#Alien Isolation continuation

[makotonaegiunderstander]

do you ever go do autism crazy for something you can feel it in ur chest. like it’s hard to breathe almost it’s making you gasp for breath and jump around physically. got an adrenaline rush thinking abt Kirigiri.

[maxbytes]

"i wasn't socialized enough as a puppy" well i wasn't socialized enough as a full grown adult

[diredeliverance]

I do keep thinking about how the end of gate game 3 somehow turned into being about BG1/2 for me and cackling. Let Jaheira do the High Hall speech because I hated the dialogue options and she dedicates the battle to Khalid. Fucked off from the city and went to Candlekeep. Spent the epilogue getting a list of Ismene's companions to visit. Most concrete plan Kas made for post game was begging Jaheira to let them travel with her, heavily implied to be joined by Minsc. All the other companions drift off and do their own thing and Kas just fucking. Sets right at recreating Ismene's party and fitting into the life she left for them. Truly BG3 is a game about getting me to appreciate BG1. What a time. And yes this IS part of why I think that it would be perfect for Ismene/clone Ismene to crash the party in the epilogue. We're building into this ouroboros thing anyway, it's high time the original death cheating Bhaalspawn hero(ine) herself showed up and ruined everyone's good time all over again.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

you always knew marble hornets is good b/c fr from 2010 on the Many fans &/or the particularly Enthused &/or Dedicated &/or Lasting fans was noticeably to us all like hmm tending to be many people who are big fans of aLex Guy from the tunnel rip Brian Tim Questions Investigations Answers....i presume it still skews that way. i.e. Tastehavers i.e. Marble Hornets Is Good b/c it can resonate with queer experiences unlike horror that straight people are like "Hell Yeah truly this is good" about, which is a waste of everything

[cherry-leclerc]

reckless driver ☆ mv1

genre: photographer!reader, angst, moody!max, yearning, jos hate club

word count: 9.9k

Switching to be Max’s personal photographer wasn’t a planned note on your agenda. Neither was him opening up. A lot of things weren’t, therefore, making his growing crush on you catch him completely off guard. 

inspired by reckless driving, lizzy mcalpine !

cherry here!...would it be a regular cherry fic if it didn’t hurt ya just a little bit?

 All he knew was how to be perfect.

It has nothing to do with his looks, doesn’t even mean this in a condescending way. The perfect shade of watercolor eyes. The perfect mix of dirty blond hair. The perfect color of pink that taints his lips. The perfect curve of his nose. This had nothing to do with that. 

For fucks sakes, Max! Jos grits his teeth tightly, marching closer and closer. The accelerator is there for a reason! 

From a very early age, Max’s vocabulary grew an excessive amount, but again, it mainly had to do with how many curse words he could count based on angry verses his dad would often spit at him. By the time he was five, he knew them all, and he knew them by heart. Something inside of him became almost immune to all of that. The hurtful comments, the hatred behind his eyes, the annoyance of not being the best. There was nothing he couldn't handle. And if he remembers well enough, then he can still vividly hear the conversation between his parents. 

Just one more, Sophie. Maybe then, if we’re lucky, we’ll have another boy. One that actually has potential.

He swore to be the greatest in that very moment. No matter how much he wanted to give up, he never would. Not when he was constantly put down by his own father, or when the nerves ate him alive, making his skin crawl—no. He wouldn’t give into being a failure. Wouldn’t satisfy them ever.

So, he prayed. He prayed every single night for the new baby on the way to be anything but another boy. Let it be a girl, let it be an alien, let it be anything but a boy. Because even though he was just a kid, he knew that if there was another opportunity for Jos to train another son of his, he’d take it, and Max would be left as some unfinished project. 

And lo and behold—it was a girl.

He never really knew true happiness until that very moment. He cried a whole lot when he first held Victoria and everyone thought it was adorable, but no one knew just how much this meant to Max. He would continue to be his father’s main focus, and that’s all that mattered. He would craft himself to be the winner he knew he needed to be in order to get a solid smile from him, even just once. Either way, a few years later his parents wound up getting a divorce, so all was good.

Now, at this very moment—he had finally done it. 

Being a World Champion felt the way he knew it would: unreal.

Yes, the fireworks and the cheers were a part of that, but the warm hug from Jos was what really made it all worth it. All the snarky comments, all the panic attacks, all the isolation growing up—it was all worth it.

That’s a good boy! Jos yelled, rustling his sweaty hair before grinning widely. That’s how you do it! 

He wishes to remember this moment until the day he dies, and hopefully, if he's lucky enough, a bit after that. Whatever the case might be, he’s content, but now there’s something new.

Higher expectations.

You were born to be the greatest, Max. You were destined to outbeat those who are stupid enough to think they have a chance against you. They don't. No they fucking don’t because you, Max Verstappen, are one hell of a lion. Jos takes a sip of champagne, swallowing harshly and not at all quietly. And you wouldn’t want to fuck that up, now would you?

The answer is no. No way in hell would he let his father’s affection slip away. Not when he’s been dreaming of it for so long. He’s worked—and he’s worked hard—for this. There’s nothing, nor anyone, who would matter as much as Jos Verstappen and being the best driver there could ever be.

But then—just then.

You came along.

-

You should have said no. Looking back at it now, you really should have said no.

And yet. You couldn’t have possibly known that from the very beginning. 

Funny enough, you started off as Checo’s photographer. You loved it. He was easy to work with. Not only was he nice to you, but so was his family. The work environment was healthy and fun. Your dream job, really, there was nothing to complain about. 

But one by one, from a nearby corner—always a nearby corner—you watched as Max’s photographers rapidly lost their minds and quit. It’d start off with a scowl from him and end with a huff from them, dropping their expensive cameras and leaving without sparing a second glance. 

It isn’t until photographer number eight where things really do take an unexpected turn.

For you. 

“What do you say?” Christian’s voice booms with need. 

You blink hazily. “I-I’m not too sure. I mean, Checo and I work so well together…”

“No, I know what—and trust me, I feel bad for doing this—but we’re really counting on you. You get along with everyone. Everyone loves you! Who’s to say Max won’t?”

“And what if he doesn’t?” you fight back. “Then what? I quit too?”

“First of all, he will. And second of all, that won’t be necessary because he’ll love you.”

“You’re that confident?”

“I am.”

You sigh, rolling your tired neck before looking back at him. “Well, I’m not. I need to think this through.”

The Red Bull principal nods. “Of course! You need time, of course. But please—you’d be helping us all. Especially Max.”

You’d be a liar if you were to say that his words hadn’t stuck with you. What did he mean by ‘especially Max’? Was it to get the wheels spinning? If it was, then it was definitely working.

Adjusting your camera strap that hangs around your neck, you stare off into the distance as if you might find the answer somewhere in between the clouds. And maybe you did find it. The answer, you mean. You were one hundred percent certain now that you wanted to stay with Checo, you just didn’t know how to break the news to Christian who has done so much for you ever since you started working at Red Bull.

“I heard about the offer,” a deep voice rumbles next to you, making you jump with fear, clutching your camera towards your chest like some sort of secret weapon. The Dutchman remains unbothered, taking in the same sunset as you once were. “Christian tends to do that. Put people on the spot. I hate that about him.”

In a way, you’re sort of surprised by him even speaking to you or that he even knows about your existence. Over the past few years, you’ve only interacted with him a couple of times. Once, when he won his first championship. Twice, when he won his second. And thrice, when he won his, well…third. And they were all due to the awkward congratulatory hug you felt yourself forced to give since everyone around you was doing the same. 

Other than that, you had no reason to cross paths with him despite working for the same team. You two always stayed on opposite sides of the paddock, but it was never intentional, it was just the way things played out. Until now.

“You really shouldn’t say you hate the man who's making your dreams come true,” you whisper, struggling to find your own voice. 

Max hums. “All I said was that I hate that about him, not that I hate him as a person.” A beat. “And for your information, he isn’t the one making my dreams come true—I am.”

“He gave you a chance—”

“A chance he knew someone else would have taken if it weren’t him.” That shuts you right up, silence lingering. Seeing as you both were standing on the terrace overlooking the paddock, you two watched as Christian and Checo converse with one another, hands on their hips like some kind of businessmen. “I worked hard to get to where I am, so please, don’t give him all the credit when we both know that's not true.”

More silence. “Listen, I think I’m going to—”

“Turn him down and continue working with Checo?”

Your voice catches. “W-what?”

The Dutchman clicks his tongue, like he’s got you all figured out. Three conversations over the past three years and he thinks he has you all figured out? 

“I can’t say I blame you. You don’t think we’ll work well together, and quite frankly, I would agree. We wouldn’t. You’re too…nice.”

You have to laugh. “Is that supposed to be an insult?” 

“It’s supposed to be the truth,” he’s ricochets.

Turning towards his tall frame, you huff, hair washing over your face before faking a tight smile. “And you’re too…complicated.” Something about the way his gaze darkens at your words makes you want to back down like some shivering dog, but miraculously, you remain still. “And that’s not a compliment.”

“Didn’t sound like one.”

“Well because it’s not.”

He’s not too far from you, and honest to God, that made you shake more than you intended. There was something about him—there always was. Even though you never really worked close to him, you knew there was something there, hiding between the crease of his brows, and now, standing this close to him, you can see it all in a new perspective. 

Max releases a breath, bored and unexplainable. Runs a hand through his hair, turns his face for a second before connecting his gaze back to yours. “Look, you appear to be a sweet girl, but…I think you should turn down Christian’s offer.”

“Why?” He’s taken aback. You catch it the moment his lips twitch in the slightest. You tilt your head, urging him to answer. “You must have a reason, so what is it?”

“You’d hate working with me.”

“And you get to decide that?”

Max rolls his eyes. “Have you enjoyed this conversation so far?”

“No.”

“Then you probably wouldn’t enjoy our time either. And I’d just rather not waste my time on you finding out. No offense.”

“No, no, none taken,” you respond sarcastically. By now, Christian and Checo have spotted you both, secretly hoping there was some sort of friendship forming. They wave cheerfully and you mimic their movements. 

“I hope we get along—I really do,” you say with a smile as you wave enthusiastically over at Christian who lets out a whistle and sends you an excited thumbs up.

His jaw clenches.  

“If not, you’re really going to hate having me around.” 

-

By now, you’ve completely understood why every other person has quit on him. 

Your blood boils deep inside your veins for the millionth time in the past hour. His large hand covers his face as he continues speaking with his engineers. They all look back at you, half-amused, half-pitiful. They grimace when you try once again to get a picture of him, only to get shut down by him spinning around to make you face his back. 

“Unbelievable,” you mutter beneath your hot breath, glaring harshly to the point you feel a migraine growing, pounding the sides of your head. Marching off, you cross over to Checo’s side of the garage, watching as he discusses his strategies with a couple of his crew members. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he responds, flashing a bright smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Pleading for you to take me back?” He laughs, eyes crinkling, freckled nose scrunching with humor. “It feels like I’ve signed my life away.”

“Ah. Come on. It can’t be that bad. Give him some time.”

“It’s been a month!” you exclaim. “What more does he need?”

The Mexican driver’s eyes soften, feeling bad for the swap neither of you wanted, but knew was necessary. Checo knows how patient you can be, how sweet and caring you tend to act towards those you truly care about. And right now? He worries you won’t ever reach that point with Max. 

A heavy sigh. “Max isn’t much of a talker, you know that. But maybe—in order for him to get comfortable around you, he needs you to do something that the other photographers didn’t bother doing.”

Your stomach churns. “Like what?”

He smiles warmly. “Getting to know him.”

Maybe Checo was right. Maybe all Max needed was a friend—someone to talk to.

Sliding back to your side of the garage, you sheepishly walk over to the grumpy Dutchman. Currently, he’s sitting down on the floor, back pressed against the wall, scrolling through his phone. “C-c-can I talk to you?” you ask, nervous fingers lacing through the hoop of your jeans.

He doesn’t bother raising his gaze. “Can you even talk to begin with?”

“S-sorry?”

This time, he does look up, looking past his lashes. “Your stutter.”

Lamely, your mouth opens, only for you to find it drier than the Sahara Desert. The crack of your voice is a clear indication over your weak attempt to speak and that just makes you a blushing mess. Fuck him. You took several speech therapy classes to try and get rid of it, but him pointing out a stutter you thought has gotten better over time makes you want to be photographer number nine. 

You glare—hard. You mentally go over your dialogue and that itself makes you feel small. Embarrassed. So, instead…you don’t say anything at all.

There’s a reason no one likes to work with him.

And you think you just found out.

-

Some days are easier than others. Some days are harder.

Today? 

Today was awful.

“Jesus Christ, Max! What the fuck was that?” Jos yells, nearly pressing his face against the Red Bull driver who stands close by, watching him flinch in the slightest before regaining composure. You’ve heard rumors—plenty of them. Between mechanics, between Checo and a few other bystanders, you heard them all. How Jos’ behavior was unbearable to deal with, especially when it came to him and Max. You just never thought you’d witness it firsthand. 

