#and have only now had the time to execute it

[syhli]

emperor!sylus x apothecary!reader. inspired by the apothecary diaries. sylus is addressed as che here. 1.8k words. unedited. prev. drabble (encouraged to read first!)

The Emperor was once addressed as Master Che.

Rumors say he was once aspiring to be a military officer, an inevitable turn of events that conjured only because he began training with said officers the moment he entered his teenage years. He was neglected as a prince; the empress of the time passed during childbirth, the Emperor consistent in his ignorance unless his life was threatened.

Master Qin Che inherited the throne when he was twenty. The former in line—his father, always uncaring of anything unless his life was threatened—had died from a mysterious incident of his dinner being poisoned.

Poison.

That was all the palace servants knew. 

That was the story told through whispers and gossip and the cycle of replaced servants who worked til their tenures expired.

And while the young master was always regarded as someone who didn’t speak much, initially a shy child, the face of cold indifference seemed to be set in place once he officially assumed his role. A completely different person than the servants expected him to grow up to be—a thoughtful prince who seemed to have traded his soul for something to make everyone cower before him on their knees.

It’s not that Emperor Qin was hard on the eyes—far from it. He’s one of the most regal men to have graced the nation, his beauty unlike anybody else. Had he not been an emperor, he’d be praised just for that flawless visage alone. 

But there’s the part of you that understands the complications of all sides, for his strange predicaments and how he leads those who are tenured under his name. At least for the consorts, in particular.

The comfort that most seek intimately, considering it’s their purpose for being and why they’re sought in the first place. Some had likely wanted to be mothers—and this was the only feasible option that could allow for that.

At the same time, Qin Che was the kind of man who didn’t need to reproduce. He had the choice and took the route that was unexpected for a powerful ruler. He definitively made it clear to his court attendants that should he choose to have a child, they were to not be referred to as an heir.

He made his final word over the matter during a meeting over the Summer.

You’d been out harvesting in the nearby forest during the afternoon it happened. All you recall is coming back to the palace seeming bleaker, a dark cloud looming over it. The servants cowered more. The court attendants were quiet.

A notable occurrence before Emperor Qin started confiding in you. 

Before truly noticing your presence.

Before the touch-starved consorts started brewing jealousy targeted towards you.

A pretty face who wasn’t meant to be taken to bed and undressed yet it was you who succeeded in this unprecedented seduction of the Emperor. You won his attention without doing anything profound. You, a commoner; a simple apothecary who was given not just your own clinic but a room.

You thought nothing of it, really.

Until the evening where a consort with a notably difficult personality had struck you.

You could have been more sparing, considerate with the options the Emperor had given to you. The question of a most suitable punishment resting in your hands, one he emphasized alone with, Is that what you truly desire?

—By the very next morning, she was executed. You couldn’t help but to feel like she would have died regardless of your answer.

That thought alone led you to one conclusion: by disrespecting you, it’s disrespecting the Emperor.

“Where do you want these, miss?”

“By the cabinet is fine.”

You’d been familiar enough with the palace soldiers who deliver your goods by now. So much that you don’t warrant yourself the necessity to glance up from your paper as you continue writing. Various combinations of different plants that have worked as emergency medicinal concoctions, in the event that nothing else was available.

Rarely had you been able to get a moment to yourself as of late, caught up in assisting the other servants in preparation of a party. It was the national tradition of Philos to hold festivities to bid farewells and welcomes to the seasons when they shift. 

For someone contrarian, perhaps Che only insisted upholding this tradition just for an excuse to let the palace relieve their inhibitions.

You shake your head. There was no need to worry about someone who could handle himself just fine.

A knock at the door thankfully pulls you away. But the soldiers typically worked fast, what was the hold up?

You sigh, “I said to just leave everything by the cabinet.”

The brush is set aside by the paper as you stand, resigned with slouched shoulders. You grumble, prepared to turn around and berate whoever was demanding your attention.

“Do you truly detest me so much to equate me to crate shipments?”

His voice, tantalizing in every form as it is, wasn’t as startling in its notable timbre in the afternoon. It didn’t have to be, for knowing his presence was in close proximity was its own form of intimidation. You’ve heard tales too many of how this exact predicament had been the last memory of many before they met their end.

At least what you have in common with them is this diminished confidence. You thought you’d have your head for longer.

You don’t dare move, still situated behind your desk. Hesitant to turn around.

Che closes the distance himself.

His hands find your shoulders first, slow in their descent down your arms. Then his breath dances along your nape, pressing his chest to your back.

“Apothecary.”

“...Your Majesty.”

“What was our agreement?”

“...Master Che.”

He scoffs; a soft, indignant acceptance in the sound.

His lips press to your neck. It makes you shiver, your slight reaction enough to be his sustenance, if he could have it. For now he pulls away, satisfied, leaving you to your own space again. Yet his opportunity to have a taste of you left a mark that lingers like a ghost.

You could picture the smirk on his face without seeing it, his tone side as he speaks, “You’ve so much restraint, yet so much to learn.”

Idly, your palms flatten along the front of your robes. You huff, brushing away invisible dust particles as if it was more bothersome than the Emperor standing in the clinic. Being at the palace for a year did nothing to make interactions with him easier—for you weren’t trained as a noble. 

It wasn’t ideal and most certainly not a requirement for someone of your status to meet with him as frequently as you did.

Now that his antics were up, you were no longer shy. You could breathe.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes,” he declares. He settles into a chair across from you, crossing one leg over the other, “I wish you wouldn’t behave around me like I’m holding a knife to your throat.”

“Do you honestly think it’s unreasonable for me to be behaving like that in particular?”

A shrug. Then, “...Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“You’re impossible, Che.”

You pay him no mind as you stride towards the crates, lifting the cover of the topmost box to check the inventory. Each bundle of herbs was tightly bunched by strings, laid out in a neat assortment side by side. Despite the hefty stock, everything managed to remain without falling apart.

Chamomile, echinacea, ginger, rosemary, lemongrass, ginseng…

Relief settles in knowing the shipment arrived just in time; you’re hit with the reminder of a few palace officers who had fallen ill due to food poisoning. Non-lethal, of course—but it was a mildly inconvenient occurrence that took place due to a sleep-deprived chef accidentally using expired ingredients they had meant to clear out from the pantry.

Had it not been for your interference and incredibly beneficial knowledge, someone would have lost their head last evening.

If you head down to the kitchen now, you could get some water boiling. Rice porridge and a honey lemon tea brew. Maybe a sauna could be set up with steaming lemongrass aroma. Lots of hydration, too.

“My court demands an heir from me,” Che suddenly speaks, resting his chin on his hand as he observes you. 

“After months, they’ve brought it to my attention once more.”

A scoff.

You pause in your inventory check, closing the crate and turning to face him.

“I thought you had made it clear you weren’t to be inquired about the matter anymore.”

He shrugs, taking one of his loose, long silver strands in between his fingers. His crimson gaze turns unusually pensive, giving way of a man who’s hinting that he’s been backed into a corner.

Folding your hands before you, your own brows furrow in contemplation as you start to piece some solutions together.

“You could just lay with a few of your consorts—”

“No.”

You flinch, not surprised but still taken aback by his tone: “Why? What is the point of having a vast amount of women appointed in that role if you’re not going to touch any of them?”

“Because I am not easily swayed by simple temptations.”

Che stands in his declaration, as if to make a point. His voice had taken on something more stern, lowered to a baritone edging a heavy anchor. Defensive, but stable. Pronounced in the violence he evidently possesses, manifesting beyond the simplicity of bloodshed on a battlefield.

Your head tilts back to follow as he rises to his full height, swallowing nervously.

“Perhaps I have been too lenient with you.”

The rare underline of defeat in his voice makes your stomach churn.

He continues, beginning a slow pursuit towards you, “Let me share something with you, Apothecary. Information equal to the weighty price one would pay to spend a night with the most captivating concubine in the nation.

“I will not, and refuse to, entertain the thought of bedding any of the women who were appointed in my name to bear a child. I perceive it to be something unjust. It’s beneath me.”

With his movement, the Emperor hovers over you now with your back pressed against the crates. His arms rest on both sides of your body, palms planted over the wood. For your sake, and the wish to keep your head, you don’t dare to break eye contact. You take everything in stride—for seeing him like this was punishment enough. 

His wrath in not its entirety, but a warning risen; curated personally for you.

Che seethes, his voice near a whisper, “It is insulting that you think of me so lowly. I almost regret letting you get away with the shenanigans that you do.”

You watch how the Emperor’s hands ball into fists. Tight enough that his nails are digging into his palms. His jaw tightens—but he relents into the territory of choosing to remain calm.

Without another word, he pulls away. You remain as you are, speechless yourself.

Your brashness has caught up to you, it seems.

Che walks out of the clinic.

Funny, you don’t remember pomegranates smelling so bitter.

© SYHLI 2025. DO NOT TRANSLATE, COPY, OR FEED TO TRAIN A/I.

[juniepops]

we staged a revolution and locked the princess in the dungeon but every time someone goes to check on her she's just like "this is great fun but i imagine it would be someone else's turn by now" and can't seem to understand she's not princess anymore. worst part is that more than once we've caught her on a stroll through the halls and learned she convinced the poor guard who brought her dinner that it was time to trade out, and when we imprison her again she just giggles and says "you truly prefer how your dear princess plays this game above the commoners? well then so it must be" and goes without a fuss only for it to happen again within the week. we can't even have her executed because she had all the guillotines dismantled to build her a special fort

[rdthoughtdaughter]

Inhumane execution of a pregnant wife by her husband

Source: batyrjamal

In the village Balasaz in the Zhetysu region (Kazakhstan), a man tortured and killed his wife in front of their two-year-old daughter. According to relatives of Aizat Zhumanova, her husband, Aibar Zhanbolat, tied her hands with a rope to a horse saddle and dragged her across the steppe.

The man was detained, but the criminal case was not opened under the article "Murder," but rather "Intentional infliction of grievous bodily harm resulting in death by negligence." Aizat's relatives are outraged and are demanding that the case be reclassified.

The first person to report the murder of Aizat Zhumanova was journalist Sandugash Duisenova, who spoke with the girl's relatives and described the incident in detail on social media and in an article for Orda.kz.

According to Orda.kz, medical reports indicate that Aizat has broken almost all of her ribs, skull, fingers, spine, knees, and lower jaw, as well as abrasions, cuts, and lacerations all over her body. The list of injuries includes a closed head injury, concussion and swelling of the brain, a fracture of the base of the skull, and multiple fractures of the limbs and pelvis. There are marks on the body that indicate that the woman was dragged across a rough surface. According to Aizat's relatives, she was tied by her hands to a horse saddle with a rope and dragged across the steppe.

"Like in ancient execution rituals, they tied her up and dragged her until only a broken frame remained..." said the mother of the murdered woman, Saltanat Zhumanova.

The sisters of Aizat, who washed the body before the funeral, said that there was no skin left on her wrists—it had been torn down to the flesh:

"When we took off her clothes, we couldn't hold back our tears. Our mother fainted immediately.

There was not a single spot on her body that was intact.

Not a single one."

Aunt of Aizat, Raushan Daurenbekova, who worked as a paramedic for 30 years, said that her niece had been tortured: "Such injuries cannot be caused by a fall or a fight.

It looks like she was dragged along the ground.

And not for five minutes, but for hours."

The torture that Aizat endured is shocking enough, but that's not all: at the time of her murder, the woman was pregnant with her second child, and her two-year-old daughter witnessed her mother being tortured.

According to her relatives, the girl is in a state of deep shock and says nothing except one word:

"She doesn't speak, she just holds her head and whispers every morning: 'Mummy, mummy'. She is afraid of shadows and doesn't sleep at night. She saw everything, but she can't speak. She is the only silent witness."

In an interview with Channel One's Eurasia, relatives said that previously Aizat had never complained about her husband, and their family appeared happy and prosperous from the outside. However, neighbours now tell the woman’s relatives that her husband was quick-tempered and aggressive, and that she endured everything and kept silent.

According to Aizat's mother, she is particularly hurt by the fact that her son-in-law now says that he is not to blame for her daughter's death.

"If she had fallen and hit her head, I would have kept quiet. But injuries like these—I don't know. Whatever the case, I demand the truth. I want to see the truth with my own eyes. I don't want my daughter to have a bad reputation, but he won't admit it.

He says, 'It wasn't me.' All I want is for the investigation to be fair and for him to tell the truth," explained Saltanat Zhumanova.

