#this is NOT a complaint it’s just funny

[inkandapex]

stream madness pt.3

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Lando Norris and his girlfriend, Y/N continue to grace the stream with tooth-achingly sweet moments, often caught on camera. But they’re not immune to some naughty slip-ups, much to Max F's dismay.

Words: 3.9k

Warnings: swearing, suggestive content

part 1 | part 2

Mic On

It was already well into the night, and somehow, Max had convinced Lando to hop on his Twitch stream for a late-night Counter-Strike session. They were in between rounds when the door creaked open, and Y/N walked in.

Lando tugs off one side of his headset the moment he felt her hand rest on his shoulder, tilting his head back to look up at her.

“Oh, hey baby. How was dinner?” he murmured, catching her hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

Y/N smiled, running her fingers through his hair, making his eyes flutter shut for a brief second. “It was good. You’re on stream?”

“Mhmm.” He nodded, completely unbothered, yanking off his headset entirely.

Max’s voice suddenly boomed through the speakers. “Hey Y/N! Chat’s been looking for you.”

Y/N laughed, settling into the empty gaming chair beside Lando. “Sorry, chat. I was out with friends.”

Y/N’s eyes continued to scan the chat, answering a few questions every now and then, completely unaware of the way Lando was staring.

He hadn’t looked away since the moment she walked in. Not once.

Max was still talking, chat was flying, but Lando? Lando was somewhere else entirely.

Y/N finally glanced over, catching his intense gaze. She raised a brow, lips curving into a small smile. “What?”

Her soft voice snapped him out of his trance, but instead of looking flustered, Lando’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. He didn’t answer right away—just leaned in slightly, fingers reaching for his mic.

An attempt to mute himself.

Except—

He missed.

He tugs her chair a little closer, his hand sliding onto her lap as that familiar cheeky smirk plays on his lips.

“I was just thinking… you look really good right now, my love. Do you wanna—”

"MIC ON! MIC ON! YOUR MIC IS STILL ON!"

Max’s panicked scream blasted through the speakers.

Max’s panicked shouts made both of them jump, Y/N spinning her chair away in embarrassment while Lando nearly slid off his own chair from laughing.

Chat was going feral.

Lando, still wheezing, finally managed to get words out. “I just wanted to ask if she wanted to stay on the stream and play with us!”

Max, still skeptical, narrowed his eyes through the screen. “Sure, Lando. Sure.”

Lando shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Get your head out of the gutter, mate. Dirty bastard.”

Y/N, still red-faced, simply sighed. The damage was already done.

"max always having to come to their rescue will never not be funny" "LN was ready to risk it all" "cant blame bob, Y/N looks amazing" "MAX SHOUTING" "Please tell me someone clipped that"

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Fish are friends NOT food

"Baby, please. Your food is touching my food."

Lando’s whiny complaint made both Max and Y/N pause mid-chew, turning to look at him like he’d just announced he was retiring from racing to become a monk.

Max glanced over at Lando’s plate, unimpressed, before shaking his head with a chuckle. "You're unbelievable, mate."

"It's just sushi, Lan" Y/N muttered, barely sparing him a glance as she scrolled through her phone.

"It's fish!" Lando exclaimed, holding up his plate dramatically for the camera, zooming in to prove how his spring rolls were daring to brush against Y/N’s salmon nigiri.

Max snorted. “Grow up, Lando.”

Lando huffed, crossing his arms. "You grow up." He looks over at his girlfriend, pleading eyes "Baby please, I don't even want to touch it"

“Lan…” Y/N sighed in defeat, picking up the piece of sushi he was so dramatically complaining about and popping it into her mouth. “Happy?”

Lando watched in absolute horror, his face scrunching up like he’d just witnessed a crime. He shivered at the mere thought of it. “Don’t know how you can eat that… raw too.”

Y/N smirked, grabbing another piece. She held it up to him. “Try it. Come on.”

“No.”

“I promise you it’s good.”

“And I promise you I’m gonna be sick.” Lando leaned back, holding his arm out like she was trying to feed him actual poison.

Max, watching the whole thing unfold, burst out laughing. “This is the farthest I’ve ever seen Lando be from Y/N while being in the same room as her.”

Chat? Losing it.

"HE’S SO DRAMATIC I CAN’T" "MAX WITH THE LIVE COMMENTARY" "bro is scared of sushi"

“I’ll do a photoshoot for Quadrant merch if you eat one piece.”

Silence.

Both Max and Lando’s heads snapped toward Y/N so fast they could’ve gotten whiplash.

Y/N had denied every single request to model for Quadrant—begged, bribed, guilt-tripped—nothing had worked. Until now.

Max turned to the camera, mouth slightly agape. “Do you guys understand how long we’ve been asking Y/N to model for us? They weren’t even dating yet and we were already trying to convince her.”

Lando’s gaze flickered between the sushi and Y/N, eyes filled with pure despair and conflict.

“Two collections,” he blurted out.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“You have to model for two collections” Lando negotiated, like this was a high-stakes F1 contract and not about eating a single piece of fish.

Max and Y/N exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.

“There you go, chat,” Max said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Now you know we’re working on two new collections, thanks to Lando’s terrible bargaining skills.”

Lando groaned, realizing he had just leaked their upcoming release in real time.

“Fine,” Y/N conceded, “but you have to actually chew and swallow it.”

Lando narrowed his eyes. “AND… you do a shoot with me for LN4 merch too.”

The room fell silent again.

Max watched in amusement as Lando and Y/N locked eyes, neither blinking, waiting to see who would fold first.

Max smirked. “This is the most intense negotiation I’ve ever witnessed, and I’ve seen Alpine and McLaren fight over Oscar Piastri.”

Finally, Y/N held out her hand. “Deal.”

Lando took it, but instead of shaking, he brought it up to his lips and kissed it. “Deal.”

Max exploded. “I can’t believe this is happening. Someone clip this, please, I’m begging—fuck it, I gotta film this.” He fumbled for his phone, nearly knocking over his drink in the process.

Lando let out a deep, dramatic breath, grabbing his water bottle like it was his lifeline.

Y/N’s smile stretched wide, almost devilish, as she slowly inched the piece of sushi closer to Lando’s mouth.

“Open up, cutie,” she cooed.

Lando shot her a look of betrayal, but he had already sealed his fate. With a deep breath, he took the piece into his mouth, chewing at full speed, eyes squeezed shut like he was enduring actual pain.

Max was already cackling.

Lando forced himself to swallow, then dramatically opened his mouth wide to prove it was gone before immediately chugging half his water bottle like his life depended on it.

Y/N and Max? Wheezing.

Max threw his hands up. “And history has been made!”

Still recovering, Lando grabbed a spring roll and took the biggest bite possible, desperately trying to erase the taste of fish from his mouth.

Y/N ruffled his hair, grinning proudly. “Proud of you, my love. I’m telling Carlos about your bravery today.”

Lando nearly choked on his spring roll. “No. You are not.”

"HE TOOK IT LIKE A CHAMP" "Lando vs. Sushi—Sushi wins" "CARLOS NEEDS TO HEAR ABOUT THIS ASAP"

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Australia GP

Max had woken up far too early, but the excitement for the Australia race had him buzzing. He’d set up his stream, ready to deliver some live commentary for his viewers as they watched the race unfold. Max had already talked about Lando's stellar performance from practice and qualifying, and of course, a handful of jabs about Y/N's debut on the big screen.

As the camera cut to Y/N chatting with Cisca, Lando’s mom, during the red flag pause, Max’s eyes lit up.

“Ah, there she is! WAG title stealer!” Max exclaimed, clapping his hands loudly as the broadcast showed Y/N mid-conversation, the words "Lando’s partner" flashing across the screen beneath her name.

The chat exploded with laughing emojis as Max quickly snapped a picture on his phone, an evil smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m sending this straight to Lando. He’s gonna love this. Bro is down bad for her, it's actually sickening”

The race hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. Max was feeling empathetic for all the rookies, as well as Carlos and Fernando, who were all out of the race early, DNFing one by one. But what really sent everyone into a bit of a spiral was when both McLarens went off-track, and then Oscar slid off into the grass.

Max kept going with his commentary, his usual sharp observations now mixed with praise for Oscar’s effort to get his car back on track. He was doing his best to keep it light, but when the camera cut to a replay of the McLaren garage’s reaction, Max couldn’t help himself.

“Oh dear,” Max chuckled softly, eyes glued to the screen. “Look at Y/N. I think she aged 10 years and it’s only race 1 of 24.”

Y/N’s face was a mix of concern and pure stress, tightly holding hands with Cisca as she watched her partner’s car struggle. Her eyes went wide when Oscar’s car slipped, and the pressure was visible on her face.

Max, clearly enjoying himself, added, “Poor Y/N looks like she’s about to start a full-on grey hair collection.”

The chat was absolutely losing it.

"MAX IS SO SAVAGE LMAO" "Y/N'S FACE JUST AGES A DECADE" "she's just like us" "SOMEONE CHECK ON Y/N SHE'S ABOUT TO HAVE A MELTDOWN"

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Swirly Pistachi-OH!

Max and Lando sat side by side, setting up a lobby to play a new game, both of them already gearing up for the chaos that would ensue. The vibe was relaxed, but that quickly shifted when the door opened, and Y/N walked in, looking absolutely fuming.

"Lando! I can't believe you. I've—"

Max immediately reaches over and mutes his mic, the tension in the room rising as both he and Max exchanged brief glances. Y/N didn’t even acknowledge them, her hands waving around, clearly heated about whatever had just happened. Her eyes locked onto Lando,

Lando can be seen reaching out to her, both now in deep conversation while Max sat there like a child caught in the middle of his parents arguing.

Lando can be seen running his hands through his hair, immediately reaching for his phone as she stormed off, clearly done with the argument.

Max, ever the opportunist, unmuted himself with a small sigh. “Alright, so… that argument?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “It was about who ate her ice cream from the freezer”

Lando, still rubbing his temples in frustration, groaned. “Mate, keep your voice down, she has super hearing.”

Max burst into laughter, throwing his head back. “Chat’s probably thinking it’s something serious”

Before Lando could respond, the door slammed open again with a dramatic flair, and there stood Y/N, hands on her hips, eyes practically smoking with fury.

"It was swirly pistachi-oh— Fewtrell, you know how hard it is to get a hold of that!" she snapped, voice sharp as a knife.

