simply looked to the door not having time enough to do anything before he'd opened the bathroom door. 

"Max" He immediately knew something had happened from the way you said his name so weakily. 

"Are you okay wha-" He didn't have to finish his question before his eyes found the tests on the counter. 

"I'm sorry I just...I just found out and-" You weren't exactly sure how to handle this, a few months ago both you and Max had been desperately trying for a result like this but not long ago you'd also both decided that this should only happen when both of you were in a better place and even though you had managed that there was still so much to through that it scared you. 

"Oh my god." Max's eyes glossed over as soon as he picked up the first test reading its result, quickly picking up another, then another before he let his eyes scan the rest of the tests. 

"Max-" You wanted a reaction, you wanted him to say something but he simply stared just like you. "Max." You called him again your voice still just as weak but he finally turned to look at you. 

"oh mijn liefde." He pulled you into his arms holding you tightly after noticing your fear and uncertainty. 

"I'm scared." you sniffled in his arms being honest about your feelings. 

"Shh, we'll be okay...I promise you we'll be okay, this is our little miracle." Max whispered softly to you placing his hand on your stomach. 

This only made you cry harder, this time a sense of relief washing over you.

"I love you." He whispered kissing your temple as he continued holding you tightly. "I love you so much."

You cried for a few minutes in his arms before finally looking at him through teary eyes. "We're having another baby." It was like it was finally sinking in for you. 

Max couldn't hold back the laugh that rumbled in his chest. "Yes, we are." He rested his forehead against yours, his own tears mixing with yours. 

"I'm pregnant again." You closed your eyes finally allowing yourself to accept the truth. A huge wave of relief flooding you this time, of pride and joy. 

"Yes, you are." Max laughed, cried, and smiled with you. 

"We're gonna be okay." You said to yourself a little louder this time, wiping your eyes. 

Max raked his fingers through your hair, placing a soft kiss on your lips. "We're gonna be okay." He repeated with you. 

"MAMA!" You heard Lea call for you. "IVY PAINTED PAPA'S TROPHY AGAIN!" You heard her yell after. 

Both Max and you looked at each other before bursting out in laughter. "You ready for some more of this?" You jokingly asked your husband. 

"With you?" Max smiled. "Always." 

[mariasont]

PART II: PORPHYRIA'S LOVER

this is what it means to love in verse and violence

part I -> part II -> part III -> part IV -> part V

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: situationship, canon-type cm violence and case work, allusions to sex and intimacy, self-destructive behaviors, unhealthy relationship dynamics, angsty tone, mental health struggles, intense imagery, isolation and loneliness, dark themes wc: 2k

His coffee’s lukewarm again. Third cup this morning, though labeling it as coffee feels overly generous. At this point, it’s more sugar than substance, a thin attempt at stimulation that never quite lands. You’d scrunch your nose at the taste, make some comment about the sugar neutralizing the caffeine and rendering the whole thing pointless. He’d probably argue, lightly, just to keep you talking.

He drinks anyway, savoring the mild film it leaves on his tongue that expects nothing in return.

You’re not so different. You dissolve into him without protest, smoothing over the rough patches, sweetening the harsher aspects of himself. 

Too much of you, though, and the careful balance he’s cultivated tilts into oversaturation, saccharine overpowering. Too little, and he’s left choking on his own bitterness.

There was a time when Spencer shared your perspective. Your sweetness. Glass half-full, always leaning into the idea that cracks only existed to welcome in the light. Back when he still believed that love, if real enough, was self-correcting. But optimism has a shelf life. Eventually, even Spencer had to reconcile the math — that some men speak tenderly of love even when their own fingers pull it apart ruthlessly.

He’s made peace with the withholding. With absence. He’d rather starve quietly than risk feeding something that might sour and decay.

Spencer arranges the photos again, this time chronologically, even though he already knows the sequence. 

Strangulation, by nature, is a frenzied act, all instinct and survival reflected in torn skin, bruised wrists, evidence of a fight. But the first victim is almost pristine. Just a clean line marking her neck. She’s positioned by a fireplace, hands arranged on her lap, hair smoothed down one shoulder. 

The second victim was found in an office building — drowned, of all things. No signs of forced entry. Water everywhere but no source. Just a shallow tide spilled across the linoleum like the room itself had been weeping. Her shoes were placed beside her, toes pointed in. No one removes their shoes unless they’re prepared, perhaps resigned, to stay.

Different weapons. Same result. Same… message, maybe. Not a signature, not yet. But he’s beginning to resent the word posed. It’s misleading, making the victims seem complicit, like they participated willingly in their fates.

He pressed a finger to his temple. Maybe the pressure might shape his thoughts into something useful. By now, he should have been able to fortify his mind, sharpen it into a blade capable of slicing through ambiguity. Three crime scenes should be enough to construct a profile, at least a skeletal frame.

Instead, that same mind slips sideways, spiraling off into peripheral shadows. Fluid, slippery, resistant. 

Water, again — not from the ominous puddles beneath the victim, but from your shower, beading down your legs. 

You might have been laughing then, or something close, lips parted, eyes still half-lidded and misted with a post-coital softness that made everything feel slowed as if submerged in dreamlike currents he can’t quite surface from.

He had smelled like you. Still does, most days, though he pretends not to notice. Your shampoo permeated his skin, settling insistently into the dips and hollows around his collarbone, the shallow depression at the base of his throat, soaked into the towel strung low on his hips. His hair had responded to the humidity of your bathroom, small wet coils clinging to his forehead, collecting in shapeless halos at the edge of cotton.

He remembers you standing at the mirror, brushing your hair, towel sliding carelessly off one shoulder, bare skin blinking in and out of visibility like candlelight flickering through a crack in a door. He felt an odd impulse surge through him, an urge to take the brush from your fingers, to draw it through your hair himself. 

Not because it was romantic or tender, not really. Curiosity is what he had told himself. He wanted to see whether you’d permit it. 

You had paused just once when the comb snagged on a tangle at the base of your neck. One he’d unintentionally created. At the time, he thought that’s what stopped you. Now he’s not sure. Maybe you were just gathering nerve for the question that followed.

“Do you think people can love too much?”

It wasn’t the kind of question he wanted to hear, not while the water was still spinning down the drain, slow and reluctant, refusing to take the evidence of your bodies with it.

But it was early then, early enough that your question felt more whimsical than anything, a coin carelessly flicked into the murky depths of some emotional wishing well. You weren’t declaring love, he reminded himself, you were just inquisitive, endlessly prying, as though your very existence depended on the answers you coaxed from him. 

Spencer remembers feeling compelled to offer an answer. Said yes, of course. There’s clear precedent. Love can become pathological. It happens when boundaries dissolve, when the self erodes. When affection quietly turns corrosive, eating away at identity until you’re nothing but reflections and reactions, indistinct edges bleeding into one another. When you no longer know where you end and they begin, and the very essence of who you are seeps quietly, insidiously, into the cracks of someone else.

