#surface pressure has such a good beat

[lifeisbutadream444]

Do It Scared.

Aaron Pierre x Reader

Summary: Aaron left your shared apartment in New York three months ago to film the biggest movie of his career, and every day since, the distance between you has grown. When photos surface of him looking a little too comfortable with an actress at an event, you hit your breaking point and decide to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Warnings: smut

Note: Partially inspired by a Terry fic I read on here recently. Link at the end <3

Word Count: 8.5k

The silence in your apartment feels heavier these days.

It used to be filled with his voice—his deep, warm laugh echoing through the space, his teasing remarks as he stole bites of whatever you were cooking.

But now, it’s just you. Just the quiet hum of the city outside your window, the occasional vibration of your phone lighting up with a text that never seems to be from him.

Aaron has been in L.A. for three months now, filming the biggest project of his career. A high-budget action film that is officially making him a "household name" in Hollywood according to the press.

And you? You’re still here in New York. Still in your shared apartment, still going through the motions of your life as an interior designer, still waiting for some sign that you belong in his world now.

You’ve supported him through everything—the auditions, the rejections, the near-misses. You were there when he was barely making rent, when he was working odd jobs between gigs, when he questioned if this dream was even worth it.

Now he’s finally getting everything he ever wanted.

And you’re not sure where that leaves you.

You don’t want to be that girlfriend. The one who demands answers, who needs reassurances, who can’t handle a little distance. But this feels different.

You thought he’d at least ask you to visit him by now. Thought he’d tell you he missed you so much that he couldn’t take another night apart.

Instead, he’s been busier than ever, responding to your texts hours later and giving you clipped responses during your phone calls.

You understood that he was under an immense amount of pressure, trying to carry a film on his back for the first time in his career. You tried your best to not add to his stress by not complaining about any of it.

Your phone vibrates on the kitchen counter, snapping you out of your thoughts.

Aaron.

You let it ring twice before answering, not wanting to seem like you were waiting for it. You know it’s silly this far into your relationship, but you do it anyway.

“Hey,” you say, keeping your voice light.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rich, deep—but tired. He always sounds tired when he calls now. “What are you doing?”

You glance around the kitchen, where your laptop is still open from the project you were reviewing. “Trying to be a responsible adult. What about you?”

Aaron exhales a small laugh. “Trying to not lose my mind, memorizing all these lines.”

You smile despite yourself. “How was set today?” you ask.

“Long,” he sighs. “Good, though. Just… a lot.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t press. He never used to be like this. Before, he would tell you everything—the directors he liked, the actors who annoyed him, the lines he struggled with.

Now, it’s just good, though.

“What’s new in the life of America’s Newest Obsession?” you ask, holding up a copy of GQ with his face on it. You couldn’t resist buying it when you came across it at CVS earlier that day.

Aaron groans, covering his face with his hand. “Don’t start.”

“What? You’re the one out there in L.A. making the whole world fall in love with you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then—softer—“Only care about one person being in love with me.”

“Smooth,” you murmur, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips.

“I try.” he teases.

You shake your head. God, you miss him. But you don’t say that, either. Instead, you exhale, glancing at the time. It’s late for him, even with the three hour time difference. His call time is usually 5:00 am.

“You should get some sleep,” you murmur.

Aaron hesitates. “You trying to get rid of me?”

You chuckle. “Just trying to keep you on track as always.”

A beat. Then—“I miss you.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone. You know he means it. But missing someone and making sure they don’t feel forgotten aren’t the same thing.

“I miss you too,” you admit softly.

Another pause. This one longer.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Aaron murmurs.

You nod, secretly wishing he would ask you to stay on the phone or tell you more about his day. “Okay.”

And then, just like that, the call ends.

You set your phone down on the counter, staring at it for a long moment.

Waiting for the heaviness in your chest to pass.

It doesn’t.

--------

You knew this would happen eventually.

Aaron has always been desirable. He’s talented, charming, and now—famous. The kind of famous that has the internet scrutinizing his every move, every glance, every woman he so much as breathes near.

You’re sitting on your couch, wine glass untouched, staring at the screen.

It’s everywhere.

Aaron, seated next to Emilia Stark at an award show.

She’s beautiful. Confident in a way that commands attention. They’re leaning in close, talking, laughing, her hand resting lightly on his arm. The cameras captured it all.

The headlines are already writing the love story for them:

"Hollywood’s Next Power Couple?"

"Aaron Pierre and Emilia Stark Spark Dating Rumors at Award Show."

Your stomach twists as you scroll through the comments, knowing you shouldn’t, knowing you’re going to hate every word.

You close the app, but it doesn’t stop the thoughts from spiraling.

You’re his woman. Have been for four years. But no one knows that.

Because Aaron wanted privacy. Because you both agreed it wasn’t the world’s business. Because he didn’t want everyone scrutinizing your every move.

But now, with the world watching, you wonder if privacy was just another way to keep you out of his new life.

Aaron doesn’t call that night.

He always calls.

Even when he’s exhausted, even when he’s jet-lagged, even when he’s drunk from whatever post-event party he’s forced to attend. He always finds time for you.

But tonight? Nothing.

You stare at your phone, the screen dark, taunting.

Your stomach is in knots, your mind looping through the possibilities like a film reel stuck on repeat. Did he talk to her all night? Did he think about calling you and decide against it? Did he take her home? Did he notice the internet already crowning her his queen and think—

You squeeze your eyes shut, banishing the thought before it can finish forming.

You shouldn’t feel this way, but you do.

------

The next morning, you wake up to the sound of your phone buzzing against the nightstand.

You scramble for it, heart hammering against your ribs when you see his name on the screen.

Aaron.

You hesitate—just for a second—before answering.

“Hello?” Your voice is steady, but your fingers grip the phone tight, waiting.

He exhales, slow and groggy. “Hey, baby.”

Baby. The word should soothe you. But it only makes you feel sick.

Because he says it like nothing happened. Like the whole world didn’t spend the last twelve hours pairing him up with someone else. Like he didn’t go radio silent on you for the first time in years.

You swallow, your voice even. “Hey.”

There’s a pause, long enough for your chest to tighten.

Aaron sighs, his voice laced with exhaustion. “Didn’t mean to disappear last night. Got home late, crashed right after.”

That’s it. That’s all he says. No mention of the photos. No mention of her.

Your fingers tighten around the phone. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s just another day. “You good?”

Am I good?

The words sit heavy in your throat.

You could say yes. Pretend you didn’t see. Pretend you’re not questioning every single thing. Pretend you’re not wondering if he was out all night with someone else.

But you can’t.

You sit up in bed, your free hand pressing against your temple. “I saw the pictures.”

The line goes dead silent.

And just like that, your entire body tenses.

“I figured you would.”

Your stomach drops.

That’s it? No denial, no immediate reassurance, no baby, it’s nothing.

Just I figured you would.

You exhale sharply, swinging your legs out of bed, your heart pounding against your ribs. “And you weren’t going to bring it up?”

“I—” Aaron sighs, slow and measured. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

A bitter laugh pushes past your lips before you can stop it. “Oh, it doesn’t matter?” You shake your head, pressing your palm against your temple. “Well the entire fucking internet thinks you two are Hollywood’s new power couple, and I can’t even blame them with the way you’re whispering in her ear and letting her put her hands all over you.”

Aaron groans. “Come on, it’s not like that.”

You push up from the bed, pacing the length of your bedroom. “Then what is it like, Aaron?”

“Jesus.” His voice drops lower, frustrated now. “It’s a fucking seating arrangement. She was next to me, we talked, cameras flashed. That’s all.”

You clench your jaw. “You definitely seemed to be enjoying yourself with her.”

He exhales, like he’s struggling to stay patient. “I was being polite. What was I supposed to? Just ignore her while she's trying to speak to me? It’s not that deep.”

You scoff. “Right. Gotta keep her comfortable. Wouldn’t want to be rude.”

Aaron exhales sharply. “Are you serious right now?”

Your jaw tightens. “Forget it.”

“No, really.” His voice is sharper, cutting through the phone. “You think I’m—what? Cheating on you?”

You exhale, voice light, careless. “Aaron, I said forget it. You’re a grown man, do what you want.”

Aaron exhales sharply. “Come on, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like this suddenly isn’t bothering you. I’m trying to talk to you.”

You tilt your head. “You’re right. I was annoyed. And then I realized how stupid it was to waste my energy worrying about things I can’t control.”

Aaron scoffs, his frustration bleeding through. “That’s a real poetic way to say ‘I don’t trust you.’”

You smile tightly, even though he can’t see it. “I trust you to do whatever you want to do.”

Aaron lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Wow. Got it.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, quieter, almost like a plea—“I need you to talk to me, baby.”

Your throat tightens, but you force your voice to stay light. “I am talking.”

“No, you’re shutting me out.” His voice is strained, low. “You do this every time.”

You swallow hard, keeping your expression neutral, even though there’s no one in the room to see it. “Aaron, I promise you—I’m fine. Seriously. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Another silence. This one feels heavy. Frustrated.

Then, voice tighter now—“Fine.”

“Good.”

A pause. Then—“Are we good?”

You hesitate.

Then, carefully— “We’re good. Have a great day.”

Aaron exhales, like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows you’re just saying what you think you’re supposed to say.

You hear him shift on the other end of the line, like he wants to say more, but you don’t give him the chance.

“I’ll talk to you later,” you say, already pulling the phone from your ear.

Aaron exhales sharply, but before he can respond, you hang up.

---------

You know it’s toxic. You know.

But desperation makes you reckless.

You don’t trust words—you never have. Promises are just sounds strung together, and you learned a long time ago that actions hold all the weight. And Aaron? He hasn’t done anything to prove you’re still the woman he’d go to war for.

So tonight, you need to know.

You put on the shortest dress you own, something sleek and black that hugs every curve just right, and when you step into the club with your friends, you make sure to look happy. Carefree. Like nothing in the world is eating at you.

The second you walk in, the music vibrates through your bones. Your friends lead you to the VIP section, and within minutes, drinks are flowing, bodies are moving, and the night is alive with laughter.

You pose for group pictures with your friends and some of their male friends. Nothing explicit, nothing outright disrespectful, but just enough. Enough for someone to wonder. Enough for Aaron to see.

You don’t post them yourself. That would be too obvious.

Instead, you make sure your friends do, knowing damn well that Aaron—or someone who knows him—will find them.

And then?

You wait.

You sip your drink, lean into the music, and try to ignore the way your stomach churns with nerves. Because if this backfires, if Aaron doesn’t react at all—

That will tell you everything you need to know.

*One Hour Later*

Your phone vibrates against your thigh.

You knew it was coming.

Still, when you glance down and see Aaron’s name lighting up your screen, a sick sort of satisfaction curls through your chest.

You don’t answer.

He calls again.

Then again.

Then—

Text message after text message.

Aaron: Where the fuck are you? Aaron: Who are these fucking guys? Aaron: You think this is funny? Aaron: Answer your phone.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He’s pissed.

But that’s exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?

You: No thanks. You: Have a great night :)

You lock your phone before he can respond.

Then, you take another sip of your drink, letting the fire burn all the way down.

Your phone vibrates again. Another call.

Aaron’s name glares up at you like a warning.

You let it ring.

Your best friend, Camille, leans in, eyes flicking toward your still-ringing phone. “Are you gonna answer?”

You scoff. “Nope.”

“Seriously, though,” Camille presses. “What’s your endgame here?”

You open your mouth to respond, but your phone dings again—a text.

Aaron: Pick up the fucking phone.

Your stomach clenches.

Camille lets out a low whistle. “Damn. He’s mad mad.”

You roll your eyes, feigning nonchalance. “He’ll get over it.”

Another text comes through.

Aaron: You want my attention, sweetheart? You’ve got it.

Your breath hitches.

Then—one more.

Aaron: Let’s see how you feel when I give you a taste of your own medicine.

Your grip tightens around your phone.

Shit.

Your phone buzzes again. Aaron.

You swipe to accept the call, pressing a finger to your other ear to hear better over the pounding club music.

“You think this is funny?” His voice is low, sharp.

You blink, acting confused. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he mutters. “You’re out at a club, with a bunch of guys around you, drinking, posting shit all over the internet—”

You roll your eyes. “Are you serious? I'm out with my friends for the first time in months. That’s not a crime.”

A harsh exhale. “You didn’t tell me.”

Your brows knit together. “Since when do I have to?”

Aaron lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Since I’m your boyfriend.”

You pause. Your stomach clenches at the word. He’s never been the type to throw that around like a trump card.

“So let me get this straight,” you say, voice cold now. “You can be at all these events and parties every week, surrounded by famous women in gowns, but I can’t go to a club with my friends?”

“That’s different,” he finally says.

You scoff. “How?”

“I don’t go to clubs,” he snaps. “I don’t get drunk out of my mind. I go to work events that I'm contractually obligated to attend. There’s a difference.”

You bite your lip. Because that part is true. You’ve never seen Aaron out at clubs. But who would have the energy to go clubbing after the lineup of events he attends every week?

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” you say. “Those are Camille’s friends, they’re just at the table next to ours.”

Aaron exhales sharply. “I’m sending you a car.”

Your breath catches.

“What?”

“A car,” he repeats, voice tight. “An Uber. A driver. Whatever the fuck you want. Just go home.”

You blink. “Aaron—”

“I mean it,” he says roughly. “I don’t want you there anymore.”

You feel a flicker of irritation. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

His voice is deadly quiet. “No, but I can tell you that I don’t like this. And I know you don’t either.”

You hesitate. Because he’s right. You don’t even want to be here anymore.

Aaron exhales. “Go home, baby.” His voice is softer now, more like himself. “Please.”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t say anything for a long moment.

Then, finally—

“Fine.”

A slow, relieved exhale. “Good girl.”

And with that, he hangs up.

-------

You curl into yourself under the covers, your phone screen still glowing in the dark.

Aaron: Your driver’s outside. Let me know when you’re home.

You never responded.

Now, lying in bed, staring at your ceiling, your chest feels tight, like something is pressing down on it. You hate this. Hate that you feel like you’re losing him.

You squeeze your eyes shut. You won’t cry again.

But then your phone vibrates. The screen lights up.

A FaceTime call.

Aaron. Shocker.

Your fingers hover over the screen, your heart pounding. Then, before you can second-guess yourself, you answer.

Aaron’s face fills the screen. He’s leaning against the headboard, one arm resting on his knee, his expression unreadable. But the moment he sees you, his brows pull together.

"You been crying?"

Your stomach clenches. You hate how well he reads you.

You let out a small scoff, rolling onto your side. "What? No."

Aaron exhales, tilting his head, studying you through the screen. His jaw is tight, his blue-gray eyes sharp and searching.

"You’re lying," he murmurs.

You force a small smile. "I’m just tired."

His lips part slightly, like he wants to push, but instead, he sighs.

"You didn’t text me when you got home," he says.

You shrug. "I forgot."

He doesn’t believe you. You can tell by the way his fingers twitch where they rest on his knee, the way his jaw tenses like he’s biting back a hundred things he wants to say.

Aaron licks his lips, sighing. "You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?"

You keep your face neutral. "Likewise."

Aaron chuckles softly, shaking his head. Then, after a moment—

"What’s going on with you?"

Your breath catches. "Nothing."

His voice is rough now, insistent. "I can tell when something’s wrong. So tell me."

You chew your lip, staring at the screen, at the way his eyes are burning into you. "I just—" You hesitate. "I don’t know."

"Try," he presses.

You swallow hard. "I just feel… weird lately."

Aaron exhales. "Weird how?"

You don’t know how to answer that.

Weird because he’s suddenly everywhere. Weird because for the first time in years, he feels just out of reach. Weird because maybe he was never really yours to lose, and that realization is eating you alive.

Instead, you just shake your head. "I don't know."

His voice is sharper now, more impatient. "You always make me pry everything out of you."

Your throat tightens. "I don’t—"

His voice is insistent. "You’re clearly upset. And I don’t know why. And you’re not gonna sleep tonight if you don’t say it out loud, so—say it."

You shake your head. "Aaron—"

"Say it."

You swallow, staring at him through the screen. He’s watching you carefully, waiting, giving you that look that always makes you fold.

Your chest tightens.

"I just feel like we're drifting apart."

The words slip out before you can stop them.

Aaron stills. His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind his eyes.

"You’re in LA," you continue, voice barely above a whisper. "You’re at these big events, with these big names, and I’m here—alone. And it just..." You exhale sharply. "It feels like you’re leaving me behind."

Aaron’s jaw tenses. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest on his knee.

Aaron exhales, rubbing his temples. "Baby..."

"I see the pictures, Aaron," you cut in. "I see how good you fit in there. And I just…" You blink rapidly, fighting the burn in your eyes. "I don’t know if I fit in your life anymore."

Aaron’s face hardens. "Don’t say that."

"But it’s true," you murmur, swallowing the lump in your throat. "And it scares me."

Aaron’s expression softens, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Then come here."

Your breath catches.

"What?"

"Come to LA," he says simply.

You stare at him through the screen, your pulse hammering in your ears.

"Aaron…"

"You don’t have to decide to stay right away," he presses, voice rough. "Just come. Let me prove to you that you belong with me, no matter where the fuck I am."

Your throat tightens. "No."

Aaron’s brows furrow. "No?"

You shake your head. "You’re only asking me because you feel bad."

Aaron’s jaw clenches. "That’s not—"

"It is," you say, voice quieter now. "If I hadn’t said anything, you wouldn’t have asked. And I—" You exhale sharply. "I don’t wanna come because you pity me, Aaron. I wanna come because you want me there."

Aaron’s eyes darken,"You think I don’t want you here?"

You don’t answer.

Aaron swallows, staring at you for a long moment. Then, voice raw—

"I fucking hate that you feel like this."

You inhale shakily.

Aaron leans in slightly, his face inches from the screen. "You think I fit in here? You think I want to be at these parties, talking to people I don’t give a fuck about?" He exhales sharply. "I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner."

Aaron studies you, his eyes scanning your face. Then, voice softer, "Just tell me what you need. from me."

You swallow hard. "I don’t know."

Aaron exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Okay."

Silence.

Then, after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper—

"I love you."

Your breath catches.

"I love you, and I’m not leaving you behind," he murmurs. "You belong with me. Always."

Your throat tightens, your vision blurring.

You bite your lip, nodding slightly. "I love you too."

Silence stretches between you as you drift off to sleep.

And for the first time in weeks—you finally feel like you’re not alone.

--------

The next day, your phone buzzes with a text while you're trying to sleep your hangover off.

You groan, blindly reaching for it, already knowing who it is.

Aaron: Check your email.

You swipe out of your messages, opening your inbox. A new email sits at the top of your screen.

You click it, eyes scanning over the subject line.

A flight itinerary.

Your stomach drops.

You scroll, scanning the details—first class, a direct flight to LA, departing tonight at 7 PM.

You barely have time to process before your phone buzzes again.

Aaron: Pack a bag.

Your pulse spikes.

You type quickly.

Me: Are you insane?

His response is immediate.

Aaron: Sometimes.

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Me: You really think this is gonna work?

Aaron: Yes.

You shake your head.

Me: What part of “I don’t want to come just because you feel bad” are you not understanding?

Aaron’s typing bubble pops up, then disappears, then pops up again.

Then, finally—

Aaron: If I wanted you here just because I felt bad, I would've just accepted your answer last night.

Your hands shake slightly as you type.

Me: This is crazy.

Aaron: So is pretending we’re fine like this.

You swallow hard.

Aaron: Baby.

Your heart stutters.

Aaron: Please.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t respond.

But you do start to pack.

You could keep fighting this. You could tell him you’re not ready, that you need time, that he needs to earn this.

But then what?

You’d go to bed alone again, your phone face-down on your nightstand, staring at the ceiling, missing him so much it feels like a physical ache in your chest.

And for what?

For pride?

For the illusion of control?

Aaron is home. And the truth is—you just want to go home, too.

-------

LAX – 11:42 PM

You step through the terminal, nerves buzzing under your skin.

Aaron told you he’d send a car. Told you to text when you landed.

But standing here, scanning the crowd—

He’s here.

No car. No driver. Just him.

Black hoodie pulled over his head, hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning against a pillar like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.

Your breath catches, heart hammering against your ribs as his gaze locks onto yours.

He pushes off the pillar, walking toward you—slow, easy, certain.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs when he reaches you, voice low and warm.

You swallow hard. "Hey."

Aaron tilts his head, eyes sweeping over you. "Missed you."

You scoff, shifting your weight. "Yeah, well. You’re annoying."

His lips twitch. "So are you."

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.

Aaron steps closer, voice dropping. "You know what I think?"

You raise a brow. "Do I want to?"

He smirks. "I think you got on that plane because you couldn’t stand another night without me."

You cross your arms. "I think you should shut up before I get back on another plane."

Aaron chuckles, shaking his head. Then, softer—"Let’s go."

Your chest tightens, the fight in you crumbling piece by piece.

He reaches for your bag, pulling it off your shoulder before you can argue.

You should protest. You should roll your eyes and tell him to quit being so smug.

Instead, you let him take your bag.

And you let him take you home.

The ride to Aaron’s Airbnb is quiet, but the air is thick—heavy with something unspoken.

Your body is still tense, your mind still reeling. The past twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind of emotions. Aaron unlocks the door, stepping inside first, flicking on a few lights.

You hesitate.

This is his space. You’ve never been here before. The place he’s been living while you’ve been in New York, wondering if you even still fit into his life.

Aaron turns around, eyes catching yours. His brow furrows slightly, reading you instantly.

He steps forward, his voice softer now. "Come here."

You don’t move.

So he closes the space himself.

One hand reaches for your wrist, his grip firm but gentle as he pulls you inside, closing the door behind you.

And then, before you can say a single word—

His hands cup your face, his lips crashing onto yours.

Finally.

You gasp into his mouth, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he devours you, like he’s been waiting for this for months.

Aaron presses you back against the door, his body solid and warm against yours, his grip possessive as his fingers tangle in your hair.

"You have no idea," he murmurs against your lips, voice rough, needy, "how much I fucking missed you."

His mouth trails down your jaw, his breath hot, sending a violent shiver through you.

"You could’ve just asked me to come," you manage, barely above a whisper.

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. "And miss the part where you tried to pretend you didn’t want to?"

You pull back just enough to glare at him. "That's not funny."

He smirks, thumb brushing over your cheek. "You still mad at me?"

You let out a breath, trying so hard to stay indignant, but he’s right here, touching you, kissing you—

And you’ve wanted this too much to stop now.

You forgot what it felt like to be with him.

To be wrapped in him, to feel like this was yours and no one else’s.

Your nails graze his scalp as you sigh against his lips. The past few months of distance, of doubt, of letting your own pride keep you from him—it all feels so stupid now. You hate how easily other women get to be around him, touching him, laughing with him, making the world believe they have a shot.

His free hand roughly palms your breast, kneading the soft flesh as his thumb circles your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra. He can feel it pebbling under his touch, betraying your body's eager response to him.

"You can't resist me, can you, love?" he purrs, nipping at your earlobe. "No matter how mad you are, your body remembers who it belongs to."

"Don't be so sure of yourself," you pant, even as your back arches, pressing your breast more firmly into his palm. "I'm still pissed."

But your words lack conviction, undermined by the breathy quality of your voice and the way your thighs tremble, opening slightly in invitation. Aaron notices, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"Really?" he murmurs, low and dangerous. In one swift motion, he hikes up your skirt and pushes your panties aside, his thick fingers caressing your folds. "Then why are you so wet for me already, hmm?"

He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips buck. "Stop lying to yourself, love."

Two long fingers suddenly plunge knuckle-deep inside you, curling to stroke that sensitive spot. "Tell me how much you've missed this, baby."

You gasp sharply, head falling back as Aaron's fingers fill and stretch you so perfectly. "Fuck, Aaron…"

Your inner walls flutter and clench around the intrusion, drawing him deeper. "I-I've missed you so much." you admit.

He curls his fingers just right, rubbing insistently against your G-spot as his thumb flicks rapidly over your clit. "I know, baby."

You moan wantonly, grinding down onto Aaron's fingers as they work magic inside you. "Ahhh…f-fuck, just like that…"

He growls lowly as he suddenly withdraws his fingers, leaving you aching and empty right as you were approaching your release. "Not yet, love. Did you think I was gonna let you come that easily after what you pulled last night?"

In one smooth motion, he scoops you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you to his bedroom, and puts you down next to his king sized bed. "Strip for me. Nice and slow."

You slowly remove your disheveled clothing, revealing your curves inch by tantalizing inch. You keep your gaze locked with Aaron's, a defiant glint in your eyes despite the blush coloring your cheeks.

He unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans, freeing his throbbing erection. He strokes himself slowly as he watches you strip. "Fuck, look at you… so fucking sexy. You drive me crazy, you know that?"

He climbs on the bed and leans back against the headboard. Stroking his dick slowly, eyeing you with intense desire and a hint of challenge. "Come here, baby. Show me how much you missed this dick."

You straddle Aaron's lap, positioning yourself over his throbbing erection. You tease him, rubbing the tip along your slick folds. "Like this, baby?"

You sink down slowly, inch by delicious inch, until he's fully seated inside your tight heat. A low moan escapes your lips at the feeling of being so perfectly stretched and filled after so long.

He groans deeply as your tight walls engulf him, gripping his shaft like a velvet vice. "Fuck yes, just like that."

He grips your hips tightly, guiding your movements as you start to roll your hips, riding him slowly. "That's it. Show me how bad you needed this dick."

Your hands rest on his broad chest for leverage, nails lightly scraping his skin. "Mmmnh… I did need this… needed you so badly…"

He grunts and thrusts up into you, meeting you stroke for stroke. One hand moves to your ass, gripping and kneading the soft flesh as he guides your movements.

Your breasts bounce enticingly with each movement, nipples hardened into stiff peaks. You throw your head back in ecstasy, lost in the sensation of being so thoroughly filled and pleased. “Ahhh... fuck Aaron... I missed you so much...”

He groans appreciatively as he watches you lose yourself in pleasure, reveling in the sight of your body moving so beautifully above him. “That's it, baby... let go for me.”

He leans up to capture one of your bouncing nipples in his mouth, suckling and nibbling the sensitive bud as his hand snakes between your bodies to rub tight circles on your clit. “Cum for me, darling.”

You cry out sharply as Aaron's skilled fingers find your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “Ahhh... fuuuck... I'm gonna cum!”

Your movements become erratic, chasing your impending release. Tears of overwhelming emotion prick at the corners of your eyes. Despite your reluctance to express your feelings, you cant help but say, “I love you. I never want to be apart from you again.”

With a final roll of your hips, your orgasm crashes over you. Your inner muscles clamp down rhythmically on Aaron's dick. “FUCKKK!”

With a few more powerful thrusts, he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his own release overtaking him.