Orda.kz shared the opinion of Aizat's relatives, who say that by the time the girl was brought to the hospital, she was already dead. Her relatives also claim that an attempt was made to cover up the crime, as she was changed and washed before being admitted to the hospital. In addition, according to her relatives, "Aizat's husband has a wealthy and influential family" — allegedly, this is why none of the neighbours reported the noise on the night of the murder: "they are all afraid." Meanwhile, her husband was intoxicated and behaved aggressively at the hospital. The police have already detained him.

There is more information about his spouse: the media found out that he recently ran for the position of mayor of the village of Kapal — election posters featuring Aibar Zhanbolat can still be found on social media.

It is also known that a criminal case was initiated under Article 106 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Kazakhstan, "Intentional infliction of grievous bodily harm resulting in death by negligence." Orda.kz reported that Aizat's relatives are outraged and are demanding that the case be reclassified under the article

"Murder with particular cruelty":

"This was not 'negligent homicide', it was torture. Purposeful and methodical. And then — an attempt to cover up the traces.

He acted deliberately."

Source: batyr jamal

The murderer tries to claim that his wife died by falling from the window when she tried to make a selfie. Despite all of the evidence of the egregious crime that he committed. But now, after exerting his power on his partner that was weaker than him, he is being a coward. Classical.

Every day around the world women are getting killed. Be it a femicide, a murder by an intimate partner, or other type of murder.

In Kazakhstan, or other central Asian nations, it’s unfortunately very common. The news is filled with women killed brutally by their partners. And that’s the stories that are recognised, not silenced.

Don’t be silent about the fates of women. Share the word.

Justice to Aizat.

[walkingworlds-blog]

So, I've seen posts about why LWJ acts the way he does at the start of the novel (and I do agree with them). He's navigating a very tricky situation where WWX is in grave danger and he's trying to be actively supportive despite a refusal on WWX's part to let him do so. In those circumstances, LWJ didn't feel it safe to reveal he knew MXY was WWX all along.

Now, regardless of how one may feel about the execution, I would argue that it was actually the right call for LWJ. Almost certainly not for the reasons LWJ felt it necessary, but I do think WWX wouldn't have taken well to the reveal at the start. It would have complicated things.

The reason? Very simple, at this point WWX is just way too on the defensive around him. His mind is, for the most part, stuck on the events of Nightless City as far as the status of his relationship (or lack-thereof) with LWJ regards. He suspects the man came to hate him by the end.

The chances were that Lan WangJi’s opinion of him was the same as everyone else’s—being overly wanton and not virtuous enough, it would have been only a matter of time before he caused a disaster. After Wei WuXian betrayed the YunmengJiang Sect and became the YiLing Patriarch, he had a few significant disputes with the Lan Sect, especially during the few months before his death. If Lan WangJi was sure that he was Wei WuXian, they should have already been engaged in a large-scale fight.

EXR, Chapter 12

And, as the story progresses, we actually get to know how a WWX on the defensive behaves. How he would take LWJ's offers for help and concern (including the infamous 'come to Gusu with me') as veiled attacks when tension ran high between them. He's so convinced at this point the other man possibly hates him, why would he take his support at face's value now when he didn't before in similar circumstances?

As MXY, while WWX tries to escape multiple times, it's not because he doubts LWJ's good intentions but because he's scared of being discovered as WWX. That's how MXY adds a barrier that keeps WWX from misconstruing LWJ's intent to help him. And that's why this little charade is important: LWJ stubbornly stays by his side to protect him from JC, he allows WWX to use his money as he pleases, he tolerates him all kinds of misdemeanors…

He's so thoughtful and helpful, WWX is all "if I didn't know better, I would say LWJ had some emotional entanglement with MXY!" And well, in a way he's not totally off the mark...

As he had expected, he could take anything from Lan WangJi if he wanted to, without the other becoming dissatisfied at all. If it wasn’t that he had a tiny bit of knowledge about Lan WangJi’s personal integrity and how good HanGuang-Jun’s reputation was, he almost doubted that Lan WangJi and Mo XuanYu had been involved in some helpless, chaotic entanglement of a relationship.

EXR, Chapter 20

By the time LWJ reveals he has known all along, he has given his actions time to speak for themselves. There's no room for WWX to fear LWJ grew to hate him anymore, that dragging him back to Cloud Recesses was intended as a form of punishment or keeping an eye on him is surveillance.

That narrative has been dismantled before it could take root.

LWJ only takes his chance to reveal the truth when WWX, by willingly returning to him, shows it's fine to do so. Just how well WWX takes to the news is proof it worked wonderfully.

Also, I want to make this very clear: I'm not saying WWX has problems with the idea of accepting help itself. He doesn't. That said, he wasn't going to go along with an offer that, from his perspective, is most likely not intended as help. That's the misunderstanding that the whole charade is indirectly clearing! Maybe LWJ would have been able to explain himself this time, thanks to years of hindsight, but letting his actions speak for themselves is the much smarter approach when they have a background of failed communication about this specific topic. Clear the air first, basically.

To me, it's so important to remember that, at the point the novel starts, trusting the wrong person could have had catastrophic consequences for WWX. If he had any reason to suspect he's in genuine and immediate danger, why would he allow anyone to drag him to Cloud Recesses?

Once LWJ proves himself trustworthy? Thats's not a problem anymore! But, while WWX has always had faith in LWJ's morals (hence why as MXY he's trying to escape but not desperate about it), at the start of his second life WWX doesn't trust LWJ to have his best interests in mind.

[c4ssies-cove]

Echolalia- E.M

I don't know how to act when I'm on my own. The way I'm thinking, is this unnatural?

word count: 1.4k

content warnings: Eddie jerking off while thinking about reader, a bit angsty, second person but Eddie’s pov, popular!reader but it's not like a huge thing

A/N: Italics + bold lines are flashbacks!

divider by @dxstoeskyvjbess

You weren't mean to Eddie.

Not really. You wouldn't laugh or join in when your friends dunked on him and his gaggle of geeks. You hardly ever even looked up to acknowledge it, opting to change the subject quickly whenever their laughter had died down even slightly. No, you weren't mean. You sort of just acted like you couldn't see him and he didn't exist.

Which was shocking, and more than Eddie thought he deserved. If it had been you who had ended your eight month long secret strictly sexual relationship the week before school started, and he had the amount of power that you wielded (enough to turn the entire senior and junior classes- and realistically half of the sophomores- against him more so than they already were)...he probably would have at least considered using it.

The story he'd made up as an excuse was bullshit, especially because he was only a little bit less than entirely sure that you knew he was only breaking things off with you to keep you from breaking things off with him when you realized you were smart and good and one hundred percent getting out of this place. Or when one of the boys you and your friends ate lunch with everyday for the past three years finally confessed his feelings for you. Probably after he got selected to play at some state school on a full ride. Instead of having a conversation about it, where you could give the obligatory ‘I'm sleeping with you because I like you and only you’ speech, he'd just prattled something about how this wasn't working, how it was never going to work, and how it'd be best to just call it quits now.

The only downside to his chivalrous plan to protect both of your hearts was that he couldn't move on after he'd executed it.

If he admitted that he had missed you and that maybe ending things wasn't the best decision he could have made, especially seeing as it had yet to prove to be beneficial to either of you, then he'd have to deal with the fact that you'd nearly bitten a chunk out of your lip just to keep yourself from crying for no reason. No, he didn't miss you. Him not wanting to sleep with anyone else had no correlation to you or whatever the two of you had was.

The first couple of months after he'd cut you loose, the idea of you ignoring him got him off. Because he deserved it. Like that time you'd reluctantly let him smoke in your Monte Carlo and the smell lingered for two days. It was nearly impossible to explain to your friends, seeing as you didn't smoke after that time you'd greened out and had an anxiety attack so bad that you tried to call Coach Ivory and quit the track team at 8:30pm the night before state. In your oddly sexy pissed off state, you ignored him as he begged for you to do something from the edge of your bed, his leaking cock threatening to ruin your throw blanket. He whined about how he had come all that way just to see you and feel you and you disregarded him, sitting at your vanity.

“You see me now, don't you?” Was all you had said in response, completely devoid of any concern for how much pain he was in and ignoring him as he jacked himself off while you put on your lotions and set out your clothes for the next day.

That wasn't working anymore, though. Which is why you- the imaginary fantasy you that Eddie would craft- always eventually crawled into his lap and kissed the sweat off of his brow just as he started feeling the knot in his stomach twist. Because you were ignoring him, and he'd severely underestimated how much he needed your attention. How much he needed you to look at him and speak to him and acknowledge his existence. How much he liked you.

This time last year, Eddie would have had you on top of him in your pretty pink room on your pretty pink bed as the pretty gold and silver medals that hung on your wall jingled and clinked whenever your wooden headboard hit against the painted drywall. Now, he had only the memories of the noises you'd make last year and the vivid image of the irritated yet passive face you had been gracing him with whenever you accidentally locked eyes with him in the hall since August to help him wind himself down.

Eddie knew himself to be extremely creative- and somewhat resourceful. So, with his eyes clamped so tightly that his right eye felt that stinging pressure that signaled that he had probably popped a vessel, and his hand clamped firmly and tightly around himself, he was able to- for six minutes out of the day- pretend that he hadn't screwed everything up. If he spoke to you like a normal person, there was a twenty percent chance that you weren't still completely pissed at him. However, he was very aware that you were more than likely still, understandably, very upset; and Eddie didn't need the entirety of the track and field team to attack him with shotputs and discuses and metal batons at the command of you, their dutiful captain.

Whatever scenario he'd make, it had to be fully and wholly you. What you would say, how you would look, the frustrated whines you would emit because he was too lazy to be on top.

He cleared his throat, kicking his jeans the rest of the way off of his legs. He ran his hand up his thigh, soft and warm.

“Is this okay?”

He could see you sitting back on your calves between his spread legs, not nervous, more overly observant.

He let out a dissatisfied grunt as the scenario that he had so carefully curated ran off course in favor of the memory. He could so distinctly hear your attempt at an apprehensive laugh, moving your hand to wrap around him.

He squeezed himself in his hand because he almost felt it.

“Last chance to back out” he heard his voice say. Different night, same position.

“Really wish you wouldn't do that,” your voice sounded next. Soft, a little tired.

“Say things like…that.” You moved a few hairs from his cheek to kiss down his jaw more effectively, “Like I'm not choosing to be here.” You elaborated before he could ask.

His nails clawed at his thigh as his other hand dragged up and down his cock, his speed significantly increased from what it had been thirty seconds ago. Unfortunately, Eddie was still learning to make do with two hands instead of the four he'd been accustomed to, and jerking himself off, tugging on his balls, and marring the skin on his thigh to try and keep himself still could no longer all be completed at once.

“Like I don't like you, or something.” Your palm glided over his tip, your other hand resting on his thigh.

Eddie moaned, hips thrusting upward and head falling back, thumping against the back of his headboard. The sting forced him to remember where and when he actually was.

“Cant even fucking- fuck!” He huffed. It wasn't right. He wasn't focused. He couldn't focus.

“Yeah? You like me?” His head rested against his headboard, lips turned up into a stupid smile.

You were silent for a few seconds, and he winced internally, almost lifting his head to meet whatever bewildered expression you probably sported.

“Hmm…a bit,” you dragged your hand up and down his length, a smile in your voice.

The memory of the way you'd kissed his cheek after was what had finally got him over, his quads tightening as he came with a soft whimper.

He refrained from opening his eyes until he had completely caught his breath, attempting to enjoy the last few moments before guilt had replaced every trace of arousal he'd felt.

When he finally did crack his eyes open, he stared at the wall for a moment before his eyes had drifted to his desk, the edge of which you had leaned on uncomfortably while the words that had come unconvincingly falling out of his mouth made your perfect face contort in pain. It was almost etched into his brain, a mix of confusion and resigned disappointment.

You were probably over it by now. Over him by now. You weren't like him. Pathetic and helpless and moping over a relationship that he, at one point in time, could have sworn went no deeper than sex.

A/N: thank you so much for reading!! Likes and reblogs always put a smile on my face (; Kind of shorttt but I hope this served as good background

[pawnshopbleus]

Callback: Chapter Three - 2025

Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader x Ellie Williams

Summary: Ellie Williams, a former actress turned maid, is tired of wasting her talents scrubbing floors of mansions in the Hollywood Hills. She knows she is destined for greatness, but she just needs to be given another chance.

Abby Anderson, Hollywoods most in demand actress with several accolades under her belt has a duty to fulfill. She must remain at the top.

Two former best friends cross paths to fight for a role both of them need, but as their rivalry becomes even more cutthroat, there is something that remains constant: their love for you.