You took it as calmly as if he’d explained weather patterns or historical trivia. Filed it under things he knows. 

And maybe, just maybe, he had let himself believe, just for a moment, that the scenario wasn’t self-referential, that you didn’t see him reflected in his own explanation.

The question hadn’t mattered then. It shouldn’t matter now.

He folds the recollection methodically into quarters, presses down the corners, and files it deep in the cluttered mental drawer where dangerous ideas sit silently, gathering dust, too risky to revisit.

Focus.

Eventually, every theory and hypothesis the team offered became a messy swirl of symbolism, murder methodology, and microexpressions blending into confusion. Spencer jotted down most of it, cramping his writing smaller and smaller, margins overflowing on the yellow legal pad until the page felt claustrophobic. What didn’t land on paper lodged he remembered anyway. 

The others slowly filtered away. Spencer moved toward the break room though guided by some invisible force — coffee, always coffee — no thought required. You hovered close enough behind to stay in his peripheral awareness but far enough back to let him pretend it wasn’t intentional.

Settling into your customary places, you take a distracted bite of your sandwich.

“Do you ever randomly crave food you hate?” You glance sideways at him. Spencer arches an eyebrow just enough to let you know you have his attention. “I mean, I hate tuna. It’s objectively evil. Fishy and suspiciously moist. But today, I stood in line actually considering a tuna melt. Why would I do that?”

Spencer sees your words for what they are. An attempt to untangle his thoughts from themselves, and maybe untangle your own in the process.

He shrugs, coffee number four precariously balanced in his grip. “Neurological misfire, probably. Or you’re subconsciously punishing yourself. Guilt manifesting in questionable lunch choices.”

You stare at him. “Jesus, Spencer. Would it kill you to eat a fruit snack or something? Maybe your blood sugar is low.”

He takes a slow sip, looking at you pointedly over the rim. “You asked the question.”

You smile at this deadpan, biting off another piece of your sandwich. Automatically, stupidly, he smiles too. 

“Okay,” you say, wiping your fingers on a napkin, “if you had to eat one thing you hate every day for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

He blinks. “That’s grim.”

Hypocrite. You see it, he sees it. You generously keep quiet.

“I didn’t say you could also hate me for asking.” You poke his arm. He doesn’t feel it. 

He knows you’re joking. He understands that much. But paradoxes never sat well in his mind, especially when you were the variable causing contradictions. It would be impossible to hate you. He tries to engage in some detached intellectual exercise, constructing scenarios in which he might. A thought experiment. Replace your face. Alter your behavior. Force the conditions until dislike becomes plausible. 

But each attempt crumbles before completion, breaking apart as easily as wet paper.

Even in the iterations where your fingers don’t tap nervously along your collarbone when you’re uncertain. Even when he pictures your hip without that faint scar he’s mesmerized — traced with his fingertips, lips, tongue — or when your voice doesn’t lower just a little when you’re sleeping, murmuring things into your pillow. Worlds where you don’t absentmindedly draw constellations on the back of his hand with your fingertip, tracing patterns he knows from old astronomy texts.

Every imagined version of you remains stubbornly beyond his capacity to reject.

“Oatmeal.” 

He recognizes how inadequate it sounds, evasive and superficial. He was, after all, accustomed to cowardice, skilled at sidestepping sincerity. But sincerity wasn’t what you needed now. You needed something simple, an innocent distraction from a case filled with victims who carried a resemblance to everything you saw in the mirror.

Oatmeal, then. Bland, devoid of flavor, with a texture he quietly loathed despite its obvious nutritional value.

Survival was like that, rarely compatible with real desire, something he didn’t want to share aloud. 

So you both pushed through the drudgery of evidence and paperwork until reality became abstract and numbness set it. Routine anesthetic for minds that couldn’t afford anything else.

He checked his watch when the final file was closed, 11:47 PM. Late, but not unusual. You fell into step beside him, something comfortably habitual.

In the parking lot, he asked you to come over. You nodded. No reason to explain. Not at this hour.

It had been a few months earlier when you first stepped into his apartment, an impulse decision born entirely from anxiety the second your feet hit the tarmac after a long case.

He remembers deep puddles pooling unevenly over the cracked pavement suggesting sustained rainfall, likely three or four hours’ worth, judging by the water accumulation near the storm drains. Branches twisted in the wind, illuminated for seconds at a time under jaundiced streetlights, gusts easily over thirty miles per hour, perhaps more.

It’s ridiculous, really, how quickly his mind could picture your car hydroplaning, slick pavement robbing you of traction in seconds. 

His place was closer, less time navigating through storm-soaked roads, less opportunity for the worst-case scenarios he couldn’t stop picturing. 

So he’d blurted it out, awkwardly offering for you to come to his without fully processing it. Now, in hindsight, it’s strange how one unfiltered sentence had reshaped the trajectory of everything between you.

His apartment had always been intentionally solitary, crowded with details he preferred to keep private. A haven filled with half-read novels dog-eared in places he didn’t want to explain, a chess set he usually only played alone, coffee mugs accumulated from various cities.

Inviting you in was like handing over a map marked with all his hidden spots, giving you access to parts that felt vulnerable. If whatever you shared was supposed to stay purely physical, then he’d made a reckless miscalculation.

And it was instantaneous, the shift that occurred when your body met his mattress, an internal fracture that made your familiar contours feel foreign. How that night, the sex had felt different, colored by an intensity he couldn’t quite parse, emotions unfolding beneath the physical sensations in a way he hadn’t anticipated, still didn’t entirely grasp.

He still feels the rush of your breath blending onto his, can picture shadows spreading across naked skin in restless waves of ink-black darkness, but he obscures the small details — how long he held you afterward, or exactly what color your eyes became beneath the lamp light. 

But what Spencer remembers in almost startling clarity, is how perfectly the storm ended, thunder quieting as if timed to the exact moment your bodies fell apart, undone and intertwined in synchronicity.

And later, when you slipped out around one, he absorbed the deafening silence, baffled by how something so intangible could feel louder than the storm had ever been. 

Tonight, you didn’t leave. Shoes discarded by the door.

Again, Spencer lay awake while you slept, suspended uncomfortably between vigilance and awe. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from you, anxious that if he blinked, you might vanish, evaporate like a delicate mirage from the safety of his sheets.

This wasn’t part of the plan. You weren’t supposed to be here. He’d promised himself boundaries, a clear line where your bodies met without emotional entanglement.

At exactly 3:02 AM, he swallowed two advils, bitter on his tongue, washed down by tepid water that tasted of stale resignation.

