#to the fics that made me cry and made me feel things --

[iceman-kazansky]

I've come back here again. It's midnight, I am up early tomorrow, but I can't stop thinking of this fic. I need to write my thoughts out.

I will not deny that I got into F1 because I thought the drivers were hot. I saw Senna and was infatuated. I was reading fics before I fully understood who he was or even watched any of his races. But, it was that infatuation that led me here– to this. This fic at first was something I never knew would leave such a lasting impression on me as a reader. It actually sparked my full-on interest into Formula 1 upon my second read. I didn't understand everything mentioned, and I wanted to know more. I had a hunger growing in me for knowledge and understanding. This feeling, once I'd acted upon it (I watched the Senna documentary, read the wiki, watched interviews, etc.) was one of the reasons I began to admire Ayrton for who he was, what he did, and everything else besides what I had initially– his looks. And it changed how I viewed other drivers, too. Yes, I still found them attractive, but knowing their stories painted something for me. An internalized artwork of sorts.

"Funny how you can miss someone you never met, right?" That sentence in your authors note. At first, I didn't get it. I didn't quite fathom the depths of it. Yet, now, as I write this, I believe I fully understand it. I wasn't alive to watch Mr. Senna race. I wasn't alive when he died, either. Despite this, I get this ache in my heart, like it's heavy, whenever I think about him. I can remember something, good or bad, and there is this hollow feel to my chest, and it makes me want to cry. And it's not like how I get sad over Michael Schumacher or Niki Lauda or even Brocedes, which are also some of my favourite things in this sport. This weight in my soul feels heavier than the weight of all the oceans combined. It wasn't something I was initially accustomed to, and it shocked me, because how could I miss someone I'd never even gotten the chance to meet?

That last thought made me remember this fic. The authors note. I came back. Admittedly, it's brought me back every time. I've read this fic countless times. I've cried every time. It is so violently sad in a way that it is so bittersweet that it makes me want to read it over and over for all of eternity. I want it engraved into the very forefront of my mind. The way you detailed this, the way it was structured and plotted, the dialogue, the characterization, the perfectly depicted pre-existing characters who you stuck to their genuine personalities and aspects, everything. From the first letter to the last period. This fic is, in my opinion, the definition of perfect. I was given a bite-sized portrayal of how devastated the reader was at the beginning of the fic, and it left me wondering how and why. Through each memory, you made me feel a stronger connection, and each return to the current setting tore a chunk out of my heart and soul. By the end, I was weeping.

I will never regret reading this fic. For taking the time to comprehend every word written here and to come back and do it again. It's definitely one of my, if not my #1, all-time favourite. Not just because it was the first fic to make me cry, but because of the future emotional attatchment I'd grow towards Ayrton. I will forever be grateful to you, the author, for probably introducing me to the greatest thing I could've never even imagined– the world of F1. Thank you.

saudade | as12

funny how you can miss someone you never met, right? my heart was aching today a lot and i cried even more while writing this so yes, it is long and it is sad, so you decide if you wanna read this or not. if you do, please enjoy if its even possible to enjoy bawling your eyes out lol

oh ayrton, you will always be missed

summary: during senna's funeral y/n has flashes of their shared past and what they could have together

warnings: for sure its intense, 5.6k words of pure sadness, thats it basically

pairing: fem!mclaren!driver x ayrton senna

It was a warm, pleasant day. The beginning of may didn't disappoint with the weather at all. A light, warm breeze swayed the flexible branches, on which fresh leaves were green. The sun was pleasantly warm, but it wasn't unbearable heat. Birdsong could be heard, but so could crying. On this day, mourners outnumbered the blossoming buds on the trees.

A crowd of people had gathered in front of the church, but it was nothing compared to the crowds still on their way. Everyone was dressed in black, and the only point of color in the black mass was a yellow dot, which from a bird's eye view resembled a sunflower petal, thrown onto the black, fertile soil. It was a helmet, a yellow racing helmet, which no one gathered there needed to be introduced to. In trembling hands, a young girl held it, never once moving it away from her chest. She held it against herself so tightly, as if she wanted to feel the warmth emanating from it, but it radiated coldness, like the inside of the church she was about to enter, barely able to keep herself on her feet.

Inside the chapel, it hadn't yet become crowded; the military made sure that the family and friends entered the church first. Inside, there was a grave silence, broken only by the occasional blowing of noses into tissues or a stifled sob.

The girl was aware of what was happening, she knew where she was and why she was there. However, her brain stubbornly avoided connecting the dots and completely pushed the facts out of her consciousness. If it had, she would probably have thrown the held helmet deep into the church, and it would have stopped only when it hit the wooden, solid coffin. The girl's gaze never once lifted towards her.

"Y/N, can you hear me?," the girl flinched when Ron's words reached her for the umpteenth time, "You know you don't have to be here, we can be outside."

The girl blinked several times, and at that very moment, her brain stopped pushing away the facts. Ron held her arm, his eyes swollen, his face even redder than usual. She herself pressed the helmet to her chest, so tightly that only when she moved it away from herself a little was she able to fully breathe. She raised her eyes and looked around. She stood in the front row of benches, where at the very top, just in front of the altar steps, stood the coffin. A large, carefully ironed Brazilian flag lay on it, its freely hanging ends touching the fresh flowers lying beneath it.

"Y/N…," the man began again, this time quieter. He saw tears in the girl's eyes, and he was about to continue, but she pressed the helmet tighter to her chest and started walking forward. She only moved the helmet away from herself when she placed it on the coffin. Y/N fell to her knees and began to sob, pressing her forehead against the hard lid. However, the lid of the coffin wasn't the only thing that separated her from her friend. The worst was death.

It was a brisk february morning. Silverstone Circuit had not yet woken up, there was no deafening roar of engines in the background, and the smell of burnt rubber didn't hang in the air.

Although it wasn't a race day and only a handful of people were milling around the facility, unlike the tens of thousands who usually flooded in for the weekend races, this day was expected to be exciting and full of emotions too.

Certainly, it was so for the 23-year-old Theodore Racing driver, who, sitting in the passenger seat on her way to the circuit, nervously picked at her nails. However, she should now be referred to as the "former Theodore Racing driver" because on this day, she had a test day at McLaren, with whom she signed a contract two weeks ago. In the past two months, the girl's life had changed dramatically. A few days after her birthday, she became the European Formula 3 World Champion, winning the title by just one point. One! The fact that she was so young and the only woman to rise so high meant that many people had their eyes on her and followed her every move. However, most people who hadn't seen her driving at over 200 kilometers per hour thought that being a woman automatically disqualified her from the sport. Ron Dennis, the head of McLaren, was familiar with her skills, though, and seeing how well she performed in the lower levels, he decided to take a risk and give her a chance. One of his proteges, however, wasn't so sure about this decision.

"Girl? You want to replace Prost with a girl?"

Senna, upon hearing the candidate to replace Alain, who, after five years of dealing with him, decided to quit and move away from McLaren, only shook his head.

"Yes, that's exactly what I plan to do," Ron lit a cigarette and shifted his gaze from the car to the disgusted face of the Brazilian, "Maybe she'll calm you down a bit. It's a miracle I found anyone to take Prost's place, no one wants to work with you!"

Ayrton snorted and shook his head again, unable to believe that his boss wanted to do something so idiotic. Silence fell in the garage, none of the mechanics intended to interrupt their conversation. Just like everyone else in the team agreed with Ron that it was a miracle to find anyone willing to take Prost's place, the same majority couldn't imagine a woman starting to race in Formula 1. Especially alongside a driver like Senna.

"A few races, and she'll quit on her own," the Brazilian muttered, "You'll see."

"Pray that she likes you and wants to race for us."

When the car stopped in the gravel parking lot, the girl got out and put on her sunglasses. Tom, her manager and a close friend of her father, just glanced at her and rubbed her back. He knew perfectly well how stressed she was. No one would be prepared for so much in such a short time.

"Everything will be fine."

"You don't have to say that."

He sighed and just pointed with his hand towards the entrance to the facility, letting her through the glass doors. He didn't convince himself too much. Shortly after, after receiving the appropriate instructions, they reached the paddock. Here, the sun didn't glare in her eyes, so the girl took off her glasses, looking around. An empty Silverstone was something unheard of.

"Good morning, welcome, good to see you,"

Ron, standing in front of the garage, as soon as he noticed the girl, broke off from the conversation with one of the mechanics and smiled at her, shaking her hand. She showed up for the tests, so he thought she deserved a shot. Maybe this would work.

The girl made an effort to smile and nodded at him. Fortunately, she didn't have to engage in a conversation with him because he was immediately engaged by her manager. She was glad that in moments like this, someone else could spare her from meaningless chatter.

"Good morning."

She greeted, approaching the car where a few men were working on the wheels, wing, and cockpit. Some of them spoke up, while the rest just nodded at her. She immediately felt unwelcome, and barely a minute had passed since she appeared in the garage. However, this was nothing new to her, she would lie if she said she was surprised. But the most important thing for her was that Ron treated her as an equal, or at least didn't make her feel like she didn't belong here. That gave her a sense of comfort. She didn't need a crowd standing behind her; she only needed two people who had her back.

The girl slowly walked around the car. The new, ready-for-the-season MP4/4 looked very good. Next to the car marked with her number stood another, practically identical, differing only in the number painted in red on the front.

However, the owner of the car was nowhere to be seen, at least not in sight. Y/N hadn't had the opportunity to meet Ayrton personally. The drivers' presentation with the car was scheduled for the end of the month, so it was quite likely that until then, she would have time to mentally prepare herself. She knew Ayrton from stories; she could watch his battles both on and off the track on television, the domestic war he waged with Alain Prost which ended with the Frenchman's departure to Ferrari.

Y/N knew she would have to face many things, one of which was Senna.

"Ready?"

Ron's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, he held a helmet and jumpsuit for her in his hand. She nodded and took the items from him, going to change. When she returned, she took her place in the cockpit, and after some time, when everything was ready, she followed the instructions and took her place on the track. She took a deep breath and clenched her hands on the steering wheel, staring at the start lights. When they went out, the girl sped off with squealing tires and the roar of the engine.

Ron and Tom stood next to each other, watching her movements on small monitors. After some time, the mechanics also began to glance at the monitors, seemingly more interested in whether she hadn't crashed yet than in her results. What surprised them was the sight on one of the displays showing her current lap time, which now stood at 1.38.412 seconds. Ron smiled and shook his head in amazement. The young girl was incredible.

The car itself wasn't handling badly. Besides feeling like a huge boat, to which she was definitely too small, it was actually a well-engineered machine. A few more laps, and she should be able to tame it completely. Although this fact was reassuring. When the girl spotted the checkered flag, she obediently pulled into the garage. She turned off the engine and unfastened her seatbelts, but she didn't get out of the car or take off her helmet because Ron was already beside her, hugging her tightly.

"Young lady, you flew in that car!" The man helped her out of the car, and she took off her helmet and balaclava, taking out the earplugs. "I told you, you did amazingly. Unbelievable lap time, great driving."

The girl wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and blew a strand of wet hair from her forehead.

"It's a really good car, sir."

"A good car without a good driver is just a good car, and a good car with a great driver is a masterful car," Ron shook her hand again, "Brilliant job."