“My brakes weren’t working,” he replies, holding eye contact that would have left you in a coma. “It was never my intention to crash.”

“See, you say that, and yet everytime I come and visit, you always seem to be messing up one way or another,” Jos hisses, face beet red, and a splash of saliva spraying over Max as he grits his teeth, taking a step back. “I’m confused—do you want to lose the Championship this year or what?”

“No,” the Red Bull driver fires back, firm and quick. Blue eyes translate to a darker shade as they look to where his dad wears a mocking smile. “I’m winning that title, don’t worry.”

Running a hand against his stubble, Jos rolls his eyes before releasing a tired breath. As if he’s the one working endless hours. As if he’s the one who just crashed against the wall at a terrifying speed he couldn’t decrease even if he tried. As if he’s the one with the bruised temple. 

Everything was just always about him. 

“Don’t bother resting until you figure out how to fix all the shit you’ve caused.” Sharp eyes narrow. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Max whispers, watching as he storms off without even saying goodbye to anyone else that wasn’t Christian himself. So much for having him around. Frustrated, he angrily yanks his gloves off, throwing them against the wall and walking the opposite direction.

Something tells you to leave him alone—let him be. You get why he’s upset, but you checking up on him probably wouldn't help. Also, you're supposed to be mad at him, right?

And yet.

“Wait up!” you gasp, out of breath. 

Clenching his jaw, he stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with accusing eyes. “Why are you following me?”

“I just…” Coming to a stop as well, you wince at your sudden side stitch. “He shouldn’t have yelled at you that way,” you finish, analyzing the way his body stiffens. “Especially in front of everyone.”

Blue orbs flicker past your figure for a second, then he lets out a lopsided smile. “I bet you enjoyed it, though. You know? Because I’ve sort of been acting like a dick towards you…” The small smile disappears, replaced with a thin line.

“I didn’t,” you find yourself admitting. His brows raise up with surprise, and even you’re surprised to be telling the truth. You should feel good about this moment—someone finally told him off, someone finally put him in his place. But you felt none of that satisfaction. If anything, you felt bad. Swiping your tongue against your lips, you purse them awkwardly. “And you haven’t been a dick. He has.”

And for the first time—he laughs. 

You blink, bewildered at the sound, but he doesn’t seem to notice that. “Like father, like son, right?” he jokes, making you feel like this was all some sort of fever dream. He continues, squatting down against the wall until he sits down completely against the cold pavement. “Your perspective about me has suddenly changed, or what?”

Hesitant, you choose to sit across from him, tucking your legs beneath your butt. His eyes close, smiling softly. Though I doubt it, he mumbles. “I just think I had you all wrong, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” he encourages. “Why?”

You swallow. “Well…because—now it all makes sense. Why you’re so cold towards everyone, I mean. You do get it from your dad, but it’s also not your fault.”

“My dads not the problem,” he hums. “I am.” Your legs are slowly becoming numb, buzzing like a thousand ants are crawling on them, but you don’t dare move an inch, scared of ruining the moment of him being so honest despite being allergic to it. “I let him down constantly and he’s just being…candid.” His eyes open, focused like he’s known you’ve been here all along, sitting across from him. “The issue here is that no one seems to get that. And that’s fine, but I do.”

“C-c-can I…” you cringe at the sound of your stutter, biting harshly down against your sore tongue. You expect him to laugh—make fun of you in any way possible—hold it over your head…but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits patiently for you to feel comfortable enough to continue your question. Your chest loosens up, along with your anxiety. You never thought he’d help with that. “C-can I ask you a q-q-que—”

“A question?” he finishes your sentence, you feeling immensely grateful. You nod. “Sure,” he answers.

Repeating the question over a couple of times, you find yourself feeling more and more comfortable around him and it’s only been a couple of minutes. “Why do you belittle me?”

There’s no way of hiding his shame now as his head hangs low, dirty blond hair hugging the sides of his face with a thin layer of sweat, a purple bruise forming due to his crash of high impact. A tsk. “I want you to know that I don’t hate you. Regardless of what you might think.”

You nod, paying close attention. 

He shrugs. “But I just don’t think we’ll work well together.”

“That’s it?” you ponder, genuinely lost. “You haven’t-t-t even given me a chance to prove myself. Maybe we can?” A beat. “Or maybe you’re not telling the w-whole truth.”

A playful scoff erupts from this throat, ignoring your comment. “You’re right. I haven’t given this a fair shot.” A calm look paints his normally stoic features. “And it doesn’t seem like you’ll be quitting anytime soon.” Reaching out to swat his race boot, you smile, eyes crinkling. The Dutchman chuckles. “So maybe we should start getting along, no?”

“I agree,” you comment, straightening your shoulders and extending your legs, instantly feeling a wave of relief from the pressure. “I-I-I’d like t-that.” Pause. Your smile stretches. “I’d like that very much.”

What you know now is obviously something you didn’t know back then.

So realistically, you fell into a friendship that ended like most.

Complete, utter disaster.

-

As time went on, Max started to change for the better. His glares turned into soft smiles, his monotone voice turned into something that was more untroubled. He was starting to become someone you consider a friend, and you couldn't help but wish he felt the same way too.

“Come out and have a drink with us,” you say, carefully cleaning your lens with the back of your shirt. He looks up from where he packs his things into a small duffel bag. You nod enthusiastically. “Come on, it’s my birthday and I want you there. Celebrate my birth, celebrate your win—it’ll be fun.”

“I don’t like to party,” he confesses, scrunching his nose like the thought alone makes him want to puke. “Never have, never will. Happy birthday, though.”

“You’re no fun,” you mumble, placing your camera back into your own bag. “I wish you’d be more fun.” A beat. “Wait. What do you do for fun?”

“I don’t have any. I just…live a quiet, peaceful life whenever I’m able to.” He throws his bag over his broad shoulder. “I like it better that way, anyways.” With that, he walks out of his driver's room.

Gathering the rest of your things quickly, you chase after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “It’s okay to have a quiet life if that’s something you want, but, I don’t know…” You turn the corner, soft hair whiplashing. “Aren’t you able to…well, put that aside for special occasions?”

“Like what? Your birthday?”

You blush heavily. “Well—no. But maybe yours? I know it’s coming up. What are you gonna do then? Stay home working on a crossword puzzle?”

“Not necessarily. Perhaps I’ll read a book, who knows.” Still walking towards his car, he momentarily turns back to look at you, watching as your cheeks glow bright pink. He smiles before turning back. “I’ll make sure to let you know.” Unlocking his car, he raises a brow. “You coming?”

“Can’t,” you pant softly. “Promised Checo that I’d help him find a gift for Carlota.”

“His daughter or his wife?”

Seeing as they share the same name, you can’t help but giggle. “I’m actually not sure.” Flashing one last smile, you wave sweetly. “I’ll make sure to let you know!”

He keeps his eyes on you, watching as you jog towards Checo who laughs as you trip over a nearby rock, nearly falling. Max laughs to himself, feeling an unfamiliar burst of happiness. But that all flies right out the window as soon as his phone buzzes deep inside his pocket, making him groan.

“Hey, Dad.”

-

He ends up texting for your birthday and you end up doing the same. You end up going out to party and he ends up staying home. Point is, you do exactly what you two said you were going to do, so when a last minute texts comes through at midnight, you’re low key appalled.

Max, 12:00pm

Are you home?

He knows where you live because you once told him. You’re just surprised he remembers.

Yeah? Where are you?

Max, 12:04pm

Come outside. Bring a sweater.

The ocean roars loudly as you two make your way closer towards the shore. The breeze is ice cold, but you aren’t complaining. He is, though.

“Shit. It’s freezing.”

A giggle. “Need a jacket, princess?”

Sending a deadpan expression, he shrugs you off, choosing to sit close enough to see the waves, but far enough to not get wet. “I don’t want you to make a big deal out of this, but…I got you something.”

“Max,” you coo, admiring the film camera he hands you as if it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing because when it comes to him it means everything. “This must’ve cost you a fortune,” you whisper, fingers tracing the rim of the black camera that shines against the moonlight. “You shouldn’t have.”

“And you shouldn’t have stuck around. But you did. So…thank you.” The tides grow louder, making him do the same. “I never really said it, but I’m grateful for having you as a friend.”

You freeze and he seems to notice what he said, too.

“Co-worker?” he tries, cringing.

You relax. “F-f-friend sounds better.”

And there it is again, that warmness that only seems to appear whenever you’re around. It should be alarming, but at this point it's not. If anything, it’s normal.

“Now I feel like shit,” you speak up, bumping your leg against his. He hums. “I didn’t get you anything for your birthday. And if you know anything about friendships, then you’d know that presents are a vital thing.”

“Don’t fret. I don’t need anything else other than…” he trails off. “How was your birthday, anyways?”

You don’t notice his sudden shift. Or maybe you did. Either way, he doesn’t know. You snort. “Got shit-faced, what else do you expect? Though, I faintly remember Abby kissing the bartender, so that was cool.” When he fails to recognize the name, you roll your eyes as if you’re dealing with a third grader. “Checo’s photographer? She’s awesome. Has her own car.”

It’s his turn to laugh now. “And you don’t?”

“Nope. But God, I wish. Maybe one day.” You dig your feet deeper into the sand, twisting your lips before smacking them as if that might help hydrate them. You squint an eye. “I’m barely home, so there’s really no need for one yet. I can sense you wondering.”

“I was,” he admits. Swallowing, he mimes your movements. “I’m barely home, either.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Do you?” he returns with no response.

You ponder. “I know I miss my parents. My sister. But other than that, no—maybe not.”

“I don’t either.”

“But I thought you were a homebody?” you accuse.

“Well, I am, but…I miss my home. The place I paid for with my own money.”

“What home don’t you miss, then?” 

“The one my parents tried to convince me and my sister that it was. We had all the family portraits and the typical white picket fence, but it just never felt like home to me. And I don’t miss that.”

“Oh.” Just oh. 

“Yeah,” he follows with a raspy voice. “Oh.”

Tugging the jacket closer to your chest, you shiver. Surely your nose is burning bright pink and your lips are chapped, but nothing felt better than this moment for some reason. “I don’t like your dad,” you mumble beneath your breath, hoping the wind would hide your confession, but if it didn’t, you wouldn’t care.

It didn’t. 

Scoffing, Max nods. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“I don’t like the way he speaks to you. It’s not—normal.” A beat. “Do you think it is?”

“I do,” he hums, blinking slowly as he watches the way a bird gets caught in the wind, trying to lurch forward but only getting sent back. “You get used to it.”

“You shouldn't have to,” you whisper, brows pinched up with concern. “I know I said you were a complicated person, but you’re not. And—and I just don’t want you to think that it’s true.”

He’s the first to disconnect his eyes from yours, feeling a burning sensation forming in the depths of his throat. It’s not completely unknown, he’s felt it many times when he was a kid. The only difference was that he used to feel it behind his eyes as well. Which is why it catches him off guard this time around—years later. 

“You’re not like him, Max,” you say with reassurance. Blue eyes soften up, feeling a rush of emotions. This is something he didn’t even know he needed. Tilting his head, he opens his mouth lamely, words getting stuck like a boy and not a man. You smile tenderly. “And I hope you know that.”

He drives you back home that night despite saying you’d be fine walking back. You fall asleep for the next thirty-minutes, and he overthinks through all of it. Fingers tap against the steering wheel, taking occasional glances to where you breath softly. 

“I told you to bring a sweater,” Max groans once you enter his car. “You’re going to freeze to death.”

You wave him off. “I think I’ll survive.”

As soon as you arrive at the beach, you’re quick to rub your hands against your skin, wishing to have some sort of blanket. With a knowing look, the Dutchman rolls his eyes, slipping off his jacket and placing it over your shoulders. 

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Thanks,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek, suppressing a smile. 

Hearing his teeth chatter, he blows his cheeks out, squinting his eyes when a particular gust of wind slaps him across the face. “Shit. It’s freezing.”

“Need a jacket, princess?” you tease, enjoying the way his lips form a snarl. 

You giggle.

It’s his favorite jacket, the one you’re wearing.

It’s his favorite because of that.

“I’m fucked,” he whisphers to himself, grinding his teeth until he feels them squeak. He tries to focus on the road, but that seems to be the most difficult task in the world when he has you right besides him. And he isn’t thinking anything sinisterly dirty—he’s not—but instead, he’s dreaming.

I can be different, he thinks to himself, repeating the same words over and over. I can be someone she likes. If I try hard enough, I can do that. Planning ahead was always something he hated, but just thinking about it now makes his veins rush with excitement. As if the possibility of you might exist somewhere down the line.

You said some things he never thought he’d hear, because to be quite honest, he never thought someone would understand him the way you have. For the longest time, he thought a fucked up person like him could only get with an equally fucked up person or simply he’d have to live by himself for the rest of his life.