And all night long we have not stirred, / And yet God has not said a word / Porphyria's Lover.

part III

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

Spiders Into The Bat...Verse?

{Accidentally getting thrown into another portal, you have to figure out your way back! Yet Au's are tricky things...}

《BATBOYS and SPIDER!S/O》 Mini Series

╭╭(╭◕‿◕╮)╮╮ ♡ /|\ ^._.^ /|\

Bruce Wayne/Batman:

"Phew~... Well, that should be all of them." You grin, smiling at the Dark-Knight... Bat-Knight? Either or, you happily bump into his armor as you talk with Captain Gordon. The Knight looming beside you easily.

When you first arrived, you crashed into Wayne Manor's extravgent garden party. Crashing into tea sets and tables, while trying to fight off the pest that threw you there!

While simultaneouly keeping terrorfied citizens and guests away.

Finally throwing the creature back into the portal, you cheered. About to follow suit, yet as soon as your web was tossed in. It snapped as portal closed.

Groaning softly, your spidey senses alerted you to the knew presence in the room. Recalling being knocked out, you noted your suit is still on and your on a really fluffy bed.

You don't deem the butler as a threat, opting to instead go over and ask questions as he leads you down below the grandiose home.

The Bat-Knight is Prince Bruce Wayne, heir to the late King Thomas and Queen Martha. Yet is scene in the eyes of the royal council and public as...

Well, not a suitable candiate to rule quite yet.

Since most of his time was spent jesting with royals and nobility at soirees. Along with a few scandals of chasity here or there...

"Hmmm... I'll call you "Wayne" for short. You reply bluntly.

"...Do what you like then." He said distractedly, eyeing the paperwork on his desk.

Having the permission, you get up from your seat. Holding out your arms expectedly.

His saphire eyes narrow at you, "what are you doing."

"I wanna' hug. That's what I would like!" You reply.

With a bit of a clash, you found somwhat normalcy with him and his estate.

He too, had gotten used to your visits to his study. Never fully sure on how to debute you into high-society so he could keep an eye on you when out of the estate.

Quickly giving Bruce a kiss on the cheek in graditude, you step away, fixing the attire he made you wear for the gala. Before eagerly pushing him to join you at the table of desserts or savory snacks.

-

Dick Grayson/Nightwing:

Rolling your eyes at the hand outstretched for you to take. You ignore it as you walk beside the "Nightwing" of this AU. Glancing at the horse that neighed for your attention as well, you gave it a small pat.

"You' sure you don't need a ride?" He asked politely. The sun beating down on your backs.

Readying yourself, you shoot out a web to the clock-tower in the middle of the dusty town.

"Thanks, but I'll be fine." You said steadily, pulling yourself up high into the air. Web-slinging carefully on only the higher buildings.

A low whistle leaves his lips at the sight.

Dick is the eldest son of the Batfam, along with being apart of the wealthiest family in town.

The family owning a multitude of lands and ranches across the county and beyond in other cities.

Richard has high education and well respected in the community even without his fathers wealth. Takes care of the ranch in Büldhaven, mostly. But often visits Gotham, each time it's a celebartion of his arrival.

Sweet as a bell, always giving a helping hand.

"You.. You seem indifferent." The young man states curiously. You smile slightly, "Yeah. So.. Thanks for that." Holding up the item gifted to you, you head to the drawers to place it elsewhere. The peice of jewelry too dazzling to be out.

Glazing at your (modern) jacket, he picks it up. Tracing the fabric while your back was turned. Strange as it was, he thought it was quite cute. A bit odd, but it suited you.

As Nightwing, another vigilante of the west, the two of you work suprisingly well-...Enough.. As if you know what he has on his mind on the occasion.

Your fighting styles may-be different, but that hasn't stop you two before.

Poking at the boquet in your hand, you hear the soft steps near the horse stalls come closer.

"Hey." You greet, grogginess in your voice.

"Hello... It.. Seems you have a admirer, other than myself." He spoke playfully, side-eyeing the weeds.

You blink, turning away to hide your smile. Small bits of laughter spilling out of you as he stalks closer, pouting.

"So? Where is he?"

"Far." You shrug, gazing at him with mirth, eyeing the buttercups sadly.

Overall, just an idea I had! Maybe I'll do more in the future with other batfams members?

[Thwnk you for reading, reblogs, comments are apperciated! Fan art as well! See you soon! Yall want a part 2? *wink*]

[debilsposts]

🦇 My JayTim Fic Masterlist 🦇 

Hello, I’m Tori, and I write fics so bad they should be considered a crime. Unfortunately, I just keep writing them because no one has yet told me to stop. You can find my AO3 here, proceed with caution. 🪫 Currently suffering from an extreme case of writer’s block. If you have demands, now’s the time to yell them at me before I turn to dust. Full list below the cut 👇

✨ SFW ✨

looking most human (feeling nothing like it) – Android AU, Slowburn, Android Abuse, Hurt/Mild Comfort | WIP, 2,366 words (1/?) Android Tim is, for some reason, obsessed with a dead boy named Jason.

teach me a kinder way to say your name – Soulmate AU, Getting Together | Completed, 6,131 words A terrible sleepless night. A perfectly soft morning after.

listen to the sound of you blinking – Gotham Knights AU, Supernatural Vibes, Hurt/Mild Comfort, Open Ending | Completed, 6,252 words Jason keeps popping up in Tim’s room, drawn by something he doesn’t quite understand, something quiet, something safe.

yearning (to keep you warm) – Tim is Bad at Self-Care, Biting, Literal Sleeping Together, Implied Sexual Content | Completed, 4,265 words Jason babysits Tim.

where you land – Fluff, Accidental Kissing, First Dates | Completed, 3,354 words Tim starts to realize that falling isn’t so bad when he knows Jason is there to catch him.

a gift, preserved – Crack Fic, Tim Gets His Spleen Back | Completed, 2,361 words Jason asked a teenager boy for dating advice. It went great.

🚨 NSFW 🚨

it's snowing like it’s the end of the world – Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Case Fic | WIP, 19,664 words (6/?) Tim goes missing. Jason has feelings about it.

red lips, white lace – PWP, Feminization Kink, Tim in a Skirt | Completed, 11,122 words Jason does Tim’s makeup. He can't wait until he can ruin it, too.

a quiet place to sleep – Hurt/Mild Comfort, Depression, Blood and Injury, Smut | Completed, 17,789 words After a nearly fatal injury, Tim is forced to reconnect with his family. He expects the worst, but it’s surprising how fast things can change for the better. Healing and romance ensue.

bruises fade, feelings stay (I just want to be your boyfriend) – Friends with Benefits, Mutual Pining, 4+1 Things, Misunderstandings | Completed, 12,681 words Four times Jason tries to show Tim how he feels + one time it actually works out.

unfinished verses – Fluff and Smut, BJs, Pride and Prejudice is Ruined Forever for Jason | Completed, 7,213 words “Did you seriously just compare Pride and Prejudice to our toilet roll debate? Are you listening to yourself?”