The girl returned his smile, and when she glanced at Tom standing a few steps away, he was also smiling, his smile was the kind of "I told you so."

Y/N gave appropriate feedback to the mechanics and strategists, who now seemed to pay attention to her significantly more than when she first appeared in the garage that morning. Their faces still tried to remain impassive, but nevertheless, they noted everything she had to say. When it was all over, the girl went to change. She washed her face with cold water and looked at herself in the mirror, clenching her hands on the cold sink. She did it.

When she managed to cool down and calm herself down a bit, clutching her helmet under her arm and holding her jumpsuit in the other hand, shortly after she left the bathroom. Suddenly, she bumped into someone, and that someone turned out to be someone she sincerely didn't want to meet that day.

"Watch where you're going."

Senna muttered, holding a lit cigarette between his lips. He gave her a quick glance and disappeared through the doorway, his jumpsuit rustling as he walked away.

The girl squeezed her helmet tighter under her arm and returned to the garage, putting things back in place. After receiving the last praise and handshake from Ron, she said goodbye and left the paddock with Tom. Ayrton pretended to be too busy preparing for the start, so he didn't honor her with even a single glance. When he heard Ron praising her driving, he only snorted under his breath and shook his head. When the garage fell silent again, Ayrton took his place in the car, getting ready to drive.

"1.38.412"

Senna looked up when Ron spoke above his head.

"1.38.412," he repeated calmly, "The lap time of a twenty-three-year-old after her first drive in a Formula 1 car."

The Brazilian snorted and lowered his gaze, putting earplugs in his ears.

"I hope you'll be better than the girl."

Ayrton didn't hear his words anymore because he put on his balaclava and helmet. He didn't believe the girl had achieved such a lap time. And even if she did, it only spoke of the car's capabilities, not her skills. Senna hoped he would be faster by at least a few seconds. He had been racing in Formula 1 for almost five years; he was incredibly fast, and above all, he was a man!

When the tests ended, and he returned to the garage, satisfied with himself and his driving, the first thing he did was to look for Ron's reaction, wanting to see his expression when he rubbed his nose in it. However, the Brit looked at him indulgently, and Senna, not knowing what he meant, quickly tried to free himself from the seat belts. The Brit simply turned the monitor towards him and pointed with his finger at something that, according to Ayrton, was a big mistake.

Between him and the girl, there was a difference of a few seconds, indeed. But Ayrton was slower.

When Senna freed himself from the car, hastily took off his helmet and balaclava, and removed the earplugs, he was about to say something when Ron stopped him, pressing a cassette to his chest.

"Here, watch it tonight and see how the twenty-three-year-old beat you."

Ayrton squeezed the cassette in his hand and only watched him leave, unable to utter a word. It was some kind of absurdity!

Absurd or not, Senna spent the evening in front of the TV. He sat on the couch, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He frowned and carefully watched the recording from the camera placed in her cockpit. He saw how she aggressively entered corners, braking as late as possible, and how quickly she stepped on the gas when the centrifugal forces stopped working. He took a drag and blew smoke from his mouth, rewinding the tape from the beginning, just as it ended. The recording lasted twenty minutes, and he watched it for the seventh time, counting each lap on his stopwatch. Every time, the result was the same.

He couldn't wrap his head around what she had done, but he decided to consider it just a stroke of luck. She had a better day; he had a slightly worse one. Moreover, it wasn't the testing session or even the qualifying rounds that determined the winner, but the race itself. Driving on an empty track without rivals wanting to take your position was one thing, but racing in a competition where everyone wanted to beat you was a completely different matter. If someone had told Ayrton then that four years later, that girl would shed tears at his funeral, he would have told them to fuck themselves.

Y/N felt a strong arm around her waist, trying to lift her. Ron's heart broke seeing her in such a state. However, he couldn't help her even if he wanted to.

"Y/N, please…," he began, but she shook her head, overcome with tears. Wet stains of tears were visible on the flag covering the coffin. The girl was trembling all over, it was a miracle she could breathe. Since the accident, it seemed like Y/N was handling the tragedy very well, just being sad and quiet. No one had any idea what was yet to come. Everyone who saw Y/N by the coffin, this sight of a broken girl, felt nothing but sympathy. The bond she had formed with Ayrton seemed stronger and much richer in emotions than any he had with any of his partners. Ayrton wasn't just her teammate, he wasn't just a friend or sometimes her biggest enemy. From the very beginning, Y/N mattered to him, and if he said otherwise, he was simply lying.

The official skills assessment test for the girl was scheduled to take place less than three weeks after her first visit to the McLaren garage. Now, however, an official presentation awaited her at the reception hosted by the team. One evening at the company headquarters, a banquet was held, attended by far more people than initially anticipated. Most of them were journalists who had to announce to the world the phenomenon that was a woman at the top level of motor racing.

"It's more crowded here than I thought," the girl admitted when she entered the team headquarters with Tom by her side.

"Everyone is curious about you. There are even a couple of journalists from Australia, believe it or not," Tom said.

She looked at him in shock. "And they flew here specifically for this presentation?"

He smiled and nodded. "They'll be talking to kangaroos and kiwi birds about you," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. And it worked because she giggled at his words. However, her smile faded when she noticed Ron talking to Ayrton and two other men in suits.

"Everything will be fine. You did well on the tests, so you'll do well here too," he said softly, rubbing her arm when he noticed her expression.

"There weren't any sharks in suits and piranhas with cameras there," Tom was about to add some words of encouragement when Ron spotted them and raised his hand with a glass in it, trying to get their attention. They approached him, and he greeted them, introducing them to the directors. Ayrton, standing aside, was mindful of how many people were now watching him and wondering if his new teammate would share Prost's fate. However, the Brazilian had no intention of making an effort for gestures he didn't intend. Nevertheless, courtesy demanded it, so he extended his hand, which she hesitantly shook.

"Senna," he said, his Brazilian accent strongly evident in his last name. "Welcome to the team."

The girl introduced herself as well, but it was hard for her to maintain eye contact. Not because he was almost half a head taller, but because of the confidence emanating from him. It was his team, his place, and his time, and she was just a guest. There was no room for discussion.

Fortunately, the awkward situation was soon interrupted as the drivers and management were invited onstage. Ayrton gestured for the girl to go ahead, and she began to walk in front of him.

"I hope you don't grip the wheel as weakly as you do hands," he murmured behind her, quietly enough so no one else would hear, but loud enough for her to hear his words.

Y/N lowered her gaze, feeling a wave of heat wash over her. Even if she wanted to respond, she couldn't. He caught her completely off guard.

As they stepped onto the small stage, they stood behind one of the cars prepared for this season. The girl intertwined her fingers behind her back and straightened up, standing next to Ayrton. He might play his stupid games on her, but she had no intention of showing that she would easily give in. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and almost believed that his comment had gone unnoticed, but her cheeks were flushed. Normally, he would probably snort under his breath, but now he kept his composure.

After a few words from Ron and the board members, the floor was given to the drivers. The two of them remained on stage, each with a microphone in hand. Now it was time for the media, for their pressing questions and burning issues.

Ayrton sat relaxed, almost bored. His legs were bent at the knees, slightly apart. One hand was around his waist, resting his elbow on it, holding the microphone in the other hand. He answered questions briefly and to the point, not dwelling more than necessary. His attire alone indicated that today's banquet was just a formality; he wore a suit, but instead of a shirt, he had a white T-shirt, and on his feet were sports shoes.

Despite her best efforts not to stress out, Y/N was far from as calm as Ayrton. She sat up straight, one leg crossed over the other. Although her red dress practically touched the floor, she glanced occasionally to make sure nothing was out of place. She felt like every move, even the smallest one, was being watched and analyzed. She felt she wasn't focusing on the content of the questions but on how she appeared.

The girl blinked several times, trying to find a sensible answer to the question that had been directed at her a few seconds ago.

"Could you repeat that?" she asked, feeling a bit embarrassed about her inattention. Ayrton, however, heard the question well.

"I asked if you think you're good enough to compete with men or if you're just here for publicity? Racing is still a male-dominated sport, and it seems like you're just trying to prove something rather than compete," the man in glasses squeezed the voice recorder in his hand and looked at her expectantly. Seeing her confusion, he sighed, "I see you're not too bright, so let me ask directly - do you really think you belong here? Do you have what it takes to keep up with the boys on the track?"

The girl panicked a little; this question completely threw her off guard. Emotions overwhelmed her, and she couldn't utter a word. But there was someone who could speak and had an exceptionally sharp tongue.

"I see that, Mr. - again, for whom are you writing?" Ayrton spoke up, furrowing his brows.

"John Ruffleck, Guardian."

"Ah, of course, the Guardian," the man clicked his tongue indulgently. "Clearly, you are the one that didn't shine with intelligence, asking last year's Formula 3 world champion if she fits in here." Y/N was shocked to hear that Ayrton stood up for her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Despite still sitting calmly, the Brazilian was ready for a verbal battle. "If I fit in here, then the 23-year-old who set a better lap time than me during the tests also fits."

Ayrton bluntly silenced the journalist, who merely muttered a quiet "Thank you" and lowered his head.

Several more questions were thrown in by Ayrton, steering the conversation away from sexist undertones. By the end of the conference, there were no more questions about sexist issues. The drivers got up from their seats, and Y/N turned off her microphone, placing it on the sound table as Senna did the same.

"Thank you," she said, looking at him. He also looked at her, but this time his expression didn't express annoyance or boredom, as it did two times before when their eyes met.

"Don't thank me," he said, taking two glasses of champagne from the waitress. "You are allow to drink, right?" he asked before handing her one of them. She nodded and took the glass from him. "Don't thank me, just learn to counter such nonsense. If they're rude, we can be rude too."

Y/N took a big sip of champagne. Her mouth was dry from nerves.

"I don't want to be rude, it's not proper," she said.

"Not proper?" Senna scoffed. "Because you're a girl?"

"Because they'll think poorly of me"

"Do you really care what that bunch of idiots thinks?"

The girl lowered her gaze. Ayrton was right.

Did she really care? She was a driver; she was supposed to deliver good results. She wasn't supposed to please the audience.

She was about to reply when Ron approached them, cursing the Guardian journalist's stupidity. He was so caught up that he didn't even notice Ayrton sending the girl a final glance and then finishing his champagne, taking out cigarettes from his back pocket, and walking away towards the exit. Y/N only watched him go. At that moment, neither of them had any idea how much she would learn from Ayrton, or that he would gladly take on the role of a teacher himself. No one would have even thought of it then.

When Ron managed to lift the shaken girl, she reached for her helmet again and pressed it to her chest. When she looked up, across from her, on the other side of the coffin, she saw a man in a wheelchair. Frank Williams looked at her in silence, but his gaze was apologetic, his face sad, and his eyes looked like he hadn't slept for days.

"Why?" Y/N whispered, but she wasn't sure if anything managed to leave her lips. Williams didn't need to hear her; her eyes said it all. Even if he couldn't hear her question or look into her swollen, tear-filled eyes, he would know perfectly well that she blamed him for his death. "Why, Frank? Why?" Maybe even more than she blamed God.