Lando pursed his lips, doing his absolute best to hold back his laughter, but it was clear he was about to lose it. He could feel Max trying to hide his grin beside him, but Lando knew the minute Y/N saw him struggling, it was only going to make things worse.

Max, still processing, blinked a few times in disbelief. “Wait, like Lec’s swirly pistachio? Charles Leclerc’s?”

Y/N shot Max a look that could melt steel. “Yes, Max. Charles' ice cream. It sells out so fast around here, it’s like gold. And Lando—” she turned her glare to him, the look of death now firmly in place, “—decided to eat my stash. The whole thing. All of it.”

Lando couldn’t keep it in anymore and burst into laughter, clutching his stomach as the weight of the situation hit him. But the moment he saw Y/N's expression change—eyebrows raised, hands on her hips like she was ready to deliver an epic punishment—his laughter faltered.

Y/N squinted at him like he had just committed war crimes. “Oh, you think this is funny?”

Lando immediately stopped laughing and put his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry, baby, please… Come here.”

But Y/N stood firm, not budging an inch. Her arms stayed crossed, her expression still ice-cold.

Lando’s smile faltered as he stood up to walk towards her. “Come on, my love… I already texted Charles to see if he can get us some more,” he said, doing his best to sound sweet and sincere, though the grin trying to form on his face was absolutely betraying him.

Y/N eyed him suspiciously, her lips pursed in the tightest line. “You texted Charles? Before apologizing to me?”

Lando hesitated, then shrugged sheepishly. “Well, he’s the pistachio supplier, isn’t he? Just trying to get the best deal for us.”

Max, now full-on crying from laughing, added, “You know, I think Charles might just have one last scoop left in his freezer. You’ve got to pull out the big guns, mate.”

Lando pulls her into a tight hug while shooting Max a glare that could only be described as a silent plea for mercy. But as Y/N’s gaze softened slightly, he knew he might just be getting out of this one alive… for now.

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The Accidental Moan

Lando and Max were deep into a heated game of Tarkov, and Y/N walked in, casually leaning against the doorframe, watching the two of them play. She walks over behind Lando’s chair, arms folded as she observed their chaotic gameplay.

Lando glanced up at her, offering a playful grin. “Hi, my love. Wanna grab a chair and join us?”

Y/N smiled, shaking her head, her fingers threading through Lando’s messy curls. “I’m good. Just making food right now. Came to check on you two.”

Max groaned from the other side of the room. “Perfect timing. I’m starving.”

Y/N laughed. “I know, you’ve been playing for hours.”

Lando leaned back in his seat, humming contentedly as she ran her fingers through his hair. “Mmm, that feels nice, baby,” he sighed, half-losing focus on the game as he relaxed into her touch.

Y/N grinned, her fingers still running through his hair. “Your hair’s a bit tangled, you know.”

Max snorted from the other side. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t seen a brush in weeks.”

Lando smirked, keeping his eyes on the screen but clearly enjoying the attention. “I like it like this.”

Y/N laughed lightly, “I’m sure you do.” She leaned down to give him a quick kiss on the top of his head as he leaned into her touch.

“Alright, I gotta go check on the food,” Y/N said, pulling her hands away from his hair. But as she did, something unexpected happened.

Her fingers got caught in the tangles of his curls, and as she moved away, it pulled harshly, making Lando let out a loud, unintentional moan.

Max, mid-game, froze. His eyes widened in shock. “What the fuck was that?!”

Y/N froze too, her face immediately turning a shade of red. She stood there, staring at Lando, unsure how to recover.

Lando, now realizing exactly what just happened, doubled over in laughter, his face bright red. “I swear, it wasn’t what it sounded like,” he managed to say between fits of giggles.

Max, still shocked, looked from Lando to Y/N, his face full of disbelief. “Oh no, it was exactly what it sounded like”

Lando, trying to stop laughing but failing miserably, looked at Y/N. “Oh baby...” He burst into laughter again, shaking his head.

Y/N, standing frozen with her hands still awkwardly in the air, just shook her head, biting back a laugh herself. “I didn’t mean to—” she started but was cut off by Lando’s giggles. "You know what, i'm leaving" Y/N shakes her head as she rushes out of the room

Max and Lando, still laughing at the absurdity of the situation, wiped tears from their eyes. “I can’t—I can’t even focus now,” Max gasped, trying to regain his composure.

Lando, still chuckling, shook his head, attempting to steady himself. “Yeah, alright, I’m good. I’m good.”

They both took deep breaths, trying their best to get back into the game.

Max, still grinning like a Cheshire cat, clicked his tongue and looked at Lando. “So... hair pulling, huh?”

“Shut up, Max.”

"LANDO IS INTO HAIR PULLING" "max's face!" "POOR Y/N" "LANDO CAUGHT ON LIVE AGAIN"

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Make me pretty

Viewers slowly began to fill Max's stream, immediately flooding the chat with comments about the unusual setting. The camera was focused on Lando, who was sitting in a make-up chair, while Y/N stood off to the side, rummaging through a pouch.

Max clapped his hands and grinned. “Alright, chat, welcome!”

Lando flashed a smile and gave a small wave to the camera. “Bit of a different setup today, we managed to rent out a tiny studio for an impromptu shoot,” Max explained.

Y/N returned to stand between Lando’s legs, gently dabbing a make-up sponge on his face.

“Y/N’s the one making sure Lando looks presentable today,” Max added.

Lando tilted his head slightly, looking up at her with a soft smile. “Make me pretty, baby.”

Y/N chuckled, carefully applying concealer. “I can if you'd stop moving so much”

Max stood to the side, watching intently. “Can you make him look like Carlos?”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat, scoffing as she carefully worked on Lando’s face. “I said I can make him look pretty, Max, not like a Spanish model. I’m not God.”

Max choked back a laugh, and Lando’s jaw dropped as he stared at Y/N, utterly bewildered. “Are you saying Carlos looks so good you can’t even make me look remotely like him?”

Y/N shot him a playful smirk as she continued her work. “Took the words right out of my mouth, baby.”

Lando shakes his head, looking at the camera and pointing a finger at it. “My girlfriend, everybody…”

“I’m kidding, Lan, come on!” Y/N laughs, tilting his face back to look at her as she brushes powder onto his face. Lando scrunches up his nose. “That tickles.”

Y/N chuckles at his reaction, planting a quick peck on his nose. “All done. See? Gorgeous.”

Lando looks at himself in the mirror, nodding with satisfaction. “Damn, I look good.”

Y/N stops him from getting up. “I gotta do your hair, baby. Just a little longer.”

Lando glances at the clock and then back at her. “You gotta hurry up a bit, love. Need to do Max’s makeup too, and we both know that’s gonna take you nearly the whole day just to make him look half decent.”

Max, who’s been silently listening to the conversation, suddenly snaps. “Why the fuck am I catching strays? I haven’t said a word in the past five minutes!”

“Max, come on mate, look at you. You look ghastly. You feeling okay lately?” Lando grinned

Max shot him a glare, rolling his eyes. “You look ill, Lando. Have you seen yourself?”

Lando waved him off dramatically. “Seriously, Max. I’m getting worried here. You look like you need a bit more TLC. Maybe a nap... an exorcism?”

Max groaned. “I hate you. You’re so annoying.”

Lando smirked. “You’re annoying.”

Meanwhile, Y/N stood silently with a hairbrush in hand, staring at the camera. Her expression was a mix of exhaustion and quiet desperation, as if she was silently pleading for help from the viewers as the two continued to bicker like an old married couple. “Help me…” she muttered under her breath, eyes still locked on the camera.

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2 Hands

Lando and Max were on their respective twitch streams, playing a rather relaxed game of UNO. It wasn't until Max decided to cheekily check Lando's stream to sneak a peak of his cards.

What surprised him, however, was his friend who had an annoyingly smug smirk on his face, his other hand no where in sight. And his girlfriend, suspisciously sat quietly beside him, wrapped in a blanket.

"You naughty little shit"

Lando’s whole body tenses. Y/N immediately looks away, suddenly very interested in the chat messages scrolling by at the speed of light.

Max’s smirk widens. "Hand check. Right now"

Lando, the master of deflection, tries to laugh it off as he shows his hand that was once set on the mouse. "Mate, what do you mean? My hands are—"

"Nah nah nah, show me both hands. Now!"

The chat goes feral.

"MAX IS ONTO THEM." 🕵️‍♂️"Lando’s sweating LMAO.""Y/N LOOKS GUILTY ASF."

After a long, agonizing pause, Lando finally raises his hands, one noticeably slower than the other. Max absolutely loses it.

"YOU NASTY LITTLE FUCK!" he cackles, pointing accusingly.

"Oh come on Max it was just on her bo—"

"Lando!" Y/N shouts and hides their face in her hoodie, and chat is now 100% convinced they just witnessed history.

Max: 1 | Lando: -100 | Y/N: Applying for Witness Protection

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Sim-sanity

Lando and Y/N glances behind them as Max walks into the room, a couple of bags of food in hand, his face a mix of annoyance and hunger.

"You two should just throw your phones away, I've been trying to call you for an hour" Max grumbles, shaking his head as he drops the bags onto the table.

Y/N smirks, grabbing one of the bags. "Hello to you too, grumpy." She starts pulling out boxes of food, her attention split between Max and the chaos on Lando's screen.

Lando, who’s completely absorbed in his game, glances up just long enough to acknowledge Max. "Oh you're here"

Max eyes the screen, raising an eyebrow. "Oh nice, Y/N, you're finally sharing your Sims with the stream?"

Y/N rolls her eyes but keeps pulling food out of the bag, clearly not impressed. "That's Lando's Sim. I was supposed to play, but he hogged it."

Max laughs as he leans in, squinting at the characters on the screen. "Mate, is that you and Y/N? Hold up, they actually look like you two. It's kinda freaky..."

Lando grins, still not taking his eyes off the game. "Yeah, I found a pre-made version of me and spent hours making Y/N."

Y/N shrugs as she digs into her food, rolling her eyes again. "He wouldn’t even let me play. Spent hours on it and wouldn't let me touch it."

Lando, not missing a beat, taps his mic as if it’s a casual question. "Chat—should we hire a nanny for Livie or should I quit my job and stay home?"

Max freezes. "Who the hell is Livie?"