[whispering-clan]

The Costal Valley Territories

I made a map of the Whisper-verse clan's territories!

These clans live alongside the sea in a small valley split by a river!

Note: this map is more representative than entirely accurate, I just tried to show the basic idea of what the territories look like.

Descriptions of the Clan Territories below!

Moon Island:

Moon Island is both the gathering place for the clans on the full moon, and the place where the majority of the clans (excluding Whisperingclan) go to speak to Starclan. In the middle of the island where the trees form a circle around a large stone, the leaders will perch for meetings. This is also where cats wishing to speak to Starclan sit- under the light of the moon and stars.

...

Age/origin: Youngest clan; formed after the founders were banished from Roaringclan for a coup against the new leader.

Whisperingclan:

Mood Board

Territory: the tallest mountains, rocky, though with some trees, grass and bushes interspersed with the stone. There are a few small creeks and pools running through the mountains due to rain and snow run off, there are also several caves within the mountain. The winter is the worst here with the high altitude and high snowfall.

Camp: the Whispering Cave, a large cave filed with mystical glowing crystals which seem to whisper with the words of the Starclan ancestors. There are several pools above the cave, from which small streams of water fall through cracks in the stone into the cave.

Borders: the River marks the border with Roaringclan and SIngingclan; the border with Growlingclan is only marked with scent markers, though the change in territories can also be seen in the mountain peaks becoming lower and sharper in Growling territory.

...

Roaringclan:

Age/Origin: One of the oldest clans, formed at the same time as Singingclan and Echoingclan; territory was once larger, but was taken over by humans.

Territory: grassy, hilly, plains. Notable features are small patches of trees and bushes, a lake, a muddy/ soil patch by the river, and many little burrows to be found amongst the hills.

Camp: the Abandoned Burrows, a circle of empty fox burrows surrounded by trees and bushes.

Borders: the River marks the border with Whisperingclan; the creek marks the borders of Singingclan and Weepingclan; and on all other sides a human fence marks where their territory ends and the Human Farms begin.

...

Weepingclan:

Age/Origin: Second youngest, though still far older than Whisperingclan; formed from Singingclan separating into two clans, not from any all out fighting, but the realization that there were two obvious separate groups (in skill and personality) in the clan that could survive better in the separate territories.

Territory: marsh lands and dark forests made up of willows and oaks. The forests have soft thick wet peat, though there are some rocky places. Tall grasses and reeds grow around the marsh giving good cover.

Camp: The Weeping Grotto, a large cave opening within a rocky area of the forest of which is surrounded by the largest and oldest weeping willows of the territory.

Borders: the border with Roaringclan is marked by the creek; the border with Singingclan is marked by scent markers, though the change in territories can also be seen in the change in types of trees; the small piece of border with Echoingclan is separated by the river at it's widest, though both clans lay claim to half of the row of stepping stones which could connect the territories; the border which is not shared with any clan stops where human trails (hiking trails) begin, farther from there are human dens and farms.

...

Singingclan:

Age/Origin: One of the oldest clans, formed at the same time as Roaringclan and Echoingclan; originally encompassed Weepingclan as well, but they amicably separated into two clans for better survival.

Territory: forests made of oak and birch along with meadows filled with wildflowers and grasses. Through the center of the territory runs the River and a small creek shoots off through the territory as well. the river is banked by reeds and other water plants.

Camp: the River Hollow, a space surrounded by trees in the center of the island in the middle of the River within their territory.

Borders: the border with Roaringclan is marked by the creek; the border with Whispering and Growlingclan is marked by the River; the border with Weepingclan is marked by scent markers, though the change in territories can also be seen in the change of types of trees; and the border with Echoingclan is marked with scent markers, though it is easy to tell where it is, it is where the sand begins.

...

Echoingclan:

Age/Origin: One of the oldest clans, formed at the same time as Roaringclan and Singingclan; originally encompassed Growlingclan as well, though unlike Weeping and Singing, the separation was born from civil war, the losing side being Growlingclan.

Territory: a beach, almost entirely sand with only costal plants growing in the territory. There is a cliff line which is made up of rock, at the higher end of which the beach is mostly rock with tide pools, weathered stone arches, and the opening to a system of sea caves. This territory seems small, but the sea caves stretch out underneath for large expanses, and even under Growlingclan's territory, Echoingclan lays claim to all of the cave system even under other clan's terriotories.

Camp: the Sea Caves, mostly the large cavern formed at the front opening of the Sea Caves but some cats may even make their own dens in smaller off shoots of the caves as well.

Borders: most of their borders are at the sea's edge, though their borders with the other clans are marked with scent markers; it is easy to tell where territories end however. the border with Singingclan is where Singing's grass begins, and the border with Growlingclan is where the mountain's stone begins.

...

Growlingclan:

Age/Origin: Third youngest, though still far older than Whisperingclan; formed from Echoingclan separating into two clans, two factions in the clan had formed and went into a civil war, Echoing won and banished the losing side to the far less hospitable side of the territory.

Territory: Truly one of the harshest territories, the lower levels of the mountains, rocky sharp lands that end with cliffs along the sea shore that are too high to dare try to reach the sea. There are small groups of shrubs and small trees, but little else in the form of plant life. there are some small pools which are cherished as they are the only certain sources of water.

Camp: the Broken Crag, a cliff face which is broken in places revealing small caves where cats can make dens.

Borders: the border with Whisperingclan is marked with scent markers though the change in territories can also be seen through the mountain peaks becoming higher in Whispering territory; the small border with Singingclan is marked with the river; the border with Echoingclan is marked with scent markers though it is easy to tell where the border is, it is where the sand begins.

[jsmelodies]

I'd Go Back to the Winter

Five years ago, Elain Archeron loved Lucien Vanserra. Supposedly. She can’t remember a single second of it. And the only way to bring it back is to relive it all.

@laxibbeb It's me, your Secret Santa for the @acotargiftexchange!

It has been so, so lovely getting to know you over the past couple of months. I'll admit that I was nervous about trying my hand at Elucien, but I've enjoyed our talks so much and getting to be creative with this!

I really stepped out of my comfort zone with this one. I do usually stay in canon verse, but not typically in this way. I played around with it a lot here - and I had so much fun doing it!

You said you liked fanfics that were a little Out There, so I really hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it💕

Read here on ao3

Chapter 1

The figure slid into Lucien’s booth just as he finished the last dregs of ale. The long, dark cloak billowed with the movement of footsteps across the creaking floorboards.