He holds you tightly against his chest as he pulses and throbs within you, filling you with his hot seed.

Panting heavily, he presses fervent kisses along your neck and jawline, each one searing with need, but also with something else—something deeper, something he’s been holding onto for too long. “God, I love you so fucking much... Never doubt that, okay?” His words are rough, filled with raw emotion, and they send a wave of warmth and longing rushing through you.

He cups your face tenderly, his fingers tracing the delicate contours of your skin, his gaze intense and unwavering. His eyes shine with adoration and lingering passion as he gazes at you, making you feel both vulnerable and cherished in the same breath. “We’re in this together, always. I promise.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, like a rush of relief flooding through your chest. His sincerity washes over you, but you can’t stop the overwhelming emotions threatening to spill out. You pull back slightly to meet his gaze, needing to look him in the eye as your own shimmer with unshed tears and raw emotion.

“I’m sorry I have such a hard time expressing my feelings, I don’t know why I’m like this,” you whisper, the words slipping from your lips before you can even think about holding them back.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he wipes a stray tear from your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across the skin, his touch soft, yet grounding. He studies your face with that same loving gaze, his expression soft and understanding, but there’s a hint of something deeper—concern, perhaps, or even a touch of hurt.

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper that feels like the calm after a storm. “I do wish you felt safe enough to tell me anything after all these years. I want to be the person you lean on when you’re struggling with your feelings.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and suddenly you’re flooded with guilt. You knew how much he cared, how deeply he loved you, but hearing him say it, hearing him speak of his own pain at the wall you’ve built between you—it hurts. You feel like you’ve let him down, like you’ve betrayed the very trust he’s shown you. He’s right. He’s always been right. And still, you kept walls up like he was the enemy, when he’s only ever reached out with open hands.

You’re horrified that he thinks he doesn’t create an emotionally safe environment for you when that’s so far from the truth. “It’s not your fault at all,” you say, your voice cracking slightly, “I’ve always been this way. I’ve always been so scared of being vulnerable, scared of needing someone too much.” You feel the weight of those words as they leave your mouth, and a part of you knows they’ve been trapped in you for so long that it’s finally time to let them out.

Aaron watches you for a long moment, his thumb still brushing softly across your cheek like he’s trying to calm something in you that’s always been just out of reach.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he says. “You don’t even have to be ready. But you do have to let me in. That’s the only way this can work.”

You look away, jaw tightening. But he doesn’t let you escape into silence this time.

“Don’t do that,” he says gently. “Don’t shut down. Not now. Talk to me. Say what you’ve been wanting to say since I left.”

You bite your lip, your throat tight.

“I hated waking up alone every day,” you admit. “I hated not knowing if you were thinking about me, not knowing if I still mattered in a world that suddenly couldn’t get enough of you. I hated seeing your name in headlines next to someone else’s face. I hated that I couldn’t tell anyone you were mine. I hated that you didn’t seem to care.”

You pause, breath shaky.

“I used to wait for your name to pop up on my phone like it was oxygen. And when it didn’t... I’d lie to myself. I’d tell myself you were too busy. That I was being needy. That this is what I signed up for. That you already had so much on your plate.”

Aaron’s expression doesn’t waver. He doesn’t flinch or deflect or turn away.

He listens.

And then, he speaks—voice low but firm.

“You should’ve told me all of that the first night you felt it.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“I should’ve done better,” he says. “I should’ve made sure you never had to wonder if you still mattered to me.”

“I got caught up in it all,” he admits. “The press, the schedule, the pressure. I kept telling myself you understood, that you were strong, that you’d wait for me to get my shit together.” His eyes find yours, full of something honest and unguarded. “But that wasn’t fair to you."

You look down, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know how to ask for more without feeling like I was asking for too much.”

His hand lifts to your cheek, tilting your face gently back to him.

“You’re never too much,” he says, his voice soft but laced with that familiar teasing edge. “I love knowing how obsessed you are with me.”

You roll your eyes, the corners of your mouth twitching despite the weight in your chest. “You make it hard to stay mad.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

There’s a silence that settles between you then—not empty, but full. Heavy with all the things that no longer have to be said in the dark, or buried beneath pride.

“I don’t want to live in separate lives anymore,” he says after a beat.

Your heart skips.

“I want you here,” he says. “Permanently. Let’s find a place that’s ours. Start fresh. I know it’s a lot to ask—starting over, uprooting your life. But I’ll support you. If you want to work, work. If you want to take your time, do that too. I just want to know that I get to come home to you.”

You let out a slow breath, all your old defenses still rising like reflexes—but you push through them this time.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “Do it scared.”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been caught in your chest for months. “We're being so fucking dramatic right now. Have you been stealing lines from your scripts again?”

He chuckles, sliding his arms around your waist again. “You say that like you didn’t just admit you waited for my texts like oxygen.”

You bury your face into his chest, groaning. “Can we not bring that up ever again?”

There’s still fear threading through your chest, still questions and doubts lingering in the corners of your mind. But for once, they’re not winning. Because he’s here, and you feel something you haven’t in months.

Home.

Not a place. Not a plan. Just him. Just you. Still choosing each other.

Even scared. Especially then.

------

A/N: Here is the story I mentioned earlier that inspired the club scene a bit: Read Here.

[melanchoire]

Been thinking about..Car Racer!Yujin with Model!reader who happens to be the girlfriend of yujin's rival, So when yujin heard the news of them breaking up she takes the opportunity to use reader to get at her rival🤭

cw: exhibitionism, strap use.

yujin being this star racer in the field of racing; a damn expensive car and a latest generation model, thousands of fans who go to all the races where she is one of the competitors or simply attend as a spectator in the stands, and an incredible driving technique where no one can beat her… except for one annoying guy who always seems to be after her ass to annoy her! always boxing her in with her car against the corners in races, making her skid more than expected or lose control of her car for a moment because she is put in a situation where she is often close to losing or even crashing — she can’t see the boy’s face through the helmet, but yujin bets he has a mockingly bright look and a shit–eating grin on his face

it’s a shame the ugliest, most annoying guys always have the hottest girlfriends! in other words, you being the model and pretty girl who's this pathetic guy’s partner, occasionally attending their competitions and waving happily every time the big screen focuses on the audience for a moment and you just happen to appear on the screen, smiling sweetly and waving, yujin doesn’t understand how you can be with him! even before races, after saying goodbye to her boyfriend and talking to him for a moment until he gets into his car, you turn to yujin and say a sweet “good luck, ahn.” and she would think you were being sarcastic or wishing her ill, but your smile is so genuine that she knows there is no malice in you

until the popular news that you had broken up with your boyfriend reaches yujin’s ears. she wasn’t so sure how real this was because you ended up attending the race that night anyway… although she didn’t give it any importance because she had a plan in mind, and a very good one! you just had to wait

ohhhh yujin winning the race against his rival, being side by side with him in the last stretch of the track, rolling down the car window for a moment just to wave mockingly at him and speeding up as fast as the vehicle would go, moving ahead almost instantly and crossing the finish line a few seconds later — watching your once boyfriend get out of his car and practically burst into flames was what made yujin’s day and her favorite memory so far

finishing the race and everyone leaving the place, yujin saying goodbye to her acquaintances who came to see her and fans who approached her to congratulate her on another great victory and some asking for a photo or an autograph, not expecting to see you approach her and greet her to congratulate her for winning! honestly, she thought you just wanted to tease her for being your ex boyfriend’s rival, but even when you broke up with him you didn’t seem to have the intention of pissing her off

until the sweet words and exchange of smiles end with you two kissing as if you wanted to devour each other’s mouths 😳 yujin being had this big crush on you, shamelessly peeking whenever you were with your boyfriend and she was with her own technical team preparing for a big race, getting moody because she is not the lucky one to have a charismatic and pretty girlfriend like you 😒 oh well, until today! she definitely wouldn’t miss the chance to fuck you and claim you as hers starting tonight

yujin taking you to the garage where your ex boyfriend’s car was and fucking you right there 😵‍💫 bending you over the hood of the car and making you lie back against the surface while she fucks your pussy from behind with her strap, keeping her hands on your shoulders and taking care to maintain pressure on them to keep you in place every time you tried to lean on your elbows or stop pressing your front end against the car

and if i say that she wants to fuck you in all parts of the car... taking advantage of the fact that the windows are a bit dusty to fuck you again from behind, only this time she takes care to press you hard enough against the glass so that the print of your tits and palms are drawn on the dirty car windows <3 ughhh the tits stain and your hands plus her hands on the driver’s window were more than noticeable and anyone could guess what happened there, but yujin didn’t care about that! the loss of your boyfriend was her victory, and yujin was more than happy to claim her prize after a victorious competition

[nereidprinc3ss]

hii i love love how u write spencer omds🥸

uhh i was wondering if you could write sth based off the song “we’ll never have sex” by leith ross? pls dont feel pressured to write this btw😭😭😭 hope ur having a good day lovely💗💗

hello my love i have no self control so this is extremely long and plotty but i love this song and i hope that this is any good at all crying emoji (i'm on a laptop LOL) enjoy!!

warnings/tags: angst/fluff, fem!reader, negative self-talk from reader, mentions of past sexual coercion/feeling used, mentions of past excessive drinking to combat social anxiety, ive been watching a lot of new girl lately and i think it shows, SO FRIENDS TO LOVERS, happy ending

You weren’t expecting to end up on Spencer Reid’s worn-leather couch at two in the morning, clutching a chipped mug of coffee in your hands as you listen to the sounds of the city from the street below. But there you are, sitting with your legs folded under you, in your favorite dress and first date-night makeup (now bleeding and smudged from all the crying.) And realizing that despite considering him one of your closest friends, you haven’t been to his apartment in a long time. There are, of course, good reasons for that—but you try to push those from your mind. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you sigh, staring at your warped reflection in the glassy black surface of your coffee. Spencer is coming out of the small kitchen, now bearing his own cup. 

“Please, stop apologizing.” 

You glance up, tentatively studying him from behind the safety of your mug. While he may not have been asleep when you knocked on his door ten minutes ago, lachrymose and barely verbal, he must have been getting ready for bed. He’s clad in patterned pajama pants, mismatched socks, and an FBI crewneck that is just big enough to reveal the collar of the tee-shirt underneath. He’s already taken out his contacts, and you were startled by the reminder that he also has glasses. 

“So...” he begins, bringing you back to the present moment, “we don't have to talk about anything, if you don’t want to, but...” 

You sigh, watching coffee bubbles swirl like stars in a galaxy. 

“It’s fine. Honestly, I’m kind of embarrassed. I didn’t really think, I just... ended up here.” 

“Yeah... where did you come from?” he laughs quietly. “Not that I’m complaining. But I recall you not living super close by.” 

“No, no. I was actually on a date. Kind of.” 

“Ah.” There’s a beat of silence, and ostensibly Spencer is waiting for you to say more, but instead you take a sip from your mug. “At two in the morning?” You nod dully, staring at the labyrinthine pattern of the Persian rug.  

“I’m taking it that it wasn’t a very good date...?” 

A whoosh of air escapes from your puffed cheeks. 

“No it was not. Not by the end, anyway. It actually started really well, which made it even more disappointing when he...” you laugh, but there’s not much humor in it. “Well, when he kicked me out of his car on a street corner because I didn’t want to sleep with him.” 

You don’t look to see Spencer’s reaction—only take another long, baleful sip of coffee and ignore the heavy silence.  

“I’m really sorry. You... you deserve so much better than that.” 

An attempt at a jaded scoff from you falls flat. 

“Yeah, well. Tell that to the last three white house interns I’ve gone on dates with. It’s the same thing every time.” 

“Have you considered going on fewer dates with white house interns...?” The nervous humor is a thin veil over genuine critique. You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“It’s not just them. Every single guy I’ve liked since I was 15 has been like this. Even my past relationships, I felt like I was almost... tricked into, you know? I mean, these guys, they act all understanding and willing to take it slow or whatever, until you’re in a relationship, and suddenly they’re guilt tripping you so hard and making you feel so obligated to...” you catch yourself just in time, glancing up at Spencer. You’re not sure what to make of his expression. The drawn brow and slightly squinted eyes trained so intently on you could be sympathy, or anger, or pity, or apathy—you look away, not sure you even want to know what he’s thinking. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear all about that. Basically romance is exhausting and since I’ll clearly be single forever I’m considering running away to join a nunnery.” 

When he doesn’t respond for too long, you look back up quizically. 

“I’m not sure you know what romance actually is,” he says as soon as your gaze meets his, like the eye-contact activated some kind of hair-trigger in his vocal box. 

You blink, lowering the coffee cup to your lap. 

Says Spencer Reid? 

“...sorry?” 

He flushes, stammering to clarify himself. 

“I just meant—I—I know I’m not exactly fighting women off with a stick—” he interrupts himself with a self-conscious (adorable) laugh— “but... but I have been in love, at least once.”  

“Maeve,” you say, gently—trying to shove down bitter guilt as you remember how jealous you’d been when Spencer had first told you about her. “I remember.” 

He swallows and nods. 

“We never even met—we just talked. All the time. I had no idea what she looked like. But it didn’t matter at all. Because I knew her, and I loved her. Maybe things would have gone further if I hadn’t been calling her from public phone booths, but that wasn’t the most important thing to either of us. We were still in love.” You try to shut out the sharp ache in your chest. Being jealous of the way he speaks about a dead woman is so wrong.  

“What I’m trying to say is that romance isn’t solely about sex, or even physical appearance. It sounds to me like you’ve been with a lot of men who don’t understand that. And it would be such a shame for you to write romance off in general before you even get to experience it. You are... an extraordinary woman. You’re funny, and intelligent, and kind, and so capable of being loved. One day, someone is going to see beyond your pulchritude and prove that to you. I hope you let them try.” 

More tears blur the pattern on the rug, pooling in the rims of your eyes before spilling down your cheeks in fast, fat drops. Shakily you set the cup down, resting your elbows on your knees and hiding your face in your hands. You sniff once. Twice. Shake your head quickly, attempting to wipe the tears away without further smearing your makeup everywhere. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Spencer breathes, leaning forward but obviously unsure how to comfort you. “Please don’t cry, I wasn’t--I was trying to do the opposite of this.” 

“No, I’m sorry! You didn’t have to—you didn’t—I’m sorry. That was way too nice.” 

But you're not crying because he was nice.  

Someone will love you, but not me. That’s all you can hear. 

His voice is a mere whisper when he next speaks. 

“I meant every word.” 

You take a shuddering breath, allowing yourself a moment of reprieve behind the peaceful black of your eyelids. You can’t be looking at his face when you say what you’re about to say. 

“I had a crush on you for the longest time, you know.” 

Ringing silence. But it doesn’t last as long as you’d imagined. It’s not as world ending. 

“Had?” 

The little smile in his voice is like a fist around your heart. 

“Yeah. You know what changed?” 

“What’s that?” 

Absolutely nothing. 

“Every time I got super drunk and started hitting on you, you’d just drive me home. And I did it a lot. Like, for months. But you were such a gentleman. It drove me fucking crazy. So eventually I figured you just didn’t like me and I gave up.” 

Another stretch of silence. A breeze comes in from the open window, fluttering the curtains and cooling the tears on your face. His response is sad when it finally comes. 

“You thought I didn’t like you because I didn’t try to take advantage of you when you were drunk?” 

“Pretty much.” You smile ruefully, fingertips still pressed over your eyes. “God, listen to me. No wonder I get treated like garbage.” 

“Stop. Don’t talk about yourself like that. Did you hear anything I just said?” 

You sniff, looking to the ceiling. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It was really sweet.” 

More silence. 

“But you don’t believe it.” 

A bitter laugh poisons the air around you. 

“I don’t know.  I’m kind of tired of waiting for someone to prove it to me. Just for once, I want someone to be interested in me beyond having sex in the back of their fucking... Range Rover, or whatever. Like, maybe all that stuff you said is true, but there’s no evidence to support it, and I know logically you’re probably right but I can’t help wondering if... if I’m the outlier. Maybe there just isn’t someone for me like that. Maybe I’m just gonna be the sex in the back of the Range Rover girl forever.” 

A noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob forces itself from your throat and you bury your face in your hands again, shaking your head. 

“Wow, I am so sorry,” you say a little too loudly, “I did not mean to be this honest tonight. Did you spike my coffee?” 

“You are not the outlier,” Spencer whispers.  

You sniff, lifting your head haltingly to look at him. 

“What?” 

His voice shakes slightly as he speaks. 

“You said you can’t help wondering if you’re the outlier, and maybe there just isn’t someone for you like that. That’s not true.” 

“Spencer, those are just words. You can’t possibly know that. Statistical probabilities don’t count.” 

“That’s... that’s not how I know.” 

Your heart drops as you study his face.  

No. 

Surely he’s not saying what you think he’s saying. 

Surely he wouldn’t do this to you after you’ve just told him everything you told him. You have been harboring feelings for him for years. Since you met. He can’t just spring this on you one night because you’re a little bummed out. If he felt the same, you would have found out a long time ago; he had ample opportunity to tell you. There was a period of months where you practically threw yourself all over him at every chance you got, and he did nothing. So this... this is just cruel—something you’ve never known Spencer Reid to be. 

You stand up, trembling slightly with rage and grief and humiliation. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t say things that you don’t mean just to make me feel better.” 

“What are you doing? Don’t--” 

You scoop up your purse, trying to get to the front door as fast as your gelatinous legs will allow. More tears are streaming down your face now and you don’t need him to see what he’s done to you—to see how much you care what he thinks. 

“It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee, I’ll see you around—” 

A hand around your wrist stops you in your tracks 

“Stop. Just... please give me a second to talk, okay?” 

With nothing left to give, you turn to him. 

“Don’t be mean, Spencer. Don’t act like you liked me too. That makes me feel... so much worse.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling himself. Tawny eyes bore into your soul, and you realize that there is so much sheer nervous energy radiating off of him it’s infectious. Your heart begins to pound as he speaks. 

“I’m not doing that. I’m being an idiot, because you just told me that you don’t feel that way about me anymore but... but I do. And I have to tell you now because for six months I tortured myself wondering why you would flirt with me so much when you were hammered and then act like nothing happened the next day. There were so many times I almost told you how I felt but I didn’t and now I am because even if it ruins our friendship you need to know that somebody... that I wanted to be that person for you. I still do.” 

Your heart is like an unmoored zeppelin in your chest, bumping against your esophagus and threatening to either burst or jump out of your mouth. You take your chances, whispering so quietly it’s almost inaudible. 

“You... you like me?” 

“Yes,” Spencer sighs. “I have liked you for a very long time. And I’m sorry—” 

Whatever ridiculous thing he was going to apologize for, you don’t give him the chance. Instead you launch yourself at him, capturing his lips in a kiss that feels so much better than it’d ever been in your fantasies because it’s real. You hear his sharp intake of breath, but it only takes a second for him to respond, cradling your face in his hands like you’re the entire world. For a moment, time bends. Years of longing, of buried dreams crash into the present in a brilliant, dazzling explosion.

And then, as quickly as it started, he pulls away. The absence of his touch is like a vacuum, so much worse now that you know exactly how it feels to have his lips on yours, even if it was only for a few seconds. How the hell did you live like that for so long? How are you supposed to live like that ever again?

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he breathes, tilting his head back toward the ceiling like he’s barely holding onto his self control. “You just want someone to comfort you, I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re in an emotionally vulnerable state and confided in me which is manufacturing a false sense of attachment—” 

You grab his wrists, which still graze your jaw.

“Spencer, stop intellectualizing for thirty seconds. I promise you I am thinking clearly.” 

“You said you used to like me, past tense—” 

“Yeah, I did. Do you believe every single murderer who says he didn’t do it?” 

“No, but—” 

“Have you ever heard the phrase; a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts?” 

“Of course I have.” 

“Then what more could you possibly need to be convinced that I really like you? I already kissed you! What is stopping you?” 

Another deep breath is taken by him that seems to suck all the air out of the quiet room. Briefly, you wonder if you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake. If you really do like him so much more than he could ever like you.  

Until he looks back down, eyes so golden-brown in the dim light, so kind and full of affectionate concern as he carefully assesses every square centimeter of your face, looking for... well, you’re not exactly sure what. It’s like he’s extracting every thought from your head, turning them over like sun-warmed stones until he finds what he’s looking for. He smooths his hands over your hair, brushing strands away from your teary face. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of holding your breath, he speaks. 

“I just want you to believe what I believe about you. But I don’t want you to have to rely on me or anyone else for your own self-worth.” 

“Well, don’t you think very highly of yourself,” you tease with a sniffle. He laughs—it's quiet, but his smile is so bright without even trying that suddenly you can’t remember why you’ve ever been sad. The small miracle of his laughter makes you feel so light, and you realize it has nothing to do with the way he makes you feel about yourself. It has everything to do with who he is. 

Once the giggles die down, you tentatively mirror his hold on your face. 

“Spencer, I don’t like you because you like me. I’ve liked you for an embarrassingly long time. I liked you enough that I gave myself a severe hangover at least once a week for three months just so I could have an excuse to flirt shamelessly with you.” 

A half-sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he gently swipes under your eyes. 

“You never had to do that. I would have welcomed your sober brazen flirting with open arms.” 

“Well... do you believe me?” you plead. His amber eyes shine. 

“I do.” 

“Will you kiss me?” 

“If that’s what you want.” 

You nod, rising on your toes to meet him halfway. 

When your lips meet again, it is sweet, and honest, and slow, and deep. Still, there is no desperation--no race to an imagined finish line, no clash of teeth and pawing hands. It is a kiss for the sake of it—as if it were the greatest intimacy. Not a precursor to sharing a bed, but something bigger than that in and of its own. Something just as worthy and important. For the first time, you think you’re beginning to understand romance. And while you wouldn’t mind if things did escalate, you also know that Spencer knows that’s not what matters right now. Because he actually understands you—he actually cares. He will wait until you understand that you mean so much more than that to him.

To that end, he pulls away, gently supplanting his absence with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“It would be polite of me to offer you a ride home, wouldn’t it?” he whispers, like it’s the last thing he wants to do. You bite the inside of your cheek, coming up with reasons not to go. One ridiculous one arises from the depths of your memory that you know he won’t be able to say no to. 

“Or... I could stay here, and we could watch one of those nerdy foreign films you’re always talking about?” 

A slow, perfect, high-watt smile blossoms on his face, and you know you’ve said exactly the right thing. 

“Nerdy? Oh, my darling girl... Soviet-era filmography is far from nerdy. небесная машина will completely defy what you thought you knew about the life of an average Russian villager in the 1950’s.” 

“Oh, good. Because I’ve really been meaning to change the way I think about the average 1950’s Russian villager,” you smile, already closing in to kiss him again. 

------------------------------------------ 

epilogue

Three hours later, you’re crying because the life of the average Russian villager in the 1950’s was so much worse than you’d previously thought. 

“It was good, right?” Spencer asks as the credits roll over a bleak snowy sepia landscape, leaning back to get a better look at you. You sit up from where you’d been leaning against him, furiously wiping your eyes. 

“It was terrible! Why didn’t you tell me that everyone except the kid dies in the end?!” 

“Because that’s the whole point of the movie!” he laughs, pulling you back into him. “I’m sorry. I probably should have explained how depressing this entire era of film was outside of the US.” 

“And also how long the movies were. I was not prepared for how many five minute long clips of empty fields there were going to be.” 

“You’re right,” he ammends, wrapping his arms around you in a way that gives you butterflies and makes you sleepy at the same time. “Next time we can watch whatever you want to watch.” 

Time passes like that—you in his arms, watching weak light slowly flood the room with half-lidded eyes and listening to the sounds of the city waking up from the street below, underscoring the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Thoughts float by like leaves on the ever-flowing current of your mind, and you’re happy to let them pass until one in particular catches your attention. 

“Spencer?” 

He hums, like he’d been deep in his own proverbial river of thought. 

“What does pulchritude mean?” 

It takes him a split second to remember the bit of conversation from earlier to which you are referring, but when he does, he chuckles, running his hand over your messy hair. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

And so you let it float away. 

[flwrkid14]

omg what about rockstar Danny who has this huge concert and the Wayne family gets tickets so they all go but Danny and Tim have been dating for a few months and Danny was able to break all of Tim’s walls. So we have a petty and pissed off danny who thinks Tim should abandon the bat family and join Team Phantom. In his last song for the night he plays “Cupid’s Chokehold” by Gym class heroes and reveals their relationship when it gets to “Take a look at my girlfriend” at 1:07 and batfamily is just shocked. Anyways no pressure, just thought it’d be a fun ask. Take your time and prioritize yourself!

hi anon! tysm for the ask <3 and wow this is such a brilliant idea! though it was a little tricky to convey in writing.. but I hope you like it!

The Wayne family gets tickets to the concert of the year—Danny Fenton, rockstar enigma, the ghostlight darling of the music world, is performing live in Gotham.

He’s known for a few things. One: his stage presence is unearthly. Two: he’s never once done an interview. Three: every song he writes sounds like it was bled out of someone’s soul.

(And Four: no one really knows who his music is about. The love songs, the heartbreak, the fury—it’s all so personal and yet so vague. A mystery Gotham’s tabloids would kill to solve.)

So when Bruce hands out the tickets, it’s treated like a normal outing. A night off. A nice show.

Tim doesn’t say much. Just, “Yeah. Sounds good.”

And for most of the show, it is good.

Danny is electrifying. His voice hits like a tidal wave and his lyrics—god, the lyrics. Furious things wrapped in velvet; love songs that ache like broken ribs. Songs about being pushed aside. Being invisible. Giving and giving until there’s nothing left.

Cass tilts her head, listening harder. Dick glances at Tim, who’s sitting very, very still. Bruce doesn’t notice anything yet—too distracted by the crowd. Jason is squinting at Danny like he’s seen a ghost.

And then it starts.

The final song.

A new one. Unreleased.

“I wasn’t gonna play this one,” Danny says, voice sharp with something bitter under the surface. “But I think I changed my mind.”

He nods at the band. They start playing.

The melody is upbeat—light, familiar. It’s Cupid’s Chokehold. People cheer. Some move to the melody.

And then—

Take a look at my girlfriend… She’s the only one I got…

Danny’s eyes flicker, sharp and glowing. His smile twists.

Not much of a girlfriend— I never seem to get a lot…

He stops singing for just a beat. Lets the music carry. Lets the tension build.

Then, clear as a bell:

Take a look at my boyfriend—

Spotlight.

It slams onto the VIP balcony. Onto Tim. Who freezes like a deer in the headlights.

He’s the only one I got.

The entire arena goes silent for half a second.

And then it erupts.

People are screaming. Phones come out. Tim is suddenly the most photographed man in Gotham. Jason shouts. Dick physically chokes on air. Steph screams “I KNEW IT!” while Cass just beams.