And here you came, proving him wrong.

He doesn’t realize how fast he’s going, how he’s pressing hard on the gas. Not until you groan. “Fuck. Are you alright?” he asks with concern as soon as he hears your head thud against the window from his jerky turn at the roundabout. 

“Yeah.” A beat, then a giggle. You rub your head. “This is gonna bruise.” He winces, taking a glance. Keep your eyes on the road, you laugh, but he can’t. Not when your eyes crinkle the way they do. Like your eyes have a dimple of their own. He’s never seen that on anyone else. “We’ll be twins,” you state as some sort of lame joke. And it does the job because he’s quick to let out a chuckle. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

Pulling up to your house, you go in to unbuckle yourself before slipping the jacket off. He shakes his head. “Keep it.”

“That wouldn’t make any sense,” you try. “I’m already home, I’ll be fine. Put it on.”

“Well I’m not cold anymore,” he pushes back. “It’s fine, really. I have plenty—what’s one missing?”

“It's freakishly soft,” you debate, furrowing your brows with concentration. “Okay. Thanks, Max.” Grabbing your film camera, you let out a shy smile. “For this too. Just—for these past few hours. I had fun.”

“Yeah,” he hums gingerly, running his hand along the steering wheel. “So did I.”

This grabs your attention, ears perking up like some German Shepard. “Am I dreaming? Did Max Verstappen just say he had fun? With me?” you interrogate, eyes shining. 

He groaned, tossing his head against his seat. “I take it back—”

“You can’t do that—”

“I take it back,” he repeats firmly, but the amusement poured into his accent tells you otherwise. “Now get out of my car.”

You poke your tongue out at him before raising your hands up defensively. “Drive safe,” you shout over your shoulder as you walk towards your house, backward. “Oh! I almost forgot to ask!” Rushing to his side of the car, you signal for him to roll his window. He does, quirking a brow. You grin. “Let me take you out.”

His heart thuds. Pulses. Skyrockets. 

It’s a scary feeling. 

You beam. “Yes! As your birthday present! Let me take you out. Just you and I.”

“You and I?” he repeats robotically, blinking with round eyes. 

A nod. “Yeah. Just like today. You took me out and gave me an amazing gift. Let me do the same for you.” Pause. “Please?”

It dawns on him that this is the first time a girl has asked him to hang out. Whether it’s romantic or not, it doesn’t matter, and the way you bat your cartoon eyes makes him spiral, feeling his breath hitch. “Y-y-yeah,” he finds himself saying. “Sure. Why not?”

“You only turn twenty-seven once,” you hum. Like that might seal the deal besides the fact that he’s already accepted.

The Dutchman chuckles nervously, fighting the urge to just…God.

“You only turn twenty-seven once,” he agrees, sharing a tight smile, hands gripping the leather wheel. 

-

Your plans end up getting pushed back due to your guys’ tight agenda. The season is tough on not just him, but the entire team. McLaren is thriving, sometimes more than Red Bull, and that has everyone feeling on edge.

Chewing your nails, you watch as Lando crosses the finish line, nearly a minute ahead from the Dutchman. You know he’s not going to want to talk about it, but he will. He has to. 

Because Jos is here.

“You’re getting quite comfortable on that second step,” Jos says tauntingly. He’s not yelling—not like the other times—and somehow, that just makes him scarier.

“I’m not,” Max defends as he rubs a sweaty hand against his face. His hair is longer than usual, so that doesn’t help the awkwardness he feels when he has to push it back. “We still did good—”

“Good is not good enough,” he hisses, pressing a finger against his son's suit, making him take a step back before he regains composure. “Unless it is. For you, I mean.” Silence. “So what? Is it?”

“No,” Max mumbles, fighting the urge to push him back. He’s thought about it—many times. And maybe he’s reached his limit, and maybe he can do it…

But he’d never dare to in front of you.

Blue eyes quietly plead for you to leave. And yes. That would be the wisest thing to do right about now, but your feet betray you. They’re super glued, you begin to suspect. Why else would you not be able to move?

“You used to be so good,” Jos points out, eyes only getting sharper. “What happened? What’s distracting you? Who’s distracting you?”

Max’s eyes flicker for a second—just a fucking second—to where you stand, paralyzed, and he prays he doesn’t notice it. But he does. 

Turning to face your small figure, Jos lets out a shallow laugh, a confused expression mapping his wrinkled face. “Are you serious?”

“I—” Max tries, but is waved off by his massive hand. 

“A crush isn’t going to get you anywhere, Max, come on, you know this.” Jos rubs his eyes, aging quickly. “Especially with a girl like her.”

“I-I-I,” you stutter, feeling your face grow red. Swiftly, this makes you feel as dumb as when you first met Max, but somehow worse. 

A million times worse. 

“Y-y-you what?” Jos mocks your stutter, walking closer to where you stand. “You what?”

“H-h-he doesn't like me. So, there’s no need to…w-w-w—”

“Worry,” Max fills in, marching to stand in between you two, and you immediately feel your shoulders relax, but your breath continues to struggle to find its way out of your system. “There’s no need to worry. I just had a bad race, it happens. It’s no one’s fault.”

“Except it is!” Jos finally screams, spraying his saliva with every punctuation, something you’ve come to realize happens when he gets fired up, which nearly occurs every time he's here. The only difference is that this time, you’re caught in between the argument. Jos breathes heavily, chest puffing. “It's someone's fault, and I’ll lay it out for you since you can’t seem to take responsibility—it’s your fault.”

“No, it’s not,” you protest from behind Max, feeling courage quickly expand through your ribs because you knew that wasn’t true. “It’s no one’s fault.”

But someone like you is invisible to someone like Jos Verstappen. 

Ignoring you, he gets rid of that last step that separates Max from himself, faces inches apart from one another. And it’s terrifying how similar they are. Their eyes, their nose, their lips. The only thing separating them from being twins was Max’ kindness.

“Say it’s your fault,” Jos orders with a solid and demanding tone. “Say the crash was your fault and that you fucked up.”

You’re breath catches once again, frantic eyes darting to where Max clenches his fists before letting them relax.

“The crash was my fault—”

“It's all your fault,” Jos adds.

The Red Bull drivers lips twitch. “The crash was all my fault…” A beat. “And I fucked up.”

“Max,” you whisper, gingerly grabbing his hand. He flinches at your touch and pulls away as soon as his dads eyes linger down to where you two connect. You wither.

“Get your act together,” Jos threatens with fury before walking out, slamming the door behind him.

You jump at the unexpected sound. No one speaks, no one moves, no one dares to acknowledge what just happened.

Max Verstappen lands second on this week's podium, Crofty announces, pulling you away from the daze you were stuck in. Max’s gaze switches over to the T.V. as he stiffens. Say, what are the chances he wins this year's Championship against Lando Norris who seems to be having the time of his life in that McLaren? 

“You did good out there—”

“No. I didn’t.” He looks away. “But that won’t matter because that Championship is mine.”

Mine.

-

You notice he’s reverted back to his old habits the moment he gets snappy. The moment he starts blocking everyone out, including you. You sort of saw it coming, but still—it hurt. And it took you a moment to realize, realize why it burned so much.

You loved Max Verstappen.

He’d always been unapproachable. Spine-chilling, even. But ever since you two started talking to each other as more than strangers, you realize he was none of that. He had once been kind, once been sweet, but this was all Jos’ fault. Weeks went by—months, even—and all you ever really did was snap pictures of him on the stimulator. That’s it.

It’s as if your friendship never even existed.

It came as no surprise when he failed to pick up your phone calls and texts. He was awfully good at doing that. By the time you were a month away from the Championship, you had stopped trying.

Max can feel the awkward tension he had created. It sat there between you two every time you followed after him like a dog on a leash, timidly taking his picture, afraid of getting the wrong reaction out of him. It had happened a couple of times in the past, when you first started working for him, so it seemed you were trying to prevent history from repeating itself. The slight sting in his chest took a jab at him every time without fail.

Vegas was typically a good time for both the drivers and people like you. You’d be the first to admit how easy it is to get lost in the gist of it all. 

Except this time around, it was hard to live through it.

-

Hey. You home?

Max groans, rubbing his eyes until they’re wide awake, picking up his phone. 

Max, 12:00pm

Are you okay?

A minute scrolls by. 

I have your present. 

The first thing he notices is his jacket. His initials are sewn onto the sleeve. He didn’t even know that was a thing, but the sight of it made his stomach flip. “Looks good on you,” he compliments as soon as he enters your car. You chuckle. 

It’s a nice jacket. The best one I own.

He notes how smooth you drive, like a grandma. You’re precise with your turns, ahead with your signals—extremely observant. 

“See how I steer the wheel,” you speak up, wiggling a neat brow. “Unlike you.”

“I said I was sorry,” he laughs, getting a reminder of the last time you two were together. “How’s the bruise?”

“Nearly gone.” A beat. “How’s yours?”

He smiles, remembering about his own. “Nearly gone.”

“Told you we’d be twins.”

You take him to a nearby park. It’s lame, I know, you apologize, wincing shyly. I’m not good at this, but I hope your present makes up for it.

“This is great,” he eases your nerves, seeing how they scribble across your face. “This is my first time at a playground, actually.”

Your eyes widen as soon as you sit down on the yellow swing. “You’re kidding, right?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Huh.”

He takes a seat on a nearby swing, following your soft kicks against the sand. “My dad preferred to have me on the race track than waste my time on anything else.”

This gets an eye roll out of you, soft wind fanning your face as you kick back and forth. “That explains it all.” He shuts his eyes momentarily, enjoying the silence. Far enough away, he can hear the city—but that’s the least of his worries.

You’re the first and only one to give me a childhood so late in life. Round eyes flicker towards him where he digs his shoes into the sand, not worried about the uncomfort it'll cause. If it weren’t for you, I probably would’ve gone my whole life without knowing what a playground is like.

The thought alone is saddening. Your mind makes up an image of young Max, looking into the distance at every other kid who runs towards slides and monkey bars as he straps his helmet and slips on his gloves, longing to know what it’s like to have a normal youth. 

“Don’t feel bad.”

Your lip wobbles. “Don’t make me feel things, then. Why would you say that?”

“I thought we could open up to one another,” he jokes, but you can hear his seriousness in it. That’s all he’s needed, after all—someone to talk to. “Should I shut up from here on out?”

“No,” you reply rapidly, gripping your hand around the metal chain. “Don’t you ever shut up.”

His smile relaxes, eyes opening as he tilts his head, then looks up ahead at the moon. And it’s one of those nights where it’s scarily white—almost too much. One might think it’s a flashlight, by the way it shines, but there’s a clarity to it that makes it easy to admire. “I don’t think I love my dad.”

 You try not to let out a reaction. “You don’t mean that.”

“No…” He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “I think I do.” A shrug. “I respect him. A tiny bit, but I do. But love?” A bitter scoff. “God, I don’t even think he loves me.”

“Sure he does—”

“He loves my success,” he cuts you off. “And it’s embarrassing how everybody knows it.”

Neither of you are swinging anymore. Gathering your thoughts, you look down at your lap, inspecting your dirty shoes. “If it helps, I love you, Max.” In a heartbeat, his blue eyes dart towards you, seeing the way you breathe evenly. “Is that surprising to you?” He doesn’t answer. He couldn't answer. And boy did he want to. Smiling tenderly, you nod. “It’s not that hard, really.” You begin to swing again, as if you didn’t just drop the biggest bomb on him that left his heart in his throat, beating at an abnormal speed. “Not when you’re so patient with me.”

The chain squeaks, making him snap out of his daze, blinking harshly. “I hate my stutter. I’ve had it tugging at my leg since I was eight. Don’t know what caused it, but it’s been there, trust me. So, when you made fun of it a while back, I thought to myself: this guy is a real douchebag.”

Shame pours within him as he recalls that interaction. Checo had told him about his photographer's stutter and how hard it was to hold a conversation with her at first, but the longer they worked together, the more he found it endearing. And that’s exactly what Max felt the moment you became his photographer at a stage in his life where he still didn’t know you all that well other than the fact that you carried your camera like a newborn baby. 

“I’m so—”

“Don’t be,” you cut him off. “I don’t hold grudges. Plus, you’re quite helpful now that you’re used to my stammering, don’t you think?”

Guilt fuels him as he apologizes with his eyes. “I shouldn’t have mocked you. Ever.”

“Probably.” A hum. “But the way you read my mind makes up for it.”

He’s been doing a lot of that, without even realizing it. He concludes your sentences without batting an eye about the words you’re trying to get out, trying to express. And in all fairness, you hadn’t noticed it either, not until Checo pointed it out.

That’s how normal it had become.

“My stutter was my number one insecurity growing up.” Connecting your gaze back to where he’s already looking, you draw your eyebrows in with gentleness. “And you made it go away.”

Before he can think his words through, he opens his mouth. “I love your stutter.”

You blink, bewildered at the comment. Then—you laugh.