The tavern air was humid and sticky, and the fabric of his jacket clung to his chest with sweat. But it was better than the air outside, with a wind so cold it might freeze off the extremities on his face. 

And although Lucien had never had a problem staying warm, this was no night for anyone to be outside.

The tavern was one of Velaris’ worst. Perhaps one that his mate’s sister might have frequented, back when she did such things. Maybe that was why she picked it, taking the first seedy tavern that popped into her head.

It didn’t matter to him.

Truth be told, this was one of the last places he wanted to be. Being in this damned city was bad enough, without the invitation that he couldn’t refuse. 

Meet me. Written in that perfect, delicate handwriting that was the result of years of forced practice, of tutoring until she looped her letters and dotted her i’s just so. A trained courtier she could certainly be, if she ever wished it. With her pleasant smiles that could bring a man to his knees, she was suited for it. 

She lit up a room, bringing it to life. In all ways that mattered.

Her bedroom in the human lands had been anything but dull. Much to her sister’s dismay, she had ivy growing on the walls, even in the wintertime, filling the room with a lush green that drew his eyes from the drab landscape of the human realm. There were potted plants, flowers that reached for the scarce sunlight that set way too quickly. Never enough time, never enough light.

But under her thumb, they thrived. They were vibrant, an explosion of color as they sat on her windowsill. 

Persevering. Enduring. Making the most out of what was sparsely given.

Elain Archeron was meant to be in the sunlight. She was light. And even in the mortal lands, it had been clear as day.

The tavern surrounded her in shadow. The cloak she wore covered everything, concealing her identity from all who would dare to look. So utterly dramatic, his mate.

“Elain. Lovely to see you.”

She forced a smile that had become common between them as of late. “Lucien.”

Her hands grabbed the sides of the hood to bring it down around her neck. The tips of her ears poked out from her hair, golden and set in near perfect curls on her back. When she was human, the pattern had been different—still beautiful, but in soft waves that he could run his fingers through.

Now, though, he was almost scared to touch, in fear of ruining their perfection. If she even let him get that far.

She’d been pretty before the war, devastatingly so. Even then, he’d known that he wasn’t enough for her. Elain Archeron was a woman that kings went to war over, and somehow, she’d fallen into his arms instead: a landless emissary with next to nothing to offer. 

But her, as high fae? He had to admit that she’d always been meant to be this way. Even if she disagreed, and hated him for thinking so. He hated himself for thinking it, too.

Her eyes widened as she took in the scene around her. The drunk males leered at them from the bartop, and her nose scrunched at the scent that made its way into her nose. She was out of place here, with the pristine dress that he was sure she wore under her cloak, and the clink of gold that he could hear on her wrists. 

“This seems like the last place a lady such as yourself would want to meet,” he said. “I do admit, I am quite surprised you suggested it.”

“No one will bother us here,” she explained. 

When the barkeep looked their way, Lucien raised his hand in silent request for his glass to be refilled. Elain, however, shook her head when the male’s attention shifted to her, declining what he offered.

“Ah, yes. You wouldn’t want your family seeing us together, would you? It would send the wrong idea.”

She gave him a cruel smile. Well, as cruel as someone like Elain could manage. “Exactly.”

He leaned forward so his weight rested on his elbows, just as his next mug of ale arrived. He let it sit there, his attention focused entirely elsewhere.

The female across from him was much, much more important.

Some things never changed, he supposed. Her tells were the same as they always had been. Still not entirely used to her fae body, he assumed she didn’t know that he could hear it, the slight shake of her leg beneath the table.

Easy enough to hide, from wandering eyes. Indistinguishable enough that she wouldn’t have been chastised for it.

But he could hear it. Faintly. Steadily. The scratch of her heel along the wood of the bar seat, moving up and down as she stared.

Elain Archeron, for all intents and purposes, was nervous.

“I was wondering when you would eventually want to see me again,” he commented, at last picking up the ale that was waiting for him.

That little fire in her eyes sparked. The one that warmed the brown, full of indignation that had once been trained into submission. He’d brought it out of her, stoking it to life once. And he’d loved every second of it.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Because the mating bond pulls at you, doesn’t it? Just like it does for me?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s presumptuous of you.”

But she gave him that look she always did when she knew she was backed into a corner. So he said, “It pulls and pulls, and at some point, you wonder what you’re missing.”

She didn’t deny him. Call him an arrogant prick all she wanted, but he was right, wasn’t he?

“Well, what is it? You want to give it another go? You want to break the bond? What do you want?”

He didn’t see her next words coming. “I want to remember how it happened.”

The question blanketed over the air between them. It thickened the room like smoke, to the point that he could hardly think, or breathe.

She wanted to know. About them, and how he’d broken her heart. Which, given how they ended up in this predicament, he wasn’t overly convinced to do.

“No.”

“No?”

“Last I remembered, you were begging to forget me.” Lucien offered her a smile, but he knew without looking at it that it didn’t meet his eyes. “I’d be a terrible mate if I took that back, wouldn’t I?”

“But I’m asking you to.” She blinked in that way of hers that showed off her long eyelashes, slow and intentional. It was how she got what she wanted, he’d learned. “It would make a wonderful Solstice present.”

“I was thinking of a nice necklace instead. Perhaps to match the earrings you never wear.”

“Charming.” She leaned back in the seat, crossing her arms across her chest. “I do think I would prefer this, though.”

Delightful. This was exactly how he wanted to spend the holidays: dragging a female that hated him across Prythian.

It was what that damned witch had told him to do if he ever wanted to reverse it. He’d tracked her all the way to the edges of Oorid, to the place right before the wetland consumed the ground entirely. The small cottage had been built upon the squishy mud, stabilized by some ancient magic that he felt twisting around his bones.

It went quickly. They had struck a bargain. 

There was no other payment he could offer to a witch that fed on memories, so he’d offered one of his most precious ones, in exchange for the piece of her magic he desired.

The magic that Elain had pleaded for.

And with that magic, came very clear instructions. For Elain to remember any of it, she had to experience it all again: every twist and turn, every moment of joy and heartbreak.

It was painful for him to think about, even five years later. What would it be like for it all to be fresh in her mind again?

“You want to know the story, then?” he asked. “You want to relive it? You want to hate me even more than you already do?” He couldn’t stop his lip from raising in a slight sneer. “Tell me this, Elain. What will you do when you learn? Because I could handle it once, your hatred. But I don’t think I’m inclined to be on the receiving end of that anger again.”

She held his stare for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. I promise I will have a reaction that is perfectly acceptable.”

“I’m sorry if I don’t trust your promises.” The words came out more harshly than he intended. 

She let the words linger.

Her eyes blazed through the space, perfect and defiant and everything he was supposed to love. “I don’t think I hate you anymore.”