And Bruce? Bruce is staring at the stage like the math isn't mathing.

Danny doesn’t stop. He leans in.

He sings the rest of the song with so much love it’s almost cruel—every lyric like a thread being pulled.

He rewrites a few lines on the fly, just subtle enough:

She gets out when she wants ‘cause she’s strong like that He doesn’t need a cape, doesn’t need a mask— He’s already saved me just by being who he is.

And it’s not just a love song.

It’s a declaration. A confession. And, if you’re listening closely, an accusation.

Because every heartbreak song that came before it—the ones filled with rage and soft, splintering grief—suddenly make sense.

They weren’t just about some vague lost lover.

They were about Tim. And the family that never really saw him.

All that fury? That loneliness? That ache that threaded Danny’s albums?

It was theirs. Their behavior, their neglect, their silence. Turned into art. Turned into fire.

And Danny—Danny Fenton, whose voice can shake the world—just handed it back to them, live onstage, with a kiss blown to the boy sitting under the spotlight.

Tim covers his face with one hand. He’s laughing and crying and blushing hard.

Danny’s last note rings out, final and sharp. And the lights go out.

Backstage, later:

Tim shoves into Danny’s dressing room like a man possessed. “What was that?”

Danny’s taking off his mic pack, cool as ever. “Soft launch,” he says. “Or maybe the opposite.”

“You just outed us to the whole city.”

Danny shrugs. “They deserved to know.”

Tim sighs. Collapses into him. “You’re impossible.”

Danny kisses his temple. “You’re mine.”

And Tim—who clings to Danny like he was stitched into him—doesn’t disagree. He just holds on tighter.

Because the bats might be his family, sure.

But Danny? Danny’s home.

[rosachae]

more than a game | lara raj x reader

⁍ song: sienna - the marías ⁍ genre: AU! fluffy, happy endings. tennisplayer!lara x physiotherapist!y/n. ultimately, just a story about two girls who are very much not over eachother. right person, wrong time-- except the right time is now. ⁍ wc: 8.3k ⁍ warnings: mentions of injury, nothing major. ⁍ synopsis:

lara broke up with y/n at the end of highschool to pursue her dreams as a professional tennis player. when she was faced with the decision, it wasn't made easily, but she convinced herself it was necessary. that was until she sustains an injury before an upcoming tournament and her new physiotherapist happens to be the very girl she left behind.

y/n had known for three days. three full days since the email arrived in her inbox, all official and sterile and life-ruining.

 lara raj — pcl strain, grade I — primary physiotherapy care assigned to: y/n y/l/n.

she hadn’t slept properly since. part of her almost regretted responding to manon’s email, the manager of the girl who split her world in two the day she left. she’d tried to tell herself it would be fine, that it had been a year, that she was a professional, that her heart no longer lived in the hands of a girl who smiled like sin and kissed like salvation. but none of it held up. not when she was standing just inside the rehab suite now, stomach in knots, lungs refusing to inflate past surface level. she heard manon say her name before she even saw her. 

“lara, this is y/n, your new physiotherapist.”

and there she was.

lara sat on the edge of the treatment table, long legs crossed at the ankles, her right knee gently elevated with a foam bolster. the navy skirt of her tennis kit curved along the defined line of her thigh, a shade darker than her skin. her top was cropped and sleeveless, loose in the back where it bared a long, toned stretch of muscle. her hair was swept to the side, no longer dyed red like it has been in their senior year of highschool. it was black now, natural and perfect against her complexion. strands fell loose along her cheekbones, which were as sculpted as y/n remembered. she looked unfair. poised and calm and glowing, even under the flat clinical lighting. and when her gaze found y/n, she didn’t falter.

“nice to meet you,” lara said, smooth as a drop shot.

her voice hadn’t changed. low, cool, deceptively soft. like velvet wrapped around something pointed.  and she said it—nice to meet you—like they were strangers. like she hadn’t once taught y/n how to hit a forehand in the rain and kissed her under the awning when she got it right. like she hadn’t broken her heart with an apology and a plane ticket and a “you know i have to chase this.”

y/n forced her lips into something resembling a smile. she prayed it didn’t look like a grimace.

“you too,” she replied, automatically, stepping forward to shake her hand.

lara’s palm was warm, firm. confident. y/n’s was clammy, cold. of course it was.

“y/n’s got a stellar background,” manon went on, still cheerfully unaware of the emotional wreckage she’d just reassembled in one room. “sports therapy, rehabilitative training, joint mechanics—you’re in very good hands.”

lara tilted her head slightly, her gaze still lingering on y/n like she was seeing through every layer of her.

“looking forward to it,” she murmured, smiling with all the grace of someone who absolutely was not.

not genuinely, anyway. y/n knew that smile too well. she’d studied it, memorized what it meant. this was the smile lara wore when she knew she was holding the upper hand. this was the smile that had once made y/n say yes to sneaking out of a biology exam just to drive around aimlessly and listen to music with the windows down. the smile that had y/n’s heart beating rapidly in her chest, just as it had all other times before.

manon clapped her hands gently. “great. we’ll ease you in today, no pressure—just letting y/n get acquainted with your injury and the facility.”

lara nodded, cool and agreeable. “works for me.”

and then manon turned to leave, her heels tapping softly out the door. the click of it shutting behind her sounded more final than it should have. the silence that followed was thick and oddly charged.

lara shifted, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. her toned arms caught the light in just the right way, and her smirk came back, subtle this time. 

“so doc,” she said, voice low, “you’re gonna be the one fixing me?”

y/n straightened her spine automatically, willing her pulse to behave. “physically,” she replied, keeping it clinical.

lara laughed. a low, amused sound that wrapped itself around y/n’s ribcage and tugged.

“you’re still funny,” lara said. “that’s nice.”

“you’re still...” y/n started, then caught herself and cleared her throat. “you strained your posterior cruciate ligament—likely from overextension during a pivot or landing. based on your imaging and the initial pain markers, we’re looking at a low-grade strain. not a tear, but if you don’t rest and stabilize it, it could worsen. you need to stay off it for the next few days before we begin any weight-bearing exercises.”

lara raised an eyebrow, like she found the lecture charming. “posterior cruciate ligament,” she repeated, slow and deliberate. “so formal.”

“it’s your knee,” y/n deadpanned. “i don’t know how else to explain what’s wrong without sounding like a quack.”

lara grinned. “i missed your mouth.”

y/n choked on air. “excuse me?”

“your words,” lara amended innocently. “you’ve always been good with them.”

y/n stared at her, trying very hard not to fall into the gravity of that grin. or the memory of it. or how it used to tug at the corner of her mouth when she was about to say something that would wreck y/n’s whole afternoon. she looked down at her clipboard instead. empty. entirely unhelpful.

“sessions start tomorrow,” she said, mostly to the paper.

lara leaned back, stretching just enough to make it obvious. “can’t wait.”

y/n turned to go, her heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape. but before she could reach the door, lara’s voice came again. quiet, teasing, but just loud enough for her to hear.

“you still get nervous around me, huh?”

y/n didn’t answer. she didn’t need to. she kept on walking, leaving lara alone in the room.

the very second the door shut firm behind herself, she sprung into action. she tried so desperately to play it cool, to not let herself be caught internally fawning over the girl who still managed to set her soul alight. alas, it was near impossible.

her footsteps carried her very pointedly in a single direction. the door to a small office, only a couple rooms down in the rehab wing, slammed open so hard it bounced off the stopper with a hollow clang.

sophia didn’t even blink.

she was kneeling on a foam mat beside one of the treatment benches, unbothered, guiding her client— choi soobin, pro tennis player and her assigned disaster for the next six weeks—into a deep mobility stretch. one hand anchored his wrist while the other pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, nudging him deeper into position. her expression was the same one she always wore when y/n burst in like this: calm, vaguely unimpressed, and only mildly entertained.

“i’m going to die,” y/n announced, dramatic and breathless.

“hi,” sophia said flatly. “welcome.”

soobin made a small sound, halfway between a grunt and a question. “is that, like… literal or—”

“not you,” y/n snapped, waving him off like static.

he blinked and went quiet again, wise enough to stay out of it as the temperature in the room shifted to match y/n’s spiraling heartbeat.

she dropped her bag on the nearest table with a thud, like it had personally offended her. “it’s her,” she said, breathless. “lara.”

sophia didn’t react at first. just adjusted soobin’s elbow with clinical precision. “lara… raj?”

“yes, lara raj. as in the client i was assigned. as in the literal love of my life and the reason i have abandonment issues.”

sophia hummed. “you’ve known this for three days.”

“i didn’t think it’d be her her!” y/n threw her hands up. “i thought maybe it was a different lara raj. or maybe i hallucinated the email. or maybe the universe would do me one small favor and make her ugly.”

soobin opened his mouth again, cautiously. “so you guys—”

“shut up,” sophia and y/n said at the same time.

sophia pushed his shoulder forward an inch farther. he let out a wheeze and didn’t try again.

y/n started pacing in a tight, agitated loop, like if she stopped moving she might implode. “i walked in and there she was. sitting all casual, legs crossed, like she didn’t ruin my life. still tall. still glowing. still smelling like coconut shampoo.”

“you’re kidding.”

“i’m dead serious. she looked me in the eye and said, ‘nice to meet you.’ like we didn’t know each other. like i didn’t write her a poem.”

sophia winced. “you did write her a poem.”

“and she loved it.”

“it was terrible.”

“well she thought it was nice!”

sophia didn’t argue. instead, she shifted soobin into a seated hamstring stretch without warning. he yelped. she ignored it.

y/n flopped face-down onto the bench beside them. “and then she smiled. the smile.”

“not the smile.”

“the smile,” y/n groaned. “the one that made me skip calculus to get froyo. the one that made me forget what state i lived in. it’s like it’s engineered to dismantle my sense of self.”

“she’s always been terrifyingly pretty.”

“she’s prettier now. it’s criminal. i should report her.”

sophia offered no sympathy. “and you’re still in love with her.”

“i’m not,” y/n said, muffled against the bench cushion.

“sure.”

“i’m not! i’m just... disoriented. and stressed. and probably dehydrated.”

“and in love with her.”

y/n rolled over and covered her face with her hands. “i can’t do this for ten days. she’s already trying to flirt. i can feel it.”

sophia actually laughed. laughed. y/n lifted her head, betrayed.

“you’re enjoying this.”

“a little,” sophia said. “but also? you’ve been fake-mad about her for a year. now she’s here, and you have ten uninterrupted days of forced proximity. that’s karma.”

“that’s a romcom,” y/n muttered darkly. “i don’t want a romcom. i want a sedative.”

“you want to make out with her.”

“i want peace.”

soobin groaned softly as sophia rotated his hip outward.

“breathe through it,” she said, voice sweet, hands merciless.

y/n groaned, low and dramatic, and dragged both hands down her face like she could wipe away the memory of lara’s smirk. “she called me doc.”

sophia tilted her head. “you are a doctor.”

“yeah, but not like that. she said it in the voice. you know the one. the voice she used when she used to ask if i was free after practice, and then we’d end up making out behind the bleachers for forty minutes.”

“forty?” sophia asked, skeptical.

“it felt like forty.”

“it was, like, eleven.”

“emotionally, it was forty.”

soobin made another quiet noise of protest as sophia twisted his torso into a deep spinal rotation. she kept her grip firm and her expression neutral, like she wasn’t witnessing a slow emotional meltdown three feet to her left.

“and the skirt,” y/n continued, helpless. “why does she have to sit like that? with her knee up and her arm draped all confident, like she’s in an adidas ad and knows i’m dying inside?”

“because she does know you’re dying inside.”

y/n pointed a finger at her. “traitor.”

“realist,” sophia said. “look, i love you, but you have exactly two emotional modes when it comes to lara raj: ‘still in love’ and ‘fully feral.’”

“i am not fully feral.”

sophia raised a brow.

“okay, maybe a little feral,” y/n admitted. “but only internally.”

“mm-hm.”

y/n stared up at the ceiling tiles like they held answers. “she’s going to ruin me.”

“probably,” sophia said cheerfully.

“i’ll lose my license.”

“unlikely.”

“i’ll cry in the supply closet.”

“that one’s more likely.”

y/n sat up, eyes wide. “what if she’s trying to mess with me? what if this is her revenge arc?”

“revenge for what?”

“i don’t know! leaving her unread on valentine’s day senior year? forgetting her dog’s name that one time?”

sophia laughed. “she did hold a grudge about the dog thing.”

“it was an ugly dog!”

soobin exhaled loudly as sophia released the stretch. he looked faintly shell-shocked, like he’d just lived through a natural disaster and wasn’t totally sure if it was over yet.

“we done?” he asked, hopeful.

“almost,” sophia said, moving behind him. “one more set.”

he whimpered.

“you’re doing great,” she said, like a lie.

y/n leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “i think i blacked out when she said ‘nice to meet you.’ my soul left my body. i became a ghost.”

“you are pale,” sophia agreed.

“do you think she really forgot me?”

“no.”

“do you think she pretended to forget me?”

“yes.”

“psychopath,” y/n whispered.

“welcome to women’s tennis,” sophia said.

“i’m not going to survive ten days.”

“you’re going to survive exactly ten days,” sophia corrected. “and then you’re either going to get closure, or make out in a supply closet, or cry about it for another year. all of which are valid.”

y/n looked haunted. “what if she asks me to stretch her hamstrings?”

“then you remember your degree,” sophia said. “and your ethics. and maybe bring a cold compress for your face.”

soobin pushed himself upright with great effort, limbs slow and stiff like a baby deer learning to walk. he hovered awkwardly beside the mat, blinking at both of them, looking between them like a kid caught between two divorced parents mid-argument. “i feel like i just sat through a fight i wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“you did,” sophia said, unfazed.

“it’s good for you,” y/n added, dragging a hand down her face. “builds empathy.”

he stared at them for a beat, visibly trying to process the emotional whiplash. then he sighed, long and beleaguered. “i want a different therapist.”

“file a complaint,” sophia said, already resetting the mat with clinical efficiency. “y/n will write you a poem about it.”

“it’ll be terrible,” y/n warned.

“but heartfelt,” sophia added.

soobin muttered something under his breath and walked off like a man who’d just survived a natural disaster and wasn’t sure if it would come back for round two.

the door swung shut behind soobin with a soft click, and the room fell quiet in his absence. without his awkward commentary or the false comfort of banter to fill the space, the tension settled again—this time softer, heavier. y/n sat back against the bench, arms wrapped loosely around herself like she was trying to hold something in. or keep something out.

sophia glanced over, her expression finally shifting—less amused now, more open. steady.

“you okay?” she asked, voice gentler than before.

y/n let out a slow breath. “i don’t know.”

she sounded smaller than usual. not the flustered storm that had barreled through the door earlier, but something quieter. unraveling.

sophia moved to sit beside her, their shoulders almost touching. “you want to talk about it?”

“what’s there to talk about?” y/n stared at the floor. “she left. she broke my heart. i thought i moved on. and then i saw her and it’s like—i don’t know. it’s like no time passed. like all the stuff i buried just came back.”

“of course it did,” sophia said. “it’s not a switch. you don’t flip it off and forget her.”

y/n nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. “she looked right at me. and smiled like nothing happened. like we were strangers.”

“maybe she didn’t know what to say,” sophia offered. “maybe that was her version of keeping it professional.”

“or maybe she really doesn’t care anymore,” y/n said, and her voice cracked on the last word. “and i’m just the only one still carrying it.”

sophia didn’t say anything at first. just let the silence sit. let it breathe.

“you’re not,” she said eventually. “i’ve seen a lot of people try to fake it, but you don’t forget someone you loved just because a year went by. and you don’t talk about someone like this unless you still feel something.”

y/n blinked hard, swallowing. “then why didn’t she say anything? why pretend we never happened?”

“because it’s easier to pretend than admit you left someone behind,” sophia said. “especially when you don’t know if they’ll forgive you.”

that struck something. y/n’s throat tightened.

sophia bumped her shoulder gently. “you don’t have to fix anything. and you don’t owe her forgiveness. but if she’s really here—and if you’re still feeling all of this—then maybe it’s worth seeing what’s left. for closure. or clarity. or whatever it is you need.”

y/n was quiet for a long moment.

“what if it just hurts again?” she asked softly.

“then at least you’ll know,” sophia said. “and you’ll stop wondering.”

y/n looked over at her, eyes tired but grateful. “why are you always right?”

sophia smiled. “i’m not. i just love you. and i don’t want you carrying this forever.”

y/n leaned her head against her shoulder, the weight of it finally too much to hold alone. for a few moments, they just sat like that. no jokes, no dramatics. just the kind of quiet that comes when someone understands you enough not to fill it.

“i’m scared,” y/n admitted.

“i know,” sophia said. “but you’re braver than you think.”

and y/n believed her. or at least, she wanted to. and maybe—for now—that was enough.

she had ten days to see this thing through. she could only hope lara didn’t kill her before their time was up.

_

the next morning came by faster than expected, and sure enough, lara was already on the table when y/n walked in, reclined back on her elbows, tossing a stress ball into the air like it had personally wronged her. her hair was pulled up, skin flushed faintly from the earlier warm-up. she looked like she owned the room. like she always did.

she grinned. “took you long enough,” she said. “was starting to think you were scared of me.”

“i was,” y/n replied flatly, setting her clipboard on the counter with a little more force than necessary. “but then i remembered you’re the one who can’t walk properly.”

lara’s grin only widened. “ah. there she is.”

y/n didn’t return it. she gestured toward the table. “lie flat.”

lara obeyed, still smirking. “aren’t you going to ask how i’ve been?”

“no.”

“rude.”

y/n didn’t respond. her hands found their rhythm—methodical, careful, clinical. she started with palpation, fingers moving around the swelling, pressing gently, checking for heat, tenderness, guarding. she catalogued it all, let her body do the remembering so her mind didn’t have to.

but it did anyway.

lara’s skin was warm. familiar. same tan lines, same faint scar from that time she tripped over a ball cart during warm-ups and refused to let the trainer stitch it. same muscle under y/n’s palm that used to curl around her waist in the mornings, anchoring her in place.

y/n swallowed. kept her face neutral.

the silence stretched. it used to be comfortable, safe, even. now it just felt like a fuse waiting to burn out.

her fingers shifted slightly, pressing into the muscle just above lara’s knee, and it was muscle memory more than anything. not just the physio work—though she knew this anatomy like second nature—but all the rest of it, too. she remembered tracing these lines with her mouth. remembered lara half-asleep, limbs tangled with hers, mumbling dumb things into her neck. remembered this exact thigh wrapped around her hips, pulling her closer, always closer.

her hand stilled.

she breathed in, slow and steady, grounding herself in the sterile clinic air and the clipboard waiting across the room. not the way lara’s breath had just hitched. not the way it always used to.

y/n refocused. pressed down with more intent this time, dragging her thumb along the medial border like she was following a map she helped draw.

lara exhaled sharply, more surprise than pain, and y/n blinked hard, looking away.

it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. it wasn’t supposed to still be like this. they hadn’t even spoken after the breakup. not really. no closure, no friendship attempt, just a clean split followed by radio silence. y/n had buried it, like everything else. and yet here she was, elbow-deep in lara raj’s thigh and halfway to a breakdown.

she hated how easy it was to fall back into orbit. how close lara felt, even after everything. like no time had passed at all.

lara broke it first. “you still do that thing when you’re concentrating. the lip thing.”

y/n paused. “what thing.”

“bite the inside. right side.” lara turned her head, voice softening without losing its edge. “used to drive me crazy.”

y/n’s jaw ticked. “flex your quad for me.”

lara did. the muscle fired under her palm. automatic, precise. y/n nodded once and stepped away, scribbling something she wouldn’t be able to read later.

lara watched her. “you’re different.”

y/n flipped the page without looking up. “you’re not. still think flirting is a personality.”

“you used to like it.”

“you used to mean it.”

silence again. heavier, this time. like a bruise pressed too hard. y/n didn’t dare look at her.

after a moment: “okay,” she said quietly. “let’s start with some range of motion work. we’ll go slow. tell me if anything feels off.”

lara lifted a brow. “like your attitude?”

y/n just stared at her—the kind of look that used to be followed by a kiss or a slammed door. lara sighed and lay back again, one arm flung lazily over her head.

“fine, fine. i’ll behave.”

y/n didn’t answer, but her hands were steady as she guided the knee. internal rotation, external, slow flexion. she moved on instinct, trying not to notice the way lara kept making faces—these dramatic, exaggerated winces every time her fingers so much as grazed too close.

“are you always this dramatic?” y/n muttered, adjusting her grip on lara’s thigh.

“only when i’m being manhandled by an ex,” lara replied smoothly, eyes flicking to hers.

y/n’s mouth opened, closed. “jesus christ,” she muttered.

lara hummed. “you’ve gotten stronger. must be all those lonely nights at the gym.”

and that was it. y/n pulled just a little too hard on the next stretch.

lara yelped. “ow—okay! okay! what the hell, are you trying to tear it more?”

“you always did like it rough,” y/n said before she could stop herself. and immediately wanted to crawl into the floor.

lara laughed. loud and shameless, the kind of laugh that used to shake the sheets. y/n clenched her jaw and stared at the floor, actively resisting the urge to bang her head against the nearest resistance band hook.

“don’t make me laugh,” lara gasped, breath catching. “it makes the pain worse.”

“good.”

“you’re so mean now. it’s hot.”

y/n didn’t respond. she was too busy pressing into the medial thigh, deep tissue work that should’ve required all her focus. but all she could think about was how soft the skin felt. how close her face was to lara’s knee. how the air between them was thick with something unspoken and impossible to forget.

lara wiggled her foot. “you’re making that face again.”

“what face.”

“the one where you look like you want to punch me but also maybe kiss me.”

y/n jerked back like she’d been stung. her thumb left a sharp red streak along the inside of lara’s thigh. not intentional. not really. but it stood out. hot. bright. incriminating.

and that was exactly when the door creaked open.

manon stepped in, sunglasses perched on her head, a smoothie in one hand and a familiar glint in her eye. she stopped cold just inside the room, blinking once at the scene in front of her—lara flushed and sprawled on the table, thigh streaked with red, y/n stiff as a corpse and visibly sweating.

“jesus christ,” manon said. “do you two need a room?”

lara looked down and burst out laughing. “is that a hickey?”

“it’s not a hickey,” y/n said quickly, voice cracking like glass under pressure.

manon raised a brow. “sure it’s not. just a little physio love bite.” she held up her smoothie. “anyway, didn’t mean to interrupt your foreplay. i actually came with news.”

lara blinked, still breathless from laughing. “what news?”

“you’re in,” manon said, like it was obvious. “tournament officials accepted your wildcard. the final matches have been postponed for your recovery. you’re on the roster.”

lara sat up straighter. “you’re serious?”

manon grinned. “deadly. congrats, raj.”

the glow on lara’s face was immediate. relief. pride. something almost childlike in how it lit her up. she reached for the tablet manon had tucked under her arm and flipped to the schedule.

and just like that, the light dimmed.

her smile faltered as her eyes landed on the name next to hers in the bracket. daniela avanzini. reigning champ. already being called the next big thing by every major sports outlet.

lara didn’t say anything, but y/n saw it. the shift. the stillness. how her mouth flattened slightly, jaw locking into place.

manon didn’t seem to notice. she gave a dramatic bow and backed toward the door, tossing a wink over her shoulder. “celebrate later, yeah? just not on the treatment table.”

then she was gone. the door clicked shut behind her.

y/n didn’t move at first. just watched lara staring at the tablet like it had personally insulted her.

“what is it?” she asked, quiet, careful. “you were just excited.”

lara didn’t answer.

y/n sighed and stepped closer, wiping her hands on a towel, voice softer now. “come on. it’s me.”

lara’s shoulders shifted, the faintest sign of tension.

“daniela avanzini,” she muttered, eyes still fixed on the screen. “first round.”

y/n’s brow furrowed. “so?”

lara let out a dry breath. “she won this whole thing last year. hasn’t lost a single match since. i wasn’t even sure i’d get in—and now i have to open against her?“

y/n watched her, then leaned against the edge of the table. “you’ve played tougher.”

lara huffed a humorless laugh. “not with one and a half knees, i haven’t.”

there was no teasing in her voice now. just exhaustion. and the creeping shadow of self-doubt y/n remembered all too well.

“you’ll be fine,” y/n said, steady. certain. “you don’t back down. not from girls like her.”

lara looked at her then, eyes searching, like she wasn’t used to hearing that anymore.

and for a second, y/n didn’t care about the past. or the tension. or the red streak still fading on lara’s thigh.

because whatever they were now, she could still read lara like a book. and right now, she needed someone to believe in her.

“you’ve got this,” y/n said. simple. firm. true.

lara’s shoulders dropped, just slightly. she nodded, slow.

“yeah,” she said. “yeah. okay.”

y/n turned away and started packing up the ice packs like it was urgent. like the act of organizing something—anything—might keep her from unraveling. emotionally speaking, it kind of had to.

behind her, lara placed the tablet down and moved to stand. whatever flicker of doubt had cracked through a minute ago was gone from her face now, wiped clean and replaced with that effortless cool she always wore like armor. but y/n saw right through it. the wince as lara shifted her weight. the tightness around her mouth. the sheen of nerves still clinging to her eyes.

“so,” lara said, too breezy, like nothing at all had happened, “same time tomorrow?”

y/n didn’t answer right away. she glanced at her, the way you look at something you used to call home. lara had always been like this—sharp, stubborn, all-in. tennis was everything. it had been the start and the end of them.

still, y/n didn’t poke at it. didn’t offer comfort or push too hard. she just looked back down at her clipboard and scribbled something illegible, feigning disinterest like it was a sport.

“unfortunately,” she said.

lara bit her lip. not flirtatious this time, but soft. familiar. a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, quiet and a little worn around the edges. maybe even fond.

“can’t wait.” 

__

perhaps y/n should’ve trusted her instincts that something wasn’t quite right in the mind of her ex girlfriend.

the pop of the tennis ball echoed across the near-empty court, sharp and rhythmic. it was hot—too hot to be out here, especially with a healing knee—but lara’s body craved the repetition. the sweat, the sting of sun in her eyes, the dry rasp of her breath. it all felt like control. like something she could grip tight before it slipped away again. it'd been five days since her therapy sessions kicked into swing, and little by little, she was going crazy. she hated stagnancy. sitting and waiting around doing nothing when the court was right there. the late afternoon heat pressed down like a weighted blanket, thick and unmoving. golden light pooled along the edges of the tennis court, casting long shadows over the clay. cicadas droned somewhere in the trees beyond the fence. it was the kind of california heat that made the ground shimmer, the kind that stole breath from lungs. but lara was still out there, hitting ball after ball like it owed her something.

her tank top was damp, clinging to her skin, dark with sweat along her back. strands of her inky black hair stuck to her neck, and the angles of her face were set tight with determination. her movements were clean, trained. forceful even/ but there was a hitch in her stride. her knee. every pivot came with a flicker of pain she refused to acknowledge. she wasn’t cleared to be playing. she knew it. megan knew it. but knowing didn’t stop her.

on the other side of the net, megan twirled her racket lazily, her white tank cropped just enough to flash the silver hoops of her belt every time she moved. where lara was coiled tension, megan was loose limbs and sleepy eyes. 