Basically Challengers but Ellabs Hollywood AU

Previous Chapter

ABBY was nervous. No, nervous was an understatement. She was freaking the fuck out. Her blonde hair, which is usually in its signature Dutch braid, now falls loosely, framing the remarkably gorgeous face that you’ve come to know and love. 

You’ve tried calming her down, but the sound of your tired voice does nothing to coax her to sleep. Not only do you need to rest your mind for what tomorrow has in store, but so does Abby. 

Abby Anderson is a household name. She was one of the stars of the TV show that shaped an entire generation. That TV show then catapulted her into a highly respected career in film. She starred in over 30 films at just 35 years of age. After Eternal Summer , she never had to audition once, but of course, she had to audition for the lead role in her wife's directorial debut film. 

“Everyone has to audition. It wouldn’t be fair if I just gave you the part because you’re my fiancée,” you had told her over lunch a few months ago. That was before you were legally married, so now that you two are officially bound together by the rings on your fingers, it would be even more of a scandal. 

“People do it all the time. Leslie Mann is in basically every Judd Apatow film.” 

“This is different, Abs.” 

You fought for this moment for basically your entire career. Your mother tied your worth to the features on your face, the way your hair looked after hours of grooming it, and how clothes fit your frame. Casting directors and studio executives loved putting you into any and every position just to sell a few DVDs or magazines. In front of the camera, you had no real creative pull. The most input you had was what color your character wore on Sundays. 

The work was monotonous, uninspiring. The right side of your brain wasn’t stimulated enough from following simple directions. Five-year-old you was right, pretending to be someone you’re not was horrible. Maybe if the higher-ups had given you even an ounce of creative freedom, you might have fallen in love with acting again, but after a few months in Los Angeles, your rose colored glasses were off, broken on the piss stained streets of the Hollywood Walk of Fame. 

When they weren’t filming your scenes, you’d stay on set in the shadows of the sound stage. Hundreds of crew members ushered props, costumes, and equipment around while make-up artists did little touch-ups on the actors. Acting might not have been your one true calling, but being in this environment was. And when the commotion stopped, the boom mic went up, and the lights shone bright onto the fresh faces of the people in front of the camera, you knew you were in for a treat. 

If a film set were a circus, the actors would obviously be the performers, but the ring leader, on the other hand, wouldn’t be the billionaire studio executives or the producers funneling money into the project. The director, the person specifically hired for their creative vision and talent, would be the one running the entire show. The way they envision the production would be at the forefront of everyone's mind. They had a say in almost every aspect of a project's conception. People did their best work at the sound of their voice. That kind of power, in the hands of someone like you, someone fresh and inspired, could mean the difference between truly meaningful work and slop created for nostalgia geeks. When you finally came clean to the director that you were interested in directing, you were shut down. 

He laughed in your face, his hideous silver tooth on display as he said five words that would never leave your mind: “This is a man’s job.” 

As that sentence came to a close, the pang in your heart was nothing like you’ve ever felt. It felt as if someone had ripped through your flesh and bones and grasped their big, meaty hand around your heart. They squeezed and squeezed until the muscle that kept you alive burst into a million tiny, bloody pieces on the sound stage floor. 

One of the only things your father taught you was to never let others see you cry. Once someone knew just how to push your buttons, they became a liability. Your tears would be used against you. So, you did what any other person would do in that situation. You turned on your heel and went to your trailer to let it all out. 

“A man’s job,” my ass. After the last tear slid down your cheek, the initial sadness you felt was replaced with rage. It was 2012, the year of “Gangnam Style” and peplum tops. Women were more than capable of becoming directors. 

You continued to act like the good little girl you were. You rehearsed your lines and regurgitated them for the camera. You attended parties and social events, keeping up the act of the former Manhattanite turned Los Angeles party girl, but in between scenes, you’d scribble down notes on words you didn’t understand and would look them up in a dictionary. You’d watch as the director interpreted his creative vision into words. He was good, but you knew you’d be better. 

Every project after Eternal Summer, you learned something new. This voracious desire to direct consumed you. You spent hours watching films, dissecting the creative choices the directors took. Once you had some pull within the industry, you only accepted projects that had a strong female presence. On those sets, you weren’t just another pretty face. You had substance and a voice that needed to be heard. 

All those obstacles that you faced led you to where you stand, directing your first feature film. You didn’t just want to direct a movie. You wanted the project that you chose to be relevant to the current climate. The script needed to move you, to make your skin prick with goosebumps with how clever it was. That’s why you chose Moonlight Ridge. The film follows a recently divorced woman who moves to Seattle and falls in love with her boss. It’s romantic, angsty, and incredibly lesbian, which happened to be exactly what you were in search of. 

Abby finally gets into bed, her body finding your own in the darkness. Her soft hand trails up and down the exposed skin of your arm. The feel of it is comforting; the soft organ brings her down to earth. 

She’s Abby Anderson, she’d nail any audition blindfolded with her hands tied behind her back. She didn’t need her wife to book a project. She could do this. She could do this. She could do this, and before she knew it, she drifted off into a restful sleep. 

BEING behind the table at an open casting call was not what you were expecting. You were expecting the chaos on the outside to bleed into the room, but so far, everything was running smoothly. You had been in here since six in the morning, running off the coffee made with your Nespresso machine Abby insisted on buying. 

Your PA, Dina, who was the sweetest thing to walk this earth, ushered in actors and actresses one right after the other. She had been here since five, making sure that everything was in order. You would offer to buy her a coffee, but she hated black, and everything else wasn’t kosher. 

Sitting at the table and observing the array of talent laid out in front of you made you feel proud. You had to stop yourself from smiling as people laid out their hearts and souls to you. The stars in their eyes and big dreams in their hearts. Hollywood had come a long way from dismissing an actress if she wasn’t fuckable enough to including every actor regardless of race, disability, sexuality, or looks. If you had the talent, you were in. 

The door opens like it would for any other person, and your wife's familiar frame nearly dwarfs everyone in the small 8x8 room. She slates, and the way she says her now hyphenated last name makes a shiver run down your spine. She was your wife. She now bore your last name and you, hers. The natural swagger she possesses fills the room, making everyone sit up straighter. Their bodies lean forward instinctively, ready to witness whatever the actress in front of them has to offer. 

Abby is a masterclass in acting. She’s graceful yet pointed in the way she delivers her lines. Chemistry connects her to any person she comes across, which doesn't intimidate you. She’s an attractive woman, but you know she only has eyes for you. 

Her eyes flick between each person sitting at the table as she delivers the last emotional monologue. It’s electric the way her words slip out like she wasn’t just shitting bricks the night before. When she’s done, you clap like you do for everyone, but the grin you have on your face has been reserved for her. 

Dina comes in and ushers Abby out of the room, leaving you, the casting director, and one of the executive producers alone to talk. 

“I think she was phenomenal.” 

“Of course you do. She’s your wife,” the producer scoffs. 

“I have to agree. It’s a well-known fact that Abby hasn’t had to audition in years. The performance she gave today was unlike anything I’ve seen in her previous work,” the casting director says. You had come to learn that when her arms were crossed, she meant business. 

And she was right. The performance Abby had given couldn’t compare to what the public had already seen. She wasn’t Jo in the Little Women remake or Red Rover in the five superhero movies she had done after Eternal Summer. It’s like she had transformed into Donna Check, a recent divorcé having a homosexual crisis in her mid-30s. It’s as if she knew she had to step up her game if she even wanted a chance to be in this film. Your wife had done something unexpected and completely nailed it. 

Dina knocks on the door, signaling that another actor is ready to perform. Once we give her the okay, she opens the door, and you nearly choke on your water. Ellie Williams was standing in front of you for the first time in thirteen years. She’s skinnier than the last time you saw her. She had always been naturally skinny, but this just looked unhealthy. Your heart clenched, and then that familiar feeling in your stomach started to bubble up. 

You spent Ellie’s entire audition just staring at her, static filling your ears as she spoke. You can’t make out a word she says or distinguish between the cup full of pens and your water bottle. You don’t even know her audition is over until thunderous applause breaks through the static. Your shaky hands come up to clap, but you feel miles away from your body. Like you’re floating in space while some foreign alien takes control of your physical form. 

The door closes with a bang, leaving the three of you to discuss. 

“I think she was great. Imagine Ellie Williams making a comeback in our film. The tickets we’d sell,” the producer trails off as he looks into the abyss. Of course, he’s going to get hard at the thought of how much money they’d make. 

“I have to agree. I think she’d be great as Stevie.”

“No!” 

Stevie Grant was Donna’s boss. The woman she’d ultimately come to love. The actresses who played Donna and Stevie needed to be intimate. Their chemistry needed to be hotter than the sun. If Abby were to play Donna, and Ellie were to play Stevie, the entire city of Seattle would no longer be a metropolis. It would quite literally be the deepest pit of hell. 

“Ellie can’t be Stevie,” you said. Your voice was sharp despite the fact that your entire body was shaking. 

“She can. We just saw it.” The casting director crosses her arms. 

Fuck. 

“That woman has dollar signs written all over her.” 

Fuck!

“I need a break.” 

You rush out of the room, ignoring the protests of the producer and casting director, and find yourself in an empty parking lot in the studio. You think this is where they might have filmed a scene in MaXXXine , but that’s neither here nor there. 

You take a deep breath in, hold it for two seconds, and let it out. Your therapist had recommended that you exercise whenever you felt like disappearing forever. She’d said that it calmed down the enzymes that spiked anxiety. To accompany it, she had recommended that you close your eyes and go through the movements. 

You close your eyes, your long lashes tickling the top of your cheeks, and go through the movements. In for four…hold for two… suddenly, memories flash through your mind. The way Ellie held you after your first time together, her soft, tender kisses on your cheek after a job well done. The way she acted when you found her passed out on the floor after having one too many drinks. She had nearly died from alcohol poisoning, and she blamed you for it. You remember her shouts. How she nearly busted her voice from how loud she was. 

Abby was the one who found you crying in the waiting room of the hospital. She took you home and just held you as you let it all out. That night was the night you had truly lost Ellie, not to the ether, but spiritually. The woman you knew who loved comic books and collecting trading cards had been lost to the high of partying in mansions so high above Los Angeles that they could have been on Mount Olympus. 

Now, she was back and looking even worse somehow. Even though the hurt she caused broke you beyond repair, you couldn’t help but worry. Was she eating enough? Was she getting enough sleep? When was the last time she bought pants that actually fit her? All these thoughts and questions swarmed your head. What if she needed this job and you were withholding it from her because of some feud 13 years ago? 

Up until today, you had almost forgotten all about Ellie. You had your wonderful Abby. She is vibrant, charismatic, and charming. The flower that bloomed after the thunderstorm. You loved her. You really did, but now this feeling of dread fills your heart. Abby was perfect for Donna, and according to the casting director and the executive producer, Ellie was their number one choice for Stevie. 

Ellie and Abby hadn’t so much as bumped shoulders while walking down the street in the past 13 years. The night at the hospital, Abby swore she’d never let Ellie hurt you ever again. The way she whispered it into your ear filled you with an overwhelming sense of comfort. When Abby promises something, she sees it through. 

“What are you doing out here?” Abby asks. The sudden sound of her voice doesn’t make you jump. In fact, you find the deep rumble that her vocal chords make to be quite refreshing in your time of need. 

“Needed some fresh air.” 

Abby comes up behind you and wraps her strong arms around your shoulders. You feel her chin settle onto the top of your head. You melted into her embrace, letting your bodies become one under the California sun. 

“You saw her, too, huh?” 

Your heart drops as you break away from her embrace. The seconds of solace you felt have moved on, and in their place is an overwhelming sense of dread. Your wife had been faced with a ghost of the past all alone. 

“How’d you-” 

Abby cuts you off, "I was waiting for you to get off so that we could go home together, and then I saw her walking out of the audition room. I haven’t seen you this shell-shocked since that night in the hospital.” 

“Abs, they were considering her for Stevie. They weren’t listening to me! You two can’t work together again,” you said. 

“Work together? Does that mean I got the part?” she smirks, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. 

“That’s not important right now. What’s important is that if you’re Donna and she’s Stevie, the two of you are going to have to pretend to be in love. Can you pretend to love someone like her?” 

“It’s called acting for a reason, honey.” 

She was right. The reason why you hated acting was the reason why Abby loved it. Pretending to be someone she was not gave her the chance to try on different skins. To let her experience tiny pockets of the world in other people's shoes. It gave her experiences she wouldn’t have gotten elsewhere. Acting is what led her to you. If she weren’t acting, she wouldn’t know what to do with herself. 

If the others were seriously considering Ellie for a role, she couldn’t let you be on that set in a completely different city by yourself. Even if she didn’t get Donna, she’d still drop everything to follow you to Seattle. She made a promise to you all those years ago. She’d keep you safe. She would protect you, and if you got hurt again, God help the person who messed with you.