“Thanks?” Your volume increases. “Never heard that one before.”

Screwing his eyes shut, he shakes his head, grimacing at the sound of his voice replaying inside his crowded mind. 

“What I’m trying to say is that I love you,” he rambles, much faster and correctly this time, making you stop your laughter, eyes going wide once again. “Is that surprising to you?” he whispers, awaiting a response with anxiety dripping from his fingertips that clench around the chain that loops around the swing, giving it security. 

“You mean as friends, right?” you ask carefully, making his stomach drop.

“I don’t think friends think about each other the way I think about you,” he confesses, out of breath by the sudden shift he’s caused. “I see you differently.”

As soon as your lips part to say something, he pleads silently as if saying: please, just hear me out. And that’s exactly what you do.

He’s standing right in front of you now, pacing back and forth like some football coach as you watch him like a clueless cheerleader who sits on the sidelines. He clears his throat after a lengthy minute.

“I noticed you first when you walked into your interview four years ago.”

Your mind races back to a moment in time where your camera was significantly cheaper and your dreams were larger than life. 

He nods, watching as you recollect the memories that were tucked in the far back of your brain, like it didn’t matter for the longest time, which to be fair, it hadn’t.

“You were supposed to be my photographer.”

Your brows furrow, completely lost by his words. “What?”

His large hands run through his shaggy hair from his slumber that you had ripped him away from. “From the very beginning, it was supposed to be you and me. But…” 

Neat brows narrow down harder. “But what?”

Max stops his pace, killing his tracks that lands him right in front of you looking up at him with innocent eyes. He sighs. “I said I didn’t want you working with me.”

“Oh.” A beat. “It’s always been this way, then? You not wanting me near you?”

“For a while,” he says quickly before cringing. “But now that we’ve worked together, I realize the mistake I made. How many years it could’ve been us…”

“What’s the real reason?”

Flinching, he squirms under your focus. “What?”

You nod, encouraging him. “You always said it was because you didn’t think we would work well together, and look at us now—we have.” Leaves rustle from the dozen of trees that wrap around the park. “What was the actual reason?”

He’s known the answer to this question from the moment you joined the team, more specifically, Checo’s. He knew the answer to the question the moment he crossed that finish line, claiming his first Championship like the greedy man he was carved out to be by his own father.

He’s just not sure how you’d take it. Coughing awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, he avoids eye contact. “I knew you’d distract me.”

Your stomach twists like a licorice. “Oh God—have I?”

“No!” he yelps, but the defense he guards up like a soldier lets you know that that’s nowhere close to being true. You shrink, increasing the distance between you two. His palms begin to sweat. “You haven’t—”

“Your dad was right,” you whisper. “I have been a distraction to you. That’s why you’ve been having such a weird season compared to the previous ones…”

“No,” he presses firmly. “The car has changed, that’s why I’ve been driving differently, it has nothing to do with you.”

But you don’t seem to engage with his words, instead, you shake your head like an angry child who never gets their way at the candy store. “How can you love me when I’m the reason your dad puts you down every chance he gets?”

It’s like you forced your fingers in at an open wound, one he tends to forget is there when he’s with you, but when you mention it's existence, he remembers why he dreads it so much. 

“He talks to me like that because he’s a shitty dad, not because of you,” he says, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “I liked you the second year I won my Championship. The first time you said my name.”

“Congrats, Max,” you say with an awkward smile after you pull away from an even more awkward hug. “You did good.”

“I was infatuated by you the third year I won my Championship.”

“You can’t keep firing your photographers,” Christian lectured him with a tired voice, making his accent sound ten times stronger. “Especially when we don’t even have their replacement.”

“I haven’t found one I like,” he says as he watches you walk by, heading towards Checo with a bright smile, bragging about a recent setting that puts your old photos to shame. He looks away when you turn towards his garage, as if you felt his eyes on you. “It’s not my fault.”

“No, young man, it is,” the team principal presses, letting out a tired sigh. “You need to mature with the idea of having one, if not—”

“If not what?”

“If not…uh…we’ll…” Christian looks around for a while before turning back to the Dutchman. “We’ll have to take a different approach.”

“Yeah?” Max questions with amusement. “Which is?”

Christian shrugs. “Swapping Checo’s photographer with yours.”

This makes the Dutch physically recoil. “I’ve told you a thousand times already—it would never work out. She’s too…happy all the time.”

“And maybe that’s exactly what you need.”

Max lets out a shaky breath, watching your chest rise and fall as if you find it harder to breathe with every passing second. 

“And I haven’t won my fourth,” he begins with a light smile and an even lighter tone. “But I already know that I love you.”

This is it. The last smile of his. Of that soft dimple of his that caught you by surprise the first time you saw it. It's the last time because you know that whatever happens after is going to ruin it all.

“I love you—”

“I don’t.”

His lips run dry, forcing a small chuckle like he didn’t hear you right. “I’m—I’m.” He smiles hesitantly. “B-but you said…” No more wind circles around you. “You said it.”

“I know.” You wince, brushing your hair back, annoyed with it by now. “I know I did, but…Max. I didn’t mean it in that way.”

The blue eyed Dutch takes a step backward, noting the uncomfortableness the sand is causing his feet to feel now that the adrenaline is gone. “What do you mean?” he murmurs with embarrassment. “What do you mean?”

Licking your lips, you focus on a tree that stands behind him, how fucked up looking it was. As if someone stabbed it over and over again until it bled wood chips.

“I do love you—but as a friend.”

“Why, though?”

“Friendships last longer,” you respond, like you’ve had the answer sitting on the tip of your tongue for the longest time now. “Relationships don’t.”

“Ours could,” he tries, feeling pathetic. “I’m good at everything. I bet I’ll be good at a relationship, too.”

“A relationship is not a game, Max,” you argue, your voice slightly raising, making him clench his jaw. “And I’m sure you think it is because you're such a perfectionist, but it’s not that easy. There’s a lot of dedication that goes into it.”

“Then I’ll be dedicated to you,” he says. “Heart, body, and soul. I swear. Just—give me a chance.”

“I can’t…”

“But why not?”

“Because all I see is a friend!” you shout, regretting it instantly. His skin loses its natural color, switching to a ghostlike state. His pink lips snap shut like a bear trap. And his furrowed brows revert back to their usual place. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you massage your temples that suddenly feel painful.

“We’re so different from one another, Max. Your life is written down, from birth to death. And you know you’ll live a good one. And mine—mine is constantly changing. I mean, look at it. A few months ago I was working with your teammate and now…” 

He remains silent, patiently watching your lips move with every word that pinches his feelings like the biggest bully. “The love I hold for you is there…but not the same way yours is there for me. Your life moves fast, and I’m barely even able to keep up with a conversation with this fucking stutter that appears most times with others, but very few with you.”

Still nothing. Just his eyes focused on this jacket now, like he's already reclaiming it. “And I really do thank you for that, I do. But I thank you the most for letting me get to know you for who you really are. Not who you pretend to be or what others say you are—and I wish I could reciprocate, but…I just… don’t.”

An eternity passes by, it feels like. He doesn’t even know how long you two have been standing here now, but the sunrise is a clear indication that it’s been forever. And he doesn’t feel tired, nor does he feel upset…

He just feels dumb. 

“I get it,” he finally speaks up. “We view each other differently and that’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It's not your fault,” he repeats, wearing a warm smile, hoping you'd believe his lie. That and he doesn’t think he can handle much more. All he wants to do is go back home. “I’m just glad I had someone to talk to for a while. And, well—I’m sorry. I must have gotten confused by the situation. Maybe I don’t love you, who knows. I probably just got excited, you know? Went my whole life without having an interaction like ours, maybe I’m convincing myself to believe in something that was never there to begin with. For either of us, that is.”

I just got excited, is all. 

-

He did end up winning his fourth Championship the way he said he would. You did end up taking that perfect picture as he stood on that podium, shining as bright as his golden trophy. Jos was happy, Christian was happy, the entire team was happy, but you and Max?

Blue eyes lock with yours, feeling the differenceness between it all. He still loves you, he realizes. He wasn’t confused after all. But neither were you.

All you saw was your best friend, and now you’re not even sure you have one anymore. You two no longer hang out, you barely even speak to one another despite spending most of your days together. He still smiles at you from time to time, but it’s not the same. Nothing could ever be.

And it was a soul crushing thing to realize.

“Congratulations,” you muffle against his race suit as you hug him without your arms fully wrapping around him and his hardly wrapping around you. “This is your moment, Max.” A beat. “No one else’s.”

You’re talking about his dad. He knows that. 

Chuckling, he nods. Like he’s sure of that now. That all his success is his, and his alone. That you have finally managed to matter the most in his life—not his trophies, not his father’s respect.

You.

Pulling away, he still feels your invisible hug linger on him in a way he can’t explain and neither could you. You dig into your pocket, pulling out a silver bracelet. 

“Your birthday gift.”

Right. You never got the chance to give it to him after the last real conversation you two ever had. After that, both of you ignored the fact it ever even happened, and in a way, he was grateful for that, but that didn’t stop it from stinging. Looking down at it, he reads the engravement, feeling his heart take a last lap.

To my favorite open book. With love.

He laughs, clutching his fist around it. “I’m nowhere close to being an open book, but…thanks. I love it.”

You giggle, eyes crinkling with tears as you brush them away. “Not at first, but—eventually. It takes time.”

The cheers rise, but neither of you acknowledge them. Not even when they chant his name, over and over.

“You’ve peeled me,” he admits, nearly whispering. “Completely.” Your breath hitches, sucking in that breath that cost to take in. Max shrugs with a gentle grin. “You’ve peeled the lemon,” he jokes with a shaky breath of his own, blue eyes switching to a darker shade that makes your limbs go weak. “So—do your fingers burn?”

You force a laugh. The kind that makes your head tilt just a bit before tippy toeing to give him a proper kiss on the cheek. He goes still.

“I wish they did. That’d make my decision much easier to go through.”

With that, you step away, the Dutch immediately being over taken by journalists, photographers, the FIA, the drivers—everyone except the only person he really wants there celebrating with him.

His mind is racing faster than his Championship winning car. What decision? What could you possibly mean by that—

Christian embraces him, ruffling his sweaty hair as he pours a bottle of champagne over his head, laughing with glory. Max shakes his head, leaning down to ask the only question that ever made his heart break before he ever even got a response.

“Did she quit?”

Christian knows exactly who she is, but what catches him by surprise is how agitated he appeared to suddenly get. The team principal shrugs. “We’ll find you a new one!” 

“No,” Max whispers in disbelief as he tries to find you from a distance, but all he sees are flashing lights that begin to cut his patience thin. “No.”

I wanted her.

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire@alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious@notkaryna

[4mrplumi]

crow choir masterlist ── platonic batfam x neglected reader

# plotline. you thought she’d live forever, but at the tender age of eight, your big sister dies to a freak accident in your dingy little apartment.

after years of being swept from one inapt foster home to another, a vague judiciary system identifies your father as the bruce wayne.

affection and familiarity never come from him or your… brood, and falling out with your friends has sent you into a small spiral.

a very small, isolated, and managable spiral.

# disclaimers. death, murder, emotional neglect, alchoholism, allusions to physical abuse, self-harm, allusions to an eating disorder, mental disorders, avpd mc, underage drinking, substance abuse, unhealthy dependency, references to gore +more soon

&& a/n. genre-specific disclaimers are added after plot continuation to avoid spoiling the story to early readers. playlist soon.

00. fame is a fickle food. / emily dickinson

01. dust of snow. / robert frost

02. ravens hiding in a shoe. / robert bly

03. cloud pheonix. / aaron j. frederick

04. the human abstract. / william blake

05. omen of emptiness. / spike milligan

asks/drabbles:

1. alfred and (name)

2. luka alien stage reader

3. reader and commitment

( taglist ) ask to be added/removed... ♡

@.cxcilla @.strwberryglass @.c4xcocoa @.yaoizee @.secretsandwriting @.sirenetheblogger @.charlenexoxo1 @.mirabilis-polaris @.jsprien213 @.tfimherewhy @.yuyuzi-ling @.crazycaoticsimp @.m0na-lis4 @.trashlanternfish360 @.thehammerx4 @.ninihrtss @.kaitense1 @.sea-glasses @.shirp-collector-of-fixations @.camilo-uwu @.dirtydiavolo @.buddee

[fenharels-chewtoy]

I get being a fan of Solas but you gotta appreciate Lavellan herself too. She’s the other half of the ship and part of what makes Solavellan so fascinating to me. Sure, you can play Cadash or Adar or Trevelyan and get something interesting but there’s something so compelling about Lavellan as the Inquisitor.