The words cut through him, unrelenting as they tore through his heart. Five years ago, he craved to hear those words. 

He knew the truth of it—that there was a fine line between love and hate. And that Elain Archeron loved him such that she’d lost herself in it, that with that final blow, it was so easy for it to switch. To cross that line into loathing, until she couldn’t even bear to be in the same room as him.

“I loved you. Didn’t I?” she asked.

He took a sip, and set his glass down on the table. “You did.”

Her lips set into a line, and she straightened in her seat. “I want to know why.” When he didn’t respond, she said a touch softer, “I’m ready to know why.”

Maybe five years was enough to lessen the hurt of it. It was that thought that sparked hope in his chest, that this might be enough to get them talking again. He wouldn’t go quite so far as to hope for her forgiveness. No, that wouldn’t come for a long while.

Maybe, though, they could take that first step.

He looked over her, his decision made. “Pack a bag, Elain. This is going to take a while.”

***

She met him in the morning. She slipped out of the river house before anyone was awake to notice her leave, placing a single note on the main table excusing her absence for the next week.

A garden on the other side of Velaris, was what she said. With enough detail to bore Feyre and Nesta to death, so that they would leave it alone.

No one would investigate. She’d never given them a reason to.

She’d never been to his apartment, yet she knew where it was. That golden thread in her chest knew where to find him, leading her through the labyrinth of Velaris’ streets until she arrived at a building in the heart of the business district, tall and made from red bricks from the mountain range that surrounded the city.

She didn’t understand it. She didn’t think she ever would. How sometimes it felt like he was wrapped around her heart, coiled around it tightly in a tapestry of golden light.

How she could feel his essence through it—something she felt like she was supposed to miss, without knowing why.

How was she supposed to miss someone she didn’t remember? 

She missed the laugh that she couldn’t place. The steady breathing that she was sure appeared when he was in a deep sleep, passed out beside her, even if it never formed fully in her mind’s depth.

Sometimes when she saw the glint in his hair, or when the sun hit the russet brown of his eye, she felt a pang in her chest. There was the urge to take those long strands through her fingers, and cup his face with her palm.

Sometimes, she swore she felt the faintest of touches. His lips against her own, the ghost of his hand along her waist. Her hip.

She could hear the soft rasp of his whisper, air pressing against the shell of her ear. Could see the slightest dimple from his smile.

Like she had known once what it had meant to be loved; cherished. 

It always slipped from her mind like smoke. And, quite honestly, she didn’t know how she was able to miss it. But she knew that she did, even though she couldn’t name any of it.

Just as dawn broke, she knocked firmly on his apartment door. It was towards the back of the hallway on the second floor, and he answered within mere seconds.

The two of them exchanged brief greetings, awkward and strained as she avoided his eyes. He took her bag from her, slinging it over his shoulder with a graceful movement. She fought to keep her jaw shut, watching the firm lines of muscle flex under his pressed jacket. She’d always found him handsome, even in those early days after the Cauldron, when she hated him and didn’t know why. All she knew then was that she’d begged him to take it away—and he had.

Elain took his hand, and then he brought them through that void in between space. They landed in the middle of the woods, the mortal woods, and the nearly rotted leaves poked out through the snow.

Before them stood a cottage, one that was all too familiar.

For years, she’d lived here. Suffered through harsh winters. Prayed that a single vegetable would grow in that garden, in the hopes that they might be fed.

She hated this cottage.

Memories slammed through her, of trying to stop Feyre and Nesta from ripping each other’s throats out. She’d played mediator for far too long in that house, taking the middle of the bed when her sisters could barely stand to look at each other, even in the height of summer when all she could feel was her sisters’ body heat melting onto her.

The cottage hadn’t fared well, it seemed. The roof had finally caved in, and vines covered the chipped wooden walls.

No one could possibly live here now. She didn’t even know how they lived here all those years ago. Looking at it now, it was pathetic. Certainly not fit for a family of four. If anything, it was fit for a family of squirrels.

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

Sympathy filled his expression, as if he knew the toll that all those years in poverty had taken. Maybe they’d talked about it at great length, before it happened.

Did she share everything with him? All her insecurities, all her doubts? Her dreams of leaving this place behind, and exploring what the world had to offer?

She didn’t know. But Lucien looked at her like he knew her, like his soul was familiar with hers. And she hated it, hated how some part of her reached out and grabbed some invisible hand. How he seemed to reach back, sliding a comforting thumb over the center of her palm.

Even as her hands laid limply at her sides. That phantom touch terrified her, and she knew it was the bond. Knew it was her trying to find comfort, and him trying to provide it.

It was part of why she stayed away from him for so long. The mating bond was a sixth sense, one that she had gone nearly a quarter of a century without. Using it felt unnatural; different from anything she had ever known.

His eyes dropped to her hands for just a moment, before he cleared his throat. “We will not stay here incredibly long, I assure you. As I recall, you were not fond of this place.” He offered her a hesitant smile, and said, “All stories have a beginning, though, and ours starts here.”

***

A snowflake fell to the ground as Lucien approached the cottage in the woods.

He adjusted his sleeves, shivering in the wind that seeped in through his jacket and chilled his Autumn blood. He’d forgotten how cold the mortal lands could be this time of year. With Spring always remaining a constant, lovely temperature, he supposed he’d become a bit spoiled. And he hadn’t done a route through here in ages.

Had Andras been cold when he died? 

He imagined the blood of his friend staining the snow a bright red. He imagined a mortal huntress bringing him down with a single ash arrow, and skinning the pelt right off of him. He shuddered at the thought, and forced it from his mind.

He’d never met these humans, but he hated them already. No matter that they hadn’t been the ones to fire the arrow. It was irrational, he knew. For they were the reason his friend had died. His death had been toasted at their dinner table, while they ate and clinked their glasses.

Andras had to die. He knew that. But Andras had been his friend, and they spent most of their evenings playing cards by the crackling fire.

The human had killed his friend, and Tamlin was already acting like a lovesick fool. Offering a damned estate to mortals who he didn’t owe a single copper to. A house that wasn’t about to collapse in on itself would have worked just fine, if you asked him.

Looking at the cabin in front of him, he noted that it was rather pathetic. A thin stream of smoke escaped from a hole in the roof, and he knew just from looking at it that the fire below couldn’t possibly be warming the entire cabin.

Tamlin had done a number on this place. The door was barely on its hinges, as if somebody had made a poor attempt of putting it back into place.

There was a garden in the front, barren from the winter, with only a few lifeless shrubs to indicate that anything had ever grown here in the first place. And the rest of it was drab, more so than he expected, and he had to force his sympathy deep down in his chest where it belonged.

He’d do his job, play his part, and then he could get damn well out of here.

He raised his hands to the door, making sure to knock lightly enough so the door wouldn’t fall right off.