Divider by @graphicsbymouse

Tag list: @elliespotion @reneesub @elliespookie

Author's note: So sorry this took so long to get out.

Next Chapter - Coming Soon

[frost-eyed-autumn]

His head tips the faintest degree, and he shrugs one shoulder just a little.

"It wasn't really a problem. Not like I had much better to do since the Boss put me on mandatory leave." He sighs a little under his breath. Maybe most people would be glad for a week off. Not him. The relaxation was nice, it wasn't as though he didn't enjoy it, but he always had that itch to be accomplishing something.

Ideally, something for the Port Mafia.

Money and status was nice and all, but the organization wasn't just a business to him, and he had all of that in spades by now. Even before he became an Executive, he was basically loaded. There was something there worth earning that was a lot more valuable than any tangible thing.

"Anyway, it's no sweat. Besides, you're new here and contracted to work under me, so that kind of makes me responsible in a way. I can't very well go entrusting the lives of my guys to someone that I let sit around getting rusty."

It makes sense to him, he thinks. Everyone is better off when every person on his team is kept sharp and in good shape. At least, that's the justification his mind spits out when called on it.

It seems she's wrapping up at least, and he'd count this whole thing as mission accomplished considering the overall tone of things.

He addresses the last question first, and he doesn't have to even think of the answer this time.

"No, you can't. Only one that gets to drive it is me." Because to him, that wasn't just a bike. It was a memento. The last goodbye from a friend far more dear to him than he'd ever imagined until it was too late to properly show the appreciation those friends of his had deserved.

He's just a little bit protective of that, and the memory its tied to.

His head tilts a little, retaining an easygoing smile.

"But, if you want, I can help you shop around for one, and you can have your own sweet ride once you earn up enough. Most annoying part is making sure your feet can touch the ground comfortably, but its more than doable."

He glanced up and past her, tipping his head just a little bit more the same way with a more neutral hum of thought.

"I think they should probably have showering facilities here, if you want to clean up while I grab the paperwork. Was thinking maybe we grab a bite after here before calling it a day. Nothing hugely fancy, but I'm sure you must've worked up an appetite."

He looked back at her directly, thumbing over his shoulder in question.

"You in?"

𝐍𝐄𝐎 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐓 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 on the uneven bars before she makes her way back to Chuuya, flopping onto the ground at his feet. A smile is tugging at her mouth, as if she can't quite keep it as small as she'd like, and she avoids it, for the moment, by lifting herself partly upright in order to stretch her limbs out. As she does, she thinks about the way he'd watched her all the while. Not with particular interest, exactly- but like someone trying to put together a puzzle that they couldn't quite find all the pieces of.

She knows he's curious- he's made that obvious enough by how he keeps asking things about her. Some subtly, most less so. Of course she understands- she's still anomalous, someone he doesn't know and something he doesn't understand. And before he can really trust her he needs to have a reason to. Or to at least know enough that he won't feel as though doing so will be detrimental.

It's not like she couldn't write it down for him. The bare bones of her life. Jot down everything from her cloistered childhood to her unstable teen years to... whatever had happened at the original 'end' of her life. Or the decision to start over again, at least. He already knows that part, at the very least.

Turning the thought over in her head, Neo turns as she stretches, peeking up at him over her shoulder.

Hey. Thanks.

Two words, short and brief, and it makes her face go hot with how unfamiliar it is to her, to show any kind of gratitude. Swiftly she ducks her head again, pretending to focus on touching her toes as more words creep into being in the air.

You went through all the trouble, even though you could've told me to do it myself. So. Thanks.

It's probably nothing he considers a great effort, all told- and it's probably pathetic to say it's the first time someone besides Roman has done something like that for her. Well, actually, even Roman hadn't been the type to do things like this. He was more the 'helping her get what she wanted by plotting things out for her' type. Organizing something like this would have been so far out of his wheelhouse it wasn't even funny.

Not that he was clever, in his own sharp, vicious way- but Roman's knowledge was all about people, and how to use them. Or crime, and how to get away with it. Things that involved finer details had usually been left up to her.

So this... it's nice.

The last person to be this nice to her had been... Brothers, she couldn't remember that either. How was that for pathetic?

When she's finally finished stretching, she leans back on her hands, and looks up at him with that same, lopsided smile again. He really is kind of a weird guy, but Neo thinks there's probably a pretty good reason for that. And the reason is probably whatever it is that tried to crawl its way into existing when she tried to copy him. She wants to ask about it- wants to know what it is, why it's in him, how it happened. The curiosity is killing her, so to speak.

But she's not going to ask, because it's not fair asking about something he definitely doesn't want to talk about when she has so much she's holding back as it is.

...maybe they can exchange, sometime.

Finally, she pushes herself to her feet, moving to pick up her water bottle and take a swig.

...you said there was paperwork, right? Let's get it done then, since I'm gonna be spending more time here.

A pause, and then she grins, 'laughs' and peers up into Chuuya's face, looking sly.

Can I try driving your bike next?

[bm571158]

Burnout- MV1

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine

Tag list: @littlewhiterose @dontsupressthejess

'Unleash The Lion'

Talia had flown back to LA only a couple of hours after Max had deposited her back in her hotel room. She had woken up to the alarm he had apparently set for her, face down on the bed with all her make up and her heels still on, and by the time the plane touched down in LA she had the hangover from hell. And a solemn realisation of the conversation that her and Max had in the taxi on the way back to the hotel.

She was still reeling from the realisation of what had been said when the car that picked her up from the airport had dropped her off at the studio. She sat motionless in the back seat for a minute, too exhausted to even think about trying to fix her hair or put some make up on. She was well aware she looked an absolute mess but she just didn't care.

She walked through the hallway of the studio to find the room for the production meeting dragging her suitcase behind her, feet still in the cosy slippers she'd worn on the flight that she hadn't bothered changing. Half a thought entered her mind that maybe the state of her would be enough to put Leo off. Unlikely, but she could only dream.

She had walked into the meeting room to find everyone sitting and waiting for her, the way Leo's eyes ran down the length of her body making her feel a bit sick. She slid into her seat next to her manager quickly.

"Sorry I'm late." She apologised quickly. "The traffic from the airport was really bad."

"Well, let's get started then." Came a weary sigh from the other end of the table. "We all know why we're here. We've been discussing it with marketing over the weekend and they think if it's done right it could really boost sales."

"If you need me to pretend to date him for publicity then maybe you should've written a better script." Talia offered.

"Talia..." her manager warned quietly from beside her. Clearly he'd thought after their phone conversation she was going to just go along with it.

"Don't look at me like that." She rolled her eyes at him. "I don't know why any of you ever thought that I was going to agree to go along with this in the first place."

"Your contract says you will engage in publicity and marketing at our discretion." The director pointed out. "You don't have a choice. We were trying to be nice about it."

Talia was quiet for a moment, her eyes leaning on Leo's smug smirk across the room.

"I already have a boyfriend." The words tumbled out of her before she thought about it. She just wanted to wipe that smile off Leo's face.

"What do you mean? How are we only now hearing about this?" The studio executive asked in confusion.

"Yeah, how come you've never mentioned it before?" Leo asked sarcastically. "All seems a bit convenient. Who is this guy?"

She took a deep breath, praying that she wasn't about to make a huge mistake. "Max Verstappen." She said quietly.

Everyone sat around the table turned to look at her like she'd just grown another head. Leo choked on his water.

"I'm sorry, what?" Her manger asked in disbelief.

"He uh... we've been spending a lot of time together at the track and it uh... it just sort of happened." She mumbled, feeling herself blushing under the weight of everyone staring at her.

There was a long silence, the entire room seeming to need a moment to process what had just been said, before one of the marketing team spoke.

"I know it wasn't what we planned, but we can definitely work with this."

Her manager leaned in towards her, lowering his voice. "You're actually serious?"

Talia nodded. "We've been keeping it private, but yes. It's real."

The marketing manager spoke again. "It's risky, a bit more out of our control than something staged with you and Leo, but this could work. It might even play better. You falling in love with a three time world champion while you're filming... the audience are going to eat that up."

They didn't question her any further, Leo sinking down into his chair with a pointed glare in her direction. The conversation had already moved away from any kind of involvement from him, they were now more focused on what they could do from a marketing perspective if Max was now going to be willing to play along.

All Talia could do as she listened to them talk was hope that Max was going to be as willing to play along as the marketing team seemed to think he was going to be.

The meeting had ended with a quiet air of excitement from the marketing team about all the new possibilities that this opened up. Talia had headed off to makeup to get ready for another long day on set, slumping in the makeup chair and wondering quite how long it was going to take them to cover up how tired she looked.

As she sat there she'd reluctantly pulled her phone out and texted Lando, asking for Max's number. It was done, too late to take any of it back now, so she was going to have to talk to Max and tell him, cross her fingers and hope that he was going to be willing to cooperate still. If he said no then she was going to have an awful lot of explaining to do.

Lando hadn't even questioned why she was asking for Max's number. Just sent it back to her with a jumbled message about being so hungover that he was going to die before the next race.

Once she'd finished in hair and make up she headed off to get changed, and when she was in the dressing room and finally on her own, she plucked up the courage to try and call Max.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's uh... it's Talia." She said quickly, half expecting him to hang up on her. Well, if she was being honest she hadn't really expected him to answer in the first place.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

She exhaled slowly, buying herself some time, looking for the words. "No... not really. I uh... I need to tell you something."

There was a long pause as he waited for her to say something, but she didn't. "You know I'm not a mind reader?" He sighed. "And I have a lot of things I need to do today so...."

"I told them we're dating." She blurted out, almost cringing as she waited for the inevitable backlash to come from him.

He paused, voice calm when he spoke. "Who?"

"The studio. My manager. Leo." She blurted out, almost tripping over the words she said them sp quickly. "They were threatening to replace and I panicked... I can't... I can't spend anymore time with him. I needed an excuse."

"So you told me them me?" He asked.

"You said I could, in the back of the taxi." She answered defensively. "You told me to, remember?"

"I said you could not that you should." He pointed out. His head was spinning as he tried to work out what this actually meant for him.

"I'm sorry." She whispered. "I panicked and I didn't know what else to do."

He was quiet for a long time. "Well, if you told them then it's done isn't it?"

"Yes?" She answered weakly.

He paused again. "Then we do it properly."

"What?"

"Put on a convincing show. Make them believe it." He told her.

"Wait- what?" She mumbled. She'd been fully expecting him to tell her to get lost and he wasn't helping her.

"If we're doing this, then we do it my way." He said simply. "Subtle, believable. Quiet. No stupid stunts, no red carpets. And Leo doesn't come near you again."

"You're just going to go along with this to help me?" She asked in surprise.

"Ironically I've just spent most of the day in meeting with the teams PR lot talking about how someone needs to do something to stop the press speculating about Christian and Checo getting fired and the team falling apart." Max told her. "So I'd say as far as attention grabbing headlines go, this should work for both of us."

"So what now?" Talia asked nervously.

"We come up with a plan." Max said simply. "Something simple that the internet will pick up on and then let them speculate."

"Like what?"

"I don't know." He admitted. "But I'll think of something and then we can come up with a plan."

"I uh... I'm going to have to go. I should've been on set ages ago." Talia told him. "Sorry."

"It's all good." Max told her. "I'll talk to you later when you're done?"

The day in the studio with Leo had felt like a lifetime. Partly because she was dead on her feet, and partly because the news of her relationship with Max had really wound Leo up and he'd been insufferable all day, constantly making digs at her about it when the cameras stopped rolling.

She hadn't heard from Max, and she was too scared to call him back when she eventually got home, not least because she had no idea where he was and what time zone he was in. She couldn't imagine he was going to take too kindly to her waking him up in the middle of the night to talk about the scheme that she'd dragged him into.

She was surprised when she finally sat down her sofa to get a message from Max asking if she was free to talk.

She dialled his number and he picked up almost immediately.

"You didn't call me back." He said.

"I've only just got home." She explained. "And I thought you'd be asleep, time difference and all that."

"We're nine hours ahead of you. I've slept, been up and gone to the gym already." He told her.

"Oh..." she mumbled. "I uh... I'm really sorry that I've dragged you into this. I just... they had me cornered and I panicked. I haven't worked this hard to end up being replaced because of him."

"You shouldn't have had to think like that at all." He sighed. "Where are you now?"

"LA." She yawned. "We're due to finish the last of the studio filming that I'm in tomorrow."

"Good. Come to Monaco after." Max told her.

"Monaco?" She repeated, sounding uncertain.