"Our kid, Max," Lando says, looking at him as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "Keep up."

Y/N looks at Max, nodding seriously. "Yeah, we’ve got two kids now."

Lando, eyes glued to the screen, clicks furiously as he navigates through the Sims world, completely absorbed in his virtual family.

Y/N and Max exchange amused glances, trying not to laugh at how seriously he’s taking the game.

"Kind of concerning how invested he is in this," Max says, his voice low, as he watches Lando’s furrowed brow. "He doesn’t even play VR golf with this much concentration."

Y/N, chuckling under her breath, leans back in her chair, shaking her head. "Oh, Max, no. He’s really invested. Don’t let the quiet fool you—he’s planning their whole life. I'm pretty sure our Sims' kids are more organized than we are."

Lando leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied grin. "Alright, baby, Livie’s grown enough, and Sim me just quit his job. Time to woohoo for our third baby," he says nonchalantly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard as if he’s casually discussing his grocery list.

"You're mental"

[kiwriteswords]

Why I've spent my whole life trying to put it into words [Aaron Hotchner x Best Friend!Reader]

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 5k|| AN: This is inspired by the song You are in love by Taylor Swift...legit...my favorite piece I've written <3 Tags/Warnings: female reader, established relationship, sexual themes, mdni, no smut, but mentions of sex, yearning!Hotch, in love!hotch, best friends, Intimacy, this is INTIMATE, Hotch's POV, Sad!Hotch, Jack Hotchner is mentioned, Haley Hotchner is mentioned, 5+1, alcohol tw, ROMANCE IS NOT DEAD PEOPLE, Reader cannot cook to save her life, free-spirit!reader, reader struggles to open up sometimes Summary: 5 Times Aaron Hotchner realizes you're his best friend + 1 time he tells you.

I. 

The bullpen had long since emptied.

Desks abandoned, lights dimmed. The hum of the vending machines below, the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents—

Those were the only sounds keeping him company now.

Aaron sat in his office, perched over files like they held secrets no one else could see. The rest of the team had told him to go home, told him the case was done. Closed. Wrapped neatly in bureaucratic red tape.

But something still gnawed at him.

Something still didn’t sit right. He didn’t often get this feeling, but when he had an itch, he just had to scratch it.

Obsessively, almost. 

He rubbed at his temple, willing the creeping headache to back off. His eyes burned from staring too long at reports that no longer blurred together but formed patterns he wasn’t convinced were coincidence.

Rossi had chuckled earlier, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, "You're overtired, Aaron. Let it go."

Morgan had shot him a grin, all charm and ease, "Man, you're gonna drive yourself crazy if you keep picking this apart."

Emily, exasperated but fond, had tossed over her shoulder as she left, "Get some sleep, Hotch. You’ve earned it."

He almost believed them. 

Almost.

Until you walked in. Quiet, unassuming—

But so damn steady.

You didn't say much at first. Just nudged open the door with your hip, balancing an entire pot of coffee like it was some peace offering. 

Like you already knew he wouldn’t leave. 

Knew he wouldn’t rest until whatever weight clung to his shoulders shook free.

“I figured,” you said simply, setting the pot down beside his untouched cup. “If you’re going to obsess over this all night, you’ll need caffeine.” Settling in across from him, still in your clothes from the jet. Your blouse slightly wrinkled, “And company.” You smiled

He couldn’t help the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You always knew exactly how to read him—

Without making him feel like a project. 

Like something broken that needed fixing.

You didn’t ask questions or try to talk him down. Instead, you grabbed one of the files strewn across his desk, slid into the chair across from him, and got to work.

He watched for a second longer than he should’ve. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, the soft furrow in your brow as you read, lips parting just slightly when something caught your attention. There was no complaint, no impatience—

Just that quiet, unwavering presence you always seemed to bring.

Time blurred. Reports shuffled between you both, punctuated by the occasional sip of coffee and the rustle of paper. Midnight came and went.

And still, you stayed.

Eventually, Hotch leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. His gaze drifted back to you. You looked up then, catching him mid-thought, eyes curious.

“What’s with the funny look?” you asked lightly, a small smile playing at your lips.

He swallowed.

Shook his head, “Nothing,” he said softly, almost too quickly.

But the truth sat heavy in his chest, undeniable.

Because somewhere between the case files, the stale coffee, and the quiet understanding you offered without asking for anything in return—

It hit him.

You were his best friend.

Not just his partner, not just his girlfriend. 

His person.

The one who stayed. Who understood. Who saw every sharp edge, every obsessive tendency, and chose to be here anyway.

He wondered briefly if it showed on his face—

If you could see how the realization cracked something open in him.

But you just smiled again, tilting your head, and went back to the file without pressing.

That was another reason why.

He exhaled, forcing his eyes back down to the paperwork, but his focus was already elsewhere.

"You're my best friend."

He didn’t say it aloud.

Not yet. 

But the thought lingered—

Settled somewhere deep, where it would stay warm until he was ready.

II.

Saturday mornings had never looked quite like this.

Aaron stood leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, coffee cup in hand, as he watched you work. Or—more accurately—watched you try not to set his kitchen on fire.

You’d insisted. Insisted that after the week they’d all had, you’d cook breakfast. 

Something nice, you promised.

He hadn’t reminded you of that conversation months ago, where you admitted with no shame whatsoever that cooking wasn’t exactly your strength.

You were nothing if not determined.

And now, as he watched from a safe distance, Aaron wondered if it was possible to burn bacon and undercook it at the same time.

The smell of something acrid mixed with the faint scent of coffee as you plated… well, whatever attempt had survived the pan. Eggs scrambled into something that resembled the theme of a Dr. Suess novel. Bacon blackened on the ends, yet suspiciously soft in the middle. And the toast—charred just enough to set off the smoke alarm if you weren’t careful.

Jack, ever the polite little man, sat at the table with his fork poised, eyeing the plate in front of him with the same caution he reserved for vegetables.

You, for your part, plopped down beside him, trying valiantly to act like the mess wasn’t as bad as it looked.

Aaron bit the inside of his cheek, lips twitching, fighting back the laugh threatening to bubble out of him.

You poked at your eggs, then braved a bite—

Only to grimace so subtly he almost missed it.

Jack glanced between you both, unsure whether to risk saying anything.

The silence stretched—

Until you finally gave up, setting your fork down dramatically with a sigh.

“I think I’ve just committed a crime against breakfast,” you muttered, looking at your plate like it personally offended you.

You glanced over at Aaron, catching the barely-contained amusement in his eyes.

“I like it better when you cook anyway,” you added, soft but sweet, as if it were some confession.

That did it.

The laugh escaped before he could stop it. A real, genuine, rare laugh—

Deep, warm, and unguarded. 

He hadn’t even realized how tight his chest felt until it loosened.

Jack blinked at him, then giggled too, relief flashing across his face.

“We should’ve had ice cream,” Jack piped up, earnest as ever. “For breakfast.”

Without missing a beat, you nodded, “You know what, you’re right. We should’ve.”

Aaron shook his head, still smiling, still trying to school his face into something more neutral but failing miserably.

You reached over, ruffling Jack’s hair as he beamed at you, already forgetting about the eggs.

And there it was again—

That look. 

That tightening in his throat. 

That weight in his chest.

He’d known for a long time now that he loved you. That much had settled quietly between you both, something unshakable and steady.

But sitting here, watching you laugh with Jack, watching you fold so seamlessly into the spaces of his life—the messy, imperfect spaces—hit differently. 

Hit harder.

It wasn’t just love.

It wasn’t just partnership.

It was the way you’d become part of his family without ever asking him to be anything other than himself.

It was the way you burned toast and still made Saturday mornings feel lighter.

The way you looked at Jack like he was yours too.

The way you looked at him like all of this—the chaos, the quiet, the sharp edges—was enough.

"You’re my best friend."

The thought lodged somewhere deep, solid and true.

You caught him staring again, gave him a quizzical look, eyebrows raised.

“What?” you asked, playful. “That bad, huh?”

He shook his head, still smiling, voice soft,  “No. Not bad at all.”

You didn’t press. Just gave him one of those grins that could unravel anyone if they let it.

Aaron glanced at the mess of plates, the laughter still hanging in the air, and decided he didn’t care if breakfast had been a disaster.

He had everything he needed right here.

III.

The case had wrapped, mercifully.

Suspect caught. Papers signed. Local PD…satisfied. As satisfied as they can be.

What should’ve been a relief, though, left Aaron gritting his teeth as he loaded into the car.

The jet was down for maintenance.

A mechanical issue, they'd said.

Nothing serious—

But serious enough to leave the team stranded with no choice but to drive back.

Hours on the open road, split between borrowed cars, all scattered in twos.

Rossi had made a crack about how it was probably some cosmic sign they all needed to "slow down and enjoy the journey."

Aaron didn’t find that amusing.

The idea of spending hours locked in a car didn’t exactly relax him. He liked efficiency. Control. Time maximized, not wasted. He would’ve preferred the jet.

But as it turned out, the universe had one mercy left:

You were the one riding with him.

Something about lovebirds sticking together, Derek encouraged. 

At first, the quiet settled easily—

Your presence something familiar and grounding, the way it always was. He focused on the road, tuning into the faint hum of classic rock spilling from the speakers. Something he'd put on more out of habit than anything else.

Five minutes in, he noticed.

The soft, off-key hum coming from the passenger seat.

He flicked his eyes over briefly.

You were singing—

Badly.

And you weren’t trying to hide it, either.

So unapologetically you. The you he loved. 

Adored.

The corners of his mouth threatened to tug upwards.

This wasn’t your kind of music. He knew that. But you’d asked once what he listened to on long drives, and he’d told you. And now here you were, nodding your head to the rhythm, mouthing lyrics. 

He let himself glance at you longer than he should have, the road stretching ahead endlessly.

The way you tapped your fingers against your thigh, how you kept stealing glances at him between verses to see if he was paying attention.

You made the hours not so bad.

Actually—

You made them...good.

His best friend. 

The thought slid in again, unbidden, familiar now. 

His grip on the steering wheel loosened slightly.

Hours passed. Conversation came easy with you—

Quiet stretches filled with comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional sarcastic quip or comment that had him biting back a smile.

Eventually, at some point well into the drive, you insisted they switch. He pulled off at a rest stop without much argument, trusting you with the wheel.