"If you can hold on to me for longer than five seconds, I'll let you pass," Ayrton said, exhaling smoke. He sat on one of the crates outside McLaren's garage, wearing sunglasses. The weather for the upcoming race looked exceptionally good, but Senna wouldn't mind rain.

"Are you challenging me?" the girl asked, squinting and looking at him against the light. They were sitting outside, where it was quieter, as the mechanics worked inside the garage.

"Why would I?" the man chuckled, taking another drag. Seeing her uncertainty, he offered her a cigarette, trying to reassure her with his gesture.

Y/N took the cigarette and inhaled the smoke, which tickled her throat, making her cough. She wrinkled her nose and after a moment handed him back the cigarette.

"Don't you want to test my braking skills and eliminate me from the race?"

Ayrton laughed and shook his head. "So, I do have a bad reputation after all."

"Definitely not the best," the girl said softly, smiling uncertainly. Ayrton playfully nudged the crate she was sitting on with his foot. He genuinely liked this girl; in fact, he could and wanted to work with her. Now he was even willing to let her win the race if she showed that she could keep up with him. She had demonstrated many times that she could drive at an exceptionally high level, so Senna was willing to show some humanity and let her achieve her first victory, especially on home turf. He stubbed out the cigarette and stood up, taking off his cap and placing it on her head, pulling it down over her eyes.

"Five seconds," he repeated, walking away as she adjusted the cap on her head.

The girl decided to take up the challenge, realizing that such an opportunity might never come again. Ayrton and collaboration? They were complete opposites after all. Y/N, who started the next day from the last place on the podium, managed to fight her way up to second place at the beginning of the race. She spent the next forty laps chasing after Ayrton, wondering if there was any point in chasing him if she couldn't overtake him. Seeing his familiar helmet in the side mirror, Ayrton smiled. He added a bit more throttle and began counting to five, but the girl's car didn't seem to be falling back. When the agreed time was up, much to everyone's disbelief, both on the track and in front of the TVs, Senna slowed down and obediently let her pass. Unable to believe her own eyes, the girl pressed the gas and took the lead, crossing the finish line with him.

She only believed in her victory when Ayrton offered her his hand and helped her onto the podium.

"Five seconds," he said, smiling at her.

"Five seconds," she replied, returning the smile.

How much she would give to see Ayrton again, even for five seconds. To be able to hug him for five seconds, see his smile. Five seconds now would last like an eternity, for which she would pay any price.

The church was filled with people, mostly family and friends, individuals directly connected to Ayrton. The remaining people were outside, surrounding the church, also gathering along the main road. There were talks of crowds, thousands who came to bid farewell to their hero. They too would give much to see Ayrton even for five seconds. Whole, alive, before the Imola accident.

Y/N held the helmet on her knees, looking at it with vacant eyes. She ran her fingers along the edges, tracing the stickers and sponsor names. She squeezed the soft padding inside. She closed her eyelids. Five seconds.

"Necessity is the mother of invention," Ayrton said, loud enough to make the girl jump. She was barefoot, wearing shorts and a bikini top, with his helmet on her head, visor down. She waved a piece of cardboard towards the grill, trying to ignite it better and not wanting the smoke to get in her eyes, deciding to use whatever she had at hand. And hoping Ayrton wouldn't get mad that she used his helmet for this.

The man smiled and shook his head, placing the wood he held in his hands next to the grill. Standing next to the girl, he lifted the visor and looked into her eyes. She looked at him apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"It suits you," Senna interrupted, smiling. "Possibly even more than me."

"Do you think so?"

The man nodded. His hair, damp from swimming in the lake, fell onto his forehead, and his brown eyes sparkled. Ayrton had been looking at Y/N like this for some time, in a way that many would describe as tender. Certainly, the girl wasn't just a teammate to him, as who would invite a teammate to their hometown to meet their closest family. Certainly not Ayrton.

"I love you, Y/N,"

He confessed as he lay on the jetty, gazing at the starry sky, where there was no trace of the hot Brazilian sun anymore.

The girl laughed and took a sip of beer, lying next to him and leaning on his arm. Both were drunk, so she was sure Ayrton was joking. However, when his confession was met with silence and he turned to look at her, his face was deadly serious.

"I mean it, Y/N. I love you,"

"You can't love me, you have a girlfriend," she replied, still laughing. There was no way he was serious.

Ayrton got up and without a word, kissed her, wanting to prove his words. When he pulled away after a moment, there was no smile on the girl's face. He was about to say something again, but she touched his cheek and returned the kiss, and he pulled her closer, holding her tightly in his arms. That night, they would find out how much they meant to each other.

Senna meant a lot to the girl, there was no doubt about it. He also meant unimaginable things to all those who took part in the funeral ceremonies, not only in Brazil itself but worldwide. It might have seemed like the world had lost an incredible man, someone who in life had already become a legend. Who would have thought that this living, almost mystical legend was just a man? A man who is mortal. Surely no one looked at Senna that way. Certainly not Frank Williams, who eventually decided to agree and accept Ayrton into his team, bearing an incredible burden now. Senna was supposed to lift his team to great heights, and his tragic death dealt a blow, not so much personal as it was business-related. However, at that moment, that mattered least.

Y/N and Ayrton sat at the kitchen table, eating a late dinner in silence. They were in their shared home in Europe, but for the past few months, the walls of the house seemed to be becoming more alien with each passing day. The atmosphere was as thick as it is now, when none of the people sitting at the table even bothered to steal a glance.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to go to Williams?"

The girl asked, stirring the contents of her plate with her fork. Ayrton tightened his grip on the glass and took a few sips from it.

"Ayrton-", "Why did I have to tell you?" he entered her words and looked at her, "Just to make you try to stop me?

Y/N blinked several times. She was shocked. She had the impression that the man sitting opposite was a complete stranger and someone she had never known before.

"To stop you? I'm your girlfriend, I should be the first to know about your plans, not hear from strangers."

"Did it change anything? Did something happen that you didn't find out from me?"

"Yes!" she shouted, slamming her hand on the table. She was so done with all of this. "I'm fed up with you treating me like an enemy for several weeks!"

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me!" he stood up, leaning over and pointing his finger at her. "You have no idea how much I had to do to get that offer, how much it cost me!"

"I have no idea, because you don't tell me anything!" she also stood up, pushing his hand away, which he was aiming at her face, "Fame has gone to your head, you're acting like a complete idi-" She didn't get to finish because Ayrton slapped her across the face. He didn't realize when his open hand met her cheek. Y/N grabbed her cheek and looked at him in shock. At the moment of the strike, he also seemed to snap out of it, as if he had been hit himself.

"Y/N, I'm sorry," he said calmly, trying to approach her, but she backed away a few steps, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that."

"But you did," she said with a trembling voice, tears welling up in her eyes, "I don't recognize you anymore, Ayrton".

As the funeral rites began, the last thing on Y/N's mind was their recent arguments, of which there had been plenty lately. Nonetheless, since the incident when he raised his hand to her, Senna understood he had crossed a line. The only upside of the whole situation was that they had started talking again, and Ayrton had come to realize that Y/N was not his enemy. Yes, on the track, the girl might be someone he now had to defeat even more than usual, but she was still his friend, his girlfriend, his partner. Speaking of partners, many women appeared at the funeral, but four of them spent exceptionally long periods by the coffin. They had a lot in common, yet none of them deigned to exchange glances. Each of Ayrton's partners, even today, on such a dramatic day, looked at her as if she were an enemy. Viviane made sure none of them sat on the bench where the family was seated. Y/N belonged to the family. She didn't intrude, Ayrton invited her himself.

"Maybe you should take a break?" Sid Watkins persistently tried to persuade Ayrton and Y/N to withdraw from the upcoming race. "Two weeks, you'll come back to Monaco in better shape, with lighter minds."

Senna sat on one of the crates behind the Williams garage, elbows resting on his knees. Y/N repeatedly wiped her tear-streaked cheeks, trembling hand holding a cigarette. An hour ago, the qualifying session for tomorrow's race was interrupted by Roland Ratzerberger's serious accident. The man was taken to the hospital, but many said he was taken from the track already dead.

"This shouldn't have happened, there shouldn't have been talk of such an accident," the girl repeated, almost hysterical. She was in tremendous shock, having witnessed the accident herself as she was the one who followed Ratzerberger's car.

"They need to cancel the race," Senna said dryly, his gaze fixed on a point in front of him. "We can't race here, not after something like this."

"And if they don't cancel?" Sid looked from Ayrton to Y/N. "Will you race in such a state? You won't sleep over this until tomorrow."

"If they don't cancel, we'll race for him. I'll drive the best I can to honor him with a victory," Ayrton decided, raising his gaze and looking the doctor in the eyes.

"You like fishing, right? Why don't you go back to Brazil, catch some fish, relax. If you want, I'll come with you, I could use it too."

Senna rubbed his face with his hands, intertwining his fingers and pressing them against his lips. Again, he fell silent. He knew they couldn't not race; he certainly couldn't afford to tell Frank after months of effort that he wouldn't start tomorrow. He couldn't do that.

"I don't want to race," Y/N admitted, shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Ayrton, he, Roland-" the man rose without a word and hugged her tightly. He enveloped her in a strong embrace, stroking her hair. Watkins saw that Senna was thinking intensely. And no matter what he said or did to convince him to skip the race, he would do it his own way.

"Think about it, Ayrton. Just think about it," he said one last time. Senna looked him in the eyes and nodded in silence.

Late in the afternoon, Ayrton and Y/N returned to the hotel. They didn't talk much; Y/N occasionally wiped her eyes with a tissue. Ayrton held her hand a lot. When they lay in bed, Senna laid on her stomach, wrapping his arm around her waist. The girl began to run her fingers through his damp hair.

"I don't want to start tomorrow, Y/N," he said softly. He was facing away from her, she couldn't see that he was crying too. "I have a bad feeling."

"You know nobody can force you to do it," she said calmly, her other hand stroking his cheek. "Maybe Watkins is right? Let's fly to your parents, spend time with the kids. It's been two months since you've seen them."

"I can't," he said, wiping his face with his hand. "I can't, nobody needs a driver who doesn't race."

"Ayrton—" "Just hold me," he interrupted, sitting up. The girl obeyed his command, sitting between his legs and hugging him tightly. Both were silent; Y/N tenderly stroked his head and tense back.

"This will be my last season," he said, not moving an inch from her. "I've done enough; I don't need more. I want to focus on something else, on more important things."

"On what, my love?" she asked gently, still stroking his hair.

"I want to be a dad,"

Senna surprised her with this confession. The girl smiled.

"Would you like to have a son or a daughter?"

"A daughter, oh, how I'd love a daughter," he said, pulling away to look at her face. "Would you like to have a child with me? And become my wife?"

Y/N smiled and nodded. "You know I would."

Ayrton returned her smile and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her deeply.

"Te amo, querido,"

"I love you too, Ayrton. And i will always do."

"And i will always do," Y/N said qiuetly, watching as the coffin slowly descends into the ground. Nothing can destroy such love, certainly not death.

[velarisnightsky444]

Scorched Shadows: Part 11

Eris x AzrielsSister!Reader

Summary: Y/N is the younger sister of Azriel. She has shadows just like him, and is also a spymaster for Rhys. When she meets Eris, she initially hates him, but after a bargain is made between them, things begin heating up.