"Before the next race. If they're going to start hinting that we're together then we need to get our stories straight." He reminded her.

"They want to, yeah." She sighed. "They said about soft launching, a few test posts on socials, letting people to see us together and then... well, probably the works once we get started on press for the movie release."

"Then we really need to get our stories straight." Max sighed. "There's too many cameras around, I don't want to get caught in a lie."

"You're serious about this?" She asked, unable to hide her surprise.

"I don't half ass anything. You should know that." Max told her. "We'll do something, get a few photos out there and let the rumours fly. You'll have cover, Leo will keep his hands off you and I can go back to focusing on racing. it'll all be fine. Job done."

"Thank you." She mumbled, unable to find the words to tell him quite how grateful she was that he was going to help her, and hadn't even made her feel bad for dragging him into it.

"So I was thinking while I was in the gym, you need to come to Monaco.... We'll go out, let them take some pictures and all that." He told her. "If you wrap up filming in two days I'll send my jet to get you."

"You don't need to do that." She said quickly.

"If you're dating the F1 world champion you're not flying commercial." He pointed out.

"So this is all about the optics now?" She commented dryly.

"Hasn't this always been about the optics?" He answered. "For some reason, there's people with nothing better to do than track where my jet is, so this will get them talking. I'll be online sim racing all day, can't be in two places at once so let them speculate and try and figure it out."

🕵️‍♀️ @debriefgossip

Max Verstappen's jet just landed in LA. Meanwhile, he's live on Twitch screaming at a GT3 car.

So who's on the plane?? 👀✈️ #F1 #JetWatch

⸻

✈️ @F1Girlies

Sorry but Max's jet flying to LA while he's mid-sim race is giving someone flew across the world for him and he's pretending it's NBD energy 🫣💅 #F1Tea

⸻

🧃 @energyinthedr

We're tracking MAX VERSTAPPEN'S PRIVATE JET landing in LA... and Max is literally live in Monaco right now.

Who's the mystery passenger? Girlfriend? PR stunt? A new cat??? We NEED answers.

#F1 #WhereIsMax #JetDrama

⸻

📸 @PaddockRumours

Max's plane is in LA and Max is clearly not.

Last time this happened we got a soft launch a week later. I'm not saying anything.

(But I am saying everything.) #F1Gossip #JetSighting

⸻

😬 @GridChaos

You: "Max is single and focused."

Max: flies private jet across the world to LA while sim racing in Europe

Also Max: 👁️‍🗨️

⸻

🔥 @TifosiT

Someone track who got on that jet. I don't trust peace in the Verstappen camp.

Talia couldn't help but laugh as she looked at the link that Max had sent her to the absolute chaos that had erupted on twitter. The fact that his jet was en route to LA in the first place had caused enough drama, but the fact that it had touched down for under an hour before turning around and flying back again only fuelled the rumours further.

By the time the jet touched down in Niece there was a three deep line of paparazzi at the airport lined up waiting to see if they could catch the mystery passenger coming through the arrivals hall.

Thankfully, she'd escaped that particular chaos. She'd been taken around the back and into a waiting car, by passing all the crowds much to her relief.

She slid into the back seat of the car, watching as the car sped along in the direction of Monaco. A strange nervous feeling settled in her stomach at the thought of seeing Max again. She didn't know what she had been expecting when they'd started this whole thing, but it wasn't this. She hadn't been expecting him to go along with it just to do her a favour. Or for him to be so kind.

By the time the car pulled up outside Max's place, her heart was in her mouth and she felt sick with nerves. The driver had taken her bags and walked her up to the door, Max standing there to greet them and let her in.

It was the first time she'd seen him in anything other than Red Bull team kit, and she couldn't help but think it suited him. His hair messy, black jogging bottoms that sat a little too low on his hips and a crisp white T-shirt.

"Come in, you'll have to be quick or the cats will make a run for it." He told her, opening the door behind him cautiously like he was entering a war zone.

"I really didn't have you down as a cat person." She laughed nervously as she followed him inside.

"And that's exactly why we need to get our story straight." He joked. "Was the flight over okay?"

"Was good, thank you." She mumbled, unsure of what to say or do as she now stood in the entry way to his apartment.

Max paused, bending down to pick up a cat that was wandering around her feet. "Come on, I made up the spare room for you." He waved for her to follow him. "And then I thought if you're not too tired we could go down to the boat? There's nowhere better to have a million cameras invade your privacy while you're trying to enjoy a day off." He joked, but there was an edge to his voice.

"We don't have to?" She offered.

"We need to make this believable, right?" He asked, turning back to look at her as she wheeled her suitcase along. "Everyone's speculating about who was on the jet, if they now see us together that'll be it. Job done."

"You're really good at this."

"I know how people think." He shrugged. "Usually I use it to avoid them, but this time I'm using it to my advantage."

Once she'd had a chance to shower and change her clothes, Talia applied a little bit of make up and headed back out into the kitchen where Max was ready and waiting for her.

"Good to go?" He asked.

"Ready as I'll ever be." She nodded, following after him as he headed for the door.

The two of them climbed into a surprisingly discreet looking black SUV, and Max headed out onto the road.

"I'm going to go through town." He mumbled. "I usually go round the long way because the traffic is always really slow and people start taking photos but I guess today that's what we want."

Talia didn't say anything, looking out of the window. She didn't know what to say.

"Have you been to Monaco before?" Max asked curiously.

She shook her head. "No, never."

"I'll make sure you get the full tour." He promised. "The yacht seems a pretty good place to start though. Full Monaco experience and all that."

"How long do you think it'll take before it's plastered all over the internet?" Talia asked curiously.

"Probably the second you set foot on the deck." He laughed. "Twitter was going absolutely insane earlier, the chat on my sim race was all asking what was going on."

"People really love to be nosey, huh?"

"Usually it drives me mad, but I guess this time we get to make it work for us." Max shrugged. "Maybe we can have some fun with winding them all up."

He parked the car, walking around to her side to open the passenger door for her.

"Thanks." She mumbled.

He didn't say anything, just gesturing to her to follow him as he walked along the marina.

She couldn't help but laugh when she saw the yacht, she didn't know what she'd been picturing but it hadn't been something quite so enormous. But the way he walked up to it, the Unleash The Lion emblazoned on the back of it was so incredibly him.

"This is... wow." She mumbled, kicking her shoes off as he did the same.

Before she could get to it he had already bent down and picked her sandals up, carrying them on board along with his own shoes.

She followed him on, standing on the deck and looking around. "Now what?" She asked him nervously.

"Well..." he murmured, taking a couple of steps closer towards her. His hand moved slowly towards her waist, waiting for her to nod and indicate it was okay before he actually touched her. "Now, I'd say we give it about five minutes and the photos of this will be all over the internet." He told her.

As she glanced over her shoulder in the direction that he was looking in she realised she could see at least half a dozen phones with their cameras pointed at them.

"And in the meantime we go and get a drink and get our stories straight." He said simply, using the hand on the back to guide her towards the seating area at the front of the yacht.

"You know, you're really good at this." She laughed.

"I like to be the best at everything I do." He said simply.

[coveofsecrets]

pls give some HC how life with doflamingo as yandere dad is or something like that 😭🤞🏻

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

THROWS THESE AT YOU

-> Platonic! Yandere! Doflamingo hcs

-> Warnings: murder, violence, isolation unhealthy parent-child relationship, none of this is to be romanticized; if you are experiencing any of what I have described, this is not to be normalized, and please seek help if you can

-> Word count: 1.2k

-> Here you go!!! Idk if you meant from my oneshot or not, so I did it in a general sense, so! Yeah!

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Doflamingo, when he has a child, is clinging onto them for dear fucking life.

He lost his mother, he killed his father and brother, he can’t afford another.

So, he molds you.

From the very beginning, he molds you to love him, to be devoted to him, to know only The Family. It's isolation at its best- he does this isolation, in a sense, with other family members, too; it’s to make them more loyal to him. Think of it like corporate work- saying they’re a big, happy family, and also the whole ‘don’t talk about your salary’, ‘oh, you can work overtime! Think about the wellbeing of us!’, so on and so forth. Also, being stuck with the crew like. 24/7 whether in the kingdom or at sea definitely doesn’t help. So, in your case, it’s upped to like. x10000000000000000.

So yeah!!

Although you’re held very dear to him, you’re not given the Corazón seat, or any seat, just yet- you don’t know his past, you don’t know him that well. However, Doflamingo makes it very clear that you’re not to be harmed- the uh. The fucking. Blood rule he’s got going on. Anybody who violates it will not only get killed, but slowly, and while the offender’s friends watch.

I wanna mention that, most likely w/ the kids that join the Donquixote Family, your name isn’t your actual name. It’s kinda like a thing of ‘you have a new life, not one out there. You’re with us now, so shed your old identity and come with us, new skin donned on you.’ Also, with the Executive Officers, their names are likely their code names- considering Corazón is a seat, and Rosinante and Vergo had it, they had their own names, but likely called Corazón while in The Family. Most likely goes with the others. Unless their names are actually Trebol, Diamante, and Pica. Then that’s stupid as fuck. Their names are stupid as fuck.

So, the same is applied to you. You also get a code name!!! Congratulations. If somebody manages to find out your name and use it, they’re getting their legs broken by Doflamingo. Or even the other officers. Next offense, it only gets worse.

Oftentimes, you’re called ‘Little Master’ as a silly thing to reference Doflamingo being called ‘Young Master.’

Surprisingly, it’s not for the whole ‘shedding your skin’ thing. It plays into Doflamingo’s possessiveness. You’re his kid, you belong to him, so only he gets to know your name.

Speaking of his possessiveness, he is possessive to the max. Almost every waking moment is spent with him, and the only time you’re separated from this man is when he can’t take you along. Honestly, he’d probably bring you to the Warlord meetings. 

…Sengoku feels a headache coming on.

In fact, your room is placed next to his so he can keep a better eye on you. He looks over your food, your days, what you want to buy- honestly, he seems like the kinda man to look through your diary if you ever had one (and then burn it, because secrets aren’t tolerated here). Also you don’t get a Transponder Snail.

However, anything you want, you have! New pants that come from a name brand that’s a stupid amount of berri? Yours! A deluxe dinner that’s got the meat of a soon to be extinct species? Yours! The head of somebody who looked at you wrong? Yours!

You’re spoiled, stupidly so.

Furthermore, any thoughts of leaving without him are squished. Oh, you wanna wander Dressrossa? Let him come with you! …you want to go without him? Oh, silly you! Don’t you know the dangers? There’s dangers of all kinds around, and what if you can’t protect yourself? Yes, yes he knows he’s been training you just in case, but you never know! Cmon, let him go with you!

(You don’t have a choice, but. Y'know. Illusion of autonomy.)

If you manage to get a reason/plan to escape (somehow, through all that brainwashing and molding he did) and have a semblance of a plan, you better pray he doesn’t find any documents or magazines you’re hiding.

“Honestly, these documents are nice. Do you think so?”

His smile is too wide- he’s practically baring his teeth at you.

In his hands, are the pieces of paper you used to draft up your escape plan.

All of a sudden, the office feels smaller than it usually is.

“Such an intricate understanding of the castle- and the whole country, too. I wonder, how did the person who made these get it?”

A vein in his forehead pops.

He’s too casual when he confronts you the first time, too… nice, especially considering the situation at hand. He’s like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode, except you don’t know when.

“Now why-” his fingers curl on the desk. “Would you want to leave? I give you everything you ever want, and you choose to leave us? Leave me?” Doflamingo’s smile widens, practically a snarl, now.

He’s sweet in his words as he explodes, his tone, too, but the way he says what he says is what affects you the most.

After exploding on you, Doflamingo keeps a closer eye on you. If you thought his presence was suffocating now, you’re going to feel like you’re choking.

The little bit of free time you had is gone, and now, every single moment awake is spent with your dad. If he can’t be with you, then he makes an Executive Officer keeps an eye on you as he’s gone.

It’s horrible, so if you’re going to make an escape plan, you better keep it in your mind, show no signs of wanting to escape, and hope it’s successful. And I don’t mean only escaping Dressrossa, I mean you have to be out of his grasp for the rest of your life, because as soon as you escape, he is hunting you the fuck down.

Also, escaping Dressrossa in of itself is a huge ordeal. All of his members are ordered to bring you back to him if they find you without him, and his officers are very diligent at their jobs. They wouldn’t be called officers otherwise. So honestly, not only do you need a bunch of skill (that you’d manage to somehow get without Doflamingo + his crew), you’d need the grace of whatever gods exist to get out of his direct grasp.

He creates a codependent relationship.