All Inky’s can be kind, caring, compassionate, but it takes a special level of strength to be kind after losing everything. Lavellan is taken from her old life, turned into a religious symbol for her oppressors, and stripped of her identity and culture. There is an undeniable alienation she experiences, both from the shemlen, and then from her own beliefs (and her People/Clan) as she goes through the events of the game; she learns that the history she worked so hard to study and preserve was built on the backs of slaves, that her gods were tyrants and slavers, and that Fen’Harel’s name was ruined through millennia of propaganda and perpetuated lies. She is changed from her time as the Inquisitor and from falling in love with Solas—mentally, physically, and spiritually. She fell in love with the god, with the monster, her people were taught fear, and as the stories go, Fen’Harel’s touch leaves you forever marked.

The Dread Wolf’s name is not worshipped in reverence; it is invoked in fear, in anger—it is a curse, reviled, and spit like the most corrosive of poisons.

But that isn’t who Lavellan falls in love with. Just like the Inquisitor, Fen’Harel is a title and mask worn by a broken man forced into a role he didn’t want.

She was taken, twisted, turned into something she didn’t want, but she did not let it break her. The world had taken so much from her time and time again, yet they continued to demand. She gave up her home, her life, eventually her friends, and even the very organization she dedicated everything to. Forced to make decisions that shed as much blood as it saved. The rest of her life was spent in pursuit of a man looking to end the world, long after she’s already saved it once before. She holds her head high and bears the weight of the world like she was Atlas himself. The Inquisitor bends and bows, but never does she break. Despite this, despite it all, she still remains kind. And Solas? Sweet, gentle Solas. His heart is still so kind but he’s hardened it.

A romanced Lavellan wants to help Solas, to save him from himself. She sees the mask for what it is and knows the man—the spirit—hiding behind it all. Wisdom, taken from his home, turned into a weapon and then a symbol—a god. Forced to fight for what is just, Fen’Harel breaks under the trauma wrought upon him and by him.

He is weighed down by duty and service—to Mythal and to his People. The world was broken by his actions, and he seeks to rend another to restore what was sundered.

Wisdom was lost, turned to Pride. It hides under the guise of Fen’Harel because he believes it is not what the world needs.

The Evanuris claim that Fen’Harel is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, when he was a weapon forged by their own hand.

Lavellan chooses to walk the Dinan’shiral with Solas. Maybe for some, it is because they, too, believe the Veil must come down, and the world restored to its natural state. But, as loredrinker said in their fantastic post, it may be because of connection. They see that Solas is suffering; that he’s been alone. This path would break what was left of the gentle Wisdom underneath it all. The Path of Death, he called it.

She said so herself: “I will save you.”

She walks the Dinan’shiral, not as Solas does, but parallel to him. She does not walk it expecting to reap death, but to stop it. They’ve both experienced loss—lived through horrors no being should ever experience. Leaders, symbols—burdens taken on by shoulders that shouldn’t bear them alone.

And Lavellan will not allow Solas to bear this alone. As she had done with her friends in the Inquisition, she is offering him connection. She will ease his burden if he would let her. Despite the isolation she no doubt feels, she makes sure none of her friends ever feel alone. She supports each of them, gives them a shoulder to lean on, and takes their pain as her own because that’s just who she is.

I will bear this weight with you. You are my heart. We walk this path together. Pain, terror, a terrible future, but you do not have to go alone.

And in the end, the wolf finally takes it. And oh, what a relief it must be after all this time. Millennia, suffering. Alone, lonely, on a path he set for himself, believed to end in eternal isolation. After all, Solas’ worst fear is dying alone.

But no. This is not your fate, vhenan. Ar lath ma.

[muletia]

𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 — [𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏] ⊹₊⟡⋆

[tfp] yandere!soundwave x human!reader

summary: you were meant to be just a bargaining chip for the decepticons, someone who could be easily discarded. but soundwave has other plans for you. (consider this snippet as a base for further stories.)

cw: obsessed!soundwave, kidnapping, isolation, stockholm syndrome?? not really but reader does have a soft spot for him, reader's pov, soundwave is fucking terrifying, this is just an excuse to write about soundwave interacting with you lmao

word count: 750

[part 2]

The automatic doors hissed open, announcing the arrival of the owner of these small quarters. You lifted your head from the tablet, wanting to confirm that your routine remained unbroken — that you would survive one more day. Seeing the familiar silhouette, you exhaled in relief. The same titan as always had returned. You’d live to see tomorrow.

“Hi,” you greeted, well aware you’d never receive a verbal response. The titan was fiercely silent.

He nodded, and that was the end of your “conversation.”

Your interactions hadn’t always been like this. They weren’t always this warm. Going from trembling in fear at just the sight of him to saying “good morning” of your own free will had taken some time. Not that you had much choice in terms of social interactions, which the reptilian part of your brain still craved. You’d only seen other members of his species once, on the day of your abduction. Accepting that this was now your life, indefinitely, hadn’t been easy, but after many months, you’d adjusted. Humans were made to adapt to new conditions, and you were no exception. The will to live had won.

You returned to reading an e-book on your tablet (a reward for good behavior) but quickly paused, noticing the robot had stopped at the desk, right by the small corner arranged just for you. You looked up—he seemed to be looking straight at you. Even with the screen covering his face, you could feel his optics on you.

He was enormous, terrifying, and the lack of human-like facial features, which you’d noticed on others, only heightened the fear factor. He looked like a xenomorph. But your alien was real. And he wanted something from you.

“What’s up?” you asked, uncertainly.

He moved his hand, slowly, calculatedly, and pointed at the tablet as if he genuinely cared about what you were doing, as if he cared about your existence. By now, you understood perfectly what he meant, having gone through this countless times when he returned to you after a few, sometimes several, hours of absence. This was your little ritual, a remnant of normalcy in a world where nothing was normal.

“I didn’t manage to read much,” you sighed. He tilted his head slightly. It was almost cute. Almost. “I just can’t concentrate today. I’m having kind of a rough day.”

It would certainly be better if you were spending your time at home, with family and friends, rather than as the pet of your captor, but of course, you couldn’t say that to him. Not when you’d worked so hard for the privilege of a tablet and your own little human corner.

“But it’s nothing big,” you continued, fearing he’d decide it was his fault. “Humans sometimes have days like this. Tomorrow should be better.”

He shook his head.

Did he not believe you? That was a terrifying thought, one with unpleasant consequences, and it sparked a flash of fear. Fortunately, that spark faded as quickly as it had appeared when an image popped up on his face — a silly meme of a cat holding a rose with hearts around it. You stared at the absurd sight for a moment, trying— and failing —to understand where, why, or how. Finally, you gave up. Laughter escaped you for the first time in a very, very long time. You knew you shouldn’t be laughing; this creature should never be a source of comfort, shouldn’t make you feel better by doing the bare minimum of showing you a silly meme made by some grandma.

But, unfortunately, he succeeded. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel so miserable, so pathetic and dull. You felt human.

“Okay, that was actually funny.”

The cat was replaced by a smiling face. His strange, flat hand moved toward you, but slowly, so as not to scare you. A slender finger stroked your head, gently, with silent affection, then slid down to your chin. It lingered there. The gesture was almost romantic as if performed by a lover rather than a giant, silent robot. The image on his face flickered, showing another picture—a heart.

There were so many things you didn’t know about this being. You didn’t know his motives or intentions, the reasons for his actions. You didn’t know what he was or what else he was capable of. But this intention was unmistakable.

Beneath his tenderness, beneath every gentle gesture, laid feelings for you. And that was more terrifying than unfamiliarity — because now you knew you’d never escape this place. You'd never escape him.

this is what he showed you btw:

[talkbycolor]

mushroom oasis headcanons . . . ↷

A/N; im very sensitive about mychael too, oops

Pairing; "Mychael" x GN!Reader

CW; idk alien sex (jk) / this is actually cute, dont worry

Mychael as your boyfriend.

I just know that he likes to listen to ABBA with you and dance in the mornings when making breakfast or at night before going to sleep.

He purrs at bedtime, especially if you pet his hair.

You can caress his horns, they are softer than they look but also sensitive, be delicate

After a while of relationship, he could no longer avoid the growing guilt he felt and told you about the mushrooms in the forest and the brainwashing he did to you at the beginning.

Definitely identifies with Roar's "Christmas Kids" song.

Be thankful he doesn't have an internet connection or he'd make Deez Nuts cringe jokes.

He is the perfect person for fairycore, you have already begged him to do makeup together, even though he didn't need any of that.

He likes to feel safe, silly and childish with you, having learned to take care of himself since… well, always, it was a drain on the soul. what a relief to his heart to be able to be childish with you, like a break.

He still has certain self-esteem problems, his eyes always dilate when you say nice things about him (or when he's about to jump and attack ((kiss you)))

It's not like Mychael is an uncivilized being, but you've taken the time to teach him several things on dates you've had, things that perhaps he didn't know due to his isolation from society.

You're actually a little scared of what could happen if they discover Mychael's existence, so if you live together it will be in the forest.

Sometimes he is selfish and brainwashes you when he wants more kisses or just feels too needy to let you go out with your friends.

For him there is no such thing as breaking up, he will beg you for answers and ask countless times what the problem is or what you want him to change, as a last resort he would brainwash you so that you stay by his side, even if it's like a shell.

"They were 20 and decided to end their life just like this. They went up to the 21st floor and left without saying "goodbye." I wonder if when they were flying through the air they remembered… ..I once told him if you kill yourself I'm gonna kill myself too!" Basically Mychael not being able to continue with his life alone once he meets MC, if you leave, so does he.

The first time you had sex, bro, Mychael almost had to be chained up, he acted like a spoiled kid when he tried his new favorite candy.

Mychael composes songs for MC, he will even try to get new instruments, new talents, anything to entertain his firefly and have them stay in the forest with him.

Is the kind of old-fashioned sculpted lover, don't doubt that you will look like a 60-year-old couple with 3 chickens and a dog, your wish is his command. If you can't go out to eat at an elegant restaurant, he will get a recipe book to prepare the best dishes and put candles on the table. If you don't have new clothes, he will knit what you like. If you don't like the color of the cabin, he will paint everything as many times as necessary.

Physically? Mychael will never hurt you, using guilt as manipulation is not to his liking either, he loves you too much so he will only wash your brain to have a perfect life by your side, don't worry, you are safe from the world and you will have healing caresses every night , even if it is not today, if it is not tomorrow, you will learn to need it on your own and stay at will.

Mychael is terrified of people, the opinion of the masses made him think of himself as a monster and he can't help but blurt out little comments mocking his own appearance. Being with you makes him forget what he is. Why was he surprised? Because you didn't look away.

His saliva is a little salty and something tells me that he produces goo when he is excited, trust me (delulu)

♡

[stackslip]

watched through the playthrough of 1000xresist with a growing sense of "was iris groomed? am i the only one getting these vibes at all?" wondering if i was just making shit up but then in the last two chapters they drop all the stuff about mimi having a "special relationship with her" and having alone time with her while talking casually to the commander about having her inseminated, and then later we learned that iris stabbed mimi before calling forth the source to wipe out all other humans on the ship?

and already i was like OH yeah that tracks, sounds like she wasn't just experimented upon but was being sexually abused

and then it went on with my own uncomfortable feelings re the alien/the source itself and how the clones and others referred to iris's relationship to the occupants--fucking them, fraternizing, comparing it to a past boyfriend; and then i realized the jiao picture was a secretary from the source and it still acted enamoured of her and offered her massages; and then i thought of all the glimpses we get of iris's exhaustion and dissociation and lost time after every communion with the source and how closely it mirrors victims of csa's own dissociation. and how even as she abused her daughters she refused the source access to them (much to its chagrin)

and THEN secretary and the source got to talk directly and the way the source talks about iris. flat out having isolated her, targeting her bc she was an alienated and unpleasant teenage girl, calling her "my iris", practically slobbering at the thought of using her, and then secretary says "you communed with her" with the same horror one would say when they heard of a rape; and the source continues on about how iris is always going to belong to it, same as secretary and other clones--because iris's children and the source's children, by default, belong to the source

because iris was groomed and abused, first abused by her mom who herself suffered trauma and was rejected by her own mother, then her peers in a racist environment, and then experimented upon and used by the soldiers and very likely groomed and sexually abused by mimi, and then the source comes in and swoops her up, a flower ready to be plucked. it keeps asking her to get access to her own children, her sisters--"to the very end, she was so protective of her sisters. she never allowed me to listen in."

and she was still. ALLMO. she was still horrific to youngest/principal. she was forever emotionally and physically frozen in the limbo of being 17-18 and traumatized while being groomed by both an older scientist with absolute power over her, and then by an eldritch alien force who saw her emotions and trauma as something to consume and preserve in itself, that demanded more and more to the point that she began to lose sleep and time and sense of reality. when principal comes to her, she acts like they last spoke a month ago instead of a millennia. did she know? did she know her act of rage and lashing out would create a monster? was she so lost in the communion and abuse by the source that she didn't even notice the time pass? did the simulacre of jiao the source made to assuage her guilt and ptsd lie to her? i'm obsessed. iris kwan jesus christ

[arctic-whatever]

I don’t think anyone talks about how incredibly lonely it can be sometimes to be alterhuman. Sure, there’s online spaces, meet-ups, forums and groups, but outside of that? You’re inevitably going to have at least one small period of your life where no-one around you feels the way you do and you have no idea why. Maybe you’re a child who’s never heard the words ‘therian’ or ‘otherkin’. Maybe you’re deep in the antikin community, lashing out at joy with hate and fear. Maybe there’s something else keeping you seperate.