For a while, he buried himself in a case file, pen scratching, his brows knit as the miles slipped by. 

Until something small tugged at his attention.

The GPS.

You weren’t following it.

He glanced up. Frowned slightly.

“Where are you going?” he asked, tone calm but curious, almost suspicious.

You shot him a grin, eyes fixed on the road, “Trust me.”

Those two words.

They had more weight than you probably knew.

Aaron almost replied, almost protested—

Until he saw you slow, flicking on your blinker, pulling into a near-empty parking lot.

His frown deepened.

The ocean stretched out just beyond the sand dunes, gray and shimmering under a setting sun. The air still held that early spring bite, not warm enough to be here, not really. The waves looked brutal, frothy, cold.

You parked, throwing the car into park before looking at him expectantly.

“Come on,” you said, already reaching for the door handle.

He blinked,  “Are you serious?”

You didn’t answer. Just slipped out of the car like it was the most natural thing in the world, gravel crunching under your feet. He watched, momentarily stunned, as you kicked off your shoes without hesitation and darted toward the sand.

It took him longer to move.

You were already down the slope, the wind catching your hair, your jacket flapping behind you. You ran—

Ran like no one was watching.

Spinning in lazy circles, arms stretched wide, laughing at nothing at all.

The sky was streaked in pinks and blues, the sun kissing the edge of the horizon.

And there you were.

So carefree, so alive—

As if the week you’d just had hadn’t happened at all.

Aaron swallowed thickly, pulse strange in his ears.

You looked like something he’d forgotten he could want.

Youthful. Joyful. Unburdened.

How the hell did you always know?

Finally, he shoved open the door, hands in his pockets as he made his way toward you.

You caught sight of him as you turned—grinned—and without warning, ran straight back, crashing into him like a force of nature. A ball of warmth and energy, breathless and glowing.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

You looked up at him, wind whipping strands of hair across your face.

“So I’ve been told.”

And before he could offer some other dry remark, you leaned up and kissed him—

Quick but firm, like it was the only logical response.

It was. 

He felt himself smile against your lips despite the cold. Despite everything.

I love you, you’re my best friend. 

The words echoed loud in his chest, clearer than ever before.

You had dragged him out of his head, out of the grind and exhaustion, into this moment. A simple, ridiculous detour—

But perfect in its absurdity.

He held you a little tighter, burying his nose in your hair, breathing you in.

Yeah.

You knew exactly what he needed.

You always did.

IV.

You didn’t fight often.

Rarely, in fact.

It wasn’t necessary.

You understood him—

Almost unnervingly well. 

The rhythms, the silences, the unspoken things he kept close to his chest. You moved alongside him like you'd been doing it your whole life, sidestepping the need for arguments before they ever gained traction.

Which made it all the worse when it happened.

He could still hear the edge in his own voice, the sharpness he never liked to use with you. It had started small. A briefing after a long case. You’d been quiet—too quiet—until finally you told him.

The Bureau had offered you a temporary undercover role.

A weekend. One week, tops.

A specialized operation, short turnaround.

You were perfectly qualified. More than capable. He knew that. Respected it.

And still—

He’d felt something ugly twist inside.

It wasn’t rational.

It wasn’t professional.

It was personal.

But instead of telling you that, instead of stripping down the mask of pride and control he always wore, he’d deflected. Asked if you were sure. If it was worth it. If you understood the risk—questions he had no business asking, because you knew damn well what you were doing.

You bickered—

Circling each other in familiar patterns, but the undercurrent felt different this time. 

Tense. 

Frustrated.

He wanted to tell you not to go.

He wanted to tell you he couldn’t stand the idea of you gone, out there without him, without knowing if you’d be safe.

But what came out instead was clipped remarks, deflections.

And pride. Always pride.

He'd watched as your expression shifted—tired, maybe even a little hurt—but resolute. You were going.

You had to.

And he couldn’t blame you. Wouldn’t.

Not when he respected the hell out of who you were and what you were capable of.

But God, he’d looked at you then. Looked at you with something you didn’t seem to recognize.

That look.

The one he’d caught himself giving you before.

The one you hadn’t figured out yet.

I love you. You're my best friend.

He hadn't said it.

Couldn't.

Thought it juvenile, silly. 

What grown man confessed something like that out loud?

So he let the argument fizzle, let you walk away to pack, and found himself alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him some clarity.

It didn’t.

The bed felt empty without you.

The space beside him cold, unfamiliar.

He tossed. Turned. Listened to the muffled sounds of traffic outside, wondering where you were at that exact moment—

What role you’d slipped into, how you were carrying yourself, who was around to watch your back.

He didn’t like feeling powerless.

Didn’t like this ache in his chest that he couldn’t quiet, no matter how many case files he’d tried to bury himself in earlier.

And the longer he laid there, sleepless and restless, the more one thought threaded itself deeper:

You’re my best friend.

He couldn’t shake it.

He thought about Haley, briefly.

How much he’d loved her. His wife. Jack’s mother. High school sweetheart. First…everything, pretty much. 

But it wasn’t the same.

This—you—felt different.

With you, he never had to stop being himself.

You never asked him to shrink or soften the sharp edges. Never expected him to be anything other than exactly who he was.

You laughed at his dry, quiet humor—

The kind that others barely caught.

Matched it sometimes, firing back quips that no one else would dare say but always made him bite back a smirk.

You knew his next move before he did.

 Knew the reasons behind the things he didn’t verbalize.

And you let him be.

You got him.

He wondered, lying there, when exactly you’d become his person.

Wondered if he’d ever really had a best friend before you.

The age difference between his brother and him. The forced parentified self he became around his brother, never allowed room for friendship. 

Sure, in passing there were coworkers he trusted--relied on--the job pretty much called for it. But he’s not sure he’d consider Derek Morgan his best friend. He’s not sure he could call up a former body from his prosecutor days and expect them to put the type of smile you put on his face. 

It was so much more than just love, romance, and companionship with you. He’s pretty sure he will spend the rest of his life trying to put into words what it is you do to him. For him. 

His best friend. 

It felt childish, stupid even, to think of it in those terms.

But there it was.

 Simple.

True.

You were the one he wanted to tell everything to.

The one whose absence left something hollow in his chest.

The one he loved.

The one who knew him.

His best friend.

And somehow, that realization cut deeper than any argument ever could.

V. 

He hadn't expected moving boxes and takeout containers to feel this monumental.

It was simple, really. Tiring. The kind of day that usually left him cranky and sore, mind already drifting to paperwork or tomorrow's responsibilities.

But tonight?

Tonight was different.

Your things were here now—

Intermingled with his. Coats hanging beside his in the closet. Your books tucked beside his on the shelves. Your toothbrush next to his in the bathroom, like it had always belonged there.

Aaron sat slouched on the living room couch, one arm lazily draped across the back, the other holding the nearly empty wine glass he’d been nursing. You were curled beside him, legs tangled with his, eyes heavy-lidded but bright. The bottle and a half of wine you’d worked through sat forgotten on the table next to the half-eaten boxes of Chinese food, now cold.

Jack had fallen asleep easily hours ago, his laughter still lingering faint in the air. Like the whole apartment felt lighter just from the two of you being here, together, as if something had finally clicked into place.

The music played low, some soft jazz station crackling through the speakers.

Neither of you said much for a while. Just occasional glances. The gentle brush of your foot against his calf. Comfortable silence.

Until you broke it, voice soft and a little slurred at the edges.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

He quirked a brow, glancing over at you,  “Haven’t we covered all the bases?”

You smiled, lazy and loose, shaking your head, “Humor me.”

So you traded stories—

Small things at first. 

Embarrassing childhood memories. Weird quirks. The first concert you ever went to. He laughed at that, genuinely, the wine and exhaustion making it easier to let go.

And then you asked.

“What’s your biggest fear, Aaron?”

The question knocked something loose in his chest.

He blinked, caught off guard, searching your face.

You watched him carefully, but there was no pressure there. Just curiosity. Openness.

He hesitated. Briefly. 

And you caught it.

You shifted, sitting up just slightly, balancing your wine glass on the armrest. There was something in your eyes now—

Not just the buzz of the alcohol, but that same steady, fearless look you had walking into danger. 

Brave. Direct.

You licked your lips, almost nervous, but not backing down,  “I’ll go first,” you said, voice quieter now.

He didn’t interrupt, letting you have the space.

You took a breath.

“My biggest fear is losing you.” Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the floor, “or Jack.”

You laughed under your breath—wet, almost self-deprecating—but when you looked back at him, your gaze was raw.

“I’ve never had this before,” you continued, voice cracking just slightly. “Never had…someone who sees me. All of me. Good, bad, messy. And it scares the hell out of me how much I don’t want to lose it.”

His throat felt tight, the words catching somewhere. It wasn’t the wine making him feel choked up—

It was you.

The sheer honesty of it. The fact that even after all this time, you still managed to surprise him.

He set his glass down carefully, reaching over to catch your hand, fingers threading through yours.

“It’s the same,” he admitted, voice low. Rough. He swallowed, “losing you. Losing this. I never—” He paused, trying to find the right words, the ones sitting heavy in his chest. “I never want to lose you. And I’ll do everything I can to keep you. To keep both of you.”

You smiled softly at him, eyes glassy from the wine, the flush on your cheeks making you look impossibly angelic, impossibly his.

“You’re stuck with me now,” you teased, voice playful but laced with something tender. Then, almost mischievously, you added, “You know…you’re kind of my favorite person.”

He huffed a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head, but the weight of it—

God, it hit him hard.

You leaned in without hesitation, lips finding his, and the kiss tasted like fruit and something deeper.

Something permanent.

It wasn’t hurried.

It wasn’t messy.

It was moving.

All the weight of the day, the exhaustion, the vulnerability, poured into it.

When you finally pulled back, breath warm against his cheek, he stayed still—

Eyes opening slowly, wanting to just look at you.

Soak you in forever. And even after that. Even after forever ended, he’s sure he’d still want more. 

You smiled, lazy and soft, and asked, “What’s that look for?”

He almost told you.

Almost let the words slip—

The ones he’d been feeling for months now, lodged deep in his chest every time you smiled at him, every time you laughed with Jack, every time you made his world feel brighter without even trying.

My best friend.

But instead, he shook his head faintly, voice quiet. 

“I’m just thinking about you.”