“i’m starting to think you like punishing yourself,” she called out, visor askew like a lopsided crown. she stuck her tongue out in mock concentration. “either that or you just love making me run.”

lara didn’t answer. she returned the shot with a sharp forehand, sweat flying from her elbow. her chest burned. her leg throbbed. she didn’t care.

“don’t get me wrong,” megan said, jogging to catch the ball. “i’m flattered. i mean, i’ve got a nice ass and all, but if this is your way of flirting—”

lara hit the next shot harder. it cracked like a gun going off.

megan whistled. “okay, simmer down, federer. jesus.”

lara didn’t smile. didn’t even flinch. her eyes stayed locked on the ball, lashes clumped with sweat, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. her breath came shallow and fast. she could feel the tremble in her knee starting to spread, small at first, but gaining ground. still, she kept going. she had to. she wasn’t thinking about her knee. not really. she was thinking about daniela. daniela with the perfect serve, the iron discipline, the smile that never reached her eyes. the girl who might be better. faster. cleaner.

lara couldn’t afford to lose. not again.

“if you die out here,” megan called after a moment through her heavy breathing, slicing the ball with a lazy flick, “can i have your sneakers?”

lara lunged to return it. “you wouldn’t fit them.”

“rude and ableist. i’m a growing girl.”

they kept the rally going. backhand, forehand, slice, lob. lara’s form was cleaner than it should be for someone not cleared to train. but there was a stiffness in her leg, a hesitance in her recovery steps. megan noticed. megan always noticed.

“you’re thinking about daniela again,” megan sing-songed.

lara grunted as she pivoted. “no, i’m not.”

“yes, you are. it’s written all over your moody little murder face.”

lara hit the ball harder than she needed to. “i’m fine.”

“no, you’re tense. like emotionally and also physically. i’m your friend-slash-secret therapist-slash-occasional doubles partner, and i can feel it in my soul.”

lara didn’t answer. they both knew megan was right. lara just couldn’t help but dread her upcoming match with the latina. couldn’t shake the memory of her devastating efficiency, the knowledge that she was fresh. rested. uninjured. probably sleeping eight hours a night in a cryogenic pod while lara spent hers trying not to scream into a pillow every time her knee ached.

she hated that she wasn’t sure if she could beat her anymore.

“you know it’s okay, right?” megan said, softer now, tapping the ball across gently. “to be scared. or whatever.”

lara caught it on the bounce and shot it back harder than necessary. “i’m not scared.”

“okay. cool. you’re just out here in a heatwave playing on a busted leg because… you love pain?”

lara gave her a look. “yes. it’s called character building.”

“uh-huh.” megan grinned. “okay, new theory. you’re not scared of daniela. you’re just distracted. and i think i know by who.”

lara sighed. “don’t.”

“y/n,” megan declared, grinning wider. “hot physio. broody aura. what did you do, hit her with your car?”

lara’s next shot clipped the net.

“she’s—” lara started, then stopped.

“what?” megan twirled her racket. “gonna say she’s just your physio? because i’m pretty sure i saw you make eye contact with her once and your soul tried to leave your body.”

lara rolled her eyes. “megan.”

“what? i’m allowed to look. she’s hot. if you’re not gonna go for it, i’ll take a shot.”

lara’s grip on her racket tightened. “no, you won’t.”

megan blinked. “whoa. calm down, stabby.”

“i’m not stabby.”

“you sound a little stabby.”

lara hit the ball hard. too hard. the pressure jolted up her leg like lightning. the second her foot came down, she knew. the angle was wrong. her knee buckled, and pain shot through her like a scream.

she collapsed with a sharp gasp, racket skidding across the clay.

“shit—lara!” megan rushed over, dropping to her knees beside her. “hey, hey, don’t move—”

lara clenched her jaw. “i’m—fine—”

but the pain said otherwise. it pulsed hot and urgent, and her breath was already going shallow. panic started to press in around the edges. from the corner of her eye she noticed a familiar figure darting over.

“what the hell is going on?” y/n’s voice rang out, fierce and familiar.

lara looked up just in time to see her pushing through the gate, eyes wide, clipboard forgotten somewhere behind her.

“she fell,” megan said quickly. “knee again. i think—she’s in real pain.”

y/n knelt beside her without hesitation. “lara. talk to me.”

lara’s throat felt tight. “it—it twisted.”

y/n’s hands were already assessing the joint, fast but precise. “can you put weight on it?”

“not right now.”

megan stood back. “i’ll get ice.”

y/n nodded without looking up. “bench. come on.”

between the two of them, they got lara onto the bench. y/n’s arm around her waist was steady, grounding. her touch wasn’t gentle, but something about it made lara’s chest ache.

megan returned with an ice pack, handing it off with a sheepish wince. “i’m gonna give you guys a minute.”

lara didn’t say anything. didn’t meet y/n’s eyes. she ignored megan when she gave her a brief apologetic shoulder pat before sauntering away, disappearing behind the large fence.

the silence left behind was heavier than it should’ve been.

“you shouldn’t be out here,” y/n said finally. not angry. just tired. scared in her own way.

lara closed her eyes. “i know.”

“so why are you?”

lara opened her mouth, then closed it again. the truth tasted bitter, like something she didn’t want to admit.

“because i’m not ready to lose,” she said, voice low. “not again. not this. it’s all i have left.”

y/n was quiet for a long moment.

“you have more than this game,” y/n said softly, kneeling in front of her. the ice pack in her hand melted slowly, droplets slipping over her fingers as she pressed it gently to lara’s knee. “more than this court.”

lara exhaled through her nose, sharp and shaky. “you don’t get it,” she murmured. “tennis is all i’ve ever been good at. it’s the only place that made sense when everything else didn’t.”

y/n stayed quiet for a beat, watching her. the pain on lara’s face wasn’t just from the fall. it was the kind that had been building for years. “it doesn’t have to be,” she said. “you’re more than your ranking. your record. your injury. you’re… you’re smart. stubborn. annoying.”

lara huffed a breath, something almost like a laugh.

“and you’ve got people,” y/n added. “people who want you to be okay. not just back on the court. actually okay.”

lara’s eyes met hers then, dark, tired, and a little wide. like something in her had cracked without warning. “even you?”

y/n didn’t flinch. “especially me.”

the silence that followed was thick. a cicada buzzed somewhere just past the fence. a breeze picked up, lazy and warm. neither of them moved.

“have you…” lara started, then trailed off, eyes flicking away.

y/n tilted her head. “what?”

lara’s voice came quieter this time. “have you been with anyone since me?”

y/n blinked. “why?”

lara shrugged, but it was brittle, all edge. “just wondering.”

y/n watched her for a second. “no.”

lara’s gaze shot back to hers. “really?”

“yeah. really.”

lara nodded slowly, jaw tight. she looked away again, toward the net where the ball still rested like a forgotten thought. “i haven’t either.”

y/n didn’t say anything.

lara’s voice dropped even lower. “because no one was you.”

the air caught in y/n’s throat.

lara didn’t smile. didn’t flirt. didn’t try to hide behind the usual smirk or offhand comment. she just sat there, sweaty and bruised, a little broken and not bothering to pretend otherwise.

“i didn’t know how to move on,” she added, almost to herself. “still don’t.”

y/n reached for her hand without thinking. their fingers brushed, hesitant at first. then stayed.

they didn’t say anything else after that.

__

the planned ten days were over within a blink. neither of them mentioned the words lara uttered that day. the remaining days they had were spent in full recovery, much to the desi girls' chagrin. she was back to her usual coy smiles and flirty compliments, but y/n could’ve sworn there was something deeper hiding beneath the surface. a warmth she hadn’t seen since they dated, a warmth she often stayed up late at night thinking of. a warmth she craved for so long, and perhaps, one she never got over. spending time with lara had her heart soothing over, mending slowly without even realizing it. she missed her. and of course, sophia was right.

y/n was still deeply, madly in love with lara raj.

y/n was torn from her thoughts when a loud jeer sounded through the staff room.  the room was cramped, humid, and vaguely haunted by the smell of instant coffee and sports tape. above the lockers, a slightly tilted flat-screen tv streamed the tournament feed in all its 720p glory. y/n sat cross-legged on a bench beside sophia and manon, the two girls having grown quite fond of each other over the past ten days they’d spent in the same social orbits. y/n kept her arms folded, her expression tight: trying to look calm and collected and pulling off exactly neither.

soobin’s match had just wrapped. he’d played clean and sharp, held his own against a higher seed, made it all the way to the semis—but came up short in the last set. the staff room let out a collective, sympathetic groan as the final point landed.

“still proud of him,” sophia said, chewing a protein bar aggressively. “personally, i think i would’ve done better. maybe that’s just the competitor in me. bad bitches always come out on top.”

manon blinked. “you cried when i beat your ass at mario kart two days ago.”

sophia narrowed her eyes. “shut your mouth.”

y/n wasn’t listening. her gaze was fixed on the screen as the bracket updated. next match: lara raj vs. daniela avanzini. center court. her stomach tightened.

manon noticed the way y/n’s face twisted. turning away from the filippina, she lowered her voice in clear concern. “you good?”

“peachy,” y/n said flatly. “just watching my ex-girlfriend walk into battle against the most terrifying forehand in women’s tennis. no big deal.”

manon blinked. turned. “wait, what?”

y/n didn’t flinch. “we dated.”

“what?!”

sophia rolled her eyes and offered manon the rest of her protein bar. “catch up, girl.”

manon’s face was somewhere between scandalized and impressed. “why did no one tell me?!”

“we figured the dramatic mid-tournament reveal would be more cinematic,” y/n said dryly.

manon threw her hands up. “i’ve been in the dark for ten days!”

y/n stood before the banter could pull her under. she smoothed her staff polo, then immediately regretted it. it didn’t help anything.

“i’m gonna go check on her,” she mumbled.

sophia gave a thumbs up. manon looked like she had several follow-up questions but wisely zipped it.

the hallway was unusually quiet—like even the building itself had gone still, holding its breath for what came next. y/n slipped through the back corridors with practiced ease, dodging staff carts and volunteers with clipboards, letting instinct guide her more than memory. she didn’t have to think about where lara would be. she just knew. past the physio bay, past the equipment closets and storage crates of unopened gatorade. just before the tunnel to center court—there.

lara stood exactly where y/n expected: framed in the stark fluorescent light spilling from overhead, tucked just out of sight from the cameras and chaos waiting at the other end. she was alone, headphones hanging loose around her neck, not playing anything anymore. her racquet leaned gently against the wall beside her. her knee, freshly wrapped in compression tape so smooth it looked like glass, bent and straightened in a slow, careful rhythm, like she was testing its limits without daring to push too far.

she looked good. better, even. lighter on her feet, her posture more relaxed than it had been a week ago. physically, at least, she was ready.

but her hands were fidgeting. her shoulders tight with tension. her brow furrowed in that way that always came when she was thinking too much, feeling too much. y/n stopped just before she reached her. didn’t say anything at first.

lara noticed her anyway.

she looked up, and for a moment, all the nerves on her face paused. like the sight of y/n alone was enough to break the spiral.

“hey,” lara said, voice low and rough around the edges.

“hey,” y/n echoed, softer. she let herself linger on the sight of her, how strong she looked, how scared she clearly still was underneath it all. “figured i’d find you here.”

lara gave a weak smile. “it’s almost time.”

y/n stepped closer, careful not to intrude too quickly. “how’re you feeling?”

lara nodded, too fast. “i’m good.”

y/n arched a brow. “you’re literally vibrating.”

lara’s jaw worked, like she wanted to argue and didn’t have the energy. 

“i keep thinking,” she said, gaze fixed past the tunnel, “about everything that can go wrong. like—what if i slip again? what if it gives out? what if i choke in front of all those people?”

her voice was too steady for how fast she was blinking. y/n took another step forward, now close enough to touch her, but didn’t. not yet.

“you’ve already done the hardest part,” she said gently. “you got back up. the rest is just tennis.”

lara gave a short, quiet laugh—dry and almost bitter. “just tennis.”

“you know what i mean.”

lara looked down at her hands, flexed them once, then let them fall.

“sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,” she said. “i’m not enough.”

y/n’s throat tightened. she reached out, slow, and brushed her fingers against the hem of lara’s sleeve, straightening it with care that didn’t need words.

“you are,” she said. “you always have been.”

lara finally looked at her. eyes shining, jaw tight.

y/n held her gaze. “and if you forget that out there, just look for me.”

a long beat. the kind that said everything too big to speak aloud. then the announcer’s voice boomed from the court, muffled but unmistakable.

lara flinched like it physically tugged her. her name echoed into the tunnel, followed by a swell of crowd noise.

she exhaled shakily.

“time to go,” she said.

y/n nodded.

lara hesitated—just for a second—then took a step forward and rested her forehead briefly against y/n’s, barely touching.

“thank you,” she whispered.

and then she was gone.

the match was chaos. not the kind that spiraled out of control, but the kind that demanded everything. every nerve, every drop of focus, every breath held and released in rhythm with the ball.

y/n didn’t take a seat.

she stood in the tunnel, half-hidden in shadow, just past where the athletes emerged. not quite on court, not quite behind it. close enough to hear every thwack of the racquet, every screech of shoes on the baseline, every collective inhale from the crowd.

lara started strong. sharper than she had in weeks. her footwork was tight, her backhand crisp, her serve landing just where it needed to. she was reading daniela well. all of the angles, predicting the pace. but then came the second set.

one bad step on a wide return sent her skidding, her sneakers dragging across clay. she didn’t fall hard, but y/n’s heart still jolted into her throat. she gripped the wall instinctively, knuckles white, watching lara freeze for a half-second before she pulled herself up like it hadn’t happened.

that was the turning point.

lara adjusted. gritted her teeth. she stopped trying to out-power daniela and started out-thinking her instead—mixing in drop shots, surprising her with deep lobs, keeping her off rhythm. tie breaks. long deuces. brutal rallies that felt like little wars.

y/n stood still through it all, not blinking, not breathing.

lara looked exhausted. flushed and damp, her wrap peeking through the edge of her skirt, her swing a little slower with each game, but she never backed off. never once glanced toward the tunnel.

not until championship point.

y/n knew the pattern by now. she could see it coming in lara’s posture, the way she bounced on her toes one last time before the serve. the way daniela’s return came just a fraction too high.

lara pounced. a forehand down the line. fast. unforgiving. it clipped the baseline and vanished past the reach of her opponent.

silence. then the crowd roared. the stadium exploded, cheering, whistling, thunderous applause like a wave crashing over the court. confetti started falling from somewhere. a reporter yelled her name. cameras swung wildly to catch her face.

lara had won. she’d done it. on court, lara stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide like she didn’t fully believe it either. a tournament official jogged over and placed the trophy into her hands. silver and shining and somehow too small for what it meant. it was only the first round, yes, but she knocked out the toughest opponent she’d have to face for the rest of the tourney.

lara barely looked at the small trophy before she turned. and for the first time in the whole match—hell, maybe the whole year—she wasn’t searching for the ball, or the next point, or the fear of what might break again. she was looking for her.

before y/n could even react, lara was already moving. she slipped past the officials with barely a glance, dodged a reporter, ducked under the boom of a camera that tried to follow. someone caught her by the arm, and she shook them off without a word. then she was there. standing in front of y/n in the tunnel. flushed from the match, eyes glassy with disbelief and adrenaline. breath caught halfway in her throat. for a moment, she didn’t say anything. just looked at her—really looked. like y/n was the only thing anchoring her to the ground. then, with a trembling breath, she reached out.

her hands found y/n’s face gently, like she was afraid she might shatter if she moved too fast. her thumbs brushed over her cheeks, soft as breath, and then she kissed her. slow. tender. nothing rushed or showy, no crashing hunger. just this quiet, aching certainty that said i missed you. i see you. it’s always been you.

y/n didn’t move right away.

not because she didn’t want to, but because the softness of it, the sincerity of it, cut straight through her. lara raj—newly crowned champion dethroner, one step closer to taking it all, headline material, national broadcast darling—was kissing her like none of that mattered. like she’d won the biggest trophy of her life and still turned around to find the one thing that made it real.

when they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. lara was still catching her breath.

y/n blinked, dazed. “what the hell was that?”

lara’s laugh was quiet, shaky. “closure. maybe.”

y/n raised a brow. “that felt suspiciously like the opposite of closure.”

lara smiled again—crooked and small and impossibly full of love. she didn’t pull back.

“i used to think the game was everything,” she whispered. “that if i won enough, if i kept proving myself, maybe one day i’d feel… whole.”

y/n said nothing. her heart was too loud in her ears. lara’s thumb traced the line of her jaw.

“but you—” she swallowed. “being with you made me feel like i already was. i didn’t need to chase anything. i’m so sorry i walked away. i thought i had to choose. but there’s nothing—nothing—in this world i want more than you.”

y/n’s eyes burned. she didn’t say anything. just wrapped her arms around lara’s waist, pulled her in close, and kissed her again—deeper this time, but still just as sure.

lara didn’t care a single shred about the outcome of her match, she realized. standing with y/n in that moment made all the sense in the world.

it felt like coming home.

[majeoeje]

Beating heart

Laios x reader

Just please don’t ever go away

Part 2

“Wake up, hey! Wake up!” Said Laios

You wondered why he was making such a ruckus before you looked down and noticed the ungodly amount of blood that came out from an open wound on your stomach. Out of instinct, you hand reached down to press on the wound to try and stop the bleeding, hissing in pain at the contact

That’s right! you were fighting a monster beforehand… what was it? It was shaped like a horse but it was definitely not a unicorn, let alone a kelpie.. now that you think about it, it looks more like a donkey with the elongated ears..

Before you could recall your memory, your attention finally drifts to Laios. There was a peculiar expression on his face, well it wasn’t something comical like how he usually has, it’s quite different. The slight widening of his eyes, the schrunched up brows and the slightly agape mouth wasn’t something you had ever seen Laios expressed in all your years of friendship.

“You’ll be alright.. just stay still.. Im sure Marcille is on her way!..” he muttered “you’ll be alright..”. He pushed aside some of the hair that sticked to your forehead, perhaps an effort to soothe your pain. Not knowing how long Marcille would take to get here after being separated from you and Laios.

Laios held your bloodied hand, squeezing it tightly that he should while your other stayed still on your wound.

By the tone of his voice you would’ve thought he was saying all these things to assure himself. Was Laios perhaps… Worried?..

You weren’t sure. Sometimes the dim litted candle light can be deceiving, you thought, especially in a dark cave like this. Though you know you needed to do something hearing his endless mutterings

“Calm down, Laios” you said, your voice rendering weaker than you assumed. As you tried to sit more comfortably on the rough surface of the cave

“Why don’t you try that healing spell that Marcille taught you?”

“I’m not sure.. i had healed a scratch sure, but this is something entirely different…”

You opened your mouth to say something encouraging, but the blood that you coughed up instead surely wasn’t helping the situation.

“Gah-Ahh!!” He yelled, you found it ironic how he was the one screaming.

“I’m fine dude you..can do it! No pressure..” You said, weakly pointing a thumbs up.

Your ass is far from fine. And Laios wasn’t stupid enough to not notice.

Despite the growing worry that seeps into his mind. But he was determined to help as always, knowing him.

“Okay.. i’ll try”

You let go of your wound, it seems that the blood that seeps out has slowed down faster than you think. With that thought in mind, you guided both his hand to your stomach, squeezing it ever so slightly.

“Alright, just recite the incantation. I can take it!” You said enthusiastically before gritting your teeth, prepared for a god awful amount of pain that comes in healing magic.

He nodded before he starts reciting the incantation that Marcille had worked so hard in teaching.

And painful the spell it was, as you screamed understandably loudly feeling as if you got stabbed once again with no adrenaline helping you in slightly easing your pain. You held onto Laios’ armor the whole time, not wanting to hurt him while he was trying so hard to focus.

After a while, the pain eventually subsided, being replaced by an unbearable itch.

“I need to sit down” said Laios, feeling a dreadful Mana sickness coming his way

You instinctively pat the spot next to you, an odd habit that didn’t take long for your party members to notice. You guessed you just liked to be seated next to him. Well Laios never complained, even now as he obediently sat himself next to you.

“You did well, Good job Laios” it was evident from the closed wound on your stomach that Laios was starting to get the hang out of magic, it would be a lie to say it didn’t fill you with a sort of pride.

Not long after that sense of pride washed away though was when you noticed how awfully quiet Laios had been. You were worried yes but the cling that he has on your arm was what convinced you he was alright. At least he will be once you gave him a moment. Mana sickness surely is a pain, you thought feeling him shift in his seat to lean against you, muttering something incoherent.

“I’m hearing footsteps coming, i’m sure it’s Marcille, we’ll be alright Laios” you said, before Marcille appeared as if on cue

“There they are!!” She yelled, senshi and chilchuck immediately rushed to help you, while Izutsumi scanned the area for monsters.

You were so relieved they had found you and Laios that you didn’t mind the earnest scolding Chil and Marcille was already spouting to you. Maybe it didn’t help the fact that you smiled through the whole thing, well you were just happy to see them!

The rest of the night went smoothly though, your party had found a spot to rest for the night, and a running water. Aside from that, Laios was recovering on his sleeping bag, trying to endure his headache. You didn’t miss the amount of increased staring on his part though, making you wonder what was going on inside his mind.

But you try not to pay attention, as you focused intently on your night watch.

Hours passed, your eyelids were getting heavier to stay open

“You can go to sleep, i can take over from here” said Laios, you could see him a little clearly now that his features were illuminated with Marcille’s light spell

“Laios, it’s not your turn yet” you yawned, noting how you still have an hour left to your night watch

You look around seeing your sound asleep party, the growing love for them that you gradually succumb to was undeniable.

“I know but you just got healed, you should rest more”

“Well YOU healed me and i know there’s still some remnants of mana sickness in your head” you playfully argued

“Just let me do this for you.”

he said, you were taken aback with how desperate he sounded, it was rather emotional. It was by then that you realized this wasn’t just about the night watch

“Laios..”

He looked away.

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

You knew something was up, the growing silence that ensued was nothing but a sure evidence of his troubles.

“Tell me what’s wrong, i’m always here for you” you assured, running circles along his back.

He finally turned to face you. You never knew the golden hues of his eyes could glow in such a solemn way until now.

“What if one day, you’re not?”

The question seem to weigh less to you than it did to Laios.

“Huh?” You were confused, was it because of your accident just a moment ago? He knew that wounds and death didn’t have a severe of an impact as it did in the surface, yet the calm collected Laios could not be more worried in seeing you like that.

“What if by some chance i couldn’t heal you… or even worse you die-“ the sudden pick up of his breath was making you worry. It wasn’t long before he started to hyperventilate.

“Laios-“

“I can’t perform a resurrection spell!… i can barely heal your wound…”

“Laios!!” You whispered yell as you smacked him across the face, his hurt expression could be read clearly as ‘what was that for?’ Despite your burning desire to yell at him, you didn’t want to wake the other up with Laios sharing the intention

“You need to calm down..” you held him by the shoulder “i’m alright and i will continue to be”

He looked at you

His heart was filled with so much doubt. It’s not like he was unsure in your strength, rather… it was doubt that he could even bear that sight once more. The thought of you in so much pain was sure to haunt his soul than you would ever know.

You took his hand in yours, placing it on where your heart would be. He could feel the vivid heartbeat on the palm of his hand, the continuous beat of the pumping organ was steady, paired with the slow rise and fall of your ribcage, a concrete evidence that you were here, alive, and breathing.

“I’m here”

You didn’t know if it would work but the steady drums of your heart slowly brought him a peace of mind.

His breath eventually went back to normal, which brings you a sigh of relief

He lets go, opting to shift himself closer to place his ear on your chest, he wanted to hear it clearly, closer.. closer to you. The sudden contact startled you as your arm fell to a stiff not knowing where place it.

“Your heart rate is picking up” he stated as a matter of factly. As of this moment, you didn’t curse his density to took notice in your behaviour.

“Yeah” you coughed rather abruptly, trying to calm the flush on your cheeks. You were just relieved your party wasn’t awake to see you so embarassed.

You gulped down your hesitance, your hands eventually finding it’s way to rest on his back, before opting to play with Laios’ soft locks as an attempt to distract your mind. You reminiced on the times where he would pay no mind of his appearance thinking it was a hassle, those were definitely not a good phase he went through, but sometimes you did miss his long outgrown hair after he freshly washed it.

you smiled remembering how he lets you braid small parts of his blonde hair as a fragrant scent of mint shampoo would emit from his scalp.

Though you do like his more kept style now, Falin worked hard to learn how to trim his hair after all.

Your train of thoughts soon was cut short when you felt the hold Laios had on you tightening.

“Don’t go. Please don’t ever go away.” He said, repeating his swallowed words from earlier, his voice had found its way to be louder now that he’s calmed down, different from back when he healed you.

You felt guilty to say that your heart swelled in content hearing that. There’s something so incredibly precious to have someone care for you to so much extent that they would feel this way, you were lucky to know you wouldn’t forget that feeling as long as you were with Laios.

“I wouldn’t dream of it”

You hugged him,feeling the tightening grip that he has on your blouse, he groaned slightly feeling the warm embrace, though you kept it short, not wanting to suffocate him.

You and Laios weren’t always together . But even so, the unseperated bond that you had over the years was something that he treasure above all else.

Though sometimes he would dwell on the different path you could’ve chosen. What would happen if you were to accept your betrothal, and get married in that small village? What would happen if his father never kicked him out the house? What would happen if he stayed in the military? What if you never went into that ship alongside him?

Sometimes he could still pick up the smell of ocean in his nose when he recall that fated day. He never thought he could miss someone as much as he did you. A fated reunion, as Falin would say, before he would always brush it off and say it was just some coincidence.

He has only a vague idea of what the future will held once Falin is saved, but truly, he knew he couldn’t imagine a future where he wasn’t with you.

“What type of monster that doesn’t have a heart? Can you tell me about that?” You said, drawing incoherent shapes on his back with your fingers

Well, that surely he could do.

[makeyoumine69]

Hi Lexi! I want to thank you for giving us such a fantastic Patrick Bateman content! You are our blessing, I swear! Also, I was pretty much obsessed with your story called Daddy Knows Best. I don't know what happened to me, but I can't stop reading it! Have you ever considered continuing it and writing a sequel? Maybe something with mutual masturbation or quiet sex? Anyway, feel free to ignore this request, I will be happy to read anything you feed us!