Whatever the reason, that part of life is… almost unbearably isolated. You feel different, different in a way you can barely put words to. Different in a way you often see others institutionalised for in books and movies. Different in the way you hear your thoughts, speak your words and experience your feelings. And more often than not, you don’t know why.

Why you? Why were you chosen to shoulder the burden of being so different? What made any benevolent creator (or lack thereof) reach down and plant such joy in your heart, and such pain also?

Your hands are not your own as they grip foreign objects of an alien world; cutlery, pencils, jewellery. Are you even meant to have hands? Sometimes your fingers ache with the knowledge they were never meant to exist in any meaningful capacity. Your heart beats too fast, too slow, too… human.

Your friends and family don’t understand. They can’t. They’ve never felt the call of the camphor-laden breeze, never lost themselves to the wild, frenetic energy of the night. They’re human. Your spirit extends beyond yourself, in impossible limbs that they will never yearn for. Your soul will not be contained within this flesh prison, it never could be, all whilst theirs rests comfortably at home.

There’s no words for this feeling, not in any book, nor television show. There’s no representation except for in the monstrous. There’s no celebrity that openly talks about it. There’s no dictionary that explains it. You’re different, alone, and entirely certain that you are the only person on earth to be a facsimile of a person; not a person at all.

And then you find the therian community. And you realise they’d been there all along, hidden from the mainstream conversation, away from the late-night talk shows and trivia competition questions.

And you wonder, in what cruel world could such unbearable loneliness continue to be allowed to persist when the answer existed in the background all along? Who let your heart break over and over, just to reveal it broke for nothing so painful at all? Who let you scream hoarsely into the void, begging for answers, all while the answers sat so close by?

How could any of this be fair?

[rafayelxsylusho]

The land of no return part 3

Got this idea from the new update.

What if Zayne really leaves?

Part 1 here Part 2 here Part 4 here Part 5 here

Part 6 here Part 7 here Part 8 here

Headers: @bc.lay on Tik Tok

DEPRESSION

Day 68-365

Depression settles over you like a shroud, heavy and unyielding. It's a silent, insidious enemy that creeps in when you're at your weakest, when your guard is down. It doesn't announce its arrival with fanfare or grand declarations. No, it slips in quietly, a shadow lurking at the edges of your consciousness, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

At first, you don't even realize it's there. You're too busy drowning in the anguish of loss and the bitter ashes of shattered dreams. Depression hides behind the anger, the bargaining, the reckless pursuit of pain and danger. It watches, it waits, biding its time until the other stages of grief have run their course.

But as the months drag on, and the world continues to spin, depression emerges from the shadows. It wraps around your heart, your mind, your very soul, until you can barely breathe. The once vibrant colors of your life fade to a dull, lifeless gray, and the simplest tasks become obstacles.

You find yourself unable to get out of bed, unable to face the day. The thought of food makes your stomach turn, and the idea of seeing others, of pretending to be the person you once were, fills you with bone deep dread. You pull the covers over your head and pray for the darkness to claim you, to drag you down.

Depression is a master manipulator, a cruel taskmaster that demands your complete submission. It whispers lies and half truths, convincing you that you're not good enough, that you don't deserve happiness or love. It tells you that you're better off alone, that you'll never find someone who can replace the one you lost.

So you stay in bed, day after day, watching the world go by outside your window. Depression feeds on your apathy, your hopelessness, your complete and utter lack of will to live.

It's a lonely, isolating existence. You push away the people who care about you, the ones who try to reach out and pull you back from the brink.

Your loved ones rally around you, determined to break the hold depression has on you. They refuse to let you slip away, to surrender to the darkness that threatens to consume you whole.

Xavier, takes it upon himself to drag you out of bed and to work each day. He arrives at your door, armed with a sense of purpose and a steely resolve that brooks no argument. No matter how much you protest, how much you beg for the comfort of your blankets and the oblivion of sleep, he will not be deterred.

He storms into your room, his eyes flashing with a fierce determination. "Get up," he commands "You're coming to work today. I won't let you waste away in this room any longer."

He hauls you out of bed, ignoring your feeble attempts to resist. He throws open the curtains, letting the harsh light of the day spill into your sanctuary, chasing away the shadows that have made it their home.

"Come on," he says, pushing you towards the bathroom. "Shower, brush your teeth, and put on clean clothes. I'll be waiting outside."

And so, with a heavy heart and a soul weighing as much as lead, you comply. You go through the motions of your morning routine, the familiar actions now alien and unwelcome. But you do it because Xavier demands it, because he refuses to let you surrender to the darkness any longer.

While Xavier takes charge of your work life as Caleb steps up to fill the void in your personal life. He becomes your shadow, your constant companion.

Taking over the kitchen, filling the fridge with healthy meals, and the counters with the ingredients for more. He cooks for you, even though you have no appetite, even though the thought of food makes your stomach churn with revulsion.

He sits with you as you pick at your plate, urging you to eat, to nourish your body even if your soul is starving. He talks to you, filling the heavy silence with the sound of his voice, even as you stare blankly at the wall, lost in the labyrinth of your own thoughts.

He takes on the chores that you've neglected, the laundry piling up, the dishes stacking in the sink. He cleans your house from top to bottom, airing out the stale air and letting the fresh breeze carry away the musty scent of despair that clings to every surface.

But Caleb doesn't stop at household duties. He takes it upon himself to make sure you keep your appointments, from the dentist, therapist and cardiologist. He sits with you in the waiting rooms, flipping through outdated magazines and making idle chatter, trying to keep your mind off the dread that coils like a serpent in your gut.

Rafayel and Sylus, join forces just like Xavier and Caleb, in their mission to pull you back from depression. They take turns entertaining you, dragging you out of the house and into the world, whether you want to go or not.

Rafayel, with his boundless energy and infectious laughter, sweeps you along on beach walks that stretch for miles. He points out the beauty in the simplest things, from the intricate patterns of seashells to the breathtaking sunsets that paint the sky in hues of orange and pink. He won't let you wallow in the darkness, insisting that you find something, anything, to appreciate in each day.

Sylus, with his daring spirit and thrill seeking heart, takes you on midnight motorcycle rides that whip through the empty streets. The wind roars in your ears, the engine growls beneath you, and for a fleeting moment, you feel alive. The adrenaline surges through your veins, momentarily chasing away the numbness that has settled in your limbs.

Together, your friends close ranks around you, a united front against that depression that seeks to destroy you. They won't let you face this alone, won't allow you to surrender to darkness. They are your guiding lights, your anchors in the storm, refusing to let you be swept away by the tide of despair.

There are days, many days, when you feel yourself slipping, when the darkness beckons you with a siren's call that grows louder and harder to resist with each passing moment. But your friends, your loved ones, they won't let you go. They hold on tight.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Night is always a treacherous time, a vast expanse of darkness that stretches endlessly before you. It's during these hours that the silence becomes deafening, that the absence of another heart beating beside yours is most keenly felt.

Sylus tries to be your anchor during the worst nights, his presence a warm glow in the cold darkness. He sits with you for hours, he attempts to distract you, to make you laugh, all acts of love, born from the desire to see you whole again.

But even Sylus couldn't protect you from the nightmares that haunted your dreams, from the memories that clawed at your heart. The night was a battleground, and you were always fighting a losing war.

It was on one of those nights, when the darkness seemed thickest and your resolve was at its weakest, that you saw Mephisto, his crimson eyes glowing in the moonlight, watching. His presence was a cold hand around your throat, a reminder that even in your solitude, you were never truly alone.

In that moment, the last vestiges of your desire for companionship shattered. The night becomes your enemy, a time to be endured rather than shared. You close your windows, sealing yourself off from the world outside, wanting to keep the nights to yourself, to face them alone.

So when the sun sets and the shadows grow long, you retreat into yourself, a hermit in your own home. The darkness is your confidant, your lover, your judge and jury. It's during these hours that you're most honest with yourself, when the masks fall away and you're left to grapple with the raw truth of your existence.

The night is a cruel mistress, demanding and unforgiving. But you've learned to dance with her, to move through her embrace with a grace born of necessity. You've learned that sometimes, the only way to survive the darkness is to claim it as your own, to make it a part of yourself rather than something that consumes you.

Your dreams are a twisted mirror, reflecting the shattered remnants of the life you once shared. In the realm of slumber, the memories of your love story warp and contort, morphing into nightmares that leave you gasping and crying out in the stillness of the night.

You see his face, beautiful and beloved, as he whispers words of devotion that now sound like cruel taunts.

"I want to spend the next decade with you"

"I don't want this to end, I don't want to go home..." 

"I need you, I have never denied that," he says, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. But in your dreams his touch burns like a brand, searing your skin and leaving you aching for a warmth that will never return. You try to lean into his hand, craving the comfort and solace you once found in his embrace, but he pulls away, fading into the shadows like a ghost.

Just once, your dreams take on a vivid, almost feverish quality. The familiar scent of his cologne fills your senses, and suddenly you're back to that night, where passion and desperation collided in a perfect storm of the senses.

You see his face, his eyes dark with desire as he looks down at you. His hands, strong and sure, roam your body with a familiarity that still makes your heart race. The heat between you is palpable, a living thing that consumes everything in its wake.

You can hear his voice, low and husky with need, as he tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wants you, how he could never get enough of you.

The dream reaches its climax, and you feel him enter you, slow and steady, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and pain that leaves you crying out his name.

You feel his lips on your skin, tracing a path of fire from your collarbone to the sensitive spot beneath your ear. His breath, warm and sweet, ghosts over your neck as he whispers words of love and lust.

Your body, primed and ready, jolts awake, leaving you soaked. But it's not just the sweat that soaks your skin, the proof of your body's reaction to the dream. No, there's a different wetness, a slick heat that coats your inner thighs, a testament to the desire that still burns brightly within you, even in sleep.

Your dreams are also haunted by the ghosts of the past, by the memories of a time when life was simpler, when love was a given and friendship was unshakable. Night after night, you find yourself transported back to days of your youth, where the greatest worry was whether you'd pass your math test or if your favorite cartoon would be on TV after school.

In these dreams, you see Caleb and Zayne, your constant companions, your partners in crime. Caleb, with his mischievous grin and his endless well of silly ideas, is always there, ready to make you laugh until your sides ache and tears stream down your face. He spins you around like a toy, your skirt flaring out around you as you giggle and stumble, your balance lost and found in the circle of his arms.

And Zayne, dear, steadfast Zayne, is never far behind. He's there to catch you when you stumble, to steady you on your feet, his large hands gripping your elbows, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile that never fails to make your heart flutter. He's the voice of reason amidst Caleb's madness.

His voice is the same, the timbre of it, the softness in it, the way it wraps around you like a blanket, warm and comforting and safe. It's the voice you heard in your dreams for months after he left you that first time.

Because this wasn't the first time Zayne had left you. He'd walked away before, disappearing from your life without a trace, only to return years later, sweeping in like a prince charming and stealing your heart all over again.

You think of Caleb and the way he'd always been there, your constant friend, your rock in a world that seemed to be crumbling around you. He'd been your sunshine on dark days, your laughter on solemn occasions, the one person who could make you smile when you thought you'd never smile again.

And Zayne... Zayne had been your heart, your soul, the other half of you that you never even knew you were missing until he'd found you, until he'd made you whole.

You'd think, after all this time, that the well of tears would run dry, that the endless stream of sorrow would eventually cease its relentless flow. But as you lie there, curled up in a fetal position, your body wracked with anguish, you realize with grim certainty that the tears will never stop. They are an inescapable companion, as constant and as unwelcome as the grief that clings to you like a second skin.

Your pillow grows damp, the tears soaking through the fabric, the saltiness of them a bitter reminder of the pain that consumes you. You breathe in the moisture, the dampness filling your lungs, the salt stinging your nostrils. It's a cruel irony that even in your deepest despair, your body finds a way to sustain the tears, to keep the sorrow flowing like a river of anguish that threatens to drown you.

As you cry, you feel the tears sliding down your neck, tracing the curve of your jaw, dripping onto your collarbone. They leave a trail of moisture on your skin, a map of your despair, a roadmap of the heartache that threatens to tear you apart.

The sobs come in great, heaving gulps, each one a wrenching, agonizing convulsion of your lungs, your throat, your very being. They tear at your insides, clawing at your heart, shredding the fragile remains of your composure. You feel as if you might split open from the force of your grief, as if your soul might be ripped from your body, leaving behind a hollow, empty husk.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Dr. Elijah your cardiologist and now also your primary care doctor, fate, it seems, has a wicked sense of humor, is a handsome man, his deep blue eyes, a shade darker than the ocean, meet yours with a concern that seems to pierce straight through to your. His red hair, a fiery auburn that catches the light and frames his face in a way that's both striking and strangely comforting, falls across his forehead in a manner that's almost boyish, despite the seriousness of the moment. He reminds you of Zayne in a way.