Like I said, his whole family is dead. He doesn’t have anybody he can lean on. Sure, his executive officers know him, they know what he went through, but he can’t lean on them, and Vergo’s away, so he’s got nobody to support him, and hell no he’s not talking to anybody else. So, when somebody of his own flesh and blood is created, he’s relying on them for emotional stability. So, while creating a child that can take technically care of themself, and is aware of how brutal the world is, he’s isolated them to the point they can’t live without him.

You need him as much as he needs you.

It’s fucked up. Very much so.

Essentially, you live in a very cramped cage with a blanket thrown over it so you can’t see the world outside. However, it’s very fancy, and also very comfortable.

[kifiles]

Prologue — A Cursed Seer

Series Masterpost

Paring — Gojo Satoru x Reader

Synopsis — Taken from home for a rare ability, a child is kept in isolation under the watch of powerful figures. Obedient on the surface while something far more dangerous lies beneath the silence.

Word Count — 1K

⚠️ Content Warnings — This chapter contains themes of child abduction, emotional trauma, parental grief, religious/cult-like confinement, psychological manipulation, execution (off-screen), poisoning, emotional deprivation (limited food, sleep), and existential dread related to fate and prophecy. Please proceed with care if any of these may be triggering for you.

Author's Note — This is coming out way later than it was supposed to, being the fact that i have had it completed for about a week now but between moving to a whole new state for college and having next to no wifi, getting this up is an achievement.

Happy Reading!!!

Please let me know what you think in the comments. Feedback is welcome and appreciated (now more than ever) ❤️‍🩹

— Kicomi 🩷

MASTERLIST

“I know not what I appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore… whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.”

— Isaac Newton

You don’t scream when they come for you.

They expect you to. They always expect screaming.

It’s tradition, after all. Children being ripped from their mother’s arms always scream. That raw, primal sound of loss, the realisation — of a life upended too soon. Torn from the warmth of sandalwood-scented halls and lullabies woven from cotton and comfort, only their mothers could provide.

There’s a ritual to the music of a stolen child: the breathless cries, the tiny fingers trying to clutch at anything to grasp, anything to not be taken away by the men in cloaks, the desperate grip on fate’s hem. The Elders know it well. Screams are the lullabies of their sacred work.

But you don’t give them that.

You smile was small. Soft. Serene.

And it rattles them more than any tantrum ever could.

One of the men — the eldest, his skin stretched thin and saggy, stops in his tracks. He has a son your age. Had, anyway. He left the boy behind as a necessary sacrifice before the Tanuma purge turned snow into blood.

“Why is she smiling?” he mutters, almost to himself.

“I’m smiling because I already saw this coming.” your voice light and airy, like bells caught on the wind.

The old one freezes. “How long have you known?”

You tilt your head, a slow, fluid motion, as though listening to something only you can hear.

“Since the thread broke,” you whisper, voice like silk unraveling in still water. “The one between me and my mother and father. It snapped — sharp and fraying. When love turned to grief. I saw it rise, in the air. A fracture. A wound. A crack across the sky where fate bled through.”

Your smile doesn’t waver. “And I knew then… what was coming could not be undone.”

A silence falls. Cold. Dreadful.

Fate Threads.

They realize what you are.

A prophecy made years ago. A cursed seer. A divine aberration. You don’t see the past or present. You see what matters most. How time fractures into consequence. How decisions tangle and tighten, like cords pulling a thousand ways toward the inevitable.

One path. One truth. No escape.

They’ve waited lifetimes for you. To keep you. To use you for their gain.

They have plenty names for you.

Shinra-no-miko.

Oracle of the Scarlet.

Fate’s Marionette.

But your mother called you Y/N. Her little girl.

And she screamed.

Hers was the only scream heard that day while your father couldn't even turn back to watch you leave.

They didn’t let you say goodbye. Didn’t let you speak again until you were beneath the bone-carved ceiling of Jujutsu High’s oldest sanctum, where spells etched deeper than memory, watched you from stone.

You sit in the temple doorway like you’ve done it a thousand times, legs folded like a priestess, posture rehearsed even though you've never been here before. Dirt speckles your white yukata. Leaves cling to your tangled hair. But your face... your face is calm. At peace. As if you were waiting.

And your eyes.

They don’t need covering like the cursed ones. No blindfold. No gauze. No ceremonial mask. Just pale silver, almost glowing in the dusk, like looking up at the moon through tattered clouds.

And there, in that cold, airless hush, they asked:

“What do you see?”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you lift your face to the unseen, head tilted slightly, eyes unfocused, as if the question was not meant for you at all, but for something higher. Something watching just beyond their reach.

Then you lifted one hand and pointed south. Toward the corner where the eldest councilman had sat on his woven mat for decades.

“You die in thirty-three days,” you whispered. “Your tea is poisoned. By a disciple you failed to protect. His anger is bitter like clove.”

A pause, sharp and horrified.

“Why would you say that?” another councilman hissed, as if your words had turned to ash in his mouth.

You only offered a small shrug, your voice calm, almost amused. “Because you asked.”

Silence followed — heavy and unnatural. A stillness bloated with breath, dread, and the sting of things foretold.

By morning, the disciple was dead. A quiet execution. Swift, without ceremony. They called it justice, though doubt lingered in their eyes. They weren’t sure whether to believe you, but caution, they decided, was safer than regret.

And yet — thirty-three days later, the councilman sipped his tea and never rose again.

He had brewed it himself, still cautious. From the same pouch.

They blamed the leaves. They blamed you.

But from that day forward, they never dared ask you a question so directly again.

✮✮✮

They kept you behind sliding doors that never opened from inside. In gardens without wind. Your world narrowed to sacred threads, gleaming and drawn taut through time. Days passed in silent footsteps, yours and the maids, kept only to keep you alive — not company, in whispered mantras. They fed you in fragments, afraid too much would dull your gift. Sleep, too, was rationed. Never enough to dream. Only shadowed prayers.

But you kept smiling.

Because somewhere, pulsing in your veins like a stubborn ember, you knew: Your fate wasn’t sealed. Not yet.

One thread glowed brighter than all the rest.

Wild. Unwritten. Shifting every time you tried to follow it.

You didn’t know his name.

But you knew one thing...

He was the only thread that could ever lead you out. The only one you wouldn’t want to cut. The only one you’d never lie to.

Even if it killed you.

Author's Note (pt 2) — Hope you liked it <3

I am open to receiving constructive criticism as long as you are nice about it and just any reviews in general, would be really helpful <3

This fic will be a series, so comment to be added to the taglist.

Thankx for reading 🩷

[lesbian-infidelity]

okay so i went through and read some of this paper (it's um 206 pages and i just don't have that kind of time). very specifically i went through and read the discussion, conclusion and the experimental design portions of the paper (since i didn't read all of it im stating the parts i did read so if there's any information i missed you know why)

i want to start by saying that this is not a long-term study (the word typically used is longitudinal). essentially participants were spilt into three groups. the first group weren't allowed to use any tools at all (brain-only group), the second group were allowed to use websites and the internet but specifically not LLMs (language learning models; chatgpt etc) and the third group were only allowed to use LLMs, specifically chatgpt. they were asked to choose between three prompts and write an essay on one of them in 20 minutes (not a lot of time) and they were asked to do this three times over three recording sessions. so while yes the data was gathered over the course of a couple months, it is not a longitudinal study because that requires a study spanning years of time (and importantly, it also requires participants to be constantly using chatgpt during this time which isn't recorded in this experiment).

when the article talks about 'brain engagement' i think it means the brain connectivity that the study measured through EEG (basically just how connected the different ideas in your brain is). essentially what they're measuring here is (i believe) the neural network and how connected the cues to recall are to each other (so like if you thought of a dog you might think fur, and fur might connect to fur colour and maybe like the smell of wet dog right. but these connections only happen because we think of dog and these connections together a lot so the neural pathway between them gets reinforced). so the brain-only group had the wide-ranging network (meaning they had a lot of different things they associated with or thought about in relation to their topic) while the LLM group had the lowest connectivity. according to the study, the brain only group relied on these neural connections (so whatever was already in their brain in relation to the topic), the search engine group relied on the visual information given to them by their searches and 'regulatory control' (i think like thinking through the ideas given to them) and the LLM group brought in AI suggestions into an essay structure format.

the brain activity of the LLM group suggested "a bypass of deep memory encoding processes," which means that what they were writing about didn't really go into their long-term memory, specifically episodic memory which is about your personal experiences etc. brain activity also indicated a lack of semantic encoding (so they weren't putting the meaning of what they wrote into their minds). the brain-only group, by contrast, show deep semantic processing (they understood what they were talking about) and sustained executive monitoring (they focused on the task for longer i think? or they had better memory of where they got various information from?). i think this quote from the article really sums up all this, "AI tools, while valuable for supporting performance, may unintentionally hinder deep cognitive processing, retention, and authentic engagement with written material. If users rely heavily on AI tools, they may achieve superficial fluency but fail to internalize the knowledge or feel a sense of ownership over it."

very quickly let me offer this: what the research is suggesting here is not "cognitive decline" or whatever. it is suggesting that the people who used chatgpt were not as engaged with the material as those who used only their brain or the internet. the paper is suggesting that the LLM people weren't as familiar with their work as the brain-only people were but there are problems with connecting this idea to cognitive decline or anything like that

now the prompts themselves were very opinion based questions (does true loyalty require unconditional support? etc) so I won't talk about the quality of the essays themselves here. something i found interesting is that in the initial session (the first essay or session one) LLM participants talked about chatgpt as a linguistic aid, using it for sentence transitions and grammar checking or summarising prompts. a couple questioned the relevance of the AI and felt like it wasn't needed to answer the question. however by the third session lots of the group grew skeptical and started being more critical about it. "One participant concluded that “ChatGPT is not worth it” [...] another preferred “the Internet over ChatGPT to find sources and evidence as it is not reliable” (P13) [...] others acknowledged the system “helped refine my grammar, but it didn't add much to my creativity”, was “fine for structure… [yet] not worth using for generating ideas”, and “couldn't help me articulate my ideas the way I wanted" time pressure was also a factor for chatgpt use (again 20 minutes) but people still felt weird about using it.

another metric they looked at was people's ability to remember quotes from their essay. in the first session, 15 out of 18 participants in the LLM group struggled to give a quote from their essay whereas it was only 2 participants in the other two groups. none of the LLM group gave a correct quote but only 3 from search engine group and 2 from the brain-only group couldn't give a correct quote. in session two, the participants knew the quoting question was coming and while the brain-only group had perfect scores (18/18), the LLM and search engine group had 2 people who struggled in each group and generally, the trend established in the first session doesn't really deviate (although the number of people struggling to provide quotes in the LLM group went down from everyone to just 6 despite still doing worse than the other two groups at remembering). the EEGs indicate that LLM participants had low-frequency connectivity in things that are important for episodic memory and semantic encoding, suggesting, again, that LLM people weren't engaging with and incorporating the ideas in their essays into their long-term memory.

now i wanna talk about the 4th session which is where they brought in 18 of the original 54 participants (reduced due to scheduling issues) and swapped their groups (so brain-only participants were told to use chatgpt in the 4th session and the LLM group were only allowed to use their brain). those who were now assigned to the LLM group had difficulties with the quoting (7 of 9 failed to reproduce a quote compared to 1 of 9 in the reassigned brain-only group + only 1 person in the reassigned LLM group gave an accurate quote compared to the 7 in the reassigned brain-only group). the reassigned LLM group had an increase in brain connectivity when using chatgpt for a familiar topic supporting that AI can be useful for critically thinking through a topic that participants are already familiar with (which in my opinion kinda defeats the purpose but hey that's me). this group also used chatgpt more critically than the first group did. according to the study, in the reassigned brain-only group there was less deep semantic encoding and source-memory retrieval (remembering where you learnt something from) and 'no high-significance connectivity clusters' which suggests that the connections between neurons are damped during retrieval. all this suggests that the people who used chatgpt across the first three sessions had reduced connectivity over time

HOWEVER this is compared to the original brain-only group, meaning they're comparing data from one singular session with data from three separate sessions. specifically what they're saying is that the reassigned brain-only participants had substantial improvements in brain connectivity over the session one of the original brain-only group but they underperformed compared to session 2 and 3 of the original brain-only. which, im no expert of course, but idk if you can confidently say this is a solid comparison without also doing three sessions for the reassigned brain-only participants (essentially practice effects come into play here and stuff).