At first, he thought no one would answer. Perhaps without Feyre here, the family had frozen in the cold. He hoped that wasn’t the case, for the sole reason that it might complicate matters. Feyre would be far less cooperative if she learned that her human family no longer breathed, and…

As the thought formed in his mind, he realized how terrible it sounded.

To his relief, though, Then there was a shuffling across the floor, starting from the other side of the cabin, it sounded like, and the door was pulled back just a hair.

Even though Tamlin glamoured him before he left, this woman seemed to stare at where his mask should be, at where his now round ears would normally point into tips.

So, this was the family that the human girl had talked about. He tried to keep his unimpressed look contained as the woman opened the door wider, a sneer already forming on her face.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Miss Archeron?” he asked.

She was silent for a moment. “What is it to you?”

“Your father’s ships. They’ve landed at the docks.”

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. It would have been entirely so, if he had been untrained to pick up on such things.

But despite how well-constructed this woman’s mask was, he could pick apart the apprehension, and the disbelief.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“You can call me Lucien,” he said, giving a polite dip of his head. “As I said, the ships arrived just this morning. We couldn’t quite believe it, after all these years.”

She blinked, long and slow. “I won’t fall for your tricks.” She stepped back from the doorway just enough so she could bring the door forward. She said with a snarl, “I would advise you to leave.”

He shoved his foot into the space between the door and the wall, holding back his wince when the woman didn’t hesitate in her movement. It dug into his foot with a searing pain, and the force that this mortal woman put into her blow almost made him wince.

Still, though, he forced his face to be pleasant. “And what makes you think it is a lie?” It rolled smoothly off of his tongue, meant to put the woman at ease.

It didn’t work. Instead, her gaze narrowed on him, ladled with suspicion.

“Nesta, let the man inside,” came a soft lilt from behind her.

Nesta, he assumed, held the door in a death grip, not budging even after the other woman had told her otherwise. Until that woman came to the doorway herself, to see the commotion with her own eyes.

Her own beautiful, deep brown eyes.

Poverty could only hide so much. Even in her simple dress, and the meals she clearly lacked, she was ethereal anyways—a goddess that had somehow taken a human form, who deigned to look at the stranger upon her doorstep with warmth.

He sketched a bow, and murmured, “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure, lady…?”

The corners of her lips lifted as she blushed. “Elain.”

[nanamincreampie]

Be My Baby

Nanami Kento x Black plus size reader

(I was kinda inspired by the song to do this)

It was one of those rare afternoons when Kento worked from home, his neatly organized desk covered with papers and spreadsheets. You had tiptoed around the house all morning, knowing how seriously he took his work. But the quiet was suffocating by lunchtime, and you couldn’t take it anymore.

Humming to yourself, you fiddled with your speaker, scrolling through your playlist until you found the perfect song. A smile spread across your face as the first notes began to play, the unmistakable rhythm of the drums echoing through the living room.

The night we met, I knew I needed you sooooo

The lyrics filled the air, and you couldn’t resist. Twirling around in your oversized t-shirt and shorts, you danced across the room, your curls bouncing as you sang along.

Kento, seated at the dining table just a few feet away, paused mid-typing. His brow furrowed, and he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze landing on you spinning like you didn’t have a care in the world.

And if I had the chance, I'd never let you go

Your voice was slightly off-key, but it didn’t matter. You clutched an invisible microphone in your hands, dramatically lip-syncing the next line.

So won’t you say you love me? I’ll make you so proud of me

“Y/N,” Kento called, his tone exasperated but soft.

You ignored him, swaying closer until you were right in front of him. With a playful grin, you grabbed his hand and tugged. “C’mon, Kento! Just one dance!”

“Absolutely not,” he replied, though the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

We’ll make 'em turn their heads every place we go

As the beat picked up, you grabbed both his hands, encouraging him to sway with you. His movements were stiff at first, but as your giggles filled the air, Kento let himself relax.

“There you go!” you cheered, beaming up at him.

For a moment, he forgot about the spreadsheets and the endless emails waiting for him. Watching you laugh and spin, your joy lighting up the entire room, Kento couldn’t help but chuckle. He gave in, pulling you close and twirling you with surprising grace.

So won’t you please (Be my, be my baby) Be my little baby

You threw your head back against him, laughing and pointing your finger toward the ceiling in time with the lyrics. Kento chuckled low in his throat, a sound that made your stomach flip.

(My one and only baby) Say you’ll be my darling

As the song crooned on, you leaned into him fully, letting his strong arms steady you as you exaggerated your hip sways, laughing each time he grumbled about being dragged into your “antics.”

(Be my, be my baby) Be my baby now

By the time the second verse began, you were twirling away from him again, clapping and dramatically acting out every word.

I’ll make you happy, baby, just wait and see

You paused mid-step, turning toward him with your hands on your hips and a playful pout. “C’mon, Kento, I know you wanna sing this part with me!”

Kento raised a brow. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, you’re no fun!” you groaned, grabbing his hand and pulling him into another spin.

For every kiss you give me, I’ll give you three

“Keep pulling me like that, and you’re going to trip over yourself,” he muttered, his hand tightening on yours.

Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you

You ignored him, twirling dramatically, the hem of your oversized t-shirt flying up slightly. Kento caught the flash of skin at your waist and immediately steadied you with both hands, muttering under his breath about how reckless you were.

You know I will adore you 'til eternity

Your laughter bubbled up again, the sound sweeter than the song itself.

When the chorus repeated, Kento surprised you.

Without a word, he pulled you flush against him, holding your body close to his as he swayed lightly to the beat. You gasped, then giggled, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Kento!”

“What?” he replied, his expression soft as his hands rested on the plush curve of your hips. “You wanted me to dance, didn’t you?”

The warmth of his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you stopped moving. His fingers gently trailed up your sides, his palms brushing over your soft waist. “Keep going,” he murmured.

Your grin returned in full force as the music swelled.

So won’t you please (Be my, be my baby) Be my little baby

You finished the song nestled against his chest, his steady movements guiding yours. When the music faded, you turned to look up at him, your breath still coming in quick bursts from all the dancing.

“That wasn’t so bad, right?” you asked cheekily, resting your hands on his chest.

Kento's lips curved into a small smile. “If it makes you happy, it’s worth it.”

Your heart melted at his words, and you leaned up to kiss him, your soft lips meeting his in a way that made his arms tighten around your waist.

“Best dance partner ever,” you whispered.

“Don’t push it,” he teased, but the warmth in his gaze said otherwise.

[jekyll-doodles]

The Ladies of Addagala || Kofi | Commission Info | Threadless Shop|| Do not edit, trace, or repost!