Daddy Knows Best 2.0

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You are stuck in the bathroom with horny Patrick while your parents are somewhere nearby.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Smut, Daddy kink, mild praise kink, pussy/tit play, mutual masturbation, fingering, vaginal sex, finger sucking, quite sex (kinda), dirty talk, pet names, humiliation (a bit).

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 1.5k

𝐀/𝐍: Hey everyone, I'm sorry for not being active since I'm not in the best mental state, but I hope you like this little piece of writing! Thanks for sending me this request!

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST]; [Daddy Knows Best 1.0]

A trembling, almost desperate whimper escaped your swollen lips when Patrick's thumb traced your damp underwear with natural possessiveness, as if you already belonged to him alone. And was he not right?

An innocent game has turned into steamy foreplay and now you were beginning to think that teasing this man when you were both in your family's house was not the best idea. But here you were—pinned against the cold bathroom counter, barely breathing and soaking wet as Bateman pressed his muscular body against you, forcing you to spread your legs with his knee and the next moment you were already grinding against his leg.

"Patrick..." you gasped, but he immediately captured your mouth with his hot one and the kiss was plandering, lustful like every move he made. "Mmhm," your muffled moan spurred him to pull you close to his sturdy frame as his hands made their way down your arse, kneading the malleable flesh and barely stopping himself from giving it a hard, loud smack. "Oh-Gosh..."

After he broke the kiss, he took your chin a little too roughly, but not really painfully. "Shhh," Patrick hissed and stroked your cheek in a soothing way, just to give you a faint hope that nothing criminal would happen. "You don't want your parents to hear us, do you?"

The man lowered his hand to encircle your neck and tilted your head back to run his tongue along your pulsating artery, sensing your heart beating wildly. All words of protest stuck in your throat like a lump—you were like a puppet, and Bateman was your creator, pulling the strings so masterfully without even adding pressure.

"I don't...but," you mused suddenly as you gazed into his dark eyes, his pupils dilating with every passing moment, the soft ruffles of his garments adding to the effect. "They will soon notice our absence."

With a wolfish grin, Patrick gave your cheekbone a quick kiss, never losing his grip on you. "Then be a good girl for Daddy and unbuckle my belt."

No suspenders today, huh?

Looking down at you, the man watched your slight hesitation and confusion, but as you slowly placed both hands on his bulging groin and began to work carefully on the buckle of his belt, his cock grew even harder. For a second, Bateman thought he was going to fucking explode in his pants from how much he wanted you here and now. And the thought of your parents downstairs, unaware of the sins happening in their daughter's bathroom, was like an extra cherry on top of an already delicious dessert.

After the leather belt was removed, you didn't wait for his further instructions, but absentmindedly unzipped his pants, never breaking eye contact as you knew that was what he loved most. A small bathroom began to get even smaller, the air heavy with arousal and depravity. Bateman could only wish you were stuck somewhere else—your room might be a better option, with plenty of surfaces to fuck you on—but now he was going to use whatever he could.

The moment you pulled down his silk briefs, stopping halfway, a searing wave of heat rushed through your system. Patrick's flesh was so hot, craving attention, that it pulsed against your hand and you had to pull it away in fear of burning yourself.

"What's wrong, honey?" He purred, catching your hand to make you grasp his erected cock with sheer demand. "Don't tell me you're embarrassed," the man tugged at the top of your dress in one swift motion, revealing one of your breasts, then outlined the hard nipple with his thumb. "You've gone too far to be afraid now."

Desperately gasping for air, you stroked him, slowly at first, feeling his large palm slide against yours as your guide. "I'm not afraid," you replied spontaneously, making him snicker in awe. "But my father will probably kill you if he finds out."

Patrick tittered and pinched your taut peak, eliciting a muffled whimper from your lips—the sound alone sent shivers down his spine and you felt his dick throbbing in your grasp as you gave him another pump.

"Oh, please," he crooned, using his free hand to lift the hem of your dress and fold it around your waist, exposing your tight black stockings. "I've already told your parents I'm going to marry you."

Biting your lower lip, you whimpered quietly at the feverish sensation in your lower abdomen as Bateman pressed his fingers to your oozing pussy, rubbing in slow circles to feel how wet you were.

"I thought," you paused and exhaled sharply, your hand sliding up and down his length like clockwork. "That it was a joke."

Amused, Patrick leaned in and pecked your sensitive lips before licking them just to tease you—only to have you beg for more. The friction of your soft skin against his rock hard cock was overwhelming, drastically increasing his heart rate despite his best efforts to pretend he was still in control of his emotions and desires. As if his basic instincts weren't kicking in at all.

"You want this to be a joke, sweetheart?" He taunted you a bit, his voice sounded like a sweet mantra as he pressed his lips to your ear, peppering the skin around it with light, feathery kisses while one hand still controlled your strokes along his shaft and another was busy tracing invisible lines along your lower lips. 

"I..." you could barely speak. "I...don't...know...I..."

"I never thought I'd meet someone as bratty as you." He muttered against your mouth, moving your underwear aside to stick two fingers into your slippery cunt at the same time, drawing a wet sound that made you both gasp and stop moving for a second. Everything about him kept you on the edge every fucking time, the heat that radiated from his strong body, the idea of how much bigger he was, how easily he could dominate you and bend you to his will, this man was irresistible on every level. As he began to twist and curl his long fingers to hit the most sensitive spot, you thought you would fall to the floor from the sudden weakness in your knees, but Bateman held you tightly in his arms, burying his digits deeper until only the knuckles were visible. "Fuck, I love seeing you like this."

Bateman had to grit his teeth and suppress his own moans as the two of you gave each other vigorous handjobs at the same time, but neither of you wanted to give in, this was not a sprint, this was a fucking marathon. 

"Daddy," you whimpered abruptly, provoking him to give you another lingering kiss on the lips, his tongue invading your mouth without shame, his fingers buried deep inside you. "I can't breathe...it's so hot in here."

Patrick's muffled laughter echoed off the bathroom walls. "Breathe into me," he replied whispering, finally removing his hand from yours, but that didn't stop you from jerking him off. "Use me as oxygen."

This dorkish nonsense only turned you on even more. It was so strange, maybe even weird, but every time Bateman said something like that, it worked right. So fucking right that now it was impossible for you to stop yourself from smearing his pre-cum around his swollen tip, teasing him, inflaming him, playing on the strings of his twisted mind. It was dangerous but so tantalizing to see this man literally drinking you up like his last sip of water.

Mewling into his lips, you slid your hand lower to massage his balls, making him groan and fingerfuck you harder, but now it seemed like it was not enough for either of you. Things changed too quickly as he turned you over and pressed against your back, pushing his glistening fingers into your mouth to make sure you could taste yourself on them.

"Good girl...keep licking yourself off my fingers," Patrick sneered into your ear, and after stroking himself several times, he aligned himself with your tight hole and thrust inside. The fullness he delivered was amazing. "Is this... what you've been waiting for all night?"

The man pulled his fingers out to play with your taut clit, rubbing it between them with skillful precision. "F-fuck," you almost bit your tongue to stifle the moans as he sank deeper, his thick cock rubbing so fucking deliciously against your soft inner walls, and though the pace was slow at first, you were already so lightheaded that you had to cling to the bathroom counter in front of you, ignoring the half-fogged mirror. "I can f-feel you...so deep...Daddy...a-ahhh-holy shit...mhm!

Bateman shushed you with his palm faster than any loud sounds could escape your mouth. "Uh, it's such a waste that you can't be really vocal right now," he growled, snapping his hips against yours and tugging at your hair to make you look into the mirror, and as soon as your eyes met, Patrick winked and placed a gentle peck on the top of your head—an act of pure mockery. "See, darling? You are literally a work of art."

Needless to say, this man had a very wicked taste in art.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

[starcurtain]

"The Lion Has Its Own Historian:" Parallels Between Gorgo and Aglaea

While re-reading Mydei's "As I've Written" stories recently, I was intrigued again by the (seemingly impossible) section in which Aglaea unknowingly echoed Gorgo's words to Mydei, and this led me down a rabbit hole of thought: The roles of Aglaea and Gorgo--not only in Mydei's life but also in the story overall--form some interesting parallels that are worth looking at in closer detail.

Seize the Means of Control

Gorgo's ascension to a position of authority was predicated on power--not only on her martial prowess, which was expected in her culture (i.e. slaying a lion with her bare hands), but through her courage to meet the existing symbol of authority, Eurypon, in single combat and not concede. In Kremnos, status is conferred and maintained through violence. Though on the surface Gorgo defies this belief, she ultimately remains an active participant in Kremnos's tradition of "might makes right" through the Kremnos Festival, reinforcing rather than rejecting her culture's military-centric social structure.

Although Gorgo originally took part in the Kremnos Festival with the intention of beating Eurypon and seizing the throne of Kremnos for herself (presumably because she thought she could rule better), she ultimately chooses to accept his continued leadership and become queen instead, even granting him an heir to cement his legacy. In this way, despite presumably wishing for a less wasteful (of life) philosophy for the Kremnoans, Gorgo becomes one of the foremost beneficiaries of the very mindset she opposes. She clearly wants to reduce the meaningless bloodshed in Kremnos--she strongly rejects the notion of patricide, for example--but she doesn't (at this point) reject the overall structures of the Kremnoan culture, including the belief that combat ability should determine who leads.

In short, her position of authority was achieved strictly through her ability to oppose her foes.

Despite coming from a wholly different culture, one which (ostensibly) values debate, diplomacy, and the rule of law as the primary tools for establishing status, Aglaea's rise to power was remarkably similar to Gorgo's. The game confirms that the prominence and influence of the Chrysos Heirs in Okhema is no lucky accident--instead, Aglaea has clawed her way to the top, fighting tooth and nail to establish herself as a figure of authority in the Holy City.

We're told she exerts her pressure both through economic means, amassing wealth via monopoly on resources such as Amphoreus's internet, and through literal bloodshed.

The story dances around it, but Star Rail's marketing embraces it: Aglaea represents not just the joy of love but also the "deadliness" of romance, the figure of power in Okhema "pulling the strings" and making others dance to the tune of her vision for the future. She basically rules the roost in the Holy City in large part because of her capacity for violence, because of the literal physical and political power she wields as a demigoddess and the leader of the strongest group of fighters on their entire planet.

This "silk concealing steel" behavior reflects not just how she approaches any who oppose her--the Trailblazer and Krateros, for example--but also how even the NPCs throughout Amphoreus view her:

It's particularly Krateros's view of Aglaea which intrigues me, because the very same things he accuses her of are the things Castrum Kremnos is famous for (being warmongers, usurpers of power, etc.). By all rights, he should admire a "queen" such as Aglaea who rules by force and who is leading her people into the greatest war Amphoreus as ever known. And yet he and the rest of the Kremnoans seem to revile Aglaea for the very same things they saw as virtues in Gorgo.

The context is the key: Gorgo seizing power for herself is viewed as honorable and good because it happened in the context of Kremnos, while Aglaea's power struggle and military dominance occur within the so-claimed peaceful structure of Okhema's democratic society, casting her in the role of a "power-hungry tyrant" for the people living in Okhema, even those who should most appreciate her mindset.

Comparing Gorgo and Aglaea in this way highlights a key double standard in the way the Amphoreans react to women who rise to power, and makes it clear how thin the veneer of Okhema's "peace" really is. Stepping to the top rung of the social ladder through the threat of martial retaliation, Aglaea's battle against the Council and the Flame Chase's foes is no different from Gorgo tearing a lion apart with her bare hands, challenging a king, and taking her place at the top of Kremnos's hierarchy by seizing her weapon and making her stand. All that differs is how violence is received in their contrasting cultures, resulting in two diametrically opposed reactions from the "mere mortals" around them.

With Violence as Your Tool

I think it's important to emphasize that Aglaea and Gorgo also parallel each other not just in their rise to authority through physical power itself, but also in their stances on the necessity of that power: Both Aglaea and Gorgo (at least at first) view bloodshed as a necessary evil, an unpleasant facet of life that one must accept in order to achieve a goal. Violence, for both Gorgo and Aglaea, is a tool.

We see this clearly with Gorgo throughout her flashbacks, both in her initial fight with Eurypon (where she claims she would embrace the notion of death only so long as it is not "unnecessary") and in her other confrontations with Eurypon: Gorgo insists that the tradition of regicide must be broken and makes Eurypon promise not to lead Mydei to that path--yet later, she goes so far as to scold Eurypon when he shies away from his fate, essentially calling him a coward for fearing the prophecy that Mydei would one day kill him. "What prince of Kremnos hasn't killed his father?" she taunts, implying that, even as Gorgo fought to change the violent history of Kremnos, she still believed--at least at that moment--that refusing to face violence when it was foreordained made Eurypon a weak and unfit ruler.

However, we ultimately see this stance change. In Mydei's dream of training with his mother, Gorgo reveals that nearly losing Mydei completely changed her perspective on Kremnos's beliefs, finally killing any faith she had in their system of rule and their constant pursuit of Strife for strife's sake. She rejects the notion of combat being the ultimate test of a person's worth, explicitly casts aside her title and role as queen of Kremnos, and embraces a kinder identity as strictly "Mydei's mother." This is a crisis of faith brought on by experiencing the impacts of Kremnos's faith firsthand--by being forced to experience grievous loss, Gorgo is implied to have grown as a person, from one who is willing to accept violence as a tool to get ahead, into one who solely values peace.

These views, too, mirror Aglaea's pursuit of the Flame Chase Journey and her "hidden" feelings toward its necessary loss. We know already that Aglaea views the threat of violence as her go-to "means to an end" when it comes to achieving the Chrysos Heirs' goals.

She is not at all above putting people into harm's way to pursue the prophecy, such as letting Phainon take the Strife trial even knowing that he would fail, and she tells us players over and over again that her own humanity has nearly vanished, claiming that she now no longer has sufficient empathy for humankind to be swayed away from the path of Era Nova.

This is clearly not true (given how deeply she cares for Tribbie, how kind she is to Castorice, and how unwilling she is to actually bring any harm to Anaxa), but Aglaea insists on this emotionless illusion likely because it makes it easier to tolerate the cruelty required to continue pursuing her goal--she needs it to be true that the last of her humanity has already waned, because this is what makes it easier to accept that the Flame Chase Journey is a journey of "loss," one that is fueled by bloodshed.

It is an unfortunate truth of the prophecy that people will die in pursuit of the dream, that capturing all the coreflames and pushing the world forcibly into its next cycle will cost lives and require cold, rational decisions that will crush people's happiness and freedom. Aglaea cannot hesitate, cannot waver, cannot choose kindness over action.

But, like Gorgo, we know that accepting violence as a tool does not mean that the person wielding the tool is always happy to do so. As Gorgo loses her genuine faith in Kremnos's beliefs and begins to view training Mydei for war as nothing more than a rote requirement, devoid of meaning, Aglaea too struggles to uphold her emotionless facade, a protective cocoon whose cracks reveal the enormous weight she is bearing and how deeply the inhumanity of her own decisions wounds her.

We see this clearly in her character stories, where the actions and then later loss of her maid completely reshape her definition of "beauty":

And we also see it very clearly in her behavior toward Anaxa, where she hesitates at the crucial moment, unable to commit to the course of action that she herself set in motion:

Like Gorgo who longs for a softer world where she can simply be Mydei's mother, Aglaea too (no matter how much she claims) has not lost the part of herself that cares not only for the people closest to her but even for the innocents of the world, the boy who wants to bring his sister something beautiful, the girl who shares her bracelet...

Her nature, no matter how much of it has worn away, is at its core humble and kind--reviling the pain of others.

It's this fundamental conflict between love and what must be done that lends both Gorgo and Aglaea their depth as characters, that grants them both an air of nobility, in the way that everyone good who is suffers is noble. Being forced to cause harm without a desire to do so creates quintessentially contradictory characters, making the audience privy to both their external mettle and their internal hesitation, easily humanizing both of them. Aglaea and Gorgo are virtuous women whose cruelty is justified for the greater good. Yet in watching both of them struggle under the immense pressure of that cruelty, we recognize the inherent evil of a world that forces kind-hearted people into positions where bloodshed is their only path forward.

Both Aglaea and Gorgo are not women who normally hesitate to seize the tools available to them, or the kind of women who will shy away from wielding their strongest weapon--the threat of death--with impunity. The reaction to female characters who are willing to exert this kind of power over others (including over the men in their lives) both in-game and in the fandom (where Aglaea in particular is treated poorly for her "coldness") demonstrates how unique this particular type of female character still is, and suggests interesting overall power dynamics in Amphoreus that privilege women willing to utilize violence even above men who choose the same route, despite the strong patriarchal bent one might expect of a story with ancient Greece as its primary influence.

Mydei is not the son of Eurypon, but explicitly and always "the son of Gorgo" even in flashbacks where Eurypon is still alive; in Okhema, both the Chrysos Heirs and the Council appear to be primarily directed by women (Caenis occupies the more visible role of Aglaea's opponent than Lygus does), with all of Okhema's demigods (including Cipher) being female. Gorgo's violence is regarded as honorable; Aglaea is met with disapproval from her peace-loving society but no one ever actually dares to stop her. Perhaps Krateros comes closest, by defying Aglaea's will and entering the Strife trial without her permission, but even he ultimately has to be rescued from Aglaea's clutches by Mydei, who explicitly invokes his mother's name to ensure Krateros's safety. Say it with me: The male character with the highest social status in all of Amphoreus has to rely on the power and reputation of his mother to rescue another man from a powerful woman. Amphoreus really said "Ladies first." 💯

Anaxa's reactions to Aglaea are humorous but are also a perfect example of this overall social structure in Amphoreus which assumes strong women in power have an automatic degree of legitimacy because they are willing to seize violence as their means, despite violence being, in real-world cultures at least, stereotypically the domain of men. In 3.1, Anaxa simply accepts it as a given that he will become Aglaea's prisoner and that she will be able to do whatever she wants to him, because nothing in Okhema's social, political, or military structures would enable him to genuinely oppose her (if he even wanted to).

Even in his (sort of) fake-out "siding with the Council" phase, all Anaxa does is move himself from the grasp of one powerful woman to the next, shifting from being Aglaea's prisoner to Caenis's ace. Cerces even has an entire voiceline where she points out word-for-word that Anaxa is functionally just moving from one woman's cage to the next. Caenis in particular seems to view Anaxa as an object, a biting dog she can keep on a leash until she sics him on her enemy. Anaxa obviously is not so easily manipulated, but Caenis's threat about karma eventually comes true, and he nevertheless suffers the final wrath of the Holy City's society, being judged more harshly than anyone else for his seeming unwillingness to submit to the power of either woman in control of Okhema.

Both literally and thematically, the game tells us players that Aglaea and Gorgo are courageous and effective leaders because they live by the blade, because they are willing to harden their hearts and do whatever it takes, whether that means taking another's life--or their own.

To Usher in a New Era

Of course what really distinguishes both Gorgo and Aglaea's willingness to cause harm from malevolent forces in Amphoreus is their ultimate intent. Although both women are willing to do whatever it takes, they do so only in service to a greater purpose, one that they believe will better their world. In this way, Amphoreus's writers reinforce the underlying impression in Amphoreus's plot that women are more trustworthy and reliable leaders than their corresponding male counterparts. Slight side note on this, but it's kind of funny just how consistent this is--even "outside" of Amphoreus, Welt and Sunday had to turn to Herta to save the day, while inside Amphoreus, Trailblazer is still relying on Acheron's advice to get them through. (When you cater to the incels so hard you somehow loop back around into writing staunchly feminist plotlines...)

The message, repeated and unsubtle, is that there is a link between women's leadership and righteousness, with both Gorgo and Aglaea representing an idealistic desire for a better future for Kremnos and Amphoreus as a whole--one by opposing fate and the other by enforcing it.

Both Gorgo and Aglaea face prophecies that promise to reshape the world as they know it, prophecies which require them to make decisions that will ultimately cost them their lives in a desperate bid to influence history toward the best path. Gorgo rejects the prophecy she is given, determined to protect Mydei despite the destruction the omens claim he will bring to Castrum Kremnos.

Because of the players' predilections for Mydei, this choice to reject fate paints Gorgo as a heroine, an unselfish and moral person who will choose the life of an innocent child over she own safety. Her willingness to fight to the death to prevent Eurypon's atrocity against their son flies in the face of fate itself, attempting to stop an inevitable, self-fulfilling prophecy.

And, in fact, the game even teases us with the idea: What would Kremnos have been like if Gorgo succeeded? When Mydei returns to Kremnos, he either "envisions" or actually experiences (via timelines bleeding into each other), a seemingly parallel universe where Gorgo succeeded in saving him from the Sea of Souls, and where she clearly rallied the people of Kremnos to her cause. The Kremnos we see in that vision is entirely different from Eurypon's:

The people are happy, rejoicing and at ease, talking about pomegranates and writing and playing games with kids, while the sun paints the whole city in a soft and gleaming gold.

Contrast that with the Kremnos that Trailblazer and Castorice find when they travel back into the past where Eurypon betrayed his wife and left Mydei in the sea:

In the seemingly alternate timeline where Gorgo lives long enough to raise Mydei, the Kremnos we're presented with... looks a lot like Okhema. Looks a lot like the peaceful, idyllic Holy City where children frolic in the streets and the people are still full of light and life. By defying fate, we are shown (at least in some fragment of Amphoreus's timeline) that Gorgo achieves what she had longed for in Kremnos from the start, creating a better, gentler future for the people, prosperous and free of the cycle of Strife and meaningless violence that had plagued their kingdom for thousands of years. In this way, we can say that, for that lost timeline at least, Gorgo essentially achieved the Era Nova for Kremnos, ushering in a time of peace for her people. What Aglaea seeks, the game shows us that Gorgo was capable of achieving.

Conversely, Aglaea's path forward involves taking the complete opposite road: Rather than rejecting fate to create a better future, Aglaea seeks to embrace it. She has fully invested herself and her resources in the prophecy of the Flame Chase. She has to, because if there's no Era Nova to look forward to, then there's no hope at all for Amphoreus, and how can it be that something so beautiful is doomed to total destruction? If the Flame Chase Journey will end in a new start, if someone--anyone--will get to live to see the world born anew, then every sacrifice, every burden, every agony will have been worth it.

By embracing her prophesied fate instead of rejecting it, Aglaea is taking the same decisive stand as Gorgo, seizing the future of her world in her own hands and forcing Amphoreus along the path toward what she believes will definitely be a brighter future.

Not only does the description of Era Nova match the idyllic Castrum Kremnos we see under Gorgo's likely rule, but even the moments where both women truly make their stand and reckon with fate reflect each other as well: Gorgo demands her fellow Kremnoans stand with her, hoping they will see the wickedness of Eurypon's decision and reject blind faith in the prophecy they've been given. With her own strength, if even just Krateros alone had stood with her, she easily would have been able to push back against Eurypon's scheme. She lays out her vision for a different future, rejects the notions of the past, and is met with silence.

Meanwhile, Aglaea faces the Council of Elders in Okhema, where the decision about the Flame Chase Journey hangs in the balance, waiting on the final vote of a single person to join up with her cause. Just like Gorgo, the alignment of even one person to Aglaea's cause will make proof of her righteousness, prove the she's right. Aglaea lays down the gauntlet, demands the loyalty of her allies--and her leadership and vision are rewarded when Anaxa joins up with the cause, tipping the literal balance of the scales towards the new era Aglaea believes her efforts will bring to fruition.

(In essence, at the end of 3.2, we get to watch Anaxa do exactly what Krateros failed to--stand on the side of woman who wields justice.)

Ultimately, through they do it through diametrically opposite paths--rejecting and embracing prophecy, respectively--both women are characterized by their drive to create change, their refusal to accept a quiet descent into cruelty and darkness. Both take a stand, outlining their vision for the right way to go on, for a better, softer, brighter world, seeking the loyalty of comrades to legitimize their causes, and--failing that--willing to make the ultimate sacrifice of themselves to further their truly noble causes.

The strength of both women lies not just in their martial prowess, but in their unwavering dedication to a just cause, no matter the cost to themselves.

Generational Influence

What actually started me off on this whole look at Gorgo and Aglaea as thematic parallels was Mydei's scenes with Aglaea, particularly how he clearly considers her a role model for ideal leadership. While I won't go so far as to say Aglaea perceives herself filling any sort of maternal role for Mydei, I think the connection is obvious on Mydei's end: Having never gotten the chance to truly meet his mother, Mydei is almost certainly projecting "the leader my mother would have been" onto Aglaea. (Or perhaps we should say the opposite: The empty spaces in Mydei's mind when he thinks of "Gorgo" are sutured closed with Aglaea's golden filigree.)

Does this sort of praise sound a bit familiar? It ought to, because this is how Krateros describes Gorgo:

Both women are characterized by their ability to move people's hearts, to inspire hope, and to model ideal strategy for others.

So how could Mydei do anything but link Aglaea's leadership with the life he imagines his mother would have led if she had had the chance to rule Kremnos?

Consider the entire situation from Mydei's perspective: His people have just been (forcibly) rescued from an insane king whose true downfall began with his betrayal of wife, their nation's one genuinely noble leader. If Gorgo had been their ruler, none of this suffering would ever have happened. Fleeing the madness and death Nikador is bringing to Kremnos, the entire surviving host of his people migrate to the "Holy City," the (supposed) last bastion of light and peace and happiness in Amphoreus--which is effectively ruled by a woman so powerful that she knows and sees all.

Seemingly effortlessly, she commands respect and fealty, marshaling her forces to do battle with the might of her own sword, while fighting to maintain the very same values Mydei's mother wanted to bring to her own nation. While being unafraid of bloodshed, she treasures life more than anything else. She's honest, direct, and unflinching, but still, despite everything, kind and dedicated to protecting the world she loves.

Mydei doesn't know his mother but there she is. There's the "queen" that his mother should have had the chance to be. There is the leader that Kremnos needed. There is the powerful woman whose dream for the future could have single-handedly changed the course of fate.

Clearly, for lack of personal experience, the Gorgo in Mydei's mind is less a real person and much more an idealized figure. His only direct knowledge of her comes from one "dream," where she tells him that he's more important than the world to her (undoubtedly leaving Mydei to grapple with the question of whether that is something she truly felt or something he just wishes to be true, by the way). Mydei's only other frame of reference for his mother is Krateros's blind veneration, with Krateros constantly holding Gorgo up as the standard Mydei should meet.

Gorgo is clearly on an achingly high pedestal for Mydei. He shaped his entire youth around the need to avenge her, and then he shaped his entire adult ideology around her vision for Kremnos. In "our" timeline, Gorgo may not have lived to create the change she hoped for, but her goal was ultimately achieved nonetheless, through the inter-generational influence her memory had over Mydei. It was Gorgo's hatred of wasteful bloodshed that helped Mydei to hate it too. It was Gorgo's desire to change Kremnos's traditions that led Mydei to consider tearing down its dynasty. It's his mother's gentle love for her people that echoes in Mydei's same affection.