they suggest that 'early AI reliance may result in shallow encoding' so people might not fully remember what they actually wrote because they outsourced their thinking to the LLM and that taking away LLM tools during the early stages of getting familiar with a topic might support memory formation. finally they suggest that the brain-only group once they were told to use chatgpt in the fourth session may have compared their past essay with the current AI output and engaged in self-reflection etc. a preliminary idea that they suggest needs to be researched more with a larger sample before it can be confirmed as a thing that exists is that the reassigned brain-only group focused on a narrower set of ideas which suggests they might not have been deeply engaged with the topic itself or did not critically examine the LLM output.

and now finally i want to talk through the limitations they acknowledged in their paper (and some that i thought of myself while reading it). firstly their sample size is small and seems to be WEIRD (wealthy educated industrialised rich and democratic participants; essentially a criticism of psychology's love of using a very specific, usually american sample group that is not usually reflective of the rest of the world, sometimes even just in america) + also women are overrepresented in the study. this study specifically looked at chatgpt so there might be different results with different LLMs. the writing task wasn't divided into subtasks like idea generation, writing etc which previous research had done. their research is very specific to essay-writing in an academic context. and finally, they suggest that "future studies should also consider exploring longitudinal impacts of tool usage on memory retention, creativity, and writing fluency."

now I just wanna add: is quoting really a good measure of memory? anecdotally, i would say hell no but im sure someone more qualified than me has tackled this question at some point. next all the brain monitoring and quote remembering just seems to imply that participants are more familiar with the material when relying on their brains instead of just focusing on reproducing what they see in search engines and chatgpt. i think the time constraint comes into play here too and would be curious to see the results of a study that allowed people a reasonable amount of time to write an essay. also it's important to remember that for the search engine and chatgpt groups, they had to search read and review all their information and THEN put it into a coherent essay in 20 minutes whereas the brain-only group just had to write one. they didn't have to make sense of any secondary source and could just draw from their own experiences. therefore there might've been a cognitive load on the other two groups that wasn't present for them?

anyways really interesting study. i tried to present the results as quickly and non-biased as i could because the article doesn't really go into too much detail. i very specifically wanted to mention again that there is NO long-term data (in this study) on the effects of pro-longed use of chatgpt. this is a lab experiment not a longitudinal study. I also want to encourage people to read the study itself if this sounds like something interesting to you. i tried my best but i can only do much.

ChatGPT can harm an individual’s critical thinking over time, a new study suggests.

Researchers at MIT’s Media Lab asked subjects to write several SAT essays and separated subjects into three groups — using OpenAI’s ChatGPT, using Google’s search engine and using nothing, which they called the “brain‑only” group. Each subject’s brain was monitored through electroencephalography (EEG), which measured the writer’s brain activity through multiple regions in the brain.

They discovered that subjects who used ChatGPT over a few months had the lowest brain engagement and “consistently underperformed at neural, linguistic, and behavioral levels,” according to the study.

The study found that the ChatGPT group initially used the large language model, or LLM, to ask structural questions for their essay, but near the end of the study, they were more likely to copy and paste their essay.

Those who used Google’s search engine were found to have moderate brain engagement, but the “brain-only” group showed the “strongest, wide-ranging networks.” (Read more at link)

This research is so important. I know it won’t surprise any of us anti—ai folks, but proving what we already know is paramount.

[theonlyonesora]

The Man Who Married Me

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x Reader x Max Verstappen

CH – 31

Then – 2020 You were just an assistant. Officially, Executive Support to the Team Principal. Unofficially, the one who kept Toto Wolff from forgetting flights, losing documents, and publicly snapping at journalists.

You weren’t supposed to talk to the drivers much. Just quick hellos, logistical relays, polite smiles when you passed in the hallway. But Lewis Hamilton was impossible to ignore.

Especially when he looked at you like that.

It started small. You brought him the wrong coffee once — oat milk instead of almond. He’d smiled like you’d handed him gold.

“Perfect,” he said, sipping it. “You sure you don’t race? You’ve got quick hands.”

You’d rolled your eyes and walked away.

But the next morning? He brought you coffee.

“Almond milk. No sugar, just like you didn’t ask for,” he grinned.

From then on, it became a rhythm. A coffee here, a shared laugh there. Notes passed between briefings. A glance across the garage when Toto was yelling and neither of you could take him seriously.

It was harmless, at first. You were careful. He was… Lewis Hamilton. The living legend. The playboy with a political soul. And you were the girl with a clipboard and too many NDAs to count.

But one night after a long race weekend, everyone was gone. You stayed behind to finish expense reports. You were tired, slumped over a laptop in a dark office when a knock came at the glass door.

Lewis.

Wearing sweats, hair tied up. Holding takeout containers.

“You didn’t eat, did you?”

You blinked at him, confused.

“I—how do you know that?”

“Because I saw you at 3PM drinking your third coffee and you haven’t left this building since.”

He set the food down and sat across from you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to.”

And he did. He asked you questions no one ever did. Where you were from. What you wanted in five years. Why you smiled when you were nervous. He laughed at your dry jokes and confessed he hated fame most days.

The world outside faded.

At one point, you admitted something quietly.

“You scare me a little.”

He tilted his head.

“Why?”

“Because when you look at me, I forget to breathe. And I can’t afford to be distracted.”

He reached across the table, brushed your fingers gently.

“Then I’ll breathe for both of us.”

That night, nothing happened.

No kisses. No lines crossed.

But the way he looked at you?

You knew. It had already begun.

.

You were standing by the espresso machine, exhausted and tense. You hadn’t seen Lewis since that night. Messages had been brief. And now, as if summoned by your thoughts, he walked in — hoodie, sunglasses, mask around his chin.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You both stood there in silence. And then he pulled something from his pocket.

A note. Folded into a tiny square.

“You once said you don’t like being asked out in public.”

“Because I don’t.”

He smiled.

“Good. So I thought I’d do this the way you’d like.”

You unfolded the note.

In neat, careful handwriting, it said:

Would you like to go out with me?

☐ Yes ☐ No ☐ Only if you bring coffee first

You laughed — for the first time that day. And ticked the third box.

“So is that a yes?” he asked.

“Only if you bring coffee first.”

He grinned, leaned down, and whispered in your ear:

“Then it’s a date.”

December 12, 2021 – Abu Dhabi

You had never seen him like that.

You were standing in the back of the paddock as the champagne sprayed. You weren’t watching the podium.

You were watching Lewis.

He hadn’t spoken much since the last lap. Not after the radio cut. Not after Max crossed the line. Not when he got out of the car and hugged his father.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t try to fix it.

When the Mercedes garage cleared, he walked into the hospitality suite where you waited alone, still in your team badge and headset, your fingers trembling.

He stood there, his face unreadable.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Now?”

“I don’t want to be here anymore.”

The suite at the Yas Hotel was silent.

The only sound was the hum of the city in the distance and the occasional boat in the marina below.

You helped him take off his jacket. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“I don’t know how to process this,” he said quietly.

“You don’t have to.”

You kneeled in front of him, resting your hands on his thighs, looking up at the man who had carried the weight of so many hopes.

“You don’t have to be okay tonight. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to smile for me.”

He looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world that had just broken him.

“You’re the only thing that still makes sense.”

Your heart cracked.

And then he stood, walked to the desk, and picked up something from his jacket pocket.

He held it in his hand — something small, velvet, completely out of place on a night like this.

“I was going to wait,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I had this whole thing planned.”

“Lewis…”

“But life clearly doesn’t care about my plans. And I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He knelt.

He knelt.

After everything. After the loss. After the silence. He knelt.

And held out the ring with hands still trembling from the weight of the world.

“You make everything in my life bearable. You see me when no one else does. You never wanted the headlines or the money or the fame. You just… showed up. Every time. Quiet and fierce and mine.”

“I don’t want to win anything if I don’t come home to you. I don’t want a legacy that doesn’t have your name in it.”

Your eyes blurred as he whispered:

“Marry me. Please.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You dropped to your knees, too. Pulled him into your arms, tears mixing between you both.

“Yes. Of course, yes.”

And in that hotel room where the world had decided Lewis Hamilton didn’t deserve his eighth title — You gave him something greater. You gave him forever.

TAG LIST: @virtualperfectioncat , @starrgir1 , @the-secret-formulaone, @anunstablefangirl, @tillyt04, @dakotapaigelove, @loadedwafflefries, @forensicheart, @lorena-mv33, @d0llyh3rtz, @teenagetoadghostwobbler, @mizelophsun11, @herdetectivetheorist

[emobirthdaycake]

Yk, the fact that Quinn and Darlin' have interacted at some form of intimate level in EVERY (canon) UNIVERSE is very interesting to me.

Like, with it having happened in every universe (Canon, Imperium, and Fooliverse) their relationship has to be integral to the known plot, right? Stop me if I'm getting too meta.

It's a canon event, if you will. Something that HAS to happen in some form in EVERY universe, and ALWAYS results in at least one of the two parties' deaths. (Usually Quinn. Don't say "well he's still alive in the canon universe!" They're actively planning his execution. He will die.)

That's so horrific but also so beautiful to me in a way. That both of them and their relation to each other is SO IMPORTANT to the very nature of the universe that it appears in every iteration. That they have to meet, and know each other, and Darlin' HAS to suffer his effects in EVERY UNIVERSE.

I don't think Erik has put that much thought into Darlin', Quinn, and their AU counterparts (not to say he's stupid or anything!) but it's still really cool to see that it happens in every universe.

Idk if I had a greater point here, it's just smth I've noticed not only in the canon universes but also in works of fanfiction. I don't think I've read a single fanfic about Darlin' (no matter the ship or au) where they HAVENT at least met. It's insane. Quinn is both such a huge part of Darlin' and a drop in the ocean of their life. So much of what Darlin' is is because of Quinn and what he did to them but also, they're so such their own person now that he's just something that they went through.

Darlin' and Quinn's relationship proves that you can heal. No matter how many times it happens to you. Tomorrow is another day. It will get better. And there will always be someone who loves you, and who will stand by your side through the days filled with sunshine and the days where it feels like the storm inside will never blow over.

We call them Tank for a reason.

[muni34902]

Eclipse

── ✦⋆˖⁺‧₊◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✦──

 ── ✦⋆˖⁺‧₊◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✦──

Blurd: As the brilliant daughter of a powerful conglomerate CEO, you've spent your life clawing to be taken seriously. To be something more than just a nuisange—the place holder of your perfect brother who is supposed to take your father’s seat.

But you were given a chance, an opportunity that you couldn’t pass up. A bet made by drunken actions, solidified by a signed contract.

If you lead the Planet Z project to success, you’ll be named the top contender for succession.

It should’ve been simple. Challenging, sure—but nothing you couldn’t handle.

That is, until you met Senku Ishigami.

A young, genius scientist who aimed to be an astronaut. A sharp tongue and radical ideas that clashed yours at every turn. 

Yet somehow, the stars seem to think the two of you are destined to work together—maybe even be together.

Neither of you asked for that.

Neither of you is ready for what’s coming.

But you both want one thing:

Project: Planet Z’s success.

Word count: 1482

── ✦⋆˖⁺‧₊◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✦──

 The executives were jerks, you concluded. Actually, you’ve always known that; it's just that this time they’ve taken this too far.

Old patriarchal men ran the (L/N) conglomerate alongside your baba, who never shared their backward beliefs. But that didn’t stop those men from constantly looking down on you.

They preferred your perfect brother, Daniel, to take over the company. A man who had leadership qualities, super strength, and an unfortunate case of being just smart enough to sound impressive. 

Although in your humble opinion, he is a little dumb. You still loved him nevertheless!

Praises, trophies, and glowing recommendation letters from your professors weren’t enough to convince them otherwise. At some point, even your father tried to advocate for you, but the board was unanimous: you weren’t fit to lead.

So you spent your life clawing to be seen.

A PhD wasn’t enough.

Neither were the hundreds of hours spent in community service, policy debates, or political strategy.

They still saw a little girl, not a successor.

But one day a light shone down on you in an unimaginable way. It was the day when the scheduled monthly dinner happened.

These dinners were supposed to be used for catching up on what the company needs for the month. But now it's mostly used for socializing. 

That night they were laughing at you—straight to your face. The executives—as heartless as they were—couldn’t care less that they were joking about you taking over. 

You were used to it, but you had to bite your tongue or risk the “Oh, is it that time of the month again?” joke. You hated it.

“She’ll probably wage a trade war with one of our own smaller companies,” one joked while sipping on his wine.

“Oh! I bet it’ll be on a day when she gets her period!” Another laughed wholeheartedly. Anger bubbled in you, but you couldn't do anything about it except to bite your tongue harder.

Your brother, sitting across from you, is visibly uncomfortable. His voice was silenced by the executives over half an hour ago while trying to defend you.