So this started as another one-off bit that involved drawing the lords of Alagadda with inverted colors, but it grew into a whole realm with Lore. The finding of this place written below, pov of my sprite persona.

[ You would think I would have learned my lesson by now, considering how the blame fell on me for witnessing and then interfering with these kinds of entities. But, no. And so, with the knowing expectation that I will be held responsible for merely observing this, I wish to tell you what I saw while around the outer boundaries of ■■■ verse, ■■■ space-■■■ time, "SCP Wakey Wakey"’s reality. It would appear that, by accident, a secondary nexus evolved from my observations of Alagadda and its tributaries. An attempt by What Is and What Isn’t to balance out the chaos of the city-state: an antithesis. Such a place is a hefty feast to observe by oneself – hence my absence – so I took in what I could for now. More undoubtedly lingers beneath its glossy surface.]

The Land of Addagala – a name a little too on-the-nose in my opinion, but that's not important – was a citywide sanctuary locked within a snowglobe. The first notable sensation I recall being the chill in the air; I learned later that it became just warm enough in its spring and summer seasons to let the flowers bloom and produce fruit. A warmth that apparently came not from the grey sun, but that radiated out from their beloved monarch. The sun, which also acted as its moon, was more of a static decoration in the sky. No sunrise or sunset; the day faded into night into day into night again without it. The kingdom’s borders were high stone walls, beyond which was a mystery that even my kind could not perceive; it simply did not exist. Leaving through the gates led out to… Well, it led me out to Nowhere, but others presumably back their native reality (hopefully). Within said walls were sprawling, spiraling meadows, pastures, and gardens. Neat rows of simplistic homes and facilities leading up to its centerpiece: a modest basilica with a clock tower that stretched far higher than seemed necessary. Everything within this scenery had its similarly mandated colors – or only naturally occurring ones depending on the realm’s laws– of Silver, Indigo, Sapphire, and Turquoise.

After a general overview, I floated down and followed one of the branching stone paths in the garden. Blue roses and peonies lined in neat spirals, soft turquoise grasses, beautiful stone statues, bumbly honey bees buzzing about; I must’ve spent hours in the garden alone. The aforementioned clocktower would sweetly chime each hour before falling into a peaceful quiet again. I spied a few citizens there as I perused the flowers. Besides the silver masks (also mandatory here), they dressed in accordance with the cold weather: Long gowns, capes, and sleeves; furs, feathers, and fluff; soft, warm, and layered to keep the cold at bay. I learned later that those unfortunate few to enter without proper fittings would not stay cold long as the advising Ladies and their orderlies would happily provide suitable clothing. Their motives are well-intentioned, yet also motivated by an implied modesty dress code. Suppose I should have expected as much from the opposite Alagadda.

It was there within the gardens where I found the first lady of the city: Lady Turquoise, wearer of the Solemn mask. Dignified yet understanding. Her stature towered, imposing an air of respect. She was hard at work tending to the hedges; precise in every movement and measurement. A look within revealed more about her and the kingdom itself: This place had a rigid sense of time and a stern set of rules to keep order: both of which were expected to be followed by every citizen. And schedules needed to be planned, written, and updated by someone. The sense of such strict routines was somewhat nauseating – and I like routine, mind you. But now, in a moment of allowed leisure, she tended to her gardens. I would’ve lingered longer to watch her work, but the hint of desperate perfectionism within warded me off. I drifted off towards the main square.

More citizens, and few visitors, were found here. Pleasantly conversing, eating lunches, etc. It was hard to imagine this place had any tie to Alagadda, opposite or not. The mundanity of it was too… mundane. Even the silver masks adorn by all only gave a small sense of strangeness. Even the appearance of the second lady held little fanfare – if you could even call it that. Lady Silver, wearer of the Solaceful mask. A face that knew deep sorrow yet so hopeful. She was out on a daily constitutional, greeted by the occasional passerby. As I lingered near her, more revealed itself: this was a place of pacifism. Violence of any kind would not be tolerated and be “corrected”. That word always worried me, and for good reason. As the clocktower chimed again, I saw how these “corrections” were made. The tower held many rooms: rooms of solitary for those who needed time to accept the help they were so graciously getting. To break those unfortunate habits they brought with them. Truly, they – well, Lady Silver here had her doubts about it, how helpful – believed this method was humane. My growing disappointment accompanied me as I continued my investigation. The city’s basilica awaited.

More flowers, statues, and an endearing fountain decorated the atrium. A faint humming led me to its kitchen. A friendly tune, hummed by a most friendly person. The third lady of the city: Lady Sapphire, wearer of the Amiable mask. Her countenance bore a gentle, inviting smile. She was discussing medicines with a few visitors it seemed, all while baking some kind of honey pastry. Each and every concern of theirs was met with reassurance, every question had a simple answer. There within her I saw the purpose of the city: to be a place of healing and peace. Vows of sobriety, working treatments for nearly every ailment, and a steadfast belief that anyone could be rehabilitated. Such an unwavering optimist, of her own skills and of people in general, that it was almost… concerning. I did not peer any further.

I meant to keep this short, I really did. However, recalling the little pleasant details before Knowing has helped me get to this point. I remember the walls and columns of the nave being a marble of some kind, streaked with silver and indigo. The natural lighting filtering in and mingling with the grey candle lights. Upon the bema towards the altar, lavish bouquets had been placed. I wish I could have enjoyed the scenery longer – I wish I could have enjoyed Addagala in general longer. However, that is not possible now. There upon the altar stood a large crystalline coffin, occupied by a giant corpse wrapped in glimmering, gossamer shrouds: their beloved monarch, the Charred Queen, seemingly at rest in eternal tranquility. And kneeling at her feet, was the fourth lady of the city: Lady Indigo, wearer of the Quiescent Mask. A face serene in sleep. She was deep in prayer, some hushed communion with the queen. Beseechments of guidance, blessings, and the like. I went to peer in to gain some more insight…

But I found nothing. Hollow. Instead, I felt a connection, a string if you will, leading back to the queen’s corpse. So I followed, and I looked within her instead.

I left the basilica hastily. Back out into the open, chilly air. Up, up, up towards the grey sun until the strange claustrophobic feeling left my chest. Having experienced similar horrors already, it should not have surprised me and I should have expected it, but as you can see  – I did not learn my lesson! After a moment to calm down, I decided to make one more investigation before leaving. Hesitantly, I stepped down onto the grounds of the garden. All around me revealed the brilliant branching life of the plants, healthy and prospering. Then… then there were the “statues”. Some brighter than others, some were dimming, but none were extinguished completely…The lucky few to receive the Queen's “blessing”, I learned : an eternal state of peace in the land of Addagala. Or at least, that's what the queen told them, the Ladies, everyone...

No. She would not rest peacefully anymore.

All it would take. Is one. Little. Push.

~~~