You grinned, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, before pulling back, eyes glinting mischievously despite the wine haze.

“Well…” you murmured, voice dipping lower, lips brushing against his ear. “Now that we live together…want to go try out the bed properly?”

His breath caught.

Yeah.

He liked that idea.

Very much.

+1

The bedroom was dark, save for the faint orange glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. The occasional sound of a car passing below, the whisper of tree branches rustling against the windowpane—

Small things grounding him in the moment.

Aaron lay still, one arm wrapped tightly around you, the sheets tangled somewhere near his waist. Your head rested against his chest, breath steady, soft against his skin. The warmth of your body pressed close, leg draped lazily over his, completely relaxed in sleep.

It should’ve been easy for him to follow you there.

Sleep usually came fast after nights like this—

Hours spent wrapped up in you, nothing held back, every piece of himself laid bare.

But tonight…

He couldn’t.

Not when it felt like something inside him might split wide open.

Because he had never had this before.

Not like this.

He stared up at the ceiling, his fingers trailing absently along the curve of your back, and let the thoughts come.

You.

God, you.

These days, that’s what lived in his brain rent free. 

You’d slipped into his life like you’d always been meant to be there, like some force had been quietly working all along to bring you to him when he needed you most.

He never imagined things could line up this perfectly.

Never imagined that after everything—loss after loss, disappointment after disappointment—something so good, so magnetic, would land right in front of him.

Aligning everything. 

And stay.

You saw him.

You understood him in ways that no one else ever had. You didn’t flinch at the sharp edges, didn’t ask him to be softer or less guarded. You laughed at his dry, humorless jokes. Knew when to challenge him, when to let him be.

And the longer he lay there, the more it hit him:

You made him better.

Not by changing him.

But by showing him how to be—

How to trust, how to let himself breathe, how to love without the weight of past mistakes crushing him.

He swallowed, feeling it heavy in his chest.

You were his best friend.

His person.

His love.

The words sat so close to the surface he could hardly contain them.

And as if you sensed it, felt him turning them over in the dark, you shifted slightly against him—

Your hand tightening faintly on his chest, head nuzzling into his neck.

Your voice came out low, rough with sleep, but soft, “Aaron…why are you awake?”

He looked down, catching the faint outline of your face in the shadows.

The way you smiled at him—

Groggy, tender, like he was something precious.

That look.

The same one you always gave him when you caught him staring, trying to memorize this exact feeling.

He brushed his hand up to your cheek, thumb tracing along your temple.

For once, he didn’t hesitate.

“I was just thinking,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. 

You hummed softly in question, eyes still half-lidded, waiting.

He swallowed.

Felt the words lodge in his throat, thick and almost too big to say—but needing to be said all the same.

“You’re my best friend,” he finally said, voice low and sure. His hand cradled your face gently, as if he needed you to feel the weight of it.

You blinked at him, surprised, brow furrowed slightly like you didn’t quite understand what he meant—

Why it sounded so much more significant than it seemed.

He continued, his voice quieter but unwavering, “I love you. You know that. But it’s more than that.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I’ve never met anyone who made me want to tell them everything. Who I wanted to know me—all of me. And you…you do. You know me. You handle me better than I know how to handle myself sometimes.”

You stared at him, eyes glassy, lips parted faintly, breath catching as he went on.

“I want to know everything about you. Every story, every thought you’ve never told anyone.” He swallowed, pulling you a little closer. “I never want to stop.”

There was something shining in your eyes now, even in the dim light. Something soft and stunned, but glowing.

“You make me a better person,” he whispered finally, voice almost breaking. “You’re my best friend.”

For a moment, the silence stretched—

Nothing but the sound of your breaths mingling in the dark.

Then you smiled.

So big, so full of something unspoken, eyes glassy but sure.

You leaned up, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was equal parts gentle and fierce. Like you wanted to pour all the words you couldn’t form right now into him.

When you pulled back, you gave him a lazy, flirtatious grin despite the emotion lingering behind it.

“Well…” your voice was thick, teasing but tender, “...how about we make use of that bed again, now that we’re a couple who shares absolutely everything?”

He laughed softly—really laughed—and let himself kiss you like he was holding the whole world in his hands.

Because maybe he was.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy

[rwjverse]

Anyone else feel like this was a teeny weeny bit rushed? Maybe I'm just nitpicky. But it's not really a big complaint.

I love both dc and sonic this is super cool I just felt like this was a bit too much just to start off with. It feels quite forced and like they're trying too hard to appeal to the fans. Yes batman and shadow are very similar but it feels very shoved in your face.

This is only the 1st issue soo. It feels quite fanservice-y. Like guys look this is what you wanted right? And from the looks of it , it worked. Most people are pretty hyped about the trauma sharing. But I find it very odd and rushed.

But i suppose its funny too, how batman js instantly knows and goes hes js like me fr and they start trauma dumping.

Other than that it's peak though

[ddlydevotion]

obsessive! Rick Hatchett x fem reader hcs ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

currently listening to: Blue Velvet by Lana Del Rey

warning: nsfw content ahead

- Rick is a man who is described to have a chip on his shoulder. He grew up incredibly angry at the circumstances he was born into, and his anger lead to him running from his life for so long. His bitterness stems from the fact that he never got the opportunity to know his father, but when you come around, his flaring anger tends to simmer down.

- Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a hot-head even after the two of you get together but you manage to calm him down at times. It took him quite awhile to open up to you about his past, but when he does, your fate is sealed. He’s never going to let you go, I mean how could he?

- he doesn’t seem like the type to completely isolate you from your friends and family, but he’ll make snide comments about them. Y’know that moment in episode 2 where Chelsea is telling Rick about the friend she made and then he proceeds to call the girl a hooker? That’s basically his attitude towards most of your friends.

- if one of your friends/family members ends up doing something that upsets you, he’ll comfort you the entire time while saying:

“I knew they were bad news.”

“I know, I know, baby. I tried to tell you.”

- he is stubborn. If he doesn’t want you to go somewhere by yourself, then you’ll feel better just listening to him because he’s not gonna change his mind. In his head, he’s doing this for your own good. He knows what’s best for you.

- He’ll do everything in his power to have you stay back at the White Lotus when he heads off to Bangkok. You worry endlessly and he knows it, so he’ll take it upon himself to call & text you regularly. He’s much more worried about leaving you all on your own, though. If you even try to go with him he’ll quite literally lock you in your shared room.

- you get so shy when he looks at you because it’s almost as if he’s looking right through your soul. Anyone could tell how infatuated he is with you just by the way he looks at you. You often find yourself looking down to escape his intense gaze, but he immediately places his hand on your chin to make you face him.

“C’mon, you can look at me, sweetheart. I’m not gonna bite’cha.”

- He tags along to do things that you enjoy because he’s obsessed with being around you. That doesn’t stop him from making little comments, though.

- you know him incredibly well at this point and you can’t help but smile at his small complaints. You don’t take any offense to it, if anything, you find it funny.

- Has a tendency to get a bit touchy when he leans in for a kiss. First, he’s leaning in to kiss you, and the very next second he’s placing you on his lap before needily sucking on your sensitive nipples.

- sucking on your tits is one of his favorite things to do during foreplay + while he’s balls deep inside of you. He’ll toy with your clit achingly slow as he suckles on your tits, smiling against you when he hears you whine in frustration at his slow pace.

- it’s very common for the two of you to go on trips together.

- he smokes a lot less weed now that he’s met you. The entire reason as to why he even started was to slow his thoughts down. But, now he has you and there’s no need for a pesky little plant now.

A/n: requests are always open 💌🐻.

[the-official-news]

i want some propaganda against cnn because that should be funny

Propaganda against CNN? Don't mind if I do....

Breaking News!

CNN is an utter fool!

This is just in! Today at 1:15pm, an anonymous report came in revealing that the not so well known or well respected @the-even-officialer-news has been reported to be a really bad news network, repeatedly committing tax fraud, spreading false rumours, and writing shockingly poor news reports to slander perfectly respectable members of the public!

CNN is also currently wanted by the police on charges of assault and battery involving whacking people with trouts and causing numerous injuries to other news networks, myself included.

*Shuffles papers confusedly*

It has also come to the attention of the viewers that CNN... uh.. can't ride a bicycle or something- has an awful sense of fashion... And talks far too loudly?

Wait- no, that's a list of complaints about me...

Anyway!

More updates coming live on BBC News Network.

[shopwitchvamp]

I'm sorry to report that Xena season 2 is really not treating me as well as season 1. I hear season 3 is the best tho, so I will soldier on. Spoiler-filled whining under the cut

General season 2 complaints:

-I hate Joxer, lol. Gross annoying Xander-esque character. I feel similarly about them both that their "comic relief" isn't funny and their respective shows would be more enjoyable without them around at all. Maybe he'll improve later, who knows.. Not hopeful tho. -There's already been some "let's rehash a previous episode and not really have this new one add much of anything" (ie: season 1- the lookalike princess/xena swap episode. season 2- let's do that again but also there's a third lookalike) -The whole thing where Gabrielle accepted her hometown guy's proposal, got married, got busy, and then he was instantly killed all in about the span of 8 minutes. (it happened so fast that at first I thought the wedding was surely a bad dream Xena was having) -The vampire episode ??? what kinda Bacchus was that? why were "dryads" flying skeleton zombie things?? why did the vampire ladies explode if they hit a wall or the ceiling or whatever. This one was at least mostly enjoyably not good though, haha. -The "I wish I was never born (into being the warrior princess)" "oh wait it's all worse this way! turn it back!" episode. just a frustrating and awful trope that i hate -Christmas episode... I watched half last night and got so bored that I went to bed. Getting through the rest of it tonight was like pulling teeth and I kinda wish I just skipped it (this is what put me over the edge just now to make this post) Well, hopefully things turn around for me soon.. Wish me luck. I'm sad 'cause I really liked the first season, but so far I only maybe half like the second season ;[ Edit: went to the next episode and it's indiana jones now. why is this happeningggg i'm groaning and suffering

[tenderwatches]

summary: jayce is a lush!!! it's a party!!

Viktor’s right knee had started protesting long ago from an extensive time standing on the polished marble floors, and he’s counting the minutes until it becomes acceptable for him to make his excuses and leave. Two hours. Jayce promised they would only endure two hours of this, but of course the time had dragged on painfully. That this grand ballroom has barely a place to sit aside from the formal dining tables and a few scant benches doesn’t help in the least.