And through Aglaea, all those views and lessons were enforced. Before joining up with the Flame Chase Journey, the game tells us that Mydei's life was effectively still a hellscape even when he had his friends: They wandered the land with nowhere to call home and were attacked by (or themselves attacked) everyone they met, engaging in endless violence just to keep existing, while he watched his companions be brutally murdered one by one. At the risk of extreme understatement: Mydei was not living the life his mother wanted for him.

After joining the Flame Chase Journey, Mydei becomes one of the "heroes" who dedicates himself to protecting innocents and serving as a guardian; he finds a cause, does his best to create a new home for his people, and works to reshape their views towards the beliefs his mother espoused. Like Gorgo putting down her weapon and taking up the role of "just your mother," Mydei gets to (temporarily, briefly) let down his guard and live as just a person, cooking sweets, roleplaying with kids, and cuddling with chimeras.

He inches closer to the dream of finding meaning in finding peace.

And if it was Gorgo who inspired those choices, then it was Aglaea who made them possible--Aglaea who accepted the Kremnoan Detachment into Okhema, Aglaea who literally put aside her fear of Mydei to accept him as a fellow Chrysos Heir, Aglaea who guided him, Aglaea who modeled transformational leadership for him, Aglaea who gave him the final (if forceful) push he needed to commit to changing his people's future, destroying the bloodstained Kremnos of the past. In all his struggles to move forward, the threads of Aglaea and Gorgo's mirrored ideology lead Mydei through the labyrinth of uncertainty.

All things considered, Gorgo might actually be the character with the single most significant impact on Amphoreus's current plot other than the Trailblazer, because the guidance and beliefs she instilled in Mydei will live much longer than Gorgo and even Aglaea herself--may even live on through the end of the world and the rebirth of all of Amphoreus, because it is her exact ideology that becomes the backbone of Mydei's life advice to Castorice. When Castorice reveals their future, telling him the demigods of today's Amphoreus will become the titans of the new cycle, Mydei looks her in the eye and tells her the exact thing he learned from his mother and Aglaea:

Don't accept defeat--defy despair with everything you have and weave the future with your own two hands.

Perhaps nowhere do we see the parallels between Gorgo and Aglaea more clearly than in the "As I've Written" chapter, where we are told that what ultimately swayed Mydei's decision to join the Flame Chase Journey was when, completely without knowing it, Aglaea spoke the exact same words as his mother.

Though the organization of "As I've Written" is often unclear, making it difficult to determine which passages are actually linked to each other and which are entirely separate, I'm going to personally interpret the quote included in Mydei's third chapter as that special sentence once spoken by both Gorgo and Aglaea:

"The lion has its own historian, and the history of the hunt should not be held by the hunter alone."

Putting aside that all of this is completely impossible in the timeline as we know it (Mydei has no way of remembering the sentences his mother might have spoken to him, and none of the sentences in any flashbacks or her letter to him have anything to do with lions or historians), if this is the line echoed by both women, it is an obviously poignant phrase that would immediately signify to Mydei that Aglaea's ideology matches his mother's.

Although the English translation of "As I've Written" leaves A LOT to be desired (sometimes to the point of being entirely incomprehensible; I legitimately have no idea who okayed those translations, rife as they are with just straight up grammar errors lol), the origin of this phrase is unmistakable. It comes from the African proverb that is normally translated as:

"Until the lion has its own historian, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter."

Essentially, "History is written by the victors."

If we take the English translation seriously, what Aglaea and Gorgo would have been saying is that "the defeated" (which, by the way, is symbolized by the lion repeatedly in Kremnos's history) should have their own historian, and that no one should get to speak for them. That is, of course, that no one should get to speak for Mydei except himself--that he should take charge of his own destiny and write his own history into the books.

Krateros repeatedly insists that Mydei is the hunter, the one who should be controlling the whole hunting ground:

But Aglaea sees through Mydei in the first moment of meeting him--sees that he's not the victor but the victim, not the Kremnoan king-to-be but the "wandering lion" who is at risk of being slaughtered on the altar of Kremnos's glory. Kremnos's history is not the "hunting lion"--it's the lion hunt. Gorgo the founder killed the lion, Gorgo the mother killed the lion... So where does that leave Mydei, the symbolic lion?

This line is saying, Aglaea and Gorgo would both have been saying: I see you. I see that there's an entire unspoken legacy weighing on your shoulders, a horror you're fleeing from like wounded prey, a fierce desire in you to refuse the tale this world is writing for you. And in supposedly echoing Gorgo's words, Aglaea would also have echoed the very core of Gorgo's faith:

Those who have lost everything still deserve the chance to shape their own futures.

Those who have faced impossible odds, those who Fate itself has marked for death, those who would martyr themselves to secure the futures of others can and should still rage against the dying of the light, still fight with every tooth and nail to bring about a different ending.

When no one but (apparently) the ghost of Gorgo in his head had ever said it to him, Aglaea told Mydei:

If you want a different history, you can write it.

Of course he joined the Flame Chase Journey after seeing that its leader carries the very same deep-rooted goodness as his mother.

And while we're here talking about the mirrored ideologies and guidance both women have offered to Mydei, I also want to add a tiny aside about Aglaea's symbolic leadership of the other Kremnoans as well.

Although of course Mydei remains their de facto leader even in Okhema, Mydei himself makes a big deal out of the Kremnoans having submitted to Aglaea's authority, repeating in several places that the Kremnoans have a duty to follow her commands.

This isn't an off-hand statement; for someone who should have already been crowned king to state in his own words that his people should submit to someone else's authority is effectively tantamount to ceding his throne specifically to her--Mydei has essentially handed over the reins of Kremnoan leadership to Aglaea. He's the crown prince, but she's effectively the queen (that his mother never got to be). The promotional materials even label Aglaea and Mydei as occupying the same role ("King"). This is especially clear in how the Kremnoans refer to her. In multiple places, Aglaea is referred to as "the golden-haired usurper."

You don't get called a "usurper" unless people believe you're attempting to undermine their current ruler. In all but flat out saying it, the other Kremnoans perceive Aglaea as usurping Mydei's authority, despite Mydei himself willingly giving that power to her. Mydei isn't careless with the Kremnoans' futures, he doesn't shirk his duties as their crown prince, and he certainly would never surrender his power to a weak, unfit ruler. Undoubtedly, Mydei is comfortable with the idea of ceding authority to Aglaea in part because he recognizes his mother in her, sees the qualities that elevated Gorgo to royalty in Kremnos alive and well in Aglaea's Okhema. In this way, perhaps we could say that another factor contributing to Mydei's hesitance to take up Kremnos's throne might be a subconscious sense that the Kremnoans are already in the right hands, that Aglaea--embodying the ideal leadership Mydei projects onto the memory of his mother--is a better fit than he could ever be to lead them anyway?

Heck, while we're at it, I think it's even interesting that the cities of Okhema and Kremnos mirror each other so much, down to things that honestly don't make sense: We're told the legend explaining the lion heads on the walls in Kremnos, but... why are there are also talking lion heads all over Okhema's walls? Gorgo who tore the head off the Tretos lion is echoed in Aglaea, who rules a kinder, softer city still symbolized by the lion, where the talking lion heads get to be gossips and riddle masters instead of war strategists.

Okay, and the last silly thing I want to say: Aglaea would definitely not call herself a mother figure for Mydei, but after 3.2 reveals Gorgo's tough love methods, Aglaea's attempts at scolding him start to look pretty familiar, from her exasperated chiding to her genuine criticism:

Mydei has it tough, having to meet the expectations of women like these lol.

To Fade from the World

Sorry, that was a bit too light-hearted for me, so time to end this post with some more pain:

A final point I think worth comparing between Gorgo and Aglaea is the ultimate fate that both of them face in the story: Gorgo is already gone, but Aglaea is not far behind.

Gorgo's death in particular is treated as abominable. Kremnoans may be warmongers and Strife worshipers, but they're supposed to be honorable about it. Key to their obsession with combat is the idea of noble combat, between contestants who are each given a fair chance. Despite being Gorgo's greatest ally, Krateros does not stand up and join her in her revolt against Eurypon, likely because of that same "might makes right" mindset that shaped so much of Kremnos's decision-making: If Gorgo's cause was truly righteous, then she should have been able to stand up for it herself and win a duel against Eurypon. If it had been a fair contest as expected by Kremnoan cultural standards, then whoever won would have been considered the "correct" person, and no one could have contested the fair results.

But Eurypon's cowardice drove him completely from the path of Kremnos's sacred virtues, causing him to betray their values by betraying his wife, using poison to deny her her fair chance in the duel. This action--forsaking the core tenets of Nikador's divinity--marks the truest extent of Eurypon's downfall, and cements that he is utterly unfit to rule, lacking both the courage to confront his wife in fair combat and the honor to reject under-handed schemes to ensure victory.

Gorgo's death is treated as a tragedy, an act that entirely shapes the course of the story through Mydei's loss to the sea and his subsequent quest for vengeance. It was cowardly betrayal that took away Kremnos's path to a brighter future, locking the self-fulfilling prophecy of Kremnos's downfall into place.

And this, of course, is a perfect mirror to the prophesied end Aglaea is going to face, possibly sooner rather than later. Upon their ascension as demigods, each Chrysos Heir is told how their life will end. Aglaea's prophecy states: "You shall have your final bath in warm and radiant gold."

As Aglaea is most often seen there, the assumption is that she will literally die in the baths--Mydei states this in-game, saying "If a normal person heard that prophecy, they'd probably just stop coming to the baths." Aglaea effectively dismisses this threat (in a very Kremnoan fashion even, lol) by simply saying "Well, who cares? I like baths!" Whatever will be, will be; if her assassin has the strength to end a demigoddess, then truly, it doesn't matter where she goes in Okhema or across the world--fate will find her.

Of course, there's also the possible interpretation that "final bath in gold" refers simply to bathing in her own golden Chrysos Heir blood...

But in either case, the prophecy, Mydei's comments, and some plot leaks I've seen all point towards a violent and unexpected end--likely at the hands of a betrayal.

Like Gorgo, Aglaea will not live to see the world she wished to create, the softer, golden future she wanted to bring to her people. At the hands of her enemies, either facing it with honor or in an unexpected moment of vulnerability, Aglaea will be eliminated before the final hour, fading from Amphoreus's memory as the survivors succeed--or fail--to usher in the new era she sacrificed everything to create.

Although both unique characters on their own, entirely separate from each other, examining Aglaea and Gorgo's parallel plot points, core character traits, and their roles and influences on others throughout the course of the story reveals yet another incredible "echo effect" in Amphoreus's writing, aligning opposites--Okhema and Kremnos, Beauty and Strife--through eerily similar patterns and revealing the enduring thematic threads that bind together the separate portions of Amphoreus's tale.

More than anything, Amphoreus feels to me like a very Hamilton-esque "Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?" plot, one that hinges on the question of who has the power to shape and reshape the future of their world, who has the power to break through a pre-ordained structure and bring about a better end--who has the courage to sacrifice it all to seize the reins of fate itself.

Through Aglaea and Gorgo, the story reinforces a message about women in power, women who perfectly balance violence (the traditional domain of male figures) with love, with beauty, and with righteousness to shake the foundations of their world. In what they value and how they lead, the story mirrors and mirrors again, mise en abyme, the message that those who are willing to give it all for the greater good are the true crafters of our story.

(Perhaps all this is preparing for the presence of another woman, one just as willing or more to do all that must be done to usher in a brighter future for her world?)

The history of the hunt should not be held by the hunter alone.

The lion has its own historian--and so too does the lioness.

Although Gorgo and Aglaea will both fall before that golden Era Nova can be achieved, the marks they have left on Amphoreus's plot, through their legacies of defiance and grace picked up and carried, torch-like, by other characters, demonstrate just how central both women were to all that happened in the world's past and all that will happen in its future.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

hiiiii🌻 if you haven’t already, will you do a headcanon for carmy? 🥺

Carmy Berzatto Headcanons.

warnings - sexual content.

ohh sweet carmy. I definitely romanticise him, because we've seen on the show he can be a nightmare in relationships. so, take these with a pinch of salt. <3

3k celebration post here. 3k masterlist here.

- Never gets tired of cooking for you. You feel bad, sometimes, when he offers to cook even after he's been at work all day. He reassures you one evening that he loves cooking for you, because it's different. There's no pressure. He can relax, and do what he loves most for the person he loves most.

- Terrible at DIY. The two of you always end up crying with laughter when you try and get a job done, because it always inevitably goes wrong. You're both determined to do it yourselves, though. You'll never call a guy.

- He's a commitmentphobe. Majorly. I think it'd be really hard work to get Carmy to ever really commit himself to you. It'd take time, and a hell of a lot of patience. But, once he does, he's fiercely loyal. He'd do anything for you, no hesitation.

- Carmy's awful at communicating. He's not good at processing his emotions, and ends up yelling. The first time you had an argument, you didn't yell once, which was a real turning point for him. You talked it out, and fixed the issue. From that moment on, he tries. He's not perfect, but he tries.

- Hates seeing you cry. It's his least favourite thing in the world. The minute you cry, his bottom lip is quivering, lump in his throat forming. You cry, he cries.

- Loves it when you pamper him. Happily sits with you while you apply your face mask, asks one day if you'll put some on him. You cuddle on the couch, wine in hand, terrible reality show on the TV. You do your skincare routine, and then do it on him too.

- Only trusts you to cut his hair. You don't have much experience, but you figure it out pretty quickly. He now refuses to go to a salon, begging you to do it instead. In the bathroom, stood between his legs, you trim his hair carefully, trying to ignore the way he's gazing up at you with those big blue eyes.

and now onto the sexy stuff...

- Doesn't stop talking during sex. He can't shut his mouth. He's got his lips pressed to your ear, murmuring the filthiest things you've ever heard.

- Lives to praise you. Sure, he'll degrade you if you want, but he loves getting to tell you how pretty you are, how perfect you look like this, how you're such a good girl for him.

- Loooves cowgirl. Loves getting to sit there all smug as you're on top of him. It's his favourite view. His favourite thing to do is sit up so you're chest to chest, his arms wrapped around you. Nothing beats it.

- Will fuck you anywhere. Kitchen counter, dining table, bathroom vanity, washing machine. Can and will bend you over the nearest surface. He's not a patient man.

- Gets off on eating you out. He's an expert in fine dining, after all. Loves when you grab his hair, tugging and pulling. He basically works himself to the edge as he laps at you. Has definitely made himself come by grinding his hips into the bed. He enjoys it just as much as you do.

as always, feel free to agree/disagree/expand on these!! <3

[roseyreveries]

Hiiii it’s me again! 💕

I was wondering if I could send a request in for Draco finally conjuring a Patronus because of all his happy memories with a fem!reader?

Thank you my dear x

Omgggg this makes me so excited because there’s a big part in the Far Away series that has to do with a patronus in Year 3 (the entire series is practically already written and scheduled for Mondays and Fridays) so this made me instantly think of that and I got so excited for you to see it!

Expecto Patronum

Summary: in the ask <3

CW: nothing

Directory <- click!

Draco Malfoy stood in the center of the dimly lit Room of Requirement, his wand clenched tightly in his trembling hand. The light from the candles danced across his sharp features, and his silver-gray eyes reflected a mix of determination and doubt.

“You’re overthinking it, Draco,” you said softly, standing a few feet away. Your voice was warm, patient, the kind of steady reassurance he had never known until you came into his life. “The Patronus charm is about feeling, not logic.”

He scoffed lightly, though there was no bite behind it. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re practically Gryffindor sunshine. My entire life has been a bloody raincloud.”

You crossed your arms, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re not as stormy as you think, Malfoy. I’ve seen that soft, mushy center you hide so well. Somewhere in there, you’ve got happy memories—good ones.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “I’ve tried, you know. I’ve tried for years. Nothing ever happens.”

“Well,” you said, stepping closer, “maybe this time, you’ve got the right reason.” You looked up at him with such quiet confidence that it nearly made him forget to breathe. “Close your eyes. Focus. And think of the happiest moment of your life.”

He shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “There’s nothing,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

“That’s not true,” you said, unwavering. “You’ve got plenty of happy memories, Draco. Don’t think about the pressure or the Dark Mark or anyone’s expectations. Just think about you.”

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I don’t know where to start.”

“I’ll help you,” you offered, your voice warm and steady. “Do you remember that day by the Black Lake? When you skipped stones and tried not to laugh when I beat you?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, though his eyes remained closed. “You didn’t beat me. My stone got more skips.”

“Sure it did,” you teased lightly. “But you smiled that day. You laughed, Draco. Think of that. The way the sunlight felt on your face, the sound of the water, how free you felt for once.”

Draco hesitated. Happy memories? Could he even call them that? His past was a patchwork of pressure, fear, and duty. And yet…there was light. Small glimmers of it. You.

He closed his eyes, and the memories unfolded.

It was during the Triwizard Tournament, after that insufferable Yule Ball—an evening full of preening peacocks and pointless pomp. Draco Malfoy, wrapped in his customary cloak of sarcasm and disdain, had wandered out into the crisp night air to brood in peace. The Black Lake stretched before him, a dark mirror glinting under the moonlight, its surface as restless as his thoughts.

He had been muttering under his breath about incompetent dance partners and the general idiocy of life when his sharp gaze landed on you. There you were, sitting on the damp grass by the lake, tossing stones into the water like you didn’t have a care in the world. The faint glow of the moon caught in your hair, making you look almost otherworldly.

And then you turned. That smirk. That audacious, infuriating smirk.

“Are you going to sulk forever, Malfoy,” you called, your voice light and teasing, “or are you going to sit down and join me?”

He froze mid-step, his expression instantly hardening. “Excuse me?” he snapped, the familiar bite in his tone.

“Oh, don’t act so scandalized,” you said, waving a hand dismissively before patting the grass beside you. “Come on. Let’s see if that fancy pureblood pedigree of yours comes with decent stone-skipping skills. Or is that too Muggle for you?”

For a moment, Draco considered walking away—he really did. But something about the way you sat there, so utterly unbothered by his snobbish air, made him hesitate. With a dramatic sigh, he sauntered over, every bit the reluctant participant.

“Fine,” he drawled, sinking down beside you. “But don’t expect miracles.”

You handed him a smooth stone without a word, watching as he eyed it with an air of skepticism. He flicked it toward the lake with what he assumed was perfect technique, only to watch it sink after two pathetic skips.

You burst out laughing, the sound bright and unrestrained. “Pathetic!” you teased, clutching your stomach. “I thought you were supposed to be good at everything, Malfoy.”

His jaw clenched, his pale cheeks dusted with pink, but there was no real venom in his glare. “I don’t recall asking for your commentary.”

“Too bad,” you shot back, grinning. “Besides, I just proved I’m better than you at something. You’ll survive.”

He should have been irritated. He wanted to be irritated. But for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he wasn’t. Instead, he found himself stealing glances at you as you continued skipping stones, your laugh carrying softly over the quiet lapping of the lake.

Before he knew it, you were talking—about school, about your favorite books, about how utterly ridiculous Krum had looked while trying to waltz. And Draco…listened. Really listened.

The minutes turned into hours, and the moon began its descent, painting the lake in soft shades of dawn. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so at ease. So human.

When you finally stood to leave, brushing grass from your robes, you turned back to him with that same cheeky smirk. “You’re not half-bad when you’re not brooding, Malfoy.”

He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as he watched you walk away, the faint warmth of your laugh lingering in the air, Draco found himself wishing for another night just like this one.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his posture softening.

“Or think about the Astronomy Tower,” you continued gently. “That night I found you there. You didn’t have to say anything, but you let me stand there with you. You weren’t alone, Draco. You’re not alone now.”

His breathing steadied, the sharpness of his expression easing into something softer.

During his sixth year, Draco Malfoy felt as if the walls of Hogwarts were closing in on him. The Dark Mark burned on his arm like a brand of shame, a constant reminder of what he had been forced to become. The weight of his family’s expectations, their name, their survival—it was suffocating. Every step he took felt like a march toward an inevitable doom, and no matter how hard he tried to bury it, fear gnawed at his every thought.

That night, he had sought solace in the Astronomy Tower. The endless expanse of stars above seemed to mock him with their brilliance, so untouchable, so far removed from the darkness that consumed his life. He stood at the edge, gripping the cold stone of the railing, staring out at the infinite night.

He didn’t even notice the soft footsteps behind him until you spoke.

“Hey.”

Your voice was quiet, gentle, as though you understood that one wrong word might shatter him completely. He didn’t turn. He couldn’t. His mask of aloof confidence was cracked, and he couldn’t bear for anyone—least of all you—to see the broken pieces underneath.

“What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, his voice hoarse.

“Looking for you,” you said simply. No judgment, no questions. Just truth.

He scoffed, his fingers tightening on the railing. “Well, congratulations. You found me. Now go.”

But you didn’t leave. Instead, you stepped closer, standing just beside him, your shoulder brushing his. You didn’t speak, didn’t pry, didn’t demand an explanation for why he was here, staring at the stars like they held the answers to questions he couldn’t even ask.

And then, you did something he hadn’t expected. You held out your hand.

He stared at it, frozen, his mind racing. Why were you here? Why weren’t you running? He had pushed so many people away this year—snarling at friends, snapping at classmates, isolating himself because it was easier than admitting he was drowning. But you…you stayed.

The air was cold, but your hand was warm, steady, grounding. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he placed his hand in yours. The contact sent a strange, inexplicable warmth through him, as though your touch alone could tether him back to reality.

“I’m here,” you said softly, and your voice was so steady, so sure, that he almost believed you could take the weight off his shoulders with just those two words.

Draco turned his head slightly, finally meeting your gaze. There was no pity in your eyes, no fear, just quiet determination and an unwavering presence. Somehow, that was enough.

“And think of this moment,” you added, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Right here. Right now. I’m here. I believe in you. I know you can do this, Draco. Just trust yourself, and let it happen.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his breathing, slow and deliberate. Then, with a deep inhale, he tightened his grip on his wand.

It was during a rare sunny afternoon at Hogwarts, the kind of day that begged everyone to abandon their books and enjoy the fleeting warmth of the Scottish sun. You had convinced Draco—after far too much whining on your part and far too many dramatic sighs on his—to take a walk with you down by the lake.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered as you pulled him along by the sleeve of his robe. “I have more important things to do than…frolic.”

“Frolic?” you repeated with a snort, turning to smirk at him. “You’re walking, Malfoy. Don’t make it sound like I’ve got you chasing butterflies.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away from your grip. “I’m just saying, I could be studying, or—”

“Sulking?” you interrupted, quirking an eyebrow.

“I don’t sulk,” he shot back, his tone indignant.

“Of course you don’t,” you teased, releasing his sleeve once you reached the edge of the lake.

The two of you stood in companionable silence for a moment, the gentle lapping of the water and the occasional chirp of birds filling the air. You tilted your head back, letting the sunlight kiss your skin, and Draco couldn’t help but glance at you out of the corner of his eye. You looked…peaceful. Happy.

And that’s when you spotted it—a patch of wildflowers blooming just a few feet away. Without a word, you darted over, crouching down to pluck a particularly vibrant yellow one.

“What are you doing now?” Draco asked, crossing his arms but following after you all the same.

You straightened up and turned to him with a grin, the flower held out toward him. “Here. A little something to brighten your brooding.”

He stared at you, then at the flower, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “You’re giving me a flower?”

“Yes, Draco, it’s called a kind gesture. Try not to have a heart attack.”

He huffed, but there was no real annoyance in the sound. With a dramatic flourish, he plucked the flower from your hand and twirled it between his fingers. “You realize this is ridiculous, right?”

“You’re welcome,” you replied sweetly, ignoring his sarcasm as you turned back toward the lake.

For a moment, he just stood there, the soft petals brushing against his fingertips. Then, to your utter shock, he reached out and tucked the flower behind your ear.

“There,” he said smugly, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Much better. Now you look like the whimsical idiot you’re always pretending to be.”

You gaped at him, your hand flying up to touch the flower. “Did you just…give me a compliment and insult me in the same breath?”

“Obviously.” He smirked, slipping his hands into his pockets and looking far too pleased with himself.

But when you burst into laughter, the kind that had you clutching your sides, Draco felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest. Maybe this day wasn’t such a waste of time after all.

Draco opened his eyes, his grip on his wand steadier than it had ever been. The memories you had drawn out of him—moments filled with warmth, laughter, and you—coursed through him like a balm to every wound he’d ever carried.

“Alright,” he murmured, his voice resolute. “Alright.”

You stepped back, giving him space but never taking your eyes off him. That unwavering faith you always had in him—it was maddening and comforting all at once.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The words left his lips with a strength he hadn’t realized he possessed. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence, the faint hum of magic hanging in the air. Then, from the tip of his wand, a silvery mist unfurled, swirling with purpose until it began to take shape.

Draco’s breath hitched as the form solidified—a sleek, shimmering weasel. It slithered through the air, its movements fluid and graceful, its eyes bright with mischief. The creature coiled protectively around him, its silvery light casting an ethereal glow.

For a moment, he was awestruck. “I…I did it.”

“You did it!” you exclaimed, pride radiating in your voice. But then you tilted your head, squinting at the Patronus. A slow grin spread across your face.

“What?” Draco asked, still staring at the weasel, though his brow furrowed as if he was only just processing its form.

“It’s, um…” You bit your lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “It’s a weasel.”

Draco blinked, the awe in his expression quickly replaced by indignation. “A weasel?” he repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. “That’s my Patronus? A weasel?”

You pressed a hand to your mouth, your shoulders shaking with barely-contained laughter. “Well, it’s a very regal weasel, if that helps.”

“Regal?” he scoffed, glaring at the glowing creature as it darted playfully through the air. “Potter gets a bloody stag, and I get a weasel?”

You couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst into laughter, doubling over. “I mean, it’s kind of perfect, don’t you think? Quick, clever, slippery—definitely you, Malfoy.”

Draco glared at you, though there was no real heat behind it. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, stepping closer. “It’s adorable. Look at it!” You gestured to the Patronus as it coiled around his shoulders like some shimmering, protective scarf. “It suits you.”

Draco crossed his arms, muttering under his breath, “I’ll never live this down.”

Sensing his bruised ego, you reached out and brushed your fingers against his arm, grounding him in the way you always did. “Hey,” you said softly, your voice pulling his eyes back to you. “You did it, Draco. That’s what matters. And don’t you dare start sulking, because it was bloody brilliant.”

His glare softened under your gaze, and his shoulders relaxed. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, though his tone was far from biting.

“And you’re incredible,” you shot back, grinning. “Now, come on. Let’s see if your majestic weasel can beat my otter in a duel.”