CW: Violence

AN: Hey, I'm back. I will finish by kink/fluff/angstober during December lol. October was sooo busy for me.

Series Masterlist

Part 10 || Part 12(upcoming)

»»————-　♔　————-««

Year 24 since fic began Year 20 Under the Mountain

It had been quite a while since you'd found yourself covered in someone else's blood.

But after you'd been cornered by that Winter Court male all those years ago, you had begged Rhysand for some sort of weapon to defend yourself. He provided you with a dagger that you kept sheathed at your thigh, beneath the skirts of your dresses.

You had sensed the male before you heard him, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end as he snuck up on you in the dark corridors. Without your shadows, you had been forced to train your intuition, and it had improved tremendously. And you could feel his presence.

You had reached for your dagger, quickly spinning on your heel, and burying the blade in his face. Right at the bridge of his nose. He had let out a shattering cry, a hand flying to his face. And you retrieved your dagger and ran.

"If you're aiming to kill, go for the neck," Azriel had once told you. "But if you just want to shock and disarm them, go for the face. Nobody expects you to stab them in the face."

You ran. Ran as fast as you could. You didn't even know where you were running to until you found yourself at Eris's door. You'd just been there not even four hours ago, but here you were again.

You didn't even knock before letting yourself in. Eris was sprawled out on his bed, curly red locks in his face as he read book. His tunic revealed the top of his perfect chest, and his pants hugged his muscular legs so nicely.

"Already back for more--" he began smugly, but the smirk was wiped from his face when he met your eyes. "What in the Cauldron's name happened to you?"

"I stabbed a male," you managed.

The bloody dagger fell from your hand and clattered against the hard floor, splattering the red substance across it.

Eris was on his feet in a second, his book forgotten on the bed as he rushed to your side, gripping your shoulders and pulling you into the room, closing the door carefully behind you.

"What did he do to you?" Eris snarled, his hands still on your shoulders as he took you in.

"Nothing," you said, your staring passed him, at the wall. "I didn't give him the chance."

"Is he dead?"

"No," you replied, swallowing a lump in your throat. "I stabbed him in the face."

"In the face?" Eris snapped, amber eyes going wide.

"Nobody expects you to stab them in the face," you numbly repeated your brother's words.

"Who is he?" Eris demanded with a growl. "I will kill him, Y/N."

"I don't know," you murmured. "I ran before I could see him very well."

Eris sighed, his hand coming up from your shoulder to cup your face. He'd be different--more gentle lately. Things in general had been different between the two of you in the last five years. Since the ball, when you admitted that you didn't think he was cruel.

Neither of you had acknowledged the change, but there was more trust between the two of you. More affection. More care. It wasn't just rough sex anymore. It didn't mean you had fallen in love with him, but you didn't quite despise him anymore, either.

"I'll run you a bath," he mumbled.

You nodded, grateful as he slipped away, off to his bathroom. You let loose a breath, shock still keeping you from fully comprehending what was going on.

When Eris emerged again, he came to your side, leading you to the bathroom. You glanced down at the bath, then at Eris, who's brow was furrowed with concern.

"I don't know what he wanted to do to me, Eris," you whispered. "I stabbed him before he--"

"Good," Eris cut you off. "Good that you stabbed him before you could find out."

You nodded, staring off into space.

"Do you need help?" he asked you. You shook your head. "Fine. I laid out one of my tunics for you when you get out.

You thanked him quietly, and he left you alone. You shed your clothes climbing into the hot tub. You didn't have it in you to relax. Instead, you scrubbed at the blood on your scarred hands, and the splatters on your face. Scrubbed until the water was tinted orange.

When you got out, you dried off and brushed through your hair with your fingers. You pulled his tunic on, leaving yourself bare on the bottom.

You found Eris in his bed again when you came out of the bathroom, and you didn't say a word to him before going to his side. You found that you couldn't stand to be alone. So you climbed into his bed, laying yourself on top of him.

"Are you alright?" Eris asked. "This is strange."

While affection had been more common between you two, you hadn't ever been this affectionate. But you needed comfort, you needed company. And Rhys was never around. Not that that was his fault. But Eris was all you had.

"I don't feel so well," you said to him.

And at those words, his arms wrapped around you, holding you to him. You nuzzled your face under his chin, the warmth of his body a comfort to you.

»»————-　♔

Eris was more than shocked when you crossed the room in nothing but his tunic, and collapsed on top of him. But once he'd gotten over the initial shock, he found that it felt so right.

So he held you. He held you until you fell asleep wrapped in his arms. Then, he held you closer.

For a Spymaster who killed for a living, you had been so shaken up by the incident. You had been trembling, your eyes so distant, your face numb. And he wanted nothing more than to kill the male that had tried to hurt you.

He'd been trying to avoid admitting to himself that he was starting to care for you. But truly, he was. He knew he couldn't allow himself to love you.

When his mother had walked in to find you in his room a few years back, she had certainly berated him for it.

"That girl is beloved by all the males in the Night Court that quite dislike you," she had reminded him. "Eris, you are smart. You know better."

Not to mention what his father would do to you, how he would use you against him if he ever knew. If he ever found out. He couldn't. He couldn't love you.

But it was so hard. So hard when you were asleep on his chest, breathing softly. When you had come to him first after such a distressing experience.

Just this morning, you had been insatiable. You'd sucked him off, then let him fuck you until you were nearly shrieking with pleasure. And only four hours later, you'd shown up trembling.

He was furious at the thought of any male even thinking of laying a hand on you. He wished you could've at least remembered his face, so he could rip the male apart, limb by limb.

But for now, knowing you were safe was enough.

»»————-　♔　————-««

Scorched Shadows Taglist: @the-sweet-psycho @hnyclover @lilyevansstudygroup @esposadomd @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @a-court-of-mischief-and-madness @sourapplex @when-you-cant-think-of-anything @i-know-i-can @mp-littlebit @paintedbyshadows @kristijenner19 @kitsunetori @lorosette @bookwormysblog

Eris Taglist:

Comment to be added to the Scorched Shadows or Eris taglists!

»»————-　♔　————-««

[reallife6anoufriev6boy6]

caldre smut fic

includes spanking, praise, degradation, daddy kink, andre being overly worried, etc.

note: this came from a post and then my boyfriend found the full video, so i decided to write this….enjoy your slop/j

calvin was situated over andres lap while he sat on his bed, jeans pulled down to his knees to show his grey boxers.

cal had wanted to try something different this time around, but andre was hesitant.

it was weird to put it simply and he didnt want to hurt his boyfriend. although, theyve done a lot worse - even before they established they were dating.

so, nonetheless he still tries.

“just do it, ‘dre. itll be fine,” cal reassures him, looking back at him “im *asking* you to do it, arent i?”

andre slowly nodded “well, yeah, but i dont want to - you know, hurt you.”

the blonde smiled, enjoying all of the others worry and care “thats the point though, andre. its supposed to hurt.”

hes not wrong, it was supposed to hurt. he just didnt want to get too carried away and hurt him *too* badly.

calvin seems to know what hes thinking, so he adds “i trust you. i know you wont make it too bad.”

with that andre lets out a sigh, flexing his hands to let his knuckles crack “if it hurts too bad youll tell me, yeah?”

calvin quickly nodded, too eager to worry about that sort of thing. he liked how much andre cared, but sometimes it would get in the way of things.

however, the brunette finally gets on with it, trusting that cal will tell him if it becomes too much for him.

andre lays his hand flat over calvins ass, lifting it before bringing it right back down. it wasnt anything too hard at first, but it wasnt too soft either.

cal lets out a short squeak, burying his face into the bedsheets. it felt good although it wasnt exactly the roughness he was looking for.

he brings his hand up again and then back down, taking note of the way the others body seemed to jolt.

he does it a third time and then a forth, now being able to feel cals erection hard against his thigh.

“do it - a little harder, please, andre.” he begged, voice muffled from the bed sheets. he *needed* it to be as hard and rough as possible.

andre hesitated again though, but ultimately obliged - he brought his hand down harder this time which pulls a whiny moan out of his boyfriend.

“was that alright?” he asked, wanting to make sure he was doing it how he wanted him to.

“yeah - god, yeah, ‘dre. keep doing it like that *please.*” his eagerness and begging seemed to take a toll on him. it was always one of the things that got to him.

andre hits him even harder, reveling in the cry he gets in return. its beautiful, really, he thought all the noises cal made were gorgeous.

he gets ready to do it again, but is interrupted by feeling the other grind down against his thigh. it makes his breath hitch and he gets an idea - an idea he has no clue if calvin will like or not, but he does it anyway.

andre slams down his hand twice as hard, getting an even louder cry from cal “dont fucking grind against me unless i tell you otherwise, alright?”

the blonde is ecstatic as soon as he says that - he loves when andre is dominant and can use his naturally commanding tone for something like this.

“yeah - yes, sir - daddy, ah, fuck,” it comes out in a string of nonsense, but hes able to catch onto what he says and it makes his erection strain against his pants.

he doesnt reply though and just lays another slap down, listening to the moaning and whining.

he decides though that he wants to change this up a little bit.

he takes a moment to pull down calvins grey boxers, exposing him fully now. he doesnt seem to mind it - only letting out a whimper from the lack of touch.

andre gives him what he wants again though, flattening out his hand once more and hitting him.

it hurts more now without the barrier and cal lets it show, pressing his hips down as if to move away from the other.

the brunette takes notice and lays down an even harsher hit “i thought you wanted this, calvin? did you change your mind?”

cal cant get over the way he says his name, whimpering again as he shook his head, but that wasnt good enough. he lets out a yelp as hes hit once again.

“yeah - i do, i want it, sir,” it comes out, almost stuttery “please - im sorry.”

andre hummed, letting his hand rest over his ass as he rubbed at the mark already starting to form “tell me how much you want it, cal.”

the blonde swallowed hard, but does his best to answer “so, so bad, ‘dre. i - i wanna feel your hands on me,” he yelped as he was cut off by another slap, but he continued “please, daddy - shit, it feels so good.”

andre wasnt sure if he was dreaming or not. this was too good to be true and he couldnt get enough of it.

he then grabbed a fistful of his silky blonde hair, yanking his head up to look at him.

there were *tears* streaking down his face and there was spit covering his mouth and chin.

he hadnt even realized he started crying and he wants to ask if hes okay - if this was getting to be too much for him, but his boyfriend already knew what he was going to say, so he gives him a short, subtle nod for him to continue.

thats all he needed.

“are you sure thats what you want?,” he questioned, yanking his head back a little further “you want me to keep hurting you like youre some *slut?*”

the blonde nodded eagerly, sniffling “please, please daddy. i need it so fucking bad - you have no idea.”

he lets go of his hair and gets ready to continue, but the other is confused when he doesnt get right back to it.

however, his confusion turns to excitement when he hears andre unbuckling his belt and sliding it out of the loops on his pants.

andre holds both ends and doesnt hesitate to smack it right down against him, hearing the string of sounds and sobs it earns.

he does it again and again - continuing to do it over and over again while he watched the area turn a pretty shade of pink and red.

it was beautiful. he thought calvin looked like an angel no matter what they were doing - even if it something as dirty as this.