He’s never made a habit of going to these lofty events for this precise reason, amongst others, but he’s landed himself in the great misfortune of having to stall one of the most powerful merchant clans’ pet projects. At least the columns (non-load-bearing, he notes) offer something to lean against, though doing so marks him as potentially weak in a pool full of predators.

“Viktor, it’s… wonderful to see you back.”

Boswell Holloran’s saccharine greeting has Viktor clenching his jaw, a muscle twitching near his temple. There are few things Viktor finds more distasteful than blatantly lying through one’s teeth. He does his best to tame his disgust into a thin-lipped smile, fingers cold as they grip the handle of his crutch. “How kind of you to say.”

Holloran waddles closer and leans in as if sharing a tantalising secret. “Though I confess, it’s surprising to see you here. Thought they’d keep you more… contained to the lab.”

The implication lands with less impact than Holloran intends—it isn’t as though allowing Viktor to stay in the lab hasn’t always been their plan. Jayce is their public face, their silken words, their fingers rolling golden hexes across his knuckles. He’s the smile that has captured a thousand hearts, the confidence that has opened an equal number of wallets.

“The Council expressed a desire for both of us to be here tonight.” Unfortunately, their lack of progress on the synthetic hex crystals over the past few months has earned them enough ire that the council members mandated they both appear in order to make amends. Jayce is currently engaged in one such unpleasant effort with Councillor Salo, and this is Viktor making himself available to share technical details with anyone who feigns interest. “I’m happy to oblige.” He doesn’t bother trying to sound happy.

A guffaw bursts from Holloran as he straightens up, grinning as if one of them has told a horribly funny joke. “Just as well they keep you away from any testing!”

Viktor blinks and disguises his curse as a cough. He’s had his suspicions that the nature of the ethics complaint and its delayed reversal have made their way around Piltover’s circles, but he hadn’t expected someone to make a snide reference to it at what should have been the Clan Ferros’s production opening celebration. Of course, without a viable means of stabilising and using the synthetic hex crystals, there’s not yet a need to open a facility, so the celebration has turned into something closer to a series of gladiator fights between guests who trade underhanded comments whilst trying to wheedle useful information out of their opponents.

“Viktor!”

Who at this hellish, forsaken event—

Viktor turns to see Caitlyn Kiramman with a hand in the air for his attention as she fixes him and his companion in her direct path. She approaches with such speed he’s not yet managed to collect himself enough to return her greeting, though it’s not needed. She swiftly loops her arm in his, addresses Boswell Holloran, makes their excuses in the same breath, and half-drags him to the refuge of a bench next to a large, leafy plant. “Sorry to be so forward,” she gasps, releasing him to allow him to sit. She takes the seat next to him with a sheepish smile.

“It’s alright,” he responds with a wave of dismissal. “I can appreciate a finely executed rescue for what it is.” As far as Piltover’s elite go, Caitlyn Kiramman is… redeemable. Jayce has always said she has a good heart, and Viktor recognises she has an earnest compassion that she deploys heedless of a person’s background. It reminds him of Jayce.

She cracks a grin and scans the room until her eyes land on their mutual friend, who is now trapped with Camille Ferros in addition to Salo. Caitlyn breathes a short sigh of either relief at their escape or pained sympathy at Jayce’s predicament. Maybe it’s both. “I’d try for him, too, but…” She shrugs. Their flight from Holloran has brought them nearer to Jayce, and Viktor can just make out the warm tones of his former partner’s voice if he listens for it. He concentrates on Caitlyn instead. “And Jayce can handle himself,” she continues. “You know he threw Holloran into a champagne tower last year? Or was it the year before that—”

Viktor chokes on a cough. “He what?”

“Oh, he didn’t—of course, right. He didn’t tell you.” The young woman has enough self-awareness to look a bit cowed at having let this slip, but her chagrin soon loses to her amusement. “Well, he did.”

They sit stock still for a second before making eye contact. Then, Viktor chokes again, but this time, it’s because he’s laughing. “What reason did he have to do that?”

Her smile lingers as she shifts her weight forward, heels of her palms against the edge of the bench. “I didn’t ask. I was too busy hauling him upstairs to keep Mother from making a scene in the middle of everything.” Her blue eyes sparkle at the memory. “Anyways. Didn’t think we needed to repeat that, so.” She makes a vague gesture in Viktor’s direction.

“I see.” Truthfully, he doesn’t. He makes a mental note to ask Jayce about this champagne tower incident later.

They sit for a little while, Caitlyn surveying the crowd and Viktor catching his breath before she muses, “Camille Ferros looks like a sort of… beautiful… piranha.”

His expression turns to one of cautious curiosity. No one makes any indication of having overheard Caitlyn Kiramman compare the primary intelligencer of Clan Ferros to a fish—a predator, but a fish nonetheless.

“Actually a very apt description.”

Camille is the subject of many an Undercity child’s nightmares, with her blades for legs and a smile sharpened by cutting throats. “Miss Kiramman,” he starts, sparing a glance towards Jayce and his company again before he’s satisfied they haven’t even noticed him and Caitlyn sitting metres away. “Has Jayce mentioned anything about…” He pauses to consider his phrasing, “the Undercity to you?”

She catches his caution belying a secondary meaning, and her wary expression mirrors his own. “We talked a little when he came by the other day. Why?”

“Oh, we thought you might have heard about the Ferros Clan’s latest… venture.” Viktor holds her gaze, unblinking. “Innovative group. Shame we could not crack their crystals for tonight.” She gives the smallest nod. He appreciates her grasp of subtlety, especially with the subject of discussion so close at hand. “We’ve made progress, though, should you like to come by the lab.”

“I would like that.” Caitlyn’s smile turns sharp. “Though I imagine my duties might keep me… otherwise occupied in the coming weeks.” She stands, smoothing her dress with practiced grace. “I should see if my mother has arrived, but can I get you a drink before I go? You look like you could use one.”

Viktor almost turns her down—alcohol dulls the mind, and he needs his wits about him tonight. His leg, however, throbs in time with his pulse, and even this brief rest has only shifted the pain from his back to his hip. The rest of the evening stretches endlessly before him, even with Jayce’s promise of an early departure. It’s uncertain how quickly Jayce will be able to disentangle himself from his company. Mel Medarda now approaches Jayce’s group, parting the crowd with effortless grace. “Something light,” he concedes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Thank you.”

Viktor spots Boswell Holloran looking their way again as Caitlyn departs, and the thought that they’ve managed to somehow retain his attention makes him especially weary. Viktor closes his eyes for what feels like the briefest of seconds before Caitlyn returns. “I asked them for a spritzer,” she says, pressing a lime-garnished glass into his hand. “But it’s always nice to have something in hand at these things.”

Her thoughtfulness catches him off-guard. He accepts the glass with a grateful nod, and the sip he takes from it proves refreshing. He’s quite parched, he realises then. It takes some self-control to not drink the whole thing down like water. “Thank you.”

She nods, her voice light but serious as she responds, “Try not to throw anyone into any champagne towers tonight—and do be careful with your… research.”

He gives her a quiet smile, and she touches his shoulder with an encouraging hand—a gesture so reminiscent of Jayce that Viktor takes another drink to dull the recognition. He’s wary of how easily he spots these traces of Jayce, how it might lead him to misplace his trust again. But given the delicate situation, there are worse allies than Caitlyn Kiramman and her Undercity ties.

The enforcer weaves through the crowd, pausing only to exchange pleasantries with exactly the right people before she disappears through a side door. Her exit goes especially unremarked, given her standing. Well played.

Viktor settles back against the wall, wincing as he shifts his weight into a position that allows him to observe both Jayce’s ongoing political theatre and the rest of the room’s carefully orchestrated chaos. The ballroom itself is a study in Piltovan excess, crystal chandeliers catching light like captured stars, its occupants dressed in clothes worth more than he might have made in a year in the Undercity.

The thought sours him, not for want of money, but because his living would have been a good one, which says more than enough about the state of the fissure folk. Maybe it’s this mood that allows him to vanish into the environment, worth no more note than the potted plant beside him. He’s grateful for the release.

After a while of nursing his drink and watching the societal battlefield before him shift and evolve, he turns his attention, once more, to his former partner. Through the crowd’s shifting currents, he catches fragments of Jayce’s careful deflections. The scientist-socialite has mastered this dance over the years—a self-deprecating laugh here, a strategic compliment there, always steering the conversation just shy of actual commitments.

“Councillor Salo raises an excellent point about production timelines,” Jayce is saying, somehow making his worried frown appear thoughtful instead. “Though of course, rushing the stabilisation process could have… unfortunate consequences.”

There’s a telling sound of metal on tile as Camille Ferros takes two steps closer. “Unfortunate for whom, exactly?”

“For everyone involved in production, naturally.” Jayce’s smile doesn’t waver. It’s a good thing Camille is wearing a long dress, or the sight of lethal blades might not make his confidence so easy. “The safety of Piltover’s workers must be our primary concern.”

Viktor recognises Jayce’s use of ‘Piltover’s workers’, despite their suspicions of a Ferros plant in the Undercity. Not only does the phrase make it appear Jayce is none the wiser to Clan Ferros’s movements, it serves as an understated reminder the citizens of the Undercity are still, technically, Piltovan. It’s clever. Of the two of them, Jayce has always been better at this game of doublespeak and sleight of hand.

But Viktor can see the subtle tells of Jayce’s growing frustration: his toothy smile, the slight bounce in his stance that speaks to his barely contained restless energy, and the way he keeps accepting drinks. Councillor Medarda has successfully joined the fray now, and Viktor is unexpectedly relieved to see her at Jayce’s side. The careful distance he observed between them when he saw them last remains. Yet even the way she positions herself, slightly behind Jayce but angled to catch his eye, speaks to years of practiced influence. When she touches Jayce’s arm, it’s a calculated gesture that reminds everyone of what she and Jayce accomplished together, changing the paradigm around the use of magic so he and Jayce could realise their Hextech dreams.

She was instrumental in their early days, spearheading the cultural shift that had Piltover embracing Hextech when the city had originally been founded as a refuge from the Rune Wars. As useful and profitable as Hextech is, Viktor doubts that it would have amassed the monumental support it had so quickly if it weren’t for her.