"Y/N" he begins, his voice gentle yet firm. "I've been reviewing your chart, and I think it's time we consider putting you on antidepressant medication."

You feel your stomach clench at the suggestion, a wave of dread washing over you. Medication, a chemical Band Aid to patch up the gaping wound in your heart. It feels like an admission of defeat, a acknowledgment that the pain you feel is too much for you to bear alone.

"I don't know," you hear yourself say, "I don't want to rely on drugs to make me feel better."

"It's been almost eight months," he says, his voice soft but insistent. "of you struggling, of you fighting this alone. I know the pain is still raw, still devastating, but it's time to start thinking about your long term well being."

He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Antidepressants aren't a magic cure," he explains, "but they can help regulate your mood, make it easier to function day to day."

You bite your lower lip, your teeth sinking into the tender flesh as you consider his words. The thought of depending on medication to get through each day is daunting, but the alternative, a lifetime of endless tears and unrelenting anguish, is even more terrifying.

"The antidepressants I'm recommending have been thoroughly tested and are considered safe for people with your heart condition. They won't have any adverse effects on your heart health."

He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours. "I understand your concern. It's natural to have worries about putting something new in your body, especially given your medical history. But I assure you, your heart is in no danger from these medications."

Elijah pauses, allowing you a moment to process this information. He knows that trust is a fragile thing, and he's determined to earn yours in this matter.

"However," he continues, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "I want to monitor your progress closely. For the first couple of months, I'll need you to come in for weekly check ups. This way, we can keep a close eye on how your body is responding to the medication, and make any necessary adjustments."

You take a deep, shuddering breath, your shoulders rising and falling with the effort. "Okay," you whisper, "Okay, I'll do it. I'll try the medication, and I'll come in for the check-ups."

He stands up, his chair scraping softly against the floor. "I'll give you a moment then we can discuss the specifics of the medication and schedule your follow-up appointments."

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Weeks turn into months and you find yourself settling into a new rhythm of life. After a month the antidepressants, begin to help dull the sharp edges of your grief. Each morning, you wake up a little easier, the weight on your chest a little lighter than the day before.

Caleb, continues to be your rock during this time. He's there to pick you up when you stumble, to wipe away your tears when the memories of Zayne threaten to overwhelm you. Even from afar, stuck in Skyhaven with work commitments, he calls you every day, his voice a lifeline connecting you to the world of the living.

Your nights out with Rafayel and Sylus become more frequent, more enjoyable. Laughter comes a little easier, the sound of it foreign and rusty at first, but growing smoother with each passing week. You find yourself able to smile at their jokes, to join in their antics, even if the joy behind it is still a fragile thing.

Work takes on a new focus, a distraction from the constant ache in your heart. You throw yourself into your responsabilities, determined to prove your worth, to show that you're still capable of excellence despite the pain that dogs your every step.

Dr. Elijah remains a constant presence as well, a guiding light in your journey back to health. He monitors your progress with diligent care, adjusting your medication as needed.

Slowly but surely, you begin to reclaim pieces of your life. The world starts to look a little brighter, the future a little less daunting. It's a gradual process, a journey of small steps forward, but you can feel the change, as tangible as the sun warming your face after a long winter.

The nightmares still haunt your dreams, but they come less frequently now. You wake up with a start, tears still streaming down your face, but the anguish behind them has begun to ebb. You know that the pain of losing Zayne will never truly go away, but you're learning to live with it, to carry it with you like a scar that will fade with time.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

As you sit in Dr. Elijah's office, two months after starting your antidepressants you feel a sense of accomplishment. The past eight weeks have been a journey, a struggle, but you've made progress. You're not the same broken, grief stricken person you were when you first started this path to healing.

"I want to reduce your appointments to once every two weeks," Dr. Elijah says "Unless, of course, you need to come in sooner. And I also wanted to thank you for trusting me with this medication, Y/N"

"Thank you for everyth..."

Dr. Elijah chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Do you know why doctors dont trust atoms?

"I...no..."

"Because they make up everything"

You blink, taken aback by the sudden attempt at humor. It's not a joke that would typically elicit laughter, but for some reason, you find yourself dissolving into giggles. Your shoulders shake, and a sound that's been foreign for months escapes your lips, a genuine, unbridled laugh.

The more you try to stifle it, the more it grows, until you're practically howling with laughter, tears streaming down your face. Your tummy aches with the unfamiliar exercise, and for a moment, you forget where you are.

Dr. Elijah watches, his smile widening, his gaze softening as your laughter fills the room. He seems to be taking in the sight of you, his eyes shining with a warmth and a hint of something almost like awe.

As your laughter subsides and you catch your breath, you glance up at him, your cheeks flushed and your eyes sparkling. It's then that you notice the way he's looking at you, his gaze intense and almost reverent.

You freeze, suddenly self conscious. It's a look you once knew all too well, a look that made your heart flutter and your stomach dance. It's a look that Zayne used to give you, a look that spoke of admiration, of affection, of a deep abiding care.

For a moment, you're transported back to a time before the pain, before the loss, before the grief. You remember the way Zayne's eyes would light up when you laughed, the way his smile would stretch wide and his gaze would grow soft and warm.

The memory is bittersweet, it's a jolt to your system, a shock to your heart, and for a moment, you feel the old ache threatening to resurface.

But as quickly as it came, the moment passes, and you're left blinking away tears, your laughter fading into a soft, stunned silence.

Dr. Elijah seems to realize the intensity of his gaze, and he blushes, looking away quickly. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice slightly strained. "I didn't mean to stare. It's just... You have no idea how good it is to see you finding moments of joy"

You and Dr. Elijah both startle at the sudden knock on the door, the sound piercing the moment that had unfolded between you. As the door swings open, you turn to see Yvonne standing there, a stack of papers clutched to her chest.

Your laughter, a sound she hasn't heard from you in months, seems to have caught her off guard as well. It's clear from her expression that the joyous sound was a surprise, a stark contrast to the constant sorrow she's witnessed from you since Zayne left.

For a moment, time seems to stand still, the air thick with a mix of astonishment and tentative hope. Yvonne's gaze darts between you and Dr. Elijah, taking in the scene, your tearful eyes, the doctor's flushed cheeks, the palpable shift in atmosphere.

Dr. Elijah clears his throat, the sound breaking the spell. "Ah, Yvonne," he says, his professional demeanor sliding back into place. "Can I help you with something?."

Yvonne blinks, seeming to shake herself from her stupor. "I apologize for the interruption, Doctor," she says, "I'm here to deliver these papers and to remind you that your surgery is scheduled in 20 minutes."

Dr. Elijah nods, taking the papers from Yvonne's outstretched hand. "Thank you, Yvonne," he says, glancing over the documents briefly. "I appreciate the reminder. I'll make sure to be down to the operating room on time."

As Yvonne moves to leave, you stand up abruptly from your chair, the sudden movement causing it to scrape loudly against the floor.

"I... I should be heading out as well," you say, your voice slightly hoarse from the laughter that still tingles in your throat.

Dr. Elijah rises from his chair, his tall frame unfolding with a gentle creak of leather. He meets your gaze, his eyes warm with a mix of professional pride and personal affection " I'll see you back here in two weeks for your follow-up appointment. Keep up the progress, and don't hesitate to reach out if you need anything before then."

You nod, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "I will, Dr. Elijah," you promise, meaning it with every fiber of your being. "Thank you, for everything."

With that, you turn and walk towards the door, your steps feeling a little lighter than they did when you first entered. Yvonne holds the door open for you, her gaze softening when you approach.

As you step out into the hallway of the hospital, you fall into step beside Yvonne. The two of you begin to chat, your conversation a familiar dance of shared history and inside jokes. It's a comfort, this easy banter, a reminder of the life you used to live.

You can't help but reflect on the significance of this moment as you walk side by side with her. The sound of your laughter, the casual conversation, the feeling of taking a step forward, it's all part of the slow, steady process of healing and moving towards a new normal.

You feel a spark of hope kindling in your chest, a fragile but persistent flame that whispers to you of a future where the pain of losing Zayne won't be the only thing that defines you. It's a future where laughter, friendship, and the simple joys of life can coexist with the love and grief that will always be a part of who you are.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

A couple of months later you sit on the edge of your bed, your phone clutched tightly in your hands, your heart pounding in your chest. The room is dark, the only light coming from the glow of the screen illuminating your face. You've been here before, countless times, pouring your heart out to Zayne message after message.

At first, it was a desperate attempt to hold onto him, to keep him close in any way possible. You wrote about your days, your thoughts, as if he was still here, still a part of your life.

But now, a year later, something has shifted. The pain is still there, a constant ache that you've learned to live with. But there's a new feeling too, one that you've been hesitant to acknowledge until now.

Acceptance.

With trembling fingers, you begin to type, the words flowing from your heart onto the screen. This message is different from the rest. It's not a plea for him to come back, not a desperate cry for the love you once shared. No, this message is a goodbye.

"Zayne," you start, your fingers hovering over your phone, your breath catching in your throat. "It's been almost a year since you left, a year since our lives took different paths. I know I can't change the past, and I know I can't force you to be a part of my future. But I've realized that I'm tired of holding onto the pain, tired of dwelling on what we lost."

I'm not leaving you behind, Zayne," you continue, your fingers moving faster now, the words flowing more freely. "I could never leave behind the love we shared, the way you touched my life, the way you changed me for the better. No, this isn't me leaving you. This is me accepting that you're gone, that our story has ended. And I'm sorry it took me so long to understand that."

You take a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes. "I'll always love you, Zayne," you type, your voice cracking with emotion as you whisper the words aloud, as if speaking directly to him. "I'll carry that love with me always, no matter where I go or who I become. You'll always be a part of me, a piece of my heart that I can never get back. But I know now that it's time for me to start living again, time for me to find my own path and create a new story."

You pause, blinking back the tears that threaten to obscure the screen. "So this is goodbye. Not because I stop loving you, but because I've learned to love myself enough to let you go. I hope that somewhere, somehow, you find the peace and happiness that you deserve.

With a final, trembling breath, you hit send, watching as the message disappear from your screen. It joins the hundreds of others, all left unread, all a testament to the love that consumed your life. But this one feels different, feels like a weight lifted from your shoulders, a door closing on a chapter of your life that has shaped you forever.

As you set your phone down on the nightstand, you feel a sense of exhaustion wash over you. The process of grieving, of healing, is not an easy one, and it's taken every ounce of your strength to reach this moment. But as you lie back against your pillow, you feel something that you haven't felt in a long time, hope.

Hope for a life where you can love again, laugh again, and find joy in the simple things that once seemed so meaningless.

With that thought, you close your eyes, letting sleep claim you. And for the first time in a long time, you dream not of the past, but of the future, a future where you are free to become the person you were always meant to be, a future where the love you shared with Zayne can live on, not as a cage, but as wings.

@exitingmusic

@heeknow

@crazyzombieblaze

[maidenvault]

I’m sure Andor will be remembered for a long time as unequivocally justifying the more morally gray rebels’ methods but it’s really more complicated than that because of what we learn about Kleya. All that Luthen did may not have given the rebellion the win at Yavin if he truly sacrificed having any kind of human connection and didn’t have this one person who loved him, believed in him, and stuck with him to the bitter end after he’d alienated so many.

It’s just great, you’d expect Luthen’s backstory might tell us that he did have children, that he lost a whole family or something, but his primary motivation, his heart, has always been hiding in plain sight and it’s Kleya. They try not to have that kind of relationship because it could get in the way of what they have to do but she’s been with him since the very beginning of his fight when he saved her, and it’s kind of always been about her. It makes a big contrast between him and Saw, who abandoned Jyn and is so comfortable making enemies he can’t trust that anyone is on his side anymore. Kleya is his daughter, she is the future he’s fighting for, and he couldn’t have done it all without her.

Luthen’s willingness to sacrifice anything for the cause does give him a significant weakness because it means no one can trust him. Mon has no real reason to believe he’ll safely extract her after her Senate speech. Because he’s continued operating in total isolation on Coruscant after that, the rebellion can’t be sure they can trust his information about the Death Star.

It doesn’t mean his contributions to the rebellion should be forgotten and his memory disrespected. But in the end his work paying off hinges on Kleya, who knew him better than anyone, and Cassian, who knows he’s not as unlike Luthen as he’d like to think, being able to trust him when it matters most. The rebelllion could never be sustainable without everyone being able to come together knowing they’re safer that way than with the Empire.