“oh, oh ‘dre,” he moaned, digging his nails into the bed sheets “you gotta let - let me do it, daddy. oh, you have to.” its obvious what he means and he figured it wouldnt hurt to let him.

“only if you can behave - dont hump me like some damn dog.” before he can even finish his sentence, he was already grinding down against him like earlier. it felt good to finally relieve the pain.

at this point the blonde was panting like a dog, grinding down against andres thigh so hard that his jeans were starting to irritate his cock, but he makes no effort to stop him.

“oh, fuck, fuck - you, you gotta let me cum, daddy, please-“ it comes out in a sob - so desperate and needy to get himself off no matter what.

andre doesnt have a reason not to let him, so he agreed “yeah, go ahead, cal.” he says it all soft, contrasting from his earlier tone.

calvin takes that and grinds his hips down just about as hard as he could while andre takes the opportunity to lay another hit or two on him.

it was only a moment later that he was cumming all over his thigh with a high pitched moan - moaning andres name as loud as he could, just for him to hear.

its music to his ears, he thinks. all of this was perfect.

calvin is exhausted by the time hes finished, letting himself lay on andres lap while he comes down from his high.

the brunette sets the belt down and placed his hand back over the marks, rubbing over them gently again “that was really good.” he says it, sounding embarrassed for even being into it.

calvin lets out a breathless laugh, finding it cute how embarrassed he seemed to be.

he managed to sit up after a moment, trying to get over the stinging pain in his body “you did good too, ‘dre. youre the best at this,” he compliments him, leaning in to give him a quick kiss before pulling away “im so lucky to have you.”

the contrast between his words and what they did was amusing, but andre didnt care. he just smiled as his face warmed up.

although before he can comment, cals already looking down at his pants.

“oh, andre, your pants,” he tries to hold back his laughter “youre too easy.”

he gives him a confused look, but when he looks down he becomes about a hundred times more embarrassed. there was a wet spot right over his front, obviously from cumming himself.

“goddamnit,” he hissed under his breath “ruined my damn jeans.”

“they were already ruined anyway,” he gestured to the more obvious white spot that was from cal rather then himself “you can just borrow mine, i dont care.”

cal could say he was lucky all he wanted, but at the end of the day andre was even luckier then him.

“thanks, man,” he sighed “do you need me to do anything for you? you know - because…” he was still worried he had hurt him too much, but his boyfriend was quick to reassure him again.

“im fine, andre. dont worry so much,” he smiled as he wiped away the remaining tears in his eyes, face now tacky and dry “you did great.”

he finds it hard to believe him, but he forces himself to anyway.

“im allowed to worry, cal. youre my - uh, shit…” his voice trails off, not being able to say the word. it was all still so new so he didnt want to mess up and say the wrong thing.

“just because im your *boyfriend* now doesnt change anything,” he says it for him “im still the same person.”

he placed his hand on the side of his face, kissing him again. the other quickly reciprocated and leaned into it.

“i love you, ‘dre.”

“i love you too, cal.”

[luv-y0urself]

18 headcanons for woon's 18th !

day 1 : living with woon . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

established relationship!au | roommate!woon x fem!reader ♫．genre : slice of life, so much fluff... | wc : 789 | warnings : second person pov ! woon is implied to be a student ⏤ in college or high school is up to you to decide. as always, there is some mild bickering too :') 𖤐．first post of the series ! happy birthday once again, woon <3 make sure to let me know which one you guys like the most for the full fic on the seventh day ! more details on the masterlist linked below ↓

ᵔᴗᵔ﹕masterlist | the next day . . . [posted] !

living together-

there would never be a dull day if woonhak was living with you… literally. there’s always one thing or another happening around you guys, and you guys always make the most of it. 

like, there was one time when woonhak insisted that you teach him some of the yoga/pilates things you’ve been doing in your freetime, saying something like “it can’t be that hard…”

oh boy. poor guy was shaking just using a foam roller and doing a couple of exercises with it while you were nearly crying from laughter. 

“you won’t even be able to use a reformer!!”

“sh-shut up!! yes i can!!”

but even when you guys bicker with each other like that, woonhak is still someone that you can rely on for anything.

sometimes there are just days where you don’t want to do anything and just want to stay home, but he forces you to get up and do something, even if that’s going on a short little walk with him outside for some fresh air or just being next to his warmth while he’s doing homework for some of his classes, listening to his voice talking about random things to make you feel better.

he always has food prepared for you on those days – not processed, delivered food, but actual homemade food that he made, freshly prepared for you to eat.

“... thanks, woon.”

“you have to do the dishes.”

“are you kidding me???”

throwing tantrums-

cue the hundreds of videos of woon on the floor throwing a tantrum…

if something doesn’t go his way… this is definitely the type of move he would pull out of his pocket.

FOR EXAMPLE. if something goes wrong w the game he’s playing, he would lay on the floor and start doing this, causing you to run out of the kitchen, not even caring about the flour from your apron leaving a trail behind you as you stare at his flailing body.

of course. just when you're making your favorite cookies to eat during the weekend...

“... woon…?”

“oh my GOD i literally cannot beat this level this is absolutely horrible i’m so bad at this game–”

“woon– oh my god–” you run over and reach out to him to grab his hand holding the flailing controller, putting it down and grabbing both his wrists, successfully putting them above his head as you stare down at him. he finally stops and sighs, looking into your eyes.

“you know, sometimes i wonder if i’m babysitting a child or if i’m living with my boyfriend.”

woon scoffs, all thoughts about the game forgotten as he swiftly switches your positions so that he was on top of you now.

“well, obviously your boyfriend, right?” he gives you a mischievous smile before he starts tickling your sides, getting flour all over his clothing and face before you’re finally able to make him stop.

yes, throwing a tantrum means you have to go and calm him down… which also means this happens every single time too. you still haven’t quite figured out a way to get out of the situation, which wasn't good because woon was getting better day by day at finding your weak spots.

"woon – oh my god – let go of me! my cookies are going to burn!"

"not until you say that i'm the bestest boyfriend in the world."

"jesus christ–"

coparenting a pet-

now, although you insisted that you have enough on your hands with woon in the house, he always wanted to get a pet – a pet dog, specifically. you’ve always said no because that would be too much of a commitment for you guys. but… for his birthday, you finally decided to give in – all the while doing a small prank.

see, you packaged a couple of cute dog toys and gave it to him on the morning of his birthday. he opened them up, happy to see the plushies but a little confused. 

“aren’t these for… dogs…?”

you couldn’t help but smile. “check outside.”

his eyes light up immediately and he zooms out of the room, and you follow him with your phone recording, watching as he picks up the dog from the box that you bought him in and had left outside just a couple minutes ago, the small brown furball nearly disappearing in his arms.

his eyes look at yours with a look of wonder and joy, and he smiles so wide, making your heart warm just by looking at the two of them together. he puts down the dog softly on the floor and immediately pulls you into his embrace, his large hand covering the back of your head and burying himself into your scent by snuggling into the crevice of your shoulder.

“thank you so much, love.”

© luv-y0urself / 2024 | taglist : @onedoornet @blankjournal

[iwantmochisoup]

mochi soup's sappy happy crying session

i'm so sorry, please bear with me, but i really need to be super sappy rq. (it's gonna be a long one, so imma add the read more here)

i just recently hit 10k likes and lost my shit over it qwq;; i was overthinking a lot, i wanted to run away, and it kinda hit me because honestly, i don't think i deserve all this ;; like i'm just being silly on here and having fun ;;

but that aside, i have been thinking how to properly say thank you, since words are really hard for me (wow big shocker ikr lmao) but i realized it's thanks giving, despite me not being from america i saw all the love today and i thought maybe i can try, this time, to put it to words. (i'm sorry if i don't make sense at all, and honestly don't mind me honestly, i've always been super scared of talking on here but i need to ramble)

so, idk how to start this, i honestly quit art for good like 4 years ago, won't comment on it but this year i tried to pick it back up. i am so scared of people, especially online but i thought why not, so i made a lil acc on here, i wanna say i'm so lucky to have met you all and seeing people like my art, seriously it's what keeps me going. (that sounds so sappy but for what feels like the first time in my life i am genuinely being myself and i am so happy idk what to do) this is way too long of an intro...

i'm gonna start off my twin of course, it feels fitting hehe ;; so, @saltedbiscuiit you know how shit i am at words, and you know how thankful i am for you, and we talked so much about it already so i'll try to keep this short ;; i am genuinely so happy to have met you, kinda feels like it changed my life back then, it honestly hasn't been that long really, since the art trade back in july, i honestly feel like i found my other half (that's so sappy pls don't cry but i'm being honest) thank you so much for everything, you do so much for me, even if you don't know it and i am honestly so so grateful and happy. thank you so much <3 hehe, salty soup salted mochi

the next one is @cryptid-juzou we just recently met, but i fell in love with your writing, almost instantly!! you're such a great friend, and it's sm fun talking and playing games with you!! and i'm so happy and grateful to have met you!! Really, thank you so much for all you did for me and for accepting the collab! To be working with you on our thing (i won't go into detail, yk big surprise and all) honestly, i'm so so happy and i can't wait to finish it!!

next!! @k-aez !! you've been haunting me in dreams, scolding me and i still think about that raw chicken art you did. okay jokes aside, i'm so happy to have met you and i feel the need to thank you like forever for creating the server and everything you've done. you've been supporting me and pushing me to get out of my ass and kept encouraging me sm. i can't put it into words, but i will be forever grateful for everything!

big big thanks to @ohhcinnybuns, @anticidic and @ediblepandas ya'll have been feeding my brain so many good ideas and enabled some brainrot i will thank you forever for. cinny, you know how much i love your fics and your massive brain in general, i'm so happy i was brave enough back then, and did some art of your ideas, idk if i would even tried to join the server if i didn't see your reblog. rosie, you know how much i love your fics, i'm not about to fangirl in public but i'm truly thankful, you've inspired me so so much, i love with your writing, your kitsunezai au and your scream in phasmo still is the best scream ever! pandas, hehe yk i need to thank you here too! your yapping about dresses and in general talking to you is so much fun! i love your brain sm! thank you so so much for enabling me so much, and please send me more dresses, i love them all!

and, ofc i have to give big thanks the chaos trio too @thatghostinyourbog @spccts & @msshinylemon !! yes, i'm calling you that, that name is fitting, shovel fight if you disagree, losers >:3 i have to thank you three a lot, ya'll are so fun to hang around and play games with, i seriously love what you all do, be it drawing, writing or just the way ya'll yap nonstop! it's sm fun hanging out and i love how we bounce off each other so well and ya'll inspire me so much!! also tysm @nolongerforthetainted for babysitting them!! i really love your writing sm and it's always sm fun yapping with you, and also pls make more coleslaw beds!! i need them! but honestly, thank you so much, i am so happy to have met ya'll and i always look forward to talking and hang out with ya'll!!