Mel catches Viktor assessing them from across the room. When their eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. He’s never been intimidated by Mel Medarda, which, he imagines, has frustrated her in the past. Now, something akin to recognition passes between them. Understanding. She carries a certain precarious weight; he’s seen it before in others who have needed to craft themselves into instruments that both persuade and maim.

The two of them are outsiders in Piltover. For him, topside eyes fail to see anything other than a leech affixed to Jayce’s coattails. And despite her wealth, the power, and the influence she’s cultivated, they will never accept that she truly has the city’s best interests at heart. She turns back to the conversation, deftly steering it to a close with such skill that Councillor Salo almost kisses Jayce’s hand in addition to hers when they part.

Mel has always been artful in her approach, all warm smiles exuding confidence, guiding movements like an orchestral conductor. All the while, everyone leaves satisfied, feeling they’ve drawn their own conclusions. She is weakened by neither pride nor ego to tell them otherwise. Now that he has distance from her attempts to use her skills on him, he has to respect her prowess.

Viktor watches as the small group disperses, Mel and Jayce heading towards him with her hand light but firm at Jayce’s elbow. She navigates the crowd with a practiced ease that betrays nothing, and it’s not until she releases his arm upon arrival that Viktor notices Jayce swaying slightly as he beams down at him.

“I believe this belongs to you,” Mel says in lieu of a greeting.

Viktor arches an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware he belonged to anyone.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” she counters with a light air that reveals her fondness, even under the exasperation in her voice. “Someone needs to see him home safely.”

“I’m right here,” Jayce protests, though he’s already leaning slightly towards Viktor on the bench. “And perfectly capable of—”

“Of course you are,” Mel interrupts, smiling as she takes Jayce’s hand. “And I’m sure Viktor agrees you’re very capable. But let him help you, for a change, hm?” She meets Viktor’s eyes; her statement stings like a barb and yet feels like a hand offered in solidarity. She bids them farewell, and Viktor watches her go, mulling over the oddity of being approached tonight by the only other two people he would consider Jayce close to.

When he turns back, Jayce has claimed the space Caitlyn once occupied, close enough that Viktor can feel heat radiating from him. His cheeks are flushed, pupils dark save for a thin ring of gold and the reflection of crystalline starlight.

“I’m so sorry,” Jayce says in a rush, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to leave you—”

“I know. You were very soundly swept away,” Viktor excuses, finishing his drink and handing it off to a passing attendant. “Besides, it gave me the opportunity to speak to Miss Kiramman.”

Jayce lights up at the mention. “Oh, good—you saw her. I meant to say ‘hi’, where’d she go?”

“She had things to take care of, I believe.” Viktor leans forward, testing his grip against his crutch. He hates these slick floors; getting up without slipping on them is always a tenuous affair. He pauses when Jayce’s large hand enters his periphery. “I can—” he starts to object, but Jayce’s unguarded expression, so close to pleading, pulls a reluctant sigh of assent from him. “Fine. Thank you.” He takes the offered hand in his free one, allowing the man to brace his other side as he rises.

Once he’s standing, Jayce seems uncertain of what to do. Viktor recalls Mel’s hand at his elbow, a subtle, steadying force. With an experimental hesitance, he offers a crooked arm to his former partner. Relief washes over the man’s face as he takes the cue, and together, they make their way from the room under the impression that, once again, Jayce Talis has to mind his feeble lab partner instead of continuing to dance the waltz of councillors, merchants, and investors.

This particular tactic has never bothered him, truthfully; it has often served as a helpful obstruction to their true dynamic. It’s always been easy to turn underestimation into opportunities. They had entertained using this tactic in the early days of Hextech but ultimately decided it was for the best Viktor stay in the lab to further their work whilst Jayce secured the means to do it.

It was a relief, at first, to have someone else to manage the public comings and goings, keeping the press up-to-date about Hextech projects and funders. After Jayce had been appointed to the Council, though, his responsibilities grew insurmountably. Viktor perhaps should have allowed the other man to lean on him then, to at least grant him an audience to his frustrations, and yet Viktor had closed Jayce off.

We didn’t have time for that nonsense, he chastises himself. The year before their estrangement had been one of their more difficult ones, fraught with health scares and roadblocks. Much like now, Viktor had known he was running out of time.

As they make their way down the hall, Viktor can see concern bleeding through Jayce’s meticulously arranged exterior despite his champagne haze. “You okay? You look…”

“Like death warmed over?” Viktor glares at the grand staircase unfolding in front of them—not a mechanised lift in sight, of course. “These spectacles are hardly ever convenient.”

Jayce winces, and Viktor catches the man’s eyes darting down to his bad leg. “We could get a carriage from the service entrance,” he suggests, the upward lilt of his voice making the offer sound like a question. “The slope is gentler there.”

“And let them gossip about how you had to demean yourself for your poor Undercity ‘assistant’? I think not.” Viktor takes a steadying breath at the top of the stairs. “Though, I wouldn’t object to taking these slowly.”

After what feels like aeons longer than it should take to descend a flight of stairs, no matter how excessive, Jayce does hail one of the city’s carriages. Viktor can’t say he’s not relieved to take the weight off his leg again, even if, once again, it means he trades one pain for another. He absently rubs his hip joint until he notices Jayce watching. It may simply be his inebriated state, but Viktor feels his cheeks and neck flushing against the evening chill. He clears his throat. “What’s this Caitlyn tells me about you tossing Boswell Holloran into a tower of champagne glasses?”

Jayce groans, letting his head fall sideways against the window with a dull thud. “She told you about that?”

“Yes, though she was rather light on the details.” Viktor rubs his thumb idly over one of the golden brackets on his crutch. “She mentioned it was at one of her family’s functions, however.”

Jayce picks his head up just enough that it thuds again when he drops back into place. “Caitlyn, why?” he laments under his breath. Viktor watches the glass fog at Jayce’s sigh. “Okay, okay. He said… things. About you. That I didn’t appreciate.”

“Is that all?” Viktor thought they were far past this—when they had first launched Hextech, they’d had to get used to all kinds of snide quips and other such uncouth behaviour. “People say things about me all the time.”

“Yeah, but he said some…” Jayce waves his hand vaguely, nearly clipping Viktor’s crutch. “Particular things. And we’d just gotten you to the hospital, and I was… I was scared.” He looks stricken at this, eyes focused on some spot past Viktor’s head.

“’Gotten me to the hospital’?” Viktor questions with narrowed eyes. Caitlyn said that this happened some time last year or the year before. The last time Jayce should have been involved in any hospital stay of his should have been well before. “What do you mean?”

Jayce clenches his mouth shut, looking one step away from slamming his head straight through the window. Viktor’s hand twitches towards him, as if he might, but he just answers, “When you… collapsed. In that Undercity factory—they sent me a message. Said you were in… a ‘clinic’, but you’ve… talked about how there’s no actual medical care down there.” He opts to look down at his hands instead of Viktor, worrying his thumb over the etched face of the rune at his wrist. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t supposed to be a secret—I just thought… you’d be mad about it.” He takes a breath before looking back up at Viktor through dark eyelashes, and the look ricochets around Viktor’s ribcage. “You’re not mad, are you? Please don’t be mad.”

Viktor wants to be mad. It’s one thing for Jayce to involve himself in the affairs of his health when they’re working together, but it’s another thing entirely for Jayce to be involved when they’re supposed to be estranged. He’s furious at himself for having such bleeding sentimentality—he knows exactly how the factory foreman had gotten Jayce’s contact information—from one of Jayce’s notebooks, where it had been tucked into his bag. Where it had been every day since he’d left Piltover. He takes a deep breath. He supposes it was his fault, in the end. “Who’s ‘we’?”

Though Viktor asks the question with resignation, Jayce seems to try to disappear into the cushion of the carriage seat. “Um, Caitlyn’s… person, Vi. And… Vi’s sister.”

The silence stretches between them. Viktor can feel a headache building behind his eyes, though whether from the evening’s strain or this revelation, he’s not sure. He doesn’t know much about Violet or her sister, but he does recall leveraging his own Undercity connections when Caitlyn had asked him (through Jayce) to search for a girl called ‘Powder’. She and Violet had scoured the Undercity for weeks, accessing records of deaths, births, and incarcerations to try and find this sister. In the end, they had turned up not ‘Powder’, but a girl called ‘Jinx’ instead.

Jayce can’t seem to take the quiet any longer. “Please don’t be mad,” he repeats. He reaches across them to place a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. His warmth seeps through, despite the layers of Viktor’s evening wear, and he finds himself leaning almost imperceptibly into it before he can stop himself. It’s been long enough since anyone has touched him with the kind of earnest feeling Jayce does, and his body betrays him with its instinctive response.

“Jayce, you cannot simply keep telling me not to be mad and expect that to work.”

“I know, I know. I don’t expect it to work. It’s just… I’m hoping.” Those deep brown eyes peer anxiously at Viktor. “So… are you mad?”

In truth, he’s not mad. He’s tired. Exhausted, even. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry about this anymore, not when it happened so long ago and not when they’ve had so much between them since then. He doesn’t relish the thought of needing rescue at the hands of practical strangers, but at least it had been Jayce behind it all along. It was exactly what he had secretly wanted, what a shameful part of himself had longed for—Jayce to find him, see him, in the many months he’d been in the Undercity. The needling embarrassment is enough to shake away most of his pride. “I’m… not mad,” he admits, though quickly adds, “not happy, either—just… not mad.” He adjusts his grip on his crutch, tearing his gaze away from that soft, pleading face and focusing on the plush interior of the carriage instead. It’s velvet, of all things—very impractical. “I suppose I’m glad to not owe some unknown Undercity entity a favour, which is what I thought had happened.” Though, perhaps that would be simpler than owing Jayce—again.

“Okay. Good.” Jayce doesn’t seem to sense his inner conflict. “I mean—I would have told you. Eventually.” Jayce puts a hand on his knee—they’re close enough in the confines of the carriage that Viktor could write it off as an accident if it weren’t for the way Jayce leans his weight into his palm. “I wish we talked more, V,” he sighs, then furrows his brows together too tightly. Viktor wants to kiss the crease away. He swallows. “Should I—I’ve been calling you ‘V’… Should I stop?” Jayce asks the question as though holding it at arm’s length.