He huffed, but a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Majestic weasel, is it?”

“Absolutely,” you said with mock seriousness. “The most powerful weasel in all of magical history.”

Draco shook his head, but this time, when he laughed, it was warm and unrestrained—a sound so rare you couldn’t help but smile back.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his gaze lingering on you. “For…everything.”

“Anytime, Malfoy,” you replied, nudging him lightly. “Now let’s go. Your weasel’s got some serious competition, and I don’t plan on losing.”

He smirked, watching as your otter darted into the air, playful and daring, before turning to his Patronus with a grudging affection. Maybe a weasel wasn’t so bad after all.

Join my Taglist!

@ferntv @Katie_kinz @malfoy-mrsdracomalfoy @rea-the-person @strbrrylmnadee

[chongoblog]

Any advice for a new player heading into Risk of Rain 2?

I'm far from an expert myself (I've yet to clear Eclipse 4), but here are a few tips from my last few months of hyperfixating on it. (Also these tips will be under the assumption you've at least played the game for a few hours)

-Movement speed > Defense in most cases. They can't hit you if you keep dodging

-In Abandoned Aqueduct, you'll find two buttons. Push pots onto them if you haven't already (doing so unlocks two of the best items in the game)

-The fourth level will always give you a Red Item. In Abyssal Depths, it's in a chest under a rock near the middle. In Siren's Call you have to fight a secret boss to get it. In Sundered Grove, it's in one of 5 possible locations (look for pink mushrooms).

-Don't feel pressured to rush. Looting the stages for items is almost always worth the increase in difficulty.

-Scrappers are your friend. Turning items you don't need into scrap will pay off big time, especially if you find a Printer with just the item you need. Like, if you find a gasoline or syringe printer, you'd have a better time scrapping your bison steaks and turning those into the items you want instead of the risk of losing a Tri-Tip Dagger (YMMV on usefulness of these items, this is just an example)

-Speaking of scrappers: Getting scrap before you go to the moon can really help you out, since there's Soups on the moon. 3 white scraps for a green item and 5 green scraps for a red item.

-If you pick up Trophy Hunter's Tricorn, the best bosses to use it on are Imp Overlord and either Worm, since their boss items are the best. Grovetender's is pretty solid too.

-You're gonna hear the word "proc coefficient" a lot. Don't worry about that too much unless you're a math nerd.

-Scorch Worms are the worst. They were made by Hoppo to cause pain and suffering. I don't have any advice for how to better beat them, I'm just telling you a harsh fact of life.

-In the Bazaar Between Time, there's a reflective surface behind Newt that reveals something interesting. Depending on how far you are in the game, you might not know what it means yet. When you figure it out, you'll get a fun treat.

-Get Egocentrism (This is not advice for how to be good at the game)

-It's hard to do, but the sooner you can unlock Desperado, the sooner you'll have fun playing Bandit.

-Mithrix. A lot of important tips for him, but probably the most important 3 are 1) Hoppo Feather is busted, because Mithrix has what I call the Barnacle Problem (he doesn't look up) 2) BE PATIENT ON PHASE 3. Going in and charging while he does the Pizza Attack (you'll know when you see it) is basically suicide. 3) Find a pillar to hide behind before Phase 4. ESPECIALLY if you picked up Shurikens.

I've dropped off of RoR2 for a bit in favor of other games and also Life (specifically Haste and moving my bf down here), but I'm always glad to ramble about it.

Hope this helps!!!

[hummingbird24220]

Hello!

I hope you're having a good week so far. I have a bit of a niche request (no pressure to take it though)

The Whitebeard pirates (mainly Ace) X Platonic Mermaid

A very young (like 12-13ish), very shy but curious little mermaid has been following the Moby Dick for quite some time now. She hangs around the water below or clings to the side of the ship and listens to their parties/shenanigans, and the stories they tell eachother about their childhoods/adventures. She's been alone for awhile now, so that's why she loves being around the laughter and loudness of the Whitebeards. Then maybe one day Ace or Whitebeard discovers her.

Yikes, I'm not sure where you are in the anime, so if you haven't met Ace and the Whitebeards yet, feel free to ignore this one! Have a lovely day! Thank you.

Helloooo, no problem! I'm not TOO familiar with the Whitebeards, but i know Ace! Nothing a little spoiler free googling cant solve.

Hope you enjoy!

-------

The Littlest Listener (Part 1)

One Piece x Reader — Whitebeard Pirates (Ace) x Platonic!Young Mermaid Reader

The ocean was vast, but to her, it had never felt so quiet.

It had been weeks since she’d seen another mermaid. Months since she had spoken to anyone. And years since she’d had a family to swim beside. She was small even by mermaid standards, with tangled hair like seaweed and a shy little voice that barely broke the surface of the water. But her eyes—wide and curious—always scanned the horizon for something new. Something bright. Something warm.

That’s when she saw it. The Moby Dick.

A massive, whale-shaped ship with proud sails and a golden figurehead, sailing like a dream across the blue. It had looked intimidating at first, too big and loud. But when she cautiously followed at a distance—darting between waves and coral reefs, hiding behind drifting kelp—she heard it.

Laughter. Music. Stories.

Not the cruel barks of pirates she’d been warned about. Not angry shouts or cannon fire. Just the roar of joy and voices filled with life. And she was hooked.

Every day after that, she followed them.

Sometimes from below, just close enough to hear the chatter and clanking of mugs as they partied on deck. Other times she got brave and pressed herself to the ship’s hull, letting her little fingers curl into the wood as she listened to songs sung off-key, arguments over card games, and stories. So many stories.

“…and then Marco’s hair caught fire!” “No it didn’t!” “Okay but it almost did.” “Ace, you threw the fireball!”

She giggled quietly underwater.

She didn’t know their names at first, but eventually, she picked up on them. The one with the fire—he was called Ace, and he had a laugh that made her cheeks warm. There was a man called Marco who sounded older and calmer, but gentle. She liked his voice. And then there was one they called Oyaji. His voice was deep enough to rattle the sea floor when he laughed, and when he spoke, everyone listened.

She liked that too. She liked all of it. Even when they argued or shouted, it felt like… family. Something she hadn’t felt in far too long.

One night, the moonlight glittered on the waves, and she got bolder. Slid up the side of the Moby Dick and peeked over the edge of the railing, barely keeping her nose above the deck line. Her heart beat fast in her chest, and her tail flicked nervously beneath the surface, but she couldn’t help herself.

There they were—half the crew gathered around a bonfire in the middle of the deck. Someone had made skewers of fish, and Ace was juggling little fireballs while the others cheered him on or heckled him. She clutched the edge of the wood tighter, breath held, wide eyes drinking it all in.

Then—

“...Hey.” She froze. “Did anyone else hear something just now?” Ace said, lowering his flame. The rest of the crew paused. A few blinked, looking around. One of them shrugged. “Maybe a bird.” “Maybe you’re just hearing things, Ace.” He frowned and turned toward the side of the ship. Her side. Oh no.

She ducked back underwater in a panic, heart pounding, but just as she dipped below the surface— “...Wait!” A voice.

She looked up again, and this time, Ace was leaning over the edge.

Her eyes met his.

Big brown eyes, his. Kind and surprised. Her own—frightened and shimmering with saltwater.

For a moment, neither of them said a word. Just the creaking of the ship and the lapping of waves. Her gills fluttered. His lips parted slightly.

“You…” Ace breathed. “You’re a mermaid?”

She nodded slowly, barely above the waterline, hands gripping the edge like a squirrel clinging to a tree. She almost bolted. Almost.

But he smiled.

Not laughed, not yelled. Just smiled. Like someone who’d just seen something magical.

“What’s your name?” he asked gently.

She hesitated… then whispered, “(Y/N).”

Ace’s grin grew. “Hi, (Y/N). I’m Ace.”

And just like that, her lonely sea started to feel a little warmer.

--------------

The next morning, you hovered nervously beneath the waves, hiding behind the hull of the Moby Dick.

What were you thinking last night? Talking to a human pirate? Letting him see you?! He probably told the others. Maybe they’d already set up nets. Or maybe they thought you were spying. Or—worse—maybe they’d just laugh at you. A scrawny little mermaid who’d been eavesdropping on their stories like some nosy sea-sponge.

You were about to turn and swim away—just disappear like you always did—when a shadow moved above you.

Splash!

You yelped and darted back as something hit the water in front of you… and started to sink. It was… a basket?

Your eyes narrowed as you swam closer. Inside was… food?

Fruit. Warm bread. Slices of grilled fish, all wrapped in cloth. Tucked in one corner was a note written in messy handwriting, sealed in a glass jar.

"Thought you might be hungry. I wasn’t sure what you like, so I just packed a bit of everything. If you want to come say hi again, we’ll be up on deck. No pressure. –Ace (the guy who throws fire, remember?)"

You blinked. Then you smiled.

You didn’t go up right away. You stayed below for a while, nibbling at the food with wide eyes and your heart bouncing in your chest. But eventually… curiosity tugged at you again. Stronger than your nerves this time.

Slowly, cautiously, you popped your head up above the railing again.

Ace spotted you first.

He was sitting cross-legged near the edge, arms resting on the rail, like he’d been waiting all morning. When your eyes met, his whole face lit up. “Hey there, little fish!”

You blushed at the nickname but didn’t dip back under. Not yet. Instead, you shifted a little higher, showing your arms and shoulders, still clinging tightly to the wood.

A few more heads turned.

“Whoa. Ace wasn’t lying.” “She’s so tiny!” “Is that a real mermaid?” “Don’t stare, you idiots, you’re gonna scare her!”

A very tall man with a mustache like crashing waves stepped forward, arms folded across his barrel chest. His shadow loomed over you like a mountain, but his voice was warm and rumbling—like thunder wrapped in honey.

“So this is the one who’s been following our ship, huh?” Whitebeard said, tilting his head at you. “You’ve got guts, little one.”

You stared up at him, then shyly nodded.

The crew didn’t reach for nets. Didn’t grab harpoons. They didn’t yell or call you names or treat you like a freak. One of them—blond and snarky-looking—tossed you a shiny shell and said, “For the collection I assume you keep.” Another waved and introduced himself as Izo, commenting on your “adorable sea aesthetic.” And someone in the back yelled, “Don’t let Thatch cook for her! She’s a child!”

You couldn’t help it. You giggled.

Ace leaned on his arms, chin on the railing. “We tell good stories, huh?”

You nodded again.

“Wanna come listen closer? We’ve got way better snacks up here.”

Your tail flicked nervously under the water. “Can’t be out of the water too long…” you mumbled.

“No problem,” Marco said from above, flapping down beside Ace with his phoenix wings shimmering in the sun. “We’ve got barrels, tubs, a mop bucket… we’ll make it work.”

A mop bucket?

You laughed so hard you had to cover your face.

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like you were just listening in on someone else’s life.

For the first time in forever… You felt like you were being invited in.

-----------

The next day, the Whitebeard Pirates went into full planning mode.

“We need something big enough for her to sit in.” “She’s got a tail, we can’t just throw her in a bucket!” “What about that old rum barrel?” “That’s Marco’s bath barrel!” “...You bathe in rum?” “No! It just used to hold rum!”

From your spot bobbing in the water beside the Moby Dick, you watched them argue with growing amusement, your arms draped over the railing as your tail swayed lazily in the sea. Ace sat nearby with his chin in his palm, smirking as he listened to the chaos.

He looked over at you and grinned. “You’re really popular now, huh?”

You blushed and ducked your head. “They’re really… loud.”

“Yeah,” Ace said with a laugh. “But you get used to it. It’s a good kind of loud.”

You nodded. You liked that kind of loud.

Finally, Marco fluttered down from the mast, his expression calm but exasperated. “We’ve decided on a half-barrel setup near the deck railing. You’ll be able to see everyone, and no one will try to put you in the mop bucket. Again.”

You weren’t going to lie—you were a little curious about the mop bucket. But this sounded better.

A short time later…

The crew had set up a surprisingly cozy corner just for you: a massive wooden half-barrel filled with seawater and decorated with seashells (someone had thought it’d make you feel more “at home”), a tiny towel for “dabbing your face if you splash too hard,” and even a cup of fresh coconut water balanced on the edge. You were hesitant at first, but when Ace reached down and offered you a hand—no pressure, just a soft smile—you took it.

The crew exploded with cheers the moment you wiggled your way into the barrel and settled in with a small splash.

“There she is!” “Look at that tail! You could use that thing as a weapon!” “Who taught her to be that cute?!” “I bet she’s stronger than half of us already.”

You shrank a little under the attention, cheeks puffing out with embarrassment as you tried to sink lower in the water.

Ace knelt next to the barrel, grinning. “Don’t mind them. This is their version of being nice.”

“She’s still a kid,” Marco pointed out gently, shooting the others a warning glance. “Try not to crowd her.”

You peeked up at him and whispered, “I don’t mind… It’s nice.”

And it was. Warm, chaotic, welcoming in a way you hadn’t felt in so long it almost made your chest ache. One of the pirates—Thatch, you thought—brought over a tray of snacks and introduced you to the concept of pineapple pizza (you weren’t sure how to feel about it yet). Vista offered you a flower, which you had no idea what to do with, so you tucked it behind your ear and smiled shyly.

Then came the storytelling.

You leaned on the edge of the barrel, wide-eyed, as Ace and the others recounted tales from their travels—of sea kings, brawls, treasure hunts gone wrong, and parties that had ended with someone waking up in a chicken coop. You laughed more than you had in months.

At some point, you glanced up at Whitebeard himself, seated on his massive chair with that ever-present grin. His eyes were on you, calm and watchful, like he’d been quietly observing this whole time.

“You’ve got a good laugh, little guppy,” he said, voice low and rumbly like distant thunder.

You flushed red. “...Thank you.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” he added. “Long as you don’t eat Marco’s snacks. That’s a war you don’t want.”

Marco sighed. “It happened one time.”

Ace snorted.

You looked between them, your heart so full it felt like you could float even without water. Maybe you didn’t belong to a pod anymore. Maybe you didn’t have a mermaid family waiting for you somewhere deep below.

But maybe… you were starting to find something better.

------

The stars were out in full force that night, glimmering like scattered seashells tossed across a navy sky. The Moby Dick gently rocked with the waves, and the crew had finally gone quiet, save for a few snores, the creak of the wood, and the ever-present lapping of the sea.

You floated near the ship, resting your arms on the railing with your tail swaying lazily beneath the surface. A warm breeze brushed your cheeks, and for once… the silence felt safe. Not lonely.

You didn’t even flinch when someone dropped beside you.

“Hey, guppy,” Ace said softly, chin in his hand as he leaned against the rail beside you. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

You smiled sleepily. “Couldn’t sleep. Water’s too still.”

Ace chuckled. “Yeah. I get that. I used to have trouble sleeping too, when I first got on this ship.”

You blinked at him. “Really? But everyone likes you.”

He paused for a second, then smiled, softer this time. “They do now. But I was pretty closed off when I first joined. I didn’t know how to be around people who cared. Didn’t really trust it, y’know?”

You tilted your head, listening. Your little hands rested on the edge of the ship, dripping seafoam.

“My past is kinda messy,” he admitted, scratching his head. “I didn’t grow up with a big loud family like this. I thought being alone was easier. But Whitebeard… he didn’t give up on me. None of them did.”

You looked at him, wide-eyed, then quietly said, “I was alone for a long time too.”

Ace didn’t say anything at first. Just gave you the kind of look that felt warm in your chest.

“Bet it gets heavy sometimes, huh?” he said gently.

You nodded.

Then, to your surprise, he reached into his pocket and held something out to you—a tiny flame, flickering softly in his palm. It didn’t burn. It glowed like a firefly made of candlelight.

“I made it small so it wouldn’t hurt you,” he said with a little grin. “You looked cold.”

You stared at it in wonder, lips parting in awe.

“Wow…” you whispered, reaching out and hovering your fingers just above it.

“It’s not much,” Ace said, “but it always makes me feel better. Like… I’m not stuck in the dark, even if everything else is.”

You blinked, eyes shining.

“Do you… think I could do something like that one day?” you asked quietly. “Make something small, but… warm?”

Ace gave you a soft, crooked smile. “You already do, guppy. You’ve been making all of us smile since the day you popped your head over that railing.”

Your cheeks turned warm—not from the flame, but from the feeling in your chest.

Ace plucked the flame from his hand and cupped it into a small seashell, gently handing it to you like a keepsake. “Here. For when the water feels too quiet again.”

You cradled it in your palms, holding it like treasure.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “You’re… really nice for a fire guy.”

Ace laughed, leaning his head back and grinning at the sky. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For a while, the two of you just sat there—him on the railing, you in the sea, watching the stars and listening to the ship creak and sway with the waves. It wasn’t loud. There weren’t stories or shouting or dancing or games.

It was just the soft glow of firelight in a shell and the gentle hum of something new growing—

A friendship.

A home.

[inspectori]

I LOVE THE WAY U WRITE OMG 😭 if u dont mind, could i request a “was that a” with kageyama and akaashi?

(funny story i made this like hours after you requested it and forgot to post it 😅😃)

- WAS THAT A… PT.3 -

haikyuu x gn!reader

KAGEYAMA

Practice ran long again. He stayed behind to work on his serve, chasing perfection like it owed him something. By the time you find him, the gym lights are dim, and he’s lying flat on his back in the middle of the court, sweat drying on his skin.

“Tobio,” you say gently.

His eyes flick toward you, expression unreadable but tired—so tired.

You kneel beside him, your fingers brushing against his shoulder. “Roll over. Your back’s screaming.”

“I’m fine,” he says automatically.

You arch a brow.

“…I will be fine,” he amends, quieter now. Then, after a beat, he sighs like surrender and rolls onto his stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah like you aren’t.”

You sit on his thighs and press your palms into his back. His body jerks slightly at the first touch—too tense, too wired.

But you’re patient. You work slowly, thumbs digging into the knots gathered between his shoulder blades, coaxing the stress out of his muscles one breath at a time. He doesn’t speak, but the sounds he makes betray him. Little hitches in his breath. A sharp inhale when you find a particularly sore spot.

Then, soft—barely audible—a whimper escapes him. A sharp, raw sound that makes your heart tug in your chest.

He freezes, face pressed into his forearm. “That wasn’t— I didn’t—shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it,” he mutters, voice muffled.

Your touch softens, gliding down his back in slow, soothing sweeps. “It’s okay to feel good, you know. To let someone take care of you.”

He doesn’t reply, but his body melts under your hands like he’s finally letting himself believe it.

AKAASHI

You find him in the quiet of his apartment, curled on the couch with a book open and untouched in his lap. The tension in his frame is obvious—shoulders pulled tight, jaw clenched just slightly.

“Long day?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Akaashi glances up, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Something like that.”

“Lie down.”

He hesitates. “You don’t have to—”

“Keiji.”

Your voice is soft but firm. You reach out a hand, and after a moment, he takes it.

You guide him to the floor and settle beside him, carefully working your hands under the hem of his shirt. The warmth of his skin meets your palms, and you can feel the tension humming just beneath the surface.

He tries to stay composed. Of course he does. But the moment you press into the muscles between his spine and shoulder blade, his breath catches.

Your fingers move in slow, practiced strokes, easing the stiffness with steady pressure. And then you find a pressure point just below his ribs, and the sound that slips from him is… delicate. A soft, breathy whimper, quickly swallowed by a clenched jaw.

You pause, but he reaches back, fingers brushing yours in a silent plea: don’t stop.

So you keep going, and he lets you. Lets himself be vulnerable, if only for a little while.

After a few minutes, he whispers, “I don’t think I realized how much I needed this.”

You lean closer, voice a gentle hush. “You don’t always have to carry everything alone.”

His reply is another quiet sound—this one closer to a sigh. Like he believes you. Or wants to.

OSAMU

Osamu has this habit of pretending he’s fine. Always cracking jokes, brushing off the ache in his shoulders from long shifts in the kitchen like it’s nothing.

But you see it—the way he rubs at his neck when he thinks no one’s watching. The wince when he lifts his arms too fast.

So when you catch him sprawled on the floor after closing the shop, apron abandoned and eyes closed, you straddle his thighs without a word.

“Darlin’, if this is your idea of foreplay—”

You press your thumbs into his back, and the sentence cuts off in a sound that’s far less smug.

“God,” he groans. “What the hell was that?”

“Knots,” you murmur, working slowly up the length of his spine. “You’re all twisted up.”

“Didn’t notice.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

His smartass reply is cut short when you hit a spot just beneath his shoulder blade. His whole body stiffens, and then—

He whimpers.

The sound slips out, unguarded and startled, like he didn’t expect it. He slaps a hand over his mouth instantly.

You pause, hands still on his back. “…Was that a whimper, Osamu?”

“Nope.”

“You did. That was adorable.”

“Take it back.”

“I won’t. Might even tell Atsumu.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I will.”

He groans into the floor again, louder this time. “Fine.”

You grin, smug as ever. 

He tilts his head to the side, peeking up at you with half-lidded eyes. “You keep talkin’ like that while sittin’ on me, and I’m gonna fall in love with ya all over again.”

You hum, digging your fingers into another tense spot just to hear that soft, helpless sigh. “Then I’m really doing my job right.”

[stardustizuku]

So I really don’t like Encanto’s music

That’s a lie.

I actually love “We don’t talk about Bruno” and I will always cry about “Dos Orugitas”.

But, Familia Madrigal? Don’t like it.

Waiting on a Miracle? Don’t like it.

Surface Pressure? Don’t like it.

What Else Can I Do? On thin fucking ice.

And that’s apparently a very controversial opinion. I was a bit baffled to see that everyone universally loved songs that I would consider objectively bad. I’ve seen musical experts make extensive videos on how good it is, which for the longest time deterred me from even saying how much I disliked it.

But like, I really can’t stay quiet about it anymore.

Okay, so first of all, we have to talk about accents.

Lin Manuel Miranda is from Puerto Rico. If you’ve ever heard them talk, you notice people from PR have a distinct way of talking. They put a lot of stress at the end of every syllable, and they talk very very fast. No, really. They talk very fast. There’s an inside joke among Latino people that most of us can’t understand Puerto Rican Spanish because it’s so fast and has what I can only describe as a “choppy pronunciation”. This is to say, they cut off their words off, use a lot of contractions and put the stress of a syllable always in the same place.

You can watch this interview with Bad Bunny to see what I’m talking about.

You can hear it, it’s extremely fast paced with even intervals of stress in their words. When they sing (again any Bad Bunny song can work to prove my point) you can hear that same style. Fast paced, with even intervals in the stress of their syllables.

This is their accent, coming through their music. It makes marvelous songs. Puerto Rican have a very distinct accent and their music gave way for this new wave of reggae music we see. One filled with rap and hip-hop beats. This is because their accent makes rapping the most comfortable medium for them to sing in.

And. When you put that side by side with Lin Manuel’s music, you’ll realize that it’s exactly the way he writes music. Most Puerto Rican musicians sing and rap in Spanish, for obvious reasons, but Lin does it in English! That is why it piqued a lot of Americans’ interest. His style was common in Spanish but innovative in English.

What Lin Manuel did is truly amazing. He mixed hip-hop, rap and Puerto Rican instruments to create his breakthrough musical In The Heights. This mix was a hit because of how well these three mix.

Lin Manuel raps, not only because he’s a lyrical genius, but his own accent gives him a natural advantage. It works best in his first musical because it is about his own struggles and lived experiences, growing up in Washington Heights.

In Hamilton, he leans more to hip-hop culture, mixing more African American styles of music. He’s using that same Puerto Rican intonation and style, and mixing it with hip hop, to tell a white story.

The juxtaposition of them both creates something unique. Founding Father history is boring, white and frankly tired. Giving it this new spin, mixing all types of sounds and voices, creates an idea that THIS history belongs to everyone; not just white people.

But. That doesn’t work in Encanto.

The problem with Encanto is that he’s trying to do the same thing he did in both previous musicals - but there is no reason for Puerto Rican inspired sounds to dominate the soundtrack (And boy do they dominate it)

This is about Colombian music and Colombian stories.

Like, people from the USA and who grew up there, adopt the same view of culture: The idea that all Latino cultures are extremely similar, should be melted together, and that everyone is allowed to contribute to part of it. It makes sense. Latinos form a community in a foreign country, where everyone is brothers and sisters, shoved into the same places and spaces.

But that only happens in the USA. In Latinoamérica, because everyone (for the large part, and excluding political refugees) has their own country where to create their own country style. So, while we are all friends - we’re not roommates, we’re neighbors. So people intruding into their culture, seems more of a bad taste.

Colombia is Colombia. They have a cultural identity almost separate and foreign to any other country (EXCEPT those that formed La Gran Colombia in the years of old). It makes no sense for a story or movie about it to have Puerto Rican sounds, Mexican sounds, Chilean sounds etc.

And Lin Manuel doesn’t seem to notice that his music, at its purest, is Puerto Rican sounds mixing with the environment. So, when he got put in charge of Encanto’s music, he used his style to create it- which leads to this huge problem where two entirely different sounds and style get put in a hotpot and what comes out is…

Odd.

Why did this happen, again?

Well, many reasons: in part bcs cause Disney is Disney and doesn’t see Latino countries as their own thing, in part bcs I believe Lin was filled with hubris of his own success and in part bcs I think he just didn’t understand what a fumble he was doing; but that doesn’t change the fact that - they simply do not fit here.

I genuinely believe that, Disney being Disney, assigned their only Latino musical man to write the music for their Latino musical. Ignoring the fact that Lin Manuel has only one type of musical style, which is at complete odds with Colombian music or stories. Disney (in my opinion) waved their hand and let the Latino do their Latino stuff without bothering to check if they were the RIGHT type of Latino - and so, we ended up in this mess.

And Moana at least had Somoan artists writing alongside Lin Manuel to at least, reign in some of Lin’s more obvious attempts to make this Hamilton 2.0. But in Encanto? He had one artist writing alongside him whose only other connection to Latinoamérica was Coco.

And listen, I’m not here to say white people can’t write compelling music - Coco is a great example of white people stealing and replicating the aesthetics of a culture so well its scary - but it is iffy.

So, yeah. Encanto has Lin Manuel’s style all over itself like it’s In the Heights 2.0

The problem?

This is not about you Lin!

His style becomes horrendously apparent when he tries to mix in Colombian Music with lyricism genetically engineered to fit Puerto Rican Vocal Cords. Add to that that the fucking Main Character is voiced by a Puerto Rican artist and what you get - is music that signals one thing, and a voice that signals other.

Causing this entire thing to sound, not only convoluted - but also so off the beat you would think a white man wrote it.

Okay, so let’s take Familia Madrigal, and I’m gonna use it to point out the obvious:

Stephanie Beatriz is NOT COLOMBIAN.

Which, by the way, fucking shows. Her accent kills any indication you may have that Maribel is actually Colombian.