WAAAAA THAT IS SO LONG OMG BUT!!! I also need to thank each one of you, all my moots and everyone that just takes their time to look at my art, leave a like, reblog, comment what ever really, i appreciate each and every one of you so so much! thank you all so much, from the bottom of my heart, i can't explain how much it means to me! i also want to give a lil thanks to @noakiie @nevertheblood @altruistic-meme @artsyaudience @konbupie @jellyphink & @lethargyinafishbowl i wanted to tag more but i'm so sorry but i'm too scared, really ;;;

idk how to end this, honestly, i feel like i wrote too much and rambled way too much. i guess i'm just gonna-- *runs*

WITH MUCH LOVE AND A BIG HOP STEP JUMP -mochi soup

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

Venir à Moi

Summary: “You marvellous creature.”, Nothing but adoration oozed out of Lestat’s mouth and trickled from his lips thick and decadent like honey, “Sister…daughter…blood of our blood. Couldn’t have made you any better myself.”

Pairing: Lestat de Lioncourt x GabriellesFledgling!afab!Reader

Word Count: ~3.3k

Content Warnings: Vampire Incest Potpourri 18+!, Public Masturbation, Unprotected Intercourse (I mean, they're vampires…), Themes Of Jealousy And Obsession, Slightly Predatory Lestat, A Bit Of Coercion If You Squint, Rough Fucking, French, Biting, Blood Drinking

A/N: If Armand can snort that Lestat fic cocaine then so can I! Massive, massive shout out to @queer-crusader ! Thank you! I probably would’ve dropped the thing if it wasn’t for you <3 

Tagging: @queer-crusader @theprettiesthead @midnight-mess @vampsaints @tulinokkaelain @blueberrypancakesworld

Cry, little sister! (Thou shalt not fall)

Come, come to your brother! (Thou shalt not die)

Unchain me, sister! (Thou shalt not fear)

Love is with your brother! (Thou shalt not kill)

- Cry Little Sister By Gerard McMahon

Infatuation wasn’t the correct term to describe just how much of Lestat’s world circled around his little sister, or was it daughter? Gabrielle’s and consequently his blood flowing through your body recently turned immortal, the newest most pristine addition to the de Lioncourt family for Gabrielle had craved a daughter of her own.

There you were, once fruit seller at the market now elevated into Paris’ vampire elite, sitting on the balcony, hands draped in your lap as you watched him perform on stage; Lelio to the masses but brother Les to you. Brother - Father -  Mentor - Patron Saint, what really did it matter? The only relevance was that he loved you and you loved him.

Once more, he spun around, the tail of his costume whipping through the air just like his hair; soft, golden curls framing his face and cascading down his shoulders like honey, pulling each and every pair of eyes to gaze at him. He truly had that effect on everybody - much to your dismay, causing your palms to clench into fists whilst blinding jealousy thundered through you. You wanted him to be yours and only yours, feeling it tear and rip at you just how much he belonged with you and you belonged with him. Some days, not seldomly, it was maddening, the endless push and pull of thrashing emotions swinging you around like a brittle autumn leaf carried away by a rainstorm.

You felt it in the air, how much they lusted after him; hungry eyes tearing him apart whilst he performed with a kind of liquidity and smoothness alien to human motions entirely.

“Hier soir, je t'ai imploré de venir à moi!” Lestat puffed his chest out and shrugged his shoulders in a dramatic, dismissive fashion and for a split second, you forgot that his exclamation was nothing more than the scripted punchline of a dialogue; the sentiment punching right through you.

You’d begged, too, for him to come to you. You’d begged silently, under your breath, a watery red sheen glazing over your eyes and eventually pooling at your lower lashline as you had repeated it in your mind over and over again, imploring him to be with you because you couldn’t help yourself much longer - two fingers knuckle deep inside yourself, fantasising it was him until a hardly satisfying orgasm and the pull of the coffin had lulled you to sleep.

A shallow breath hitched over your bottom lip. Just like everybody else, your eyes darted at Lestat and you could’ve sworn he was winking right at you before proceeding with the performance, his smile flashing at you brighter than the force of a thousand burning suns. 

The little moment had you at the edge of your cushioned seat, the former gushes of raging jealousy evaporating into nothingness and instead making way for warmth to creep up from your collarbone right into your face. Lestat only needed so much as to look at you for you to start crumbling into yourself again, knowing that you’d never bring yourself to open up about your feelings because you feared threatening the delicate balance between the three of you.

Gabrielle, maker, mother, and, on occasion, lover just as well, never directly talked about it, about any other constellation than the current, however, you didn’t take this for indifference but more so as silent reign. She had made you, she loved you and you’d do nothing that could offend or hurt her.

Nevertheless, the magnetic pull Lestat had on you tugged at your insides yet again, leading you to throw careful, side-eyed glances along the balcony, making sure that no curiously prying eyes of others were close enough. As soon as you assured yourself of your little island of privacy amidst a sold-out theatre hall, your fingers pulled at the layered skirt of your dress, working it up bit by bit until a heap of fabric piled and bunched atop your thighs.

Below, thin soles scraping and tapping along the wooden planks, Lestat almost lost his balance for a brief moment. The entire hall appeared as if it was closing in on him, perception narrowing down whether he wanted to or not as the laughter and music died away, the only thing left tangible for him was your blaring thoughts. He wanted to laugh but he couldn’t, lips moving with the memorized words rolling over his tongue as the show had to go on. Regularly, you’d simply forget that, whereas Gabrielle couldn’t hear your thoughts, Lestat very much was able to, listening in on every dirty little thought that ran through your pretty skull as the sun was about to dawn just like right now, supersonic senses picking up on the change in the atmosphere promptly.

Right as the realization hit him, the sweet and mildly tangy smell came oozing down from the balconies, swapping and pooling against the front rows like crisp white wine swirling inside a opulently curved glass. One step, two steps, another twirl, another bow to appease the unknowing audience whilst Lestat inhaled deeply through his nose, his mind finding yours and slipping in without you even noticing it. The smell of you crept into his nostrils, strong enough for him to picture how you’d taste gushing all over his tongue.

The fantasy turned him dizzy, had him growing hard against the tight-fit costume as he heard how you pushed index and middle finger inside of you, your arousal slick enough to carry the lewd squelch through the rapidly thickening air. Lestat wasn’t shocked or disgusted that you took it that far, not at all, he was absolutely thrilled beyond articulation, to the point where he actually considered breaking character and storming off stage to get to you. As much fun as it had been listening to you, following you on the nightly spiral down between thrashing arousal and burning guilt, Lestat could hardly stand it any longer without stepping in; ready and willing to give you the final push.

Only a few more verses left, be a little tease today and leave during the standing ovation, perfectly doable - just a little more and he’d be off the stage faster than anyone could realize but for the time being he needed to keep it together whilst all he heard was you fucking yourself on your fingers; every indeulgent stroke thundering in his ears just like the blood that once rushed through them.

You looked down at the stage, eyes half-lidded, heavy with rising arousal, as you leaned back in the massive armchair, nonchalantly. Just like Lestat, you knew the play by heart, every sentence, every pitch of his tone familiar after nights and weeks of coming to the theatre to feed your longing with all the little scrabs you could possibly find, knowingly allowing the need within to grow and fester with every performance. 

You’d get off in just a bit and after that, the play would finish, the theatre would run quiet, people streaming outside into the night and you’d follow, possibly picking one to drain and then you’d return home to Gabrielle, tell her about your night, about your potential kill and, depending on her mood, you’d let her feed on you for a bit until it was time to lay down in your coffin again, rinse and repeat; equilibrium contained perfectly.

You felt yourself clenching around your fingers, cunt weeping slick over the thoughts about it being Lestat’s fingers, cock, tongue, whatever, you’d take it all if you just were given the chance to.

Lestat listened, heard every curl of your fingers against your insides and every tender stroke of your thumb over your swollen clit causing him to strain against his pants, rock-hard cock throbbing beneath the fabric. If it hadn’t been for the hundreds of people right in front, staring at him with excitement and anticipation, Lestat would’ve been on you already, giving you everything you’d desired in quiet.

Eventually, he exhaled sharply after the last line had left his delicately painted lips, working his face for a smile as thunderous applause broke loose and roses started raining down onto the stage. He couldn’t care less about any of it and took off immediately, rushing down the stairs and shaking off the jacket of his costume whilst walking.

“Venir à moi!” Lestat mouthed into the aether, pushing the air from your lungs as it echoed in your mind.

Like startled pray, you tore your fingers out yourself, hands scrambling to push all the bunched fabric back down over the curve of your knees before you practically jumped from your seat and disappeared into the many hallways and staircases; not exactly knowing where you were going, only acutely aware of the flaming embarrassment swallowing you whole. How was his voice in your head like that? Thundering awkwardness hammered down on you as you stumbled stiffly through the corridors, not managing to find anonymity between the hoard of people getting to leave the theatre.

You pushed past moving bodies, forcing yourself through endless layers of fabrics and uncounted wafts of different perfumes; supple vanilla notes clashing with earthy hints of rosemary and sweat. It rendered you dizzy yet you carried on until you slipped into a nondescript closet, hiding yourself away to think and let the shame die down.

“You nasty little thing, incroyable.” Not you but Lestat pulled the door shut with such vigour that the old wood quivered in its hinges.

You hadn’t heard him coming, hadn’t sensed him following you - seeking you out, to begin with, and your stomach started turning in every possible direction, embarrassment atop shame atop a concrete-solid fundament made out of fear of being rejected.

You didn’t dare turn around to look at him, his voice rushing through your ears already enough to make you want to cower and apologise but he left you no choice: costume-clad arms reaching out to grasp you by the shoulders, pulling swiftly until your back was flush against his chest.

“Mon amour, don’t be ashamed.”, Something within you felt like breaking, finely organised porcelain gushing out of a shelf and splintering on the floor, “Stop fighting against it, don’t be daft now.”

A crushing wave of I’m sorry’s swept over your quivering bottom lip, the entire scenario way too detached and abstract to grasp. Your whole body froze, a reckless stupor enrapturing every muscle and every joint, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind yet not one of them truly tangible.

“Such a deranged little creature. I am in your thoughts, chèri, no need to pretend.” No amount of him talking right at you, his breath against the shell of your ear could stop your head from getting damn near to exploding.

The onslaught of self-loathing didn’t find an end until Lestat pulled you to face him, unearthly blue eyes beaming at you before he shoved himself against you, making you stumble back, brooms and buckets clanking between shuffling feet until he’d cornered you against the wall.

“Quit it.”, His voice was calm, tantalizing, sugary sweet and trying to coax something out of you with its charm, “Can you not see what you are doing to me?”

His broad hand reached to palm at your wrist, guiding your fingers to brush against the wide waistband of his pants. A quiet gasp hitched around the root of your tongue as you felt Lestat twitching beneath your feathery touch.

“Actions usually have consequences, fledgling.” He pushed himself against you, stepped right into your space as broadly as he possibly could.

“Will you listen to me?”, You couldn’t look anywhere else as his fingers cradled your jaw, forcing your gaze to point back at his face, “We seem to suffer from the very same affliction, sister.”

“This..we- we shouldn’t. What about maman?” The breaths carrying those words came shallow.

“Let that be my worry, love.” His thumb caressed the curve of your chin as he swallowed any potential of vocalized protest by pressing plush, lightly pink lips to yours.