“No.” His answer surprises both of them, but if Viktor stops to think, it shouldn’t. He hasn’t corrected Jayce or complained in the time since he’s taken to using the old nickname. Relinquishing this resentment feels like admitting to a weakness he’s been fighting since he first heard Jayce say it again. It’s been so difficult to maintain the walls he’s put up. Jayce is so close. So easy to reach out and touch.

Being in Piltover has underscored what he’s known since accepting his need to return: his health is worse than ever and declining. Some days, he feels that he’s grasping for consciousness, barely remembering why he’s holding himself apart when Jayce’s warmth is right there, offering the comfort they used to share so easily. He’s so tired of spending what little energy he has on maintaining that distance.

“I think… It is alright if you call me that.”

The smile lighting Jayce’s face makes Viktor’s eyes and nose prickle with the threat of tears. It’s the same unguarded joy in Viktor’s early memories of their first Distinguished Innovator’s competition. They’d stayed up all night fine-tuning their presentation—only to forget the last gears they needed for the apparatus. Back then, everything had been so simple, just two young scientists determined to do good in the world. Their biggest crisis had been the frantic notching of gears hours before going on stage, not the tangled web of politics, economics, and unrest they face now.

“I’m glad. I like calling you ‘V’.” Jayce’s thumb draws idle circles on his knee, and Viktor feels the ache in the joint calm. He’s not interested in pursuing whether it’s his imagination. “I miss you.”

Warmth blooms in Viktor’s chest, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. A waterfall follows—Viktor flinches at the pain that inhale causes; Jayce reaches for him in alarm; the carriage comes to a halt; and Jayce nearly falls into Viktor’s lap. “I’m alright.” Viktor grabs Jayce’s forearm to both steady and assure him. The contact sends a wave of warmth through him, dangerous in its familiarity and boldness. He swallows. “Besides, this is my stop.” He opens the carriage door to the balmy summer, hoping the night air will dispel this thing between them.

“Oh.” Jayce doesn’t move his hand from Viktor’s knee. His face is tilted up, features softly resolving in moonlight and shadow on his skin, full lips parted just so. Viktor is caught between the urge to close this distance and the equally powerful need to flee.

He manages to contain himself well enough to alight from the carriage, ignoring how his chest tightens at the loss of contact. He pauses to steady himself against his crutch, his free hand poised to close the door. “Good night, Jayce.”

“Good night, V.”

It’s only after he’s inside that he begins to replay the moment in his mind. Jayce’s face, so naked with longing—or just drunk on the evening’s champagne and flattery. His former partner has always been so physical; to be within arm’s reach is to be touched by Jayce Talis, no matter who you were.

Two years of resentment, flares of fury, and heartbreak at the mere thought of him—these past months of carefully maintained distance—all undone by those patient hands, sun-kissed golden eyes, and the idea that Jayce would take him back.

Jayce isn’t as blind to the world’s workings as he was when the committee drove Viktor out. He’s seen the evidence of that with his own eyes, can hear it in the way Jayce turns things over out loud. He questions things, challenging assumptions he once took for granted simply because they were ‘the way things were’.

Is it enough? Is any of it ever enough?

Despite these questions, despite his irritation at his own weakness, his own frivolous humanity, his knee still tingles where Jayce’s hand rested.

He hadn’t watched the carriage pull away. He tells himself it’s because he was tired, not because he knew that Jayce would still be watching the door, waiting to make sure he got inside safely. He tells himself the ache in his chest is from a night of exertion, not walking away from that suspended moment, fleeting seconds lacing them together. Tells himself that he’d only felt stress, not anticipation.

Viktor has never favoured lying, even to himself. But sometimes, lies are necessary for survival.

𓊈 first chapter | previous chapter | next chapter on AO3 𓊉

AN: yeeeee thanks for reading chapter 13, 'The Choreography of Stars' from our fic Lies We Tell Ourselves!! and thank you to folks here who have commented and reblogged previous chapters!! 💖

We're way ahead on AO3 and updating tomorrow ✨ with a chapter we are EXTREMELY excited to share with y'all like seriously i am jumping up and down tearing at my leash chewing on the furniture

[astarionsknife]

My tt is currently having a sasunaru renaissance and it's so funny seeing all the dudebros be mad about it.

"But they're basically brothers"

"Can't two men just be friends"

Hate to break it to you, but that's fandom. Also have you seen the show? For a large part it's Naruto wanting to find Sasuke. He's constantly talking and thinking about Sasuke.

Not to forget that, why can't a guy and a girl just be friends? They always seem to complain about the guys being shipped, but the moment a guy and a girl is shipped (canon or not) there's rarely any complaints.

Back in the day I was a huge naru/Hina shipper. And to an extent, I do still love them. But Sasuke and Naruto just fit better. (Also Hinata could've been with Sakura as they both started coping with Naruto and Sasuke clearly being in love. Even Kiba and Hinata is a ship I like).

And yeah, part of it may be that Kishimoto is terrible at writing women. But that doesn't exclude the fact he ended up writing one of the most iconic and tragic enemies to lovers stories.

[fmajorenthusiast]

The Rocky Horror characters at the mall?? :) What shops would they like? What antics would they get into?

-A.B.

OMG I LOVE IT SO MUUUCHHHH

Frank: He is headed straight to Victoria's Secret- he loves Victoria's secret. He's also been banned from numerous candy shops because he keeps trying to use the candy in attempts to seduce staff and other customers with it. It started out with just lollipops, which they couldn't really get after him for, but then it escalated into "inappropriate use of the whipped cream" and "noise complaints from his moaning whenever he ate anything" and he was out

Brad: Brad loves to go fishing through those big bins of DVDs in video stores!!! (Idk if they still exist I haven't seen them in my recent trips to the mall but they were excellent while they lasted. I probably would not have the patience for what Brad does, but I'm proud that he does it) One time he found a Monty Python in there and rode that high for MONTHS! It was his greatest moment. He's also always going to wherever the Mario games are!!!

Janet: Janet's favorite stores are Forever 21 and Macy's. She definitely gets obsessed with stuff, has her arms full, and then realizes halfway through that she most certainly cannot afford most of these things. She then has to spend an eternity deciding what to put back. There have been a few times in which a store has needed to inform her that they'll be closing in fifteen minutes and she's needed to make an incredibly quick turn-around. She always comes back for the things she's left behind once she comes into some more money, though, and then the process starts all over again and she is thrilled every time!

Riff Raff: Riff Raff loves to get nail polish at makeup stores and other little accessories that can make him feel especially elegant! He'll go more out there and get better outfits when he's not in Frank's servitude- but anything he gets will inevitably become Frank's if he's not careful. ALSO he always gets himself a nice little treat because Frank ususally gives him and Magenta leftovers. He's developed a true love of cheese popcorn and will get himself a bag if one of the stores is selling one. However, he does tend to look like a bird when he eats, so if he sees someone looking at him funny, and he notices that they are not a child (he'll turn the other way if they are) will stare them directly in the eyes and go kind of cross-eyed until they leave and he can enjoy his popcorn in peace

Magenta: Magenta will go and outright get her nails done at the mall. Then, depending on the day, she'll either get some perfume, clothes, accessories, or baking supplies! Sometimes she'll just go to a bakery and let them do the job for her. She also loves those fun vulgar signs that you can get to hang up. She's kind of seen as a test of sorts when she walks into a store because- if she doesn't like the service you provide- she will go online and leave the most scorching of reviews. If you pass the "Magenta test" your shop honestly probably gets a small celebration

Columbia: At every mall you will find a few special shops that sell AMAZING fashion and accessories that are so alternative and unique. You will find Columbia there every time!!! It's where all of her favorite outfits come from! She'll also always get donuts on her way out

Eddie: Eddie steals from Hot Topic. Its an unstoppable fact of life. No one can stop it

Doctor Scott: Doctor Scott loves bookstores!!! He'll always decide what his next read is on the spot, but he'll always pick something that he ends up enjoying. He's read so many things that it's surprising! He subbed for Brad and Janet's literature class one time, checked the curriculum, and had read every book on the list. How does he always pick something that he ends up enjoying? Well he reads the first 5 or so chapters in the store before he even buys it! He's caught a few employees looking at him funny for it a few times, but there is in fact, no rule against this action. Hes been doing it since he was like 20 and no one can stop him

Rocky: Rocky loves shops where he can get board games and special ice cream flavors- but his favorite thing that the mall has to offer is the ball pit. Oh how Rocky loves the ball pit

The Criminologist: the Criminologist loves getting pictures, either drawn, painted, or photographed, that he can frame and hang up on his walls! He especially loves ones of city skylines!!!

[pseudogag]

I lowkey panicked a bit thinking that I messed up but the fact we both got each other is still funny, and there's no complaint for it I just find it very silly and fun

Art for @darkwingsnark for the Mario Spring Art Event!

@supermariospringshowers

The prompt I choose being "Princess Daisy riding King Totomesu. Can be any age, though I imagine it would be cute with Baby Daisy."

personal notes: this was very experimental both composition and coloring-- I did put some small headcanons for their designs (daisy's skin tone and eyes) but nothing too drastic. I also try making her a bit older, not by a lot, but maybe a first grader kind of age. Regardless, I feel very proud with this, so i genuinely hope you love it too! Thank you for the prompt ≧◡≦!!

[mecub]

Book Hades:

Show Hades: okey dokie! I don’t cahoot, it’s all puppies and rainbows down here

[adobe-outdesign]

Chikorita and Totodile: Yay we get to be in Legends Z-A!!!

Cyndaquil, stuck in 1800s Japan:

[brodorokihousuke]

referring to all aa rivals exclusively as weirdos from now on

[shoku-and-awe]

New train etiquette posters from Seibu Railway [x]

[two-crows-in-a-trenchcoat]

I love merlin as dragoon he just gets to be a bitch to everyone and you can tell he enjoys it

like yeah he's a really serious sorcerer or whatever but he's also a little bitch and you've gotta respect him for that

[lala-blahblah]

I get why people headcanon that Trucy would call Edgeworth "Uncle Miles" because it represents how close he is to Nick and Trucy and how he's basically part of the family etc. HOWEVER I cannot help but imagine the shock and horror of passersby who hear Trucy call one man "uncle" and one "daddy" as they watch Nick and Miles interact lovingly in public and come to the conclusion that Nick is openly cheating on his spouse with his spouse's brother.