I know, that people from the USA failed geography in kindergarten and don’t even know that people from Latinoamerica are separated into countries - but surprise surprise they do. And they ALSO have extremely different accents.

Someone from Colombia speaks differently from someone from Argentina, or Mexico etc. So when Maribel opens her mouth, imagine my shock when, what I hear, isn’t a Colombian accent but a Puerto Rican one.

And while you think it can’t - it shows very much in the way people sing too.

It’s like a show brightly saying “this is a movie dedicated to London culture and it’s set in London using London narratives to tell it”.

And the main character starts speaking - and she has a fucking Texan accent.

Like, genuinely, from the bottom of my heart:

Why did Disney hire a Puerto Rican person to voice act their Colombian character…?

I get that they did something similar in Coco, but two things 1) Guatemala is pretty close to Mexico. 2) The sound design is so Mexican it’s scary. You CAN hear that there’s some missing timber and accent in some songs, but you just assume it’s due to Disney purposely flattening the more “ugly” parts of Mexican music (aka, this breathy raspy tone you use for some ‘corrido’ and mariachi music) because even the Spanish version is missing it.

But because Encanto was written by Lin - he’s writing lyrics with an undeniably Puerto Rican accent. THEN, you make the girl singing it a Puerto Rican girl, with a heavy PR accent.

And you’re left with this…song. That has lyrics genetically engineered to favor Puerto Rican pronunciation with Colombian Music in the background. It makes this weird, jarring sensation that, to me, feels like nothing I’ve heard before.

Which, if this were a new experimental musical, I would probably find it interesting.

But for fucks sake, Lin. This is a Colombian story. You’re supposed to be channeling COLOMBIAN vibes. Not whatever this is.

Okay, want an example? Compare “Familia Madrigal” to another Colombian artist (that isn’t Shakira) Bacilos: I think that Mi Primer Millón is the closest thing I can think of.

You’ll notice two things:

1) The voice that sings is so slow. It doesn’t rush every single sentence, the way it’s very characteristic of Lin. This is very common in Colombian music. It’s not fast paced. It’s lively! Fun! But not quick-paced the way Puerto Rican is. It’s relaxed.

And

2) The words drag. It’s not each syllable being stressed, but everything sorta drags and blends with the word in front of it.

It’s completely different from Family Madrigal - even if the music is kinda similar.

That’s what I mean when I say that Stephanie Beatriz’s accent kills any illusion of Maribel being Colombian. The way she sings would be PERFECT for a reggae song, or set in the nebulous America where all Latino culture is a melting pot.

But it doesn’t sound distinctly Colombian. It sounds - fucking American. And Disney American at that. Because there’s no hard defying Colombian aesthetic, but more of vaguely Latino sound.

The same happens in Waiting on a Miracle.

So, this works on two levels. First is the Disney “I want song” ballad, like Part of your world, I cannot stress how quickly it’s going, and how little it conveys.

As Colombian music - I heard Lin say that they’re using a Bambuco, a type of music known to have ¾ rhythm instead of 4/4 to symbolize Maribel. All family members sing in 4/4 while Maribel, the odd one out, sings in a ¾.

Except, when I heard this I was like:

What the fuck do you mean this is a Bambuco?

I was genuinely confused because Waiting on a Miracle does not sound like a Bambuco, not even in the Spanish dub, where like half the problems I have with the music are fixed.

But then you listen to background music without the vocals, and you’re like oh. Yeah, that kinda is a Bambuco!

The lyrics ruin it tho.

A popular Bambuco song is “El Barcino” which, when put side by side with Waiting on a Miracle, show that the lyrics ruin any pace the song is creating.

El Barcino uses letters that end and starts on vocals, and are short, to make sure that it has the least amount of syllables, even when it’s using quite a bit of words. It helps everything sorta blend together, with the harshest sounding letters like “r” and “ll” being left to the end. With that last word being the one that drags on the most.

Esta es la historia (4)

De aquel novillo (4)

Que había nacido (4)

Allá en la tierra (4)

Compare that to Waiting on Miracle that seems to do the opposite. It uses constant consonants that purposely break the sound, with no long words to drag at the end. In FACT it seems like the last word is the one that gets cut abruptly. With the middle of the sentence being the one that drags a bit.

I can’t heal what’s broken (6)

Can’t control the morning rain (7)

Or a hurricane (4)

Never mind that each line has a different syllable number.

The Spanish dub tries to fix this, and that’s why I say it’s much better. The actual VA attempts to sing in a way that mushes together the first few syllables, and puts stress on the last word - and the Spanish writers are fighting for their lives to shorten the syllables by using as many vocals as they can.

But genuinely, there’s just so much they can do, when Lin’s writing comes bashing with a hammer with its stupid tempo.

And I’ve heard people say that “well, Mirabel sings so different because she’s the odd one in the family”, which-…

Do you think that? Then why didn’t they hire a Colombian VA? Or a South American VA? Someone who could more closely emulate the type of accent Colombian people have?

My opinion, they wanted Stephanie because Lin is KNOWN to work with people from previous projects, in this case Stephanie was in his production of In Height Movie. I think he wanted her to land the job at Disney. Disney saw a big name with big backing and decided to cast her as the Main Character. And when this happened, Lin started writing her songs in a way that she felt more comfortable, or molding Mirabel’s character around parts of Stephanie herself (which is not unheard of, or even a bad practice. But it effectively ruins a pretty good song for me).

Less than Lin choosing Stephanie to sing this way bcs Maribel sings this way, I think it’s more of a Mirabel sings like this bcs Lin chose so, bcs it fits Stephanie better.

But again, it ends up sounding nothing like Colombian Bambuco. I don’t even know what it sounds like.

The problem I think, lies in the fact that three things are fighting like crazy in this song - Lin’s lyricism that has no business being here, a Disney Formula that was on its way to becoming so tired it ended up as “Wish”, and actual Colombian music that is sitting here being yanked and stretched to fit whatever these two idiots decide is best today.

As an “I want song” ballad, it also fails massively. I’m gonna go ahead and show an actual song in English to prove my point - Shakira. I’m using her first album in English (because it’s the one that is less touched by outside American influences), and picking the one that sounds the most like an I Want ballad throughout. It’s not a 1:1 but I hope it proves my point.

Take Waiting on a Miracle vs Underneath Your Clothes (granted, at this point Shakira still uses rock in her music (RIP Shakira rockera you will be missed) so I acknowledge the music is different. I’m focusing more on her voice rn)

You can definitely see the difference in the accent and way I’m so genuinely offended they hired Stephanie (her talent be damned, I want my Colombian artists to be given a chance)

You can hear the way Shakira sorta Just sings? There’s no choppy attempts to fit syllables into the right tempos. She dances with the music, instead of forcing herself through it.

Like, the “I can’t control the morning rain or a hurricane” sounds like it’s cut in pieces. But “And all the things that I deserve” just doesn’t. It stays in the beat with the music.

What's even weirder, tho is that recently, Shakira used Reggae and Puerto Rican style music to mix with her music.

Bizzarap may be an Argentinian musician but in her song with him she, well, raps and used that similar choppy style of lyrics that Lin uses - just that the background music is obviously not Colombian - but hearing her you can hear how different it is from Maribel’s singing.

And it’s a great example that my problem isn’t PR girls singing - cause honestly the song slaps - but that they’re doing it in Colombian story ; set in Colombia, where honestly PR culture has no business being here. Like, Venezuelan inspire music, Panama inspired music, or even Ecuador music wouldn’t be weird…But Puerto Rican? They weren’t even part of La Gran Colombia.

But okay, not everything is awful.

I actually love We don't talk about Bruno, because for all the reasons why Lin Manue style does not fit Colombian Music - musicals DO fit Colombian Music! And when done RIGHT, you get this masterpiece. They do everything right

Tia Pepa IS voiced by a Colombian girl! (Who also sung the Spanish dub, oh my god Carolina Gaitan the woman you are!)

The lyrics are repetitive and simple. Which allows people to actually sing! You can hear her drag the last word really nicely when she sings, it’s such a delight to the ears.

It’s followed by Dolores doing a RAP! A proper rap, to which they have a Puerto Rican rap singer!! No wonder she’s the highlight of the song! This was built for her, and she nailed it! Oh, my god, you see how amazing something can sound if you just know what you’re doing??? The Colombian girl who does the Spanish dub doesn’t pull it as good as the English dub.

The sudden change from Dolores to Camilo is great.

The ensemble is amazing. If Lin can do something good is an ensemble where everyone is singing their own verse.

Like I cannot stress how amazing everything fits for this.

What Else Can I do?

I say this is on thin ice because it shows that the problem isn’t just Lin lyricism but the fact that both Maribel and Luisa are voiced by Puerto Rican Voice Actresses.

That said, oh my god the Spanish dub is like 10x better. In English, they hired a PR VA for Maribel. But in Spanish? The entire cast is ACTUALLY Colombian!

(Fun fact! When I was listening to the Spanish Dub of this song I thought it was Mexican Inspired because the choppy Lin Style changed slightly to mix with someone singing with this melodic type of intonation - sounds extremely like a Tatiana song. Her version of the “Won’t Say I’m In Love” sounds so similar to this song. If you still think not, “Gotita de Amor” has such big vibes with “Inspiración” (Aka WECID but Spanish), it’s actually funny.)

It sounds really fun. But it’s again, not something I find ground breaking, The song is finally one that doesn’t put too much emphasis on the choppy Lin style - but that’s probably because THEY HIRED AN ACTUAL COLOMBIAN VA.

That said, this could have been a great way to introduce some Colombian rock - given that they ARE using an electric guitar in the background and she’s supposed to be breaking the idea of the ‘perfect daughter’ - but sure, let’s go for the generic Disney Princess Rebel sound. Sure, whatever, who cares about any sort of cultural references at this point, anyways.

(Never mind that THE Shakira started out as a rock girlie and her original albums could have been a great fit for Isabela - like Donde Estas Corazón or Si Te Vas)

Okay enough, at this point you either got what I was saying, or are still pissed that I don’t like the music.

Either angry that I don’t give Stephanie the flowers she deserve, that I’m too harsh on Lin, or that I have a vendetta against PR.

I think she’s an amazing actress, I think she has a great voice. I love In the Heights, I had a Hamilton phase, and was super into 21 Jump Street until I realized it’s copaganda (we don’t have time to discuss you). And I don’t think there’s someone who appreciate having reggae songs being put in the club downtown more than me, because seriously WHITE PEOPLE NEED TO STOP PUTTING ABBA TO SIGNAL THAT THE PARTY IS ENDING.

Now. My problem isn’t that. It isn’t even the fact that people from the PR were put in charge of writing a Colombian story.

The music from Coco is Amazing. I have no idea how they managed it, but every single song sounds like one I grew up with. Ernesto’s Remember Me sounds like something my mom would listen to when we clean up a Saturday morning. Juanita sounds like something my grandpa would listen to when he’s drunk and thinking of my late grandma. Llorona sounds like the songs I used to dance to in Folklore Dancing classes when I was a kid.

And it was written by an Italian guy.

I’m not usually one to gatekeep who gets to make music. But I think the key difference here is:

The Italian guy knew he was intruding in a place he didn’t belong. This was not his music he had to replicate, and he had to put extra effort to make sure it sounded authentically Mexican and not Italian.

Lin did not have this approach. At least not when writing the songs. He tried to sample Colombian music, but did not put the effort into making sure his own bias of what music should sound like affect the music he’s writing.

Because Lin didn’t feel like he was intruding on a place! He felt like he was in his own environment, where he could play with the sounds and incorporate them into his own style.

But he wasn’t. He isn’t Colombian. He shouldn’t have felt this comfortable

And no one ever thought to tell him “this doesn’t sound authentic” bcs a) he’s Latino, therefore his music should be authentically Latino (even when, in his case, he’s not Colombian) b) he’s always been able to sell.

It’s a bit of a bummer. Because even after Encanto released, I saw everyone giving him flowers and loving it and streaming it - when all I could do was stare at it and feel like there was something wrong.

It sounded like Lin. It sounded like Disney. But it didn’t sound like Colombia.

It speaks a lot about an issue in Latinoamerican spaces in the USA and Canada that non-Latino people have been trying to talk about for ages, just to be ignored. That is: American-born “Latinos” are not really considered part of the Latino community in full. A lot of the values and perspectives that are considered by the LatAm community as integral to our culture, do not get transmitted to American-born Latinos. They’re raised with a hyper-individualistic mindset, assuming they can take from LatinoAmerican countries, when they have not lived the -frankly- harsh reality of everyday here. They don’t understand the culture, or the language, or day to day struggles - yet they feel entitled grab it and create aesthetics with no regards to the realities of people who have to live those experiences.

A great example is, Lupita in her recent “Emilia Perez” role. She did not care for the actual struggles of people living in Mexico. Even though she’s considered “Latina” by the USA, she’s not considered so in LatAm. Because she lived within the American privilege, she never bothered to understand the culture she is from, and is more than ready to throw away what she believed to be her “community” for a chance at the table.

And while Lin didn’t do something as egregious as to defend Jacques, he still sorta perpetuates this idea. That he’s entitled to take what he wants from LatAm countries because he is “Latino”. Even when he was raised in New York, and should be treating the cultures of other countries with respect and acknowledgement that they are not the same.

Something I need to kudos for is hiring Sebastian Yatra. His contribution to this movie is genuinely the highlight of the entirety of Disney in this decade. Two Orugitas and Dos Orugitas are songs that I think about constantly. He’s a very famous Colombia artist who created some of my favorite songs (Tacones Rojos, Ojos Marrones, Traicionera etc), so I was very happy to see him involved in this movie. In fact, I think it made wonders for his career. His success with Tacones Rojos undoubtedly made bigger with people knowing from this movie.

There’s also Colombia, Mi Encanto. I like that song. I think it’s great.

There was genuine effort put into this movie. And trying to trash it entirely because I think Lin did a terrible job in research, isn’t fair. There are good things about this movie, and musically I’ve heard worse. It’s not…shall I say unlistenable? I do listen to some of these songs. They’re interesting musical theater pieces. And, for all I hate his work on this movie, Lin does have power with the pen. He’s a genius of a lyricist.

But I felt the need to point out that, while Encanto does have good music, it’s surrounded by a very distinct type of internalized American imperialism that no one will care to ever address

[cerastes]

What's your take on MumuDoc in Lonetrail?

Muelsyse in Lone Trail felt, in many ways, like seeing someone diving in a pool, and at first, you're not alarmed. They know how to swim. You don't really think much of it. But then a minute passes, and they are still underwater. Concern sinks in, and you make your way to the pool, and as you're about to jump in, their head surfaces, they are back up. They cough, they tough it out, and are a bit nervous about diving again, but you're going in the pool with them now, and they feel more at ease.

Take this, intensify it a hundredfold, stretch it a hundredfold, and scrutinize it a hundredfold, and you end up with Muelsyse, in her barest form, like a diamond born from a chunk of charcoal that had too much pressure put on it.

I can see Muelsyse's dynamic with Doctor being romantic. I can see Muelsyse's dynamic with Doctor not being romantic. Both are fine interpretations, if you ask me, I mean, her theme song is very much a love song, and at the same time, she feels desperate to find anyone who can just... Empathize in even the slightest of ways to her. Either read is fine, outright discounting either feels a tad disingenuous.

Alienation. Complete and utter alienation, an edge sharper and more injurious than isolation. This is, if you ask me, the main theme surrounding the Rhine Lab arc and cast.

Saria is alienated. She cannot find common ground with anyone else around her for the longest time. She used to have a shared dream with Kristen, but that bridge has burned and frozen and turned to ash all over. Kristen is alienated. She simply cannot see a point to anything except that obsessive doggedly persistent dream of hers, and it has been weighted more important than her humanity. Joyce is alienated. Forever a partial prisoner in her own head, there are few and far between that will ever put up with the unique intricacies of having to deal with someone that talks like her, has sudden Oripathy attacks like her, and falls asleep on the spot seemingly at random like her, fully cognizant of how high maintenance she can be on others. Ho'olheyak is alienated. On borrowed time, without kin or friend to call her own, living for a transcending mission far bigger than her and so, so small in the overarching beats of a world that can't be bothered to stop for her. Silence. Ifrit. Dorothy. Tin Man. I could go on. Alienated, all of them. Not isolated, because isolation would imply the lack of physical company. This is far colder, far darker. It's alienation. It's seeing the other side of the cliff, and no possibility of a bridge to connect it to your end of the cliff. Isolation stings, it's a pain you know is there. Alienation drowns, because you can see the surface, but you are convinced you'll never make it there, and it's a hundredfold worse.

Muelsyse is no different. Muelsyse is alienated, and goodness she has tried and tried and tried, she swims so, so hard to reach the surface, but she can't reach it. Being in Rhine Labs necessarily means you need to resort to some cutthroat cloak and dagger, it becomes routine, all for an ultimate goal, but is that ultimate goal even possible? With every step taken by Muelsyse, it seems two new steps materialized at the end of the staircase. Everyone she's met, for years now, has either been someone looking to use her, or someone she can use for her own advantage. Usually simultaneously. And it's in this context, when the 9 to 5 becomes tricking, blackmailing, snuffing and silencing that by chance, she comes across someone, possibly the sole person, that can actually understand the sheer weight on her shoulders: Doctor, someone who doesn't own their own past, but is shackled by it, someone who has no one to relate to, someone surrounded by sufficiently similar but ultimately infinitely different people to themselves, someone who by all means should be drowning in the same pool as her, but somehow, this person reached the surface. It's very easy to see why she'd become so utterly fascinated by this person, who shares many similarities with her, and yet, who seemingly has it so good, has it so sweet. It could have easily been jealousy, but end of the day, Muelsyse IS a sweet person. Yeah, she plays it up, always so cheerful and whimsical, but end of the day, Muelsyse is playing up something that is already there in the first place. Instead of jealousy, it brought her happiness, because maybe, just maybe, she could enjoy a bit of that je ne sais quoi that Doctor seems to have in spades and she is completely bankrupt of.

The first interactions between Muelsyse and Doctor are telling of this overwhelming rush of emotion: Muelsyse less talks with Doctor and more talks at them. She vomits words, emotion, whimsy, as if trying to put these emotions into words and actions after so long, emotions that was ready to never need to put into words in the first place. It eventually becomes a dialogue between two parties, but Muelsyse's interactions with Doctor are initially extremely one-sided, and they remain one-sided to some degree even moving forward. It was heartwrenching to me, honestly, to see the sheer joy Muelsyse radiated while around Doctor, because that is an almost manic amount of joy simply from possibly finding someone that gets it. Muelsyse has not had a bridge in so, so long, and suddenly, the finds someone that not only resembles her a lot, but also seems to have bridges in spades. Muelsyse and Doctor's dynamic should never be considered in a vacuum just between the two of them: One of the first things Muelsyse saw with her own eyes was that Doctor had a pretty friendly relationship, mutual respect included, with Saria. That, is immediately very telling of Doctor, given that Muelsyse understands exactly how difficult that is. We also know Muelsyse sneaks around Rhodes Island and chats with Ifrit now and then, and Ifrit also expressly has a very high opinion of Doctor. It simply makes sense that Muelsyse would feel as enthusiastic about her Dorothy's Vision brush with Doc, and all that Lone Trail entailed: It's terribly sad, because they don't even know each other, and even then, it's the shiniest ray of hope for herself that Muelsyse has had the chance to bask in: Doctor's essence, Doctor's existence, in and of itself, is a massive beacon of hope for Muelsyse.

And it's so damn sad, that this perfect stranger is the most familiar comrade she'll ever find.

Is this romantic love? Hell, the molotov cocktail of emotions involved might as well be, either now or in potentially in the future. Is it something unhealthily dependent? Yeah... Yeah. It might just be the euphoria of knowing that she can reach the surface, after all, that bridges, too, are possible for her to have, with not underlying motive, with no ulterior motive, without needing to offer something or to extract something. To put in the most basic of terms, Doctor, to Muelsyse, might as well represent the very first person in who knows how long that she can relate to at all. It is an immensely sad emotional starvation, and she finally found something to sink her teeth onto.

This is personal, but the way Muelsyse struck me, it felt to me that when she had even the barest of handles on Doctor, she related to someone for the first time in forever, and it shook her to her very core. It may have been the first time she saw, in someone else, a potentially happy Muelsyse.

It's extremely bittersweet. If you've ever dealt with alienation, think back on the first time you found someone who truly "got you". Add to that the fact that her routine of interacting with people had become to see others as tools, and to always be on the lookout for those wishing to use and expend you as a tool. Then, add to that that there are definitely more Elves, but Muelsyse is so fundamentally different to them that the sheer differences in temperament and culture make it so it's impossible for her to relate to them anyway. What could be lonelier than that? It's called Lone Trail for a reason, because alienation is a main theme for all of these people.

In finding the sole person that could possibly relate to her in circumstance and temperament, it's easy to see where Muelsyse's interest in Doctor comes from. Whether you interpret it as romantic or otherwise, it can't be denied that this immensely strong interest exists. It comes from finally seeing a way to reach the surface after the world told her for decades that she simply could only drown. Because Doctor is the only other person that could understand her in being the last of their race and in having no past and maybe even no future, and yet, Doctor having so many bridges, while she has none. I think Muelsyse craves companionship, not necessarily romantic, from Doctor, and, this is important, also wants to have what they have, and be part of it, of so many bridges built without ulterior motives.

[yandere-yearnings]

HEAVENCALL (??? x Fem!Reader)

feat. Cecilia Romano

♡ oneshot, approx. 1k words

♡ post-specific warnings: NSFW, sub + bottom afab reader, fingering (reader receiving), 'good girl' used on reader, depictions of gore and violence, masochism & sadism, Stockholm syndrome, abuse, collaring, blood play, (extreme) knife play, implied mind break, implied imprisonment, vaguely implied reference to cannibalism, extreme toxicity, DDDNE

♡ a/n: most important thing to anyone reading this is to pls be mindful of the content warnings above and to not read if you think it could be triggering for you. this is vv dark fiction and i legit cannot stress that enough. a lighter christmas fic will be posted soon, which can be viewed alternatively.

this is @unhappy-last-resort's gift for our secret santa fic exchange!! unhappy i'm gonna need you to forgive me for how shitty this turned out lmao. i lied when i said it would be my last rewrite and got wasted so i could churn smth out before today. i'm burnt out to all fuck and too tired to fix the medical inaccuracies drunk me did not consider so pls pretend that the femoral artery does not exist and the bleeding is venous otherwise our reader is technically dead and not just passed out💀 this is purely a work of fiction. yandere behaviour in real life is a cause of concern. proofread, unedited.

♡♡♡

It was because you hadn’t seen light in days. Chained up to this wall, waiting like a dog for your angel to come down to you — sensitive eyes, slithers of blinding white around her silhouette looking like a luminous halo. Deaf to her footsteps, blind to the blood on her dress or the stench of it, all you knew was her when she put her hands on you. Learning to treasure it, since it would only be you here grieving every touch you were deprived of when she left.  

“Miserable thing,” fingers smoothing out in your hair turn violent, she tugs, “feel special yet?”

When she chokes you, you do. You think the collar might just cut into your flesh from the force as Cecilia pulls on it. Lips meeting hers, you are whole again with the way her nails dig into your cheek, like she wants to rip the skin right off. Bringing the claim she has on each corner of your soul right to the surface, the sole thing that has become easy for you to understand is that you are ruined for this world.

“Please…” you beg, and you remain unaware of what for. There is something pulsating inside of you, blood beating bones from depths in which a consuming rot grows ugly. Cecilia’s scalpel shows an animal starved, and you recognise that it’s you. The spit and drool come like magic, she wets your dry throat easy with just a few fingers in your mouth — you are hungry. Her knees hit the ground for you, in turn your heart wants to come right up as penance for your unworthiness.

Thin gown bunched up into the crease of your groin, too light to feel any warmth from it — and you are too taken by the coldness of the blade on your thigh to care. Aching for the push, so your body could give way and you could feel the sharpness nestle inside of you, to wrap around something, to bury it in the grave of an open wound. Cecilia keeps a distance your cuffed wrists cannot close, and your desire drips from you with nothing to hide, nor cling to.

Spine lined with explosives, the first graze has the pleasure spark seriatim; the release of pressure you had been neck-deep in brutalises you, and you are delirious on the feel of being ripped apart without the motions. Each score burns. New layers of you are uncovered and exposed to this world and Cecilia wrenches your head down to watch. 

Mouth agape, your drool parts a translucent line over the pooling sangria. “More,” pleading for it, despite how muffled it came out. You want her to rip this chunk of you right off. You want to be between her teeth and down her throat. You want, and it’s butchering. “Deeper,” the tears come with your chest squeezing, come with the choked up moan when her digits bear down on your tongue harder. Your mistake is clear to you the moment you see the wash of those baby blues lock on you, the reverie of bringing the sky down to your prison and the vastness as you lost your mind to it has your breath hitching.

Ringing in your ears dulled to the scattering greys when Cecilia hits you, cheekbone smashing against the wall, sending the vibrations all throughout your skull. Ecstasy takes on the taste of metal. Sure enough, the savage inside of you is unsettled, is not yet satisfied.

“When have I ever let you command me?” Her knife edge twists, makes ribbons of your tissues — makes you writhe deliciously. “Do you think you have a will?”

“No.” The answer needs no contemplation, it has been ingrained in you. “‘M sorry,” your vision spots when you crane your neck, you’ve been putting more and more of your weight into the bricks, your shackles sting. “Was so good I went dumb, ‘m sorry. I won’t do it again,” you sniffle, “p-please…”

Acutely aware of the moment the surgical steel leaves you; biting your lip to suppress your whimper when the air hits. “That’s better,” and you are sure this is a punishment until Cecilia takes your face, “see, you know how to be a good girl, don’t you?”

Something hot floods your guts, you’re nodding before you even have a chance to rub your thighs together — not that you’d be allowed to. Her palm is pressing right to the laceration, she keeps you splayed apart like that, and her nails are mere millimetres away from showing you a supernova. Red tracks streak a trail all the way to your core, the fabric in contact with it is damp, is threading clear strings to a place that’s throbbing with need to be desecrated.

All your nerves fray when she sinks in, and just like that, the ability to latch onto her human caress is wasted on you. Only remembering how to stay agape, how to curl your toes and tear from your bottom lip to hold back your moans. Your walls are sopping for her, they slobber just as much as you do for the euphoria Cecilia imposes into you. Gasping her name, flashes of a world outside you no longer want to return to, legs trembling when her thumb comes up. She plays you so well, makes a mess — makes a masterpiece out of all your misery and mortality alike.

Whispering, “you were my best decision,” — and like a blessing, your undoing lays rest to you. Pink slick and pain, everything becomes sweet in this swarming black. Angels. Her laughter, a hymn. Singing. Heavencall.