The sensation was dizzying, so unlike anything you could’ve made up on your own; your undead heart taking flight,  trying to leap out of your chest and hammer back into the land of the living.

There was no resistance on your part, shame and embarrassment gliding off your shoulders in a freeing avalanche until you felt almost floaty, every last little bit of you awash with the thrill as the teeth-gnashing hunger for the thing you perhaps just shouldn’t have thumbed amidst your thighs again. Finally, curious hands reached out to grab at Lestat, not knowing where to still their need first as your fingers traced the slender silhouette of his waist, his costume accentuating everything, then dropping down, back to the tight waistband of his pants.

Lestat groaned into your mouth, sharp teeth grazing over your bottom lip in playful tease.

“I promise, I’m so much better than just two fingers, dear.” His exclamation almost sounded like a threat, spurring you on to loop your finders underneath the fabric and tear at it.

“Greedy.” Lestat found himself utterly smitten, his mother’s taste impeccable.

“Family thing, I reckon, no?” Slowly you managed to gather your snide back again.

“And delectably mouthy just as well.” Lestat shoved you impossibly close against the wall behind, working himself between your legs whilst he fumbled with the skirt of your dress.

“How’d you get in my head?” The question raised from the back of your thoughts and slithered right over your tongue.

“Mother didn’t teach you? Well, that makes an awful lot of sense.” Lestat’s voice was accompanied by the ruffling of fabric as eager fingers made hasty work.

“Teach what?” After fighting with tightly tied leather straps, the cloth around Lestat’s waist finally budged, giving way to be pulled down, the pads of your fingertips brushing along the curve of his ass, not fighting the desire to dig right into the supple flesh earning you a slightly taunting hiss.

“The undead can read the mind, child.” Your brows arched up at his words.

“And I made sure to listen to yours every night. Depraved, desperate and so so guilty, no? What would maman say if she knew? Such tossing and turning when all you had to do was ask, chéri.” The verbal payback for you groping at his ass like a bitch in heat.

“You’re impossible.” You returned and he laughed in your face.

“Another family thing, I’m afraid.” His hands grasped at your bare waist underneath the layers of your dress, pointy nails of his thumbs scratching against your skin, from your hips down until he cupped the undersides of your thighs, holding you up against the wall as if you weighed nothing.

“You marvellous creature.”, Nothing but adoration oozed out of his mouth and trickled from his lips thick and decadent like honey, “Sister…daughter…blood of our blood. Couldn’t have made you any better myself.”

Without a warning or any further ado, Lestat pushed himself between your legs, his aching cock spearheading into you, impaling you against the wall as you stretched around him, the girth to accommodate certainly more than that of two fingers.

You exhaled sharply, the little gasp falling from your lips being swallowed by a jaw-crushing kiss Lestat pressed to your mouth, his fangs protruding, fueled by the violent nature of the act whilst his fingers threatened to cut into your skin - you’d begged and he was more than eager to claim, marking your body with his presence.

“Je t’aime.” You muttered against his lips again and again in breathless little cries as he started moving, his hips rolling and thrusting into your lap.

“Je t’aime aussi, mon amour.” Lestat whispered against the corner of your lips before leaving a trail of kisses from your cheek down to the nape of your neck, the sweet caresses quickly making way for a sharp sting of cold pain as his teeth cut into you; the man working himself into you in more than just one way.

Within seconds, the throbbing discomfort in your neck turned into just another source of pleasure as Lestat’s tongue lapped at the circular incisions, drinking from you whilst he gave you all of him, body pressed against body in a wretched embrace of limbs and pent-up longing.

The fact that you were still at the theatre, cramped into a hopefully forgotten broom closet turned into a blur of sensations and feelings; every small nuance painting a firework behind closed eyes as everything zoned in on experiencing Lestat devouring you whole.

He could’ve suffocated you with his presence, snuffed you out like a candle on a breezy windowsill and you would’ve thanked him regardless, every fibre within clinging to him in ways you hadn’t quite experienced with your maker just yet. 

The narrow, little room was filled with the harsh cacophony of skin slapping against skin and animalistic slurping - ugly to the ears of the living but the utmost vibrant symphony to you whilst you allowed yourself to let yourself fall in Lestat’s attentive palms, the final bit of restraint vanishing into a rush of unearthly pleasures.

For those shared moments, you were one - moving as one - breathing as one into one another and you knew that nothing could tear you from his side ever again because, for once, you belonged.

A treacherous little slither of red trickled from the corner of your eye and ran down the curve of your cheek, the tiny droplet getting soaked up by the collar of your dress whilst you hid your face in his shoulder, giving Lestat perfect access to your throat; perfectly vulnerable for the predator.

Like a madman unleashed, he fucked you against the wall, stirring the remnants of arousal your fingers had left and making you clench around him as the tension in your body grew into unknown heights. The swiftly approaching orgasm took you by force; contracting explosions of white-hot bliss rippling through you as you groaned out against the frilly, white cloth of his tie and before overstimulation could take over, Lestat followed suit.

He tore his fangs from your skin, the tip of his tongue lapping at the wound one last time before he pushed into you, spurts of blood flooding your insides and oozing out onto the wooden floor.

Lestat’s heavy breaths breezed over your torn skin but he didn’t let go of you just yet, not before he’d bitten down onto his bottom lip, coaxing but the tiniest droplet of blood to emerge which then got promptly pressed to your neck - blood for blood to make the incisions close within the blink of an eye.

“We’re going to make for a fine bunch, maman, you and I.” Lestate caressed the side of your face with the tip of his nose; brother, father and now companion. 

[lunarla123]

Schwarz

Uh, this is just me trying to be experimental in writing. Although I still suck at it a bit. The writing is under the cut.

BFs in this drabble fic: WSL!bf (Berry, mine), Yourself around the end (YS, Ochre's version)

CW: EXPLICIT VOMITTING AND BODY HORROR (I think)

It does get better in the end I prommy! :)

Black

Everything was just pitch, charcoal black.

His throat even taste like it, he wanted to puke.

His muscles reflexively gagged, the binding of his jacket made the clogged trachea all the more strangulating. At least he can feel. . .something getting out of his mouth and system.

The dizziness grew stronger with every retch, yet he can't have the solace to hear it. Everything is so, so quiet.

He screamed and wailed, but all that can be heard is a pathetic inaudible wheeze, like a dying dog in an inescapable ditch.

Schatten. . .Schatten- GAGH AGH. . .bitte. . .es tut weh. . . ah AAGH-

He can barely breathe or think right, he can sense every muscle and organ shaking violently, as if it wants to stretch him thin from the inside out, swapping his outsides with it.

His teeth feel like they're forcing his mouth wide apart, his jaw joints were at their breaking point as they were at the teeth's mercy. He can feel even things rushing in and out of the gap, as if the ghosts around him are taking turns playing and ripping his guts for entertainment. His spinning eyes could see those beady stares from the abyss around him, a freaky toy to be entertained by.

He can hear some passing voices of complaint about him, having another psychotic breakdown. . .at least that was what he remembered hearing.

Schatten. . .Schatten wo bist du. .? Wo bist du!? Ich will nicht sterben. . .SCHATTEN-!!

He kept slamming himself into anything that was in his ward, wanting the pain to go away quickly. So far he was only given a temporary numbness before the pain to come back tenfold.

He wanted to cry. Oh, he wanted to cry so badly, yet his eyes didn't seem to think he needs to. His mouth did all the crying for him, but even the liquid coming out of it felt like acid on his skin. Boiling hot skin.

His body twist and bend irregularly, but the jacket wasn't letting it do what it pleases. He was no longer controlling himself, even after all the pleas and begs-

A door opened.

Berry's neck twisted in a way that it shouldn't, his face fully directing towards the sound. A tall figure, Schatten.

It's Schatten, it has to be.

The black liquid that has been dripping down his mouth slowed into a halt on his chin and drabbed clothes. The boy hadn't realized that the figure wasn't the shadow spirit. Far from it. Yet his mind was too far gone at the moment, already barring his stained maw as he made a wild dash at him.

It quickly evaded him, before it picked him up from behind. Kill. . .he needed to kill him. His legs flailed violently at his surroundings, desperately trying to shove whoever suspended him in the air.

The entity didn't budge, instead Berry felt his body being surrounded by something. . .soft. It confused the little boy, but his still continued to attempt to kick the entity. However it slowly grew futile the longer he stayed in the embrace, his muscles soon weakened and sore. His throat no longer felt strangled, and his eyelids were heavy. . .What. . .What was happening?

"Shhh, it's okay now. It's time to rest little guy."

Something. . .Someone was whispering. . .It didn't sound like Helen, her voice isn't that scratchy. . .nor did it sound like Schatten. . .using his own voice against him, nor did it sound this. . .kind. His eyes felt. . .heavy so suddenly. . .

Ich fühle mich. . . so. . . müde. . .

[potatobugz]

*picks you up and dips u in a vat of acid*

[b4kuch1n]

pre-holiday leave crumbs

[petorahs]

shuake rite of passage is like. spending most of the entire game going 😐🤨🤔😳 at their banter/flirting/dates. being intrigued when the normally silent protagonist exclaims a heated "this isn't 'trivial'!" about his one and only rival's life, completely independent of player input. accepting the undeniable fact that 'our light' is basically a love song from protag's point of view to said rival. finding out about proof of justice ova. watching proof of justice ova. watching proof of justice ova again. going insane at the fact that the normally silent protag who never cries, cried over their rival in public. the fact that he was thinking about him before bed. realizing the one active, 'selfish' choice and wish protag had always involved his fated rival in some way, again completely independent from player's views on said rival.

and then becoming lucid for one second and finding out you just dug yourself into a shuake rabbit hole and theres no getting out

[groovebunker]

.

[misiahasahardname]

i found a super old drawing tablet which, naturally, ended with me drawing women all day

[elialys]

I'm going to be hyper about this for a hot minute because them reading my fic out loud on this very official podcast to the very official show writer is absolutely insane and the most exciting thing that's ever happened in my 20 years of fic writing 😭

From "Caught in a Comet's Tail" (episode 1x02 novelization)

There is just something about Young Dale that makes her blood a little warmer—and it’s not exclusively caused by the way he keeps gazing at her as if she was every bit as incredible as he claimed her to be. She’s used to men gawking at her, a lot of them doing nothing to hide it. It feels different with Dale, though. It could be purely professional admiration, remembering the proverbial stars that had sparkled in his eyes while she delivered that special ‘Breaking News’ update, yesterday. But he’d looked at her just the same hours later on the threshold of her home as he was about to leave, clearly exhausted from the insane day they had, and the reading practice she insisted upon at 11 pm.

[skoulsons]

“Ellie?”

She had kept herself closed off most of the day, doing as much as skipping meals, not sketching, and declining their routine movie night.

Joel turned the knob, opening the door only slightly. “Ellie?”

“What?” She bit. She was around the corner, still in bed.

He bit his cheek. “Can I come in?”

She sniffled, a mumbled yeah from around the corner to let him know it was okay. He entered, keeping the door somewhat open behind him. He found her on her back, covers pulled up to her shoulders as she stared at the ceiling, counting imaginary stars.

The look on her face was a sure sign, as any, that things were not good.