And Luthen surely knew that. He never went to Yavin because he knew there would be no place for him in what he helped build and that was a good thing. But that’s a sacrifice he made out of love and he couldn’t have known how important that is, that it worked because he was more than Axis, he was a father to Kleya. She was his reason as much as Bix is Cassian’s. And it’s just really touching that there are people who won’t let what he did be forgotten when he clearly never counted on it.

[batsandbirdbrains]

On the subject of putting the wonder twins in young justice bc now that that’s in my mind it’s all I’m gonna think about for days

The one where Donna Troy is the only thing keeping Dick from spiraling out of control

Another post-season 2 young justice fic where everyone’s mad at Nightwing for being the only one with half a brain.

Let’s say in this AU that Artemis refused to go back when Dick asked for help. She and Wally wanted out of that life, and he couldn’t convince her to return. Dick ends up having a foot in both worlds, spending half his time as Nightwing and half his time moonlighting as Renegade, Deathstroke’s apprentice. Kaldur and Donna are the only two who know, aside from Deathstroke himself. For whatever reason, Deathstroke is on board with the idea. Let’s say it’s bc he doesn’t like the idea of the world being taken over by aliens or smth idk. Maybe bc he has a soft spot for Dick. Maybe a mysterious third option I just haven’t thought of yet.

But while Dick is spread so thin between both masks, feeling like he’s about to snap in half and never be able to get out back together because of all the stress, Donna is the one who keeps him grounded. Who reminds him why they’re doing all this. Who helps with the team when his duties as Renegade start piling up and he needs to go help Kaldur with something that the team can’t know about. She covers for him. She’s his anchor.

But then everything is over and everyone turns on Dick, calling him manipulative and a traitor and a liar, and she has to watch as her best friend, the boy who’s practically her twin, starts crumbling under the pressure and the expectations and the guilt.

And she goes off on all of them. Because how dare they turn on Nightwing after he sacrificed damn near everything to save their world, who was the only one who was able to come up with a plan that was doable and actually worked while everyone else damn near sat on their ass and twiddled their thumbs.

They don’t seem to realize how much Dick had on his plate throughout the entire invasion. He had to play the role of Batman in Gotham and during any publicized League events, took up several of Batman’s League duties, had to run the Team and organize missions and ops and training sessions, was Kaldur’s handler while he was in deep cover, went undercover himself as Renegade. He never had time to breathe, to be just Dick. And not a single one of them thanked him for all that he did. Or even recognized the fact that he did so much.

Dick isolates himself after the invasion, after the way everyone turns on him. Stays in a Blüdhaven safe house and doesn’t contact anyone at all. Continues running himself ragged by going out as Nightwing all night every night.

Until Donna finds him and wrangles him in. Until she holds him while he breaks, tells him everything will be alright, that she won’t leave him to spiral like this.

Idk I just like when Donna is his anchor and pulls him up from the abyss he fell into.

[piastappies]

˗ˏ` THEODORE NOTT HEADCANONS! ´ˎ˗

NATIONALITY. i truly believe that this man is half polish from his mother’s side and half scottish from his father’s side.

his maternal side of the family settled in northern scotland during the world war two to escape the german occupation. at first it was supposed to be temporary — to stay there until the war ends, but they settled down in the outskirts of inverness, though they never forgot about their heritage, speaking their native language, remembering the history and making sure that their descendants wouldn’t forget about their family’s past.

his mother would continue the tradition, speaking to her only son in her family’s mother tongue. due to the lack of conversation with his father, he barely spoke any english, when he first got to hogwarts, he understood lots of what was said to him, but communicating back was troubling for him at first.

back when his mother was still alive, she would take him to poland, to show him their family’s hometown. after she passed away due to suicide, combined with her progressing schizophrenia around his tenth birthday, he hasn’t returned to his mother’s country until post-war.

FRIENDS. he didn’t have too many friends at first nor wanted to make any in the first place. the first person he spoke to was daphne greengrass.

his poor english with a rough accent, mixed of polish and scottish, made it hard for him to be understood by his peers in the train, making theo seem as an arrogant and egocentric twelve-years old boy, who thought he was better than the others that approached him. theo felt alienated, but couldn’t speak his mind, because his peers would make fun of the way he speaks.

back in the first term of first year, his roommates weren’t speaking to him. thanks to daphne, who let him took his time to figure out what he wanted to say, he met his gang and switched dorms with one of them, which resulted in sharing a room with mattheo and lorenzo.

even though he had a small group of friends, his closest were daphne and mattheo. the alienation he felt earlier was lifted off his shoulders, knowing that there were still people that would be there for him. ever since his mom died, he felt like his world was shattered into pieces, the feeling only intensifying, when his father forbid him from seeing the side of the family he grew up with, the good side that let him be a boy.

his friendship with daphne was strong throughout years as she often invited him to the countryside, where her family’s mansion was, often disappearing into thin air at the crack of dawn till the late evening, wandering around the streets of a muggle towns nearby her house, causing troubles with the rest of their friends.

PERSONALITY.

it wasn’t a surprise for anyone that learnt about his background that despite coming off as an extrovert, theodore was really quiet and perceptive guy, who kept lots of things to himself. not a lot of people knew about his mom’s life and the way it ended as his father made sure that everyone thought she died of an unspecified illness.

seeing his mom’s schizophrenia progressing in his early years, leading to her suicide had taken a toll on him. he believed that it was his father’s fault for everything bad that happened to the person he loved the most as he tried isolating her from her family, and when that didn’t work out the way he wanted, abusing her mentally and physically. after her passing, the abuse continued, this time, theodore was at the end of the stick. his father’s behaviour making theo distrustful and hostile towards male figures in his life, especially authorities.

despite his quietness, lots of girls at school were falling in front of him to get at least an ounce of his attention for themselves. it might be the brooding state he’s often is in. he, as well as his friends, is often the subject of interest of people in his year and below. usually, he attends the parties in the common rooms to keep up with his reputation.

theo’s really indifferent towards things that don’t matter much to him, like said reputation, or for example his grades. though, he doesn’t care about his academics as much as he does about quidditch, he’s exceptionally intelligent and talented, picking up things in a speed of light. he’s not one to refuse helping others (=his friends) and he often tutors mattheo before exams to make sure they both pass the year.

he gets angry, whenever someone compares him to his father, what happens when someone hears his last name. during this time or immediately after, he can get outbursts of anger and needs a smoke (preferably a joint) to numb his mind. if he doesn’t have anything on him, which rarely happens, then if you’re in a line of fire, a visit to hospital wing is the only way out.

whenever he comes back to school from the christmas break, his panic attacks are more frequent, usually accompanied by the image of his dead mom. the panic attack that he would never forget was during his third year, when his boggart showed him his mom’s lifeless body, triggering something inside him.

MISCELLANEOUS.

theo’s super tall, making him stand out from the crowd. when he was measured by miss pomfrey in year five, she told him that he’s around six foot five. he used to be a short kid, but once he started growing, he couldn’t stop — stretch marks on his stomach has fainted over the years.

he doesn’t like mixed alcohol. as a teenager with polish genes, theodore doesn’t mix his alcohol with any juice or soda to make the bitterness go away faster. when he drinks, he does it neat, no matter the type. whether he drinks tequilla, vodka, whiskey or wine, he never adds anything. and when he does want to make the taste go away faster, he eats pickled cucumbers.

has bad anxiety. as i said earlier, theo’s bad anxiety and with each year passing, it only gets worse. his panic attacks are more frequent and it often goes in a pair with any contact from his father.

music taste. the music he listens to is dependent on his mood. whenever he’s alone in his dorm, he blasts polish songs and bands, especially dżem, because it was his mom’s favorite rock-blues band. he’s also a big fan of the smiths and simple minds.

blood status. he doesn’t care about any of it, mostly because that’s what his mom taught him — blood status doesn’t define a person, their actions do. even if she didn’t, he would probably still pretty much indifferent to the blood status of people around him, just to do the opposite of what his father wants.

substances. he’s go to substance is weed. he doesn’t smoke as much as people think, he likes to smoke a joint on a chilly summer morning or after a stressful day. he definitely drinks much more, but not to the point, when he can’t live without it. it’s not a secret that once in a while, he pops mdma at parties.

AS A BOYFRIEND. or more specific, your boyfriend.

possessive. as much as he doesn’t like admitting it, he doesn’t like sharing too much. he’s an only child, who grew up alone most of the time, so sharing never came easy to him. he tries to fight it though, knowing that being super possessive isn’t something healthy. he knows how to read people, so when there’s a guy hanging around you, who’s clearly interested in you, he makes sure to be somewhere around you to shift your focus from the annoying prick to him, while still being gentle with you. he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to his side to leave a kiss on the top of your head, before glaring expectantly at the boy.

communicative. being able to communicate his feelings and thoughts with others weren’t a bother to theodore, he hardly ever spoke to anyone about his troubles, bottling everything up until it popped. but when it comes to you? this guy makes sure that you know he has nothing to hide from you. he’s upset? you’re the one he talks to. he’s angry? you’re the only one able to calm him down. he wants you to know that you’re the one he cares about the most.

protective. this guy loves you to bits and loves everything you do, so when you show him the outfit you plan on wearing, he doesn’t comment on it in any way that could come off as negative, not that he wants to but forces himself to shut up, no, theodore couldn’t even think of something else to say that comolimenting the way you look or telling you all the things he’d love to, and will do to you later. back, when the two of you started dating and you went out somewhere, he always repeated the same thing, wear whatever you want, baby, i can fight. and he definitely would fight for you if you ever asked (what probably will never happen, because no matter how hot he looks sometimes, you hate seeing him hurt). or fight anyone, who does as much as look at you funny, and knowing his friends? they wouldn’t pull him away from the fight, no, they would jump right in to help him.

love language. his love language is acts of service and physical touch. his hands always have to be somewhere on your body, whether it’s his arm slung around your shoulders or wrapped around your waist, his hand on your hip, thigh, his thigh touching yours. it’s not only that he likes to touch you, but he hates when you’re next to him, but not close enough to calm his mind that he might lose you. also, theodore is not the best with words, so he won’t write you a few pages long letter, but what he will do is remember small details of what you tell him, like your favorite brands of sweets, crisps, your favorite flavor of cakes or cookies to always have at least one of those in his bag. he’s the guy who would drive from inverness to the south of england if you ever needed him. you’re sick? one message and theo’s there to take care of you. you like a book, but have no one to talk to about it? he’s gonna read the book just to hear you ramble.

[blueiight]

theres this quote running around from jacob anderson where he talks about how historically black people have been removed from period dramas and how, as suggested by the interviewer (w/ blueiight embellishment ofc), the very few times black charas would show up in these period pieces theyd be side characters delegated to a raceblind narratively incoherent plot to placate an audience ashamed with / of the nuances of blackness. i rly like how he said louis’s character represents both a ‘black and very human story about a vampire… [Black people] do not usually have the opportunity to play such complex and fluent characters’. i think that brings to heart a lot of why this show has my heart, as an armchair historian and r.n. (dont ask what that stands for). u racebent characters in a way that coheres, situate ur black characters in a specific context, and the story never deludes us into thinking the mere existence of an interracial relationship is enough to end racism. in e2 louis literally says “fledgling sounds like slave, dont call me that” and e3 starts with louis telling lestat the history of dismembering runaway enslaved ppl & placing their bodies on the gates of of jackson square.. in his initiation to vampirism, louis is moved from the historically Black creole treme area he grew up in & is placed into lestat’s townhome in the very white, french, old quarter. vampirism as hes initiated into is a loving, powerful, cruel, and isolating existence for louis. bc of vampirism he is able to kill a racist person and not be lynched for it, hes able to echo the historical dismemberment on the alderman by placing his body on the st louis cathedral, but he is unable to kill racist groups & systems that initiate race riots. his connection to claudia in s1 is not so much by the oedipal, but by both their connection as lestat’s fledglings and as Black [creole] people placed in a part of the city largely alien to them both. this connection can be broken down even further. louis saw claudia as his joychild of sorts, ‘[his] redemption’ for his 5 years of pimping but a big part of her tragedy is that a child being made into a vampire cannot redeem anyone, much less redeem an individual from what was a historical inevitability. claudia is adopted into such a stature that she wouldve otherwise never reached by virtue of being made a vampire, but even then that is conditional. claudia is rendered inert from being anyone’s ‘wife’ forever trapped in the confines of immaturity as a ‘daughter’, only hoping at best to be louis’s ‘sister’ and isnt that resonant to bw.. she’s selectively infantilized both a child ‘meddling in the affairs of her parents’ , ungrateful, arrogant, and adultified - presumed powerful enough to ‘poison louis against [lestat]’ , taking on the role of louis’s ‘knight in vengeful white black’ .. the response lestat has to claudia is characterized by him continuing the cycle of abuse he once faced toward her and with a black claudia who was once a poor girl now adopted into this immortal luxury it takes on a racialized element. “bach is beyond you” and claudia bites back with “yes this french music is hmm. not made for these mongrel ears”. the absence of metaphor is striking!! literally the fact that this show does not shy away from the era its set in is why its so good.