He sat by her feet, the corner of the mattress sinking down as he sat, her feet following suit and lightly falling against his lower back.

“Do you need something?”

Joel inhaled and exhaled. He kept his hands awkwardly in his lap. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Why? I’m fine,” she grumbled, eyes still glued to the ceiling.

“You sure?”

She wasn’t. She knew she wasn’t fine. Every possible thought about Joel, Tommy, Maria, Riley, Sam, or Henry that wasn’t positive made its way to the forefront of her brain, twisting everything she knew about them. Making her believe things that she was sure weren’t true. Convincing her of truths that were hard to shake.

Everything is still so new to them. Young and needing navigation and direction. Their relationship and being together now, no plan in sight of leaving or disregarding the other.

She has someone in her life now who cares about her. Who has cared about her for over a year. Someone who dedicates every single day to being present. Who always makes breakfast for the two of them. Someone who holds her when she cries and who lifts her up even higher when she’s happy. Who carries her to bed when she needs it and finds her new comics when he’s outside the walls. Who protects her at every moment and encourages her to eat and shower when she struggles.

Someone who loves her.

And that revelation is what makes these days even harder.

“Hey…” he nudged, turning his body slightly more towards her. “What’s goin’ on, baby?”

Ellie sighed, closing her eyes tightly, waves of colors forming in the black of her vision the harder she squeezed. She opened them, her eyesight wavering as tears pooled at her eyelids. The imaginary stars on the ceiling kept her gaze, still avoiding Joel’s concern.

“Today just… hasn’t been good.”

And while he knew it, hearing it from her still hurts to know. Whatever happened, it hurts to know she’s struggling.

“I think it’s been little worse than hasn’t been good.” It felt inappropriate to point out her near crying and the tight-lipped expression on her face in an attempt to keep her emotions at bay.

“I’m just… having fucked up thoughts,” she sighed, tracing all the constellations she knew into the white of the ceiling.

Joel didn’t say anything. In all honesty, he didn’t know what to say.

Neither of them were the best at talking. Sharing something that pissed them off, frustrated them, or upset them and navigating that conversation in a healthy manner always felt like forcefully pulling teeth before they ever broke the surface of the gums.

Joel hopes his silence is an invitation for her to continue. He wants to help, to walk through what bothering her with her.

“I…,” she started, choking slightly on the syllable. “I feel like people don’t care. They don’t care, they don’t…love.”

Joel tilted his head to the side, eyeing her avoidant gaze.

Ellie brought her hand up and wiped it across her right temple. Her voice wavered, her lip quivering as she spoke, “me.”

Joel had an inclination, but hearing it still hurt all the same.

“I feel like people…” she paused, sniffled heavily. She lazily raised her arm off the bed in his direction, “you… don’t.”

Frustrated, Ellie sat up, her back making content with the headboard harder than she intended. She locked eyes with him momentarily before avoiding his gaze again, fixing hers around the room. Her dresser, a heap of clothes on the floor, her blinds, and the open door.

She stopped keeping her head upright and let the crown of her head fall back, banging against the headboard. She sighed, a wet, embarrassing laugh escaping her. “I… I know. I know you do. I do. But sometimes, I just… get convinced you don’t.”

She fiddles with her hands in her lap as her tears threaten to spill over, Ellie massaging her fingers and cracking her knuckles, even with nothing left to crack. She picks at her cuticles and nails uncomfortably, clearing her throat to get rid of the tight burning that has coated it.

“What convinces you?” Joel asked, his eyes looking twenty years younger—like he’s talking to someone else entirely. Like he’s held a similar conversation before.

His question stumps her.

And she realizes it’s nothing. Nothing has ever convinced her. Nothing could convince her that Joel doesn’t care about her. Nothing could ever truly convince her that Joel doesn’t love her.

He may get frustrated over something. He may be extra tired some days. He may spend a little more strength some days fighting his own demons that it’s hard to be there 100% for her.

But those things don’t mean he doesn’t love her. They don’t mean he wouldn’t lay down his life for her at any given moment. They don’t mean he doesn’t look at her with anything less than adoration, devotion, and appreciation for who she is. Who she is and what she has come to mean to him.

“Have I ever done anything-“

She cut him off. “No. No, no. Fuck no, never.” She threw the crown of her against the headboard again, a few tears spilling down the side of her face and flowing along her jawline. She hastily wiped them away, clearing her throat.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I guess I… don’t think I deserve it or something. So I look at you or Tommy or I… I remember Riley or Sam or anyone else and I… I think they don’t—didn’t care.”

She knows they do. Riley—she knows. Sam she knows. Henry, too. Tommy and Maria—she knows. Joel—he she knows better than any of the others.

“I remember them or I…” she brought her head down from her gaze on the ceiling and looked at him, clearly, for the first time. “I look at you and I wonder why.”

She cries. Her lips pressed together, not enough breath in her lungs to combat the tears falling down her face and slipping down her neck, soaking the collar of her shirt. She wipes and wipes and wipes until her tear-soaked hands can’t catch anymore and they flow freely. She dries her hands on her sheets and it’s still not enough to catch every single one.

Joel moves quickly, his right hand lightly on her shin as he reaches his left out towards her, keeping it held right above her lap for her to feel.

She can barely see, and yet she reaches out, knowing he’s there. Trusting he’s there.

She grabs his left hand with her right, holding it until her knuckles turn white and it hurts. Until it stings and her fingers go numb. Until her hand shakes and the blood flow is cut off from her fingertips.

He moves his right hand from her shin to press a fist into the mattress on the other side of her, scooting himself closer to her. He settles closer to her, bringing his right hand up her shoulder and eventually finding its home on her cheek. He strokes his thumb across it, more tears falling as she leans into it. She turns her head into it, her lips in his palm as he continues wiping her tears.

He pulls his hand back from her face and brings it to her other cheek, sliding his knuckles across to clear the streaks of tears. He returns his hand back to her other cheek, lightly scratching at the roots of her hair on the back of her neck.

Ellie grabs the collar of her shirt with her left hand, wiping the snot from her nose and using any drier part of her shirt to dry her neck and chin.

Joel lifts his left hand to bring up to her face, but a mumbled, snotty no keeps it in her lap, Ellie still clutching it.

She continues to sniffle, finally opening her eyes to see Joel looking back at her, a streak down the left side of his face, right by his ear.

“I’m sorry,” she says, quickly averting her gaze from his.

He smiles slightly, rubbing those all-comforting circles with his thumb over hand. He brings his hand up from her cheek as she closes her eyes, using two fingers to drag hairs down her forehead and tuck them behind her ear.

They didn’t need to be tucked away—but the affection always comforts her.

She takes his right hand in her left, bringing it down into her lap next to their other hands. She watches their hands intently as she rubs circles on his with her right hand and he rubs circles on hers with his right.

“Hey,” he whispers, trying to get her attention. It does, and she looks up at him. The tug on the corner of his lips reaches his eyes. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“No it’s… it’s stupid. I shouldn’t be crying over something I know isn’t true…”

“You know it’s not true?”

She inhales a shaky breath and exhales one just as heavy. She focuses on it, keeping any other tears down as best she can through controlled breathing.

“Yeah. Yeah I… I know.” She pauses for another breath. “But sometimes it’s… fucking difficult. I don’t…” she hesitates, shaking slightly, “I don’t want to look at you and wonder why.”

She chokes, wiping her cheek on the shoulder of her shirt. She feels her back against the headboard and adjusts slightly, rolling her shoulder blades over it.

She looks up at him. His eyes still hold that twenty-year-old look. They glisten because of the tears gathered in them, and the loving smile that hasn’t quite reached his lips has already hit his eyes.

“I’ll remind you. Every day, if I have to—if you want me to. Even if you don’t, I might jus’ have to-“

She laughs—giggles—at that. He laughs too, the kind of laugh that resides deep in his chest. The one that sounds better through his rare toothy smile. The laugh she only hears so often. The laugh when he thinks he’s done something right. The almost triumphant laugh when he seems to have cheered her up.

Ellie smiles, watching his own unwavering smile. “You can, if you think about it. I mean, I won’t expect it every day. If you forget some days, it’s fine. I’m not-”

“Ellie.”

“Sorry.”

Joel takes note of her. The dried tears along her cheeks. Her red and puffy eyes. The way her nose is red. The soaked collar of her shirt.

He doesn’t want to see her like this again. Not over thoughts like this.

“Will reminding you help? You know… keep thoughts like this away?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but it hits her that she doesn’t know. She’s never been positively reminded, certainly not daily, that someone cares for and loves her. No one’s been constant enough to tell her the truths she missed out on as a child. No one’s stuck around long enough for them to mean anything. No one has ever loved her enough to say them and mean them. Nothing other than doubt, hesitation, or reluctance has followed such reminders.

“I don’t know. I think, I… I hope. I don’t know, I’ve… never had someone who did something like that.”

He doesn’t frown at the thought, but his smile fades. Sadness, disbelief at the thought, the truth that she’d never had this before. “Well… we can try it out. You can tell me if you hate it ‘n we can try something’ else.” He smiled again as he rubbed more circles along her hands. “Sound fair?”

She smiles, tears welling at her eyes again. One spills over, Ellie fervently nodding in response to Joel’s question before too many more tears follow.

He lets go of her left hand and opens his arm up, welcoming her in. She scoots into him, tucking her body against him. She lets her legs freely fall into his as she leans against his body, his right arm coming across her back and holding her shoulder tightly. She keeps her face hidden away as best she can in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Her right hand finds the bottom of his shirt, rubbing the fabric back and forth between her fingers.

Joel kisses her head, leaving his lips pressed into her hair briefly. “I just… I don’t want this to become something you know is true. Cause it ain’t.”

“It won’t. I… I know it’s not true.”

He kisses her head again, a muffled good reverberating through her. He rubs her upper arm a few times.

“Come here,” he says, letting go of her shoulder and standing up.

She smiles shyly, standing up and wasting no time to hold on to him, her arms wrapping around his middle and settling behind his back. She rests her ear right over his heart, the thump-thump drowning the world out. Drowning her thoughts. Her feet stand in between his, Ellie attempting to get as close to him as she can.

Joel, just like every time before and every time to come after, keeps a steady hand across her back and one behind her head, carefully threading his fingers through her hair. He tilts his head down, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

He sways them gently, covering her back in hand-drawn lines, circles, and a myriad of other shapes. “This is your first reminder.”

She giggles at that.

Something bubbles in her chest. A fire. Butterflies—as cheesy as she thinks that is—it fits. It tickles, in a way. It reaches her finger tips and warms her skin. It helps her breathe easier and keeps her heartbeat beat in rhythm with his. It slows her thoughts and relaxes her shoulder. It lets her relax completely against his embrace.

The reminder is there. The reminder of his care and protection, no matter what. The reminder of the steadfast, uncompromising, sacrificial love that he has for her.

[practically-an-x-man]

pushing out constant support and encouragement is exhausting but i've spent my whole life being the emotional backboard to my mother's volatile mood swings and it's led me to feel like giving any energy to myself first is inherently selfish

[malaierba]

Crying over Kinniku and Iromatsu, cry with me @ the "Karamatsu dies and becomes a ghost and does his best to pretend he's still alive" fic (linked as a source)