They said, “Aw, look at little Danny trying to defend his sister. Don’t worry; you won’t have to take care of her for long once the engagement with the Nanami’s goes through.”

Daniel kept his mouth closed after that. He knew that whatever words came after would lead to his fist being shoved into someone’s face.

Your father tried to keep the peace, sometimes even stopping the dinner entirely. But it never stopped the executives from jumping on the boundaries. Even if they physically couldn’t do it. 

At some point, late into the night, the executives were getting bold with their jokes, thanks to the alcohol in their system. It had gotten to the point where you and Daniel tuned them out.

Only the tapping of the glass stemware was the thing that you two focused on. The old men, tipsy out of their wits, didn’t know that you two were tapping in Morse code.

It was because of this that you two could joke around without anyone interfering.

“Look at Mr. Sato’s toupee." Daniel tapped, “It’s so disheveled that it looks like a Karen cut.”

You had to stop yourself from laughing with a sip from your own glass while also tapping. “I heard his own son is balding too.”

Suddenly the sound of tapping from another glass caught both of your attentions. 

“I heard his wife is finally planning on divorcing him. His son’s wife, I mean.” came from your dad’s glass

“Finally, she deserves it.” Your brother tapped back. “For real,” you added.

“If that girl can actually do something worthy like leading Project: Plant Z, then I’ll support her.” A voice boomed that disrupted your gossiping.

“Oh?” Your father questioned. “Are you willing to bet on that?”

“Of course!” Mr. Sato replied without hesitation. “In fact, I’ll say I’ll give her my full support if she actually manages to be successful in that very same project.”

A wave of agreement echoed in the banquet hall. It was around this time that you realized what your father was doing.

“Then let's sign on that. After all, we have Akaashi here with us, and he’s not drinking.” 

Akaashi is the leader of the (L/n) conglomerate lawyers. He is skilled and hardworking. As well as your father’s drinking buddy. The executives also trust him, though it's mostly because he's a man.

Surprisingly, they all agreed to it. 

Within two hours Akaashi drafted a contract, but it's mostly akin to a legal and binding bet.

Party B (Executives) must give full support to (Y/n) (L/n) in replacing Daniel (L/n) in succeeding the (L/n) chair if she were to successfully lead and complete Project: Planet Z. Completion shall be measured by NASA.

Party A (your dad) will pay $1,000,000 to the executives if (Y/n) (L/n) were to not complete this task. (Y/n) (L/n) is also to stop competing against her brother.

Effective: Next week

End: till NASA confirms the successor or failure of Project: Planet Z

“Dad, that's too much!” You turned to him after reading the contract.

“Hah! Your wallet will be drained once this is over.” One of them spoke with a pen and the paper in hand.

“It’s fine; I’m sure you’ll succeed.” Your father pulled you and your brother close.

“I hope you lose, little girl.” Mr. Sato said while carrying another glass of wine in hand.

Your tiny family watched as each of the twelve executives waddled their way out of your house. The only people remaining were you three and Akaashi.

“I’ll get this notarized soon, and by next week you’ll be able to prove yourself against these guys,” Akaashi softly smiled at you.

“Thank you, but wouldn’t the fact that there’s alcohol in their system make them able to void the contract?”

“I doubt it; that's a lot of money, Dad bet. I doubt they have the nerve to try to leave the contract, even if they were drunk out of their wits.” Daniel jumped in.

“You're right, but I can’t believe that Dad put twelve million on the line. Now I’m scared; what if I lose?” You started panicking. You don’t doubt your skills and abilities, but that amount of money can make anyone quiver.

“Who says that I have to pay twelve million?”

“Uh, the contract that you signed just a moment ago,” you tilted your head in confusion.

“Read this carefully (y/n).” Akaashi pointed to a sentence.

“Party A will pay $1,000,000 to the executives if (Y/n) (L/n) were to not complete this task.” You read out loud.

“That’s right, it didn’t say “$1,000,000 to each of the executives.” Akaashi winked when you realized what he had done. “They think they’re getting a million each if your dad loses, but they’re actually going to get 83,333.”

“How did we not realize that?” Daniel muttered while squinting his eyes closer at the paper.

“Everyone is drunk or tipsy tonight, so it makes sense that it flew past you. Everyone except me and your dad.”

“Now that the plot twist is revealed, you two should head to bed.” Your father spoke while ushering you two to your rooms.

“We’re not kids, Dad!” Your brother complained. “Yeah, we’re adults; we can stay up longer!”

Your father looked between the two of you before making his voice extra stern. “I know you two aren't morning people. So go to bed.”

Defeated, you two shuffled into your rooms.

In all honesty, you were simply too excited to sleep. Project: Planet Z is a joint project with NASA and the (L/n) conglomerate. 

The company’s science team were the first people to discover this new exoplanet and were trying to conduct research. With NASA joining soon afterward, the first probe was launched and arrived safely.

The second phase of Project: Planet Z started soon afterwards to try to get the first humans onto the planet. But with the fact that there was no vehicle that was safe and fast enough to support this, the second phase of the project was just a hopeful theory. 

Now, a century later, the first spacecraft that could travel faster than the speed of light has been invented. The Theory of Project: Planet Z’s second phase could actually be fulfilled.

Because of this, NASA wanted to join hands like before for this project.

Knowing all this, you were a bit scared. Such a project would take careful leadership, but you won’t shy away from it. No, that's not your character.

You finally shut your eyes, awaiting the next day. You had a week to prepare, but you wished it would be tomorrow. 

Though you should’ve known that once a light shines down on you, it casts a much larger shadow.

── ✦⋆˖⁺‧₊◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✦──

I'm posting this for opinions, and if anyone is interested in this kind of story

Its mostly just a prologue and it would've probably be beneficial if I written about the dynamic between you and senku (｡﹏｡")

please let me know and comment below if you're interested in more

(sorry for baiting you guys with a "completed story")

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☽︎Muni out☾⋆⁺₊⋆

[theseventhdimension]

Hiya darling! I saw that your requests where open and I was hoping that you could do one for me? If you can I would like season 1 Aaron Hotchner x male reader where the reader has ADHD, panic disorder, and depression and he takes some meds to help and sometimes forgets so I was hoping that you could do one where Aaron has to kind of calms the reader down after somethin and makes sure to help the reader take their meds and it’s all soft and fluffy like?

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this request (I hope it wasn’t to specific) I love your work! I hope you have a wonderful day/night! 💗

Observed, Noted, Remembered

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Gn! Reader

Word Count: 1.4k+

DNI: All are Welcome!

Author's Note: You're so sweet I'm gonna follow you home. I'm so so so so soooo sorry it took my like over a week to do this wjdhbhvclJHDAvb (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ but I hope it's okay :)) I love writing Aaron i just want to munch on him like a little ragdoll.

As always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ( •̀ ᴗ •́ )و

There’s always been something in the back of your mind. Not quite a voice—nothing so definable. Just a pressure. A shadow. A hum in your wiring that never switches off. It tugs at you in quiet moments, breathing its old refrain: Too loud. Too much. Too wrong.

It’s not always words. Sometimes it’s a flickering sensation behind your eyes, like someone’s dimming the lights in your skull. Sometimes it’s like your skin’s on wrong. The tag in your shirt becomes a scream. The smell of someone’s cologne three feet away clogs your lungs. Your own heartbeat sounds too loud in your ears and suddenly the world is too much.

You used to think that was just how brains worked. That everyone had to rehearse phone calls like scripts. That everyone rewrote case notes three times to make the bullet points line up—only to lose the file ten minutes later. That forgetting to eat, to shower, to breathe was just regular adult chaos. You even thought maybe Hotch had those days too—where he stared at his badge in his hand and forgot where he was supposed to go.

But then came the diagnoses. ADHD. Panic disorder. Depression. Things with names and pamphlets and matching pills. For a while, it got easier. Not easy, never that—but quieter.

Until the quiet started to feel... hollow. Like your thoughts had been put in a straightjacket. The chaos was gone, sure—but so was the color. The joy. The part of you that made midnight playlists and scribbled quotes on receipts and got lost in stupid internet rabbit holes about 14th-century execution methods. The part of you that laughed too hard and talked too fast.

On the meds, you just stared at your coffee until it got cold.

People called it peace. It felt like being wrapped in gauze.

So you stopped. And then you started again. And then stopped. Again.

It was always like this. A tug-of-war between clarity and comfort, energy and exhaustion. You told yourself it was choice. Freedom. Autonomy.

But it never really felt like that. It felt like throwing a coin every morning and praying the side it landed on wouldn’t ruin your whole day.

The case in Utah had been brutal.

Forty-eight hours of chasing leads, dodging press, and walking through someone else’s worst day.

Sleep was a joke. The team had split into pairs, burned through every contact and detail trying to find a pattern. You hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Or maybe the day before.

And there was a toddler’s shoe. That’s what broke you.

Not the body. Not the suspect. The tiny, mud-caked shoe left in a field, barely visible under frost. You hadn’t been able to stop seeing it. Even when you blinked, even when you slept standing up with your eyes open.

Now, at last, it was over. The unsub was in custody. The press had been deflected. The parents would get closure. Technically, this was a win.

You didn’t feel it.

The scene was winding down. Evidence techs zipped bags and packed up, voices fading beneath the pulse of red-blue strobes. A detective clapped Hotch on the shoulder, murmuring thanks. You didn’t really hear it. Couldn’t.

You stood off to the side, still and glassy-eyed, like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that the danger was over. You were supposed to be helping with final checks—God knows you tried—but something in you had unspooled.

Static filled your chest. Your fingers twitched. Your eyes tracked motion but didn’t see it.

Okay. Just… do something simple. Something tactile.

You reached into your jacket pocket.

Keys. Pen cap. Crumpled receipt.

No pill case.

Your chest tightened.

You patted yourself down again—rough, urgent.

Still nothing.

A cold ripple of dread started at the base of your spine.

No. No, no, no.

You yanked your satchel off your shoulder, fingers diving in like they could undo time. Papers crinkled. A flashlight clattered against the asphalt. You couldn’t focus—just grabbed and searched and fumbled.

But you already knew.

Your emergency meds—the ones you always brought on field assignments—were still sitting on your dresser. In Virginia. You’d seen them. Even told yourself, “Grab that before you go.”

You didn’t.

And the realization opened a sinkhole in your gut.

You forgot. Again. You always forget. You’re slipping. Spiraling. Useless like this.

Your thoughts started to spin. Faster. Louder. Each one crashing into the next before it could even finish forming.

You forgot. You forgot. You forgot—

Your breath hitched. Then caught. Then took off, jagged and sharp like barbed wire in your throat. You didn’t even feel your knees give out until you were bracing against the bumper of the nearest SUV.

The tunnel came quick.

Sound distorted. Time fractured. Air became a rumor.

You couldn’t breathe.

You were going under.

“Aaron—”

Someone said it. Maybe Morgan. Maybe Reid.

Didn’t matter.

Because he heard it.

Hotch turned instantly, like someone pulled a string in his spine. His gaze snapped to you, narrowed, locked. He was already moving before anyone else could react.

You didn’t see him approach. But suddenly, he was there.

“Hey,” came the voice—low, calm, sure. “Look at me.”

You couldn’t. Your hands were clawing at your jacket, desperate to do something, fix it, make it stop—

But then his hand touched your forearm. Warm. Gentle. Present.

Not grabbing. Not guiding. Just... there.

“Breathe,” he said again. “I’ve got you.”

You tried. You really did. But it came out a strangled inhale and a broken rasp:

“I forgot them,” you managed. “I—I left them at home, I was fine, I thought I was fine, and now I—”

“Okay,” he said. Not dismissive. Not panicked. Just calm. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

You shook your head, heart galloping into your throat. “No, you don’t get it, I—I can’t breathe, I can’t fix it this time—”

“Stop,” he said gently, lowering into your line of sight. “You can. Just look at me.”

You did.

Barely.

Your eyes were glassy. Your whole body trembled.

And then—quietly, like it was nothing—Hotch reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

He pulled out a small plastic container. Travel-size. Familiar.

Inside: two pills. Yours.

You blinked. Couldn’t speak.

He pressed it into your palm. His hand covered yours like a promise.

“I’ve been keeping a backup,” he murmured. “Just in case.”

Your throat burned. Your chest cracked open.

“Since when?” you whispered.

“Dallas.”

You stared. That had been three months ago. The hotel bathroom. Cold tiles. A panic spiral so bad you couldn’t even turn the tap. You thought he’d forgotten.

You hoped he had.

But of course he hadn’t.

Of course he noticed.

Hotch didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t dramatize. He just carried people quietly—filed their needs away like case notes and recalled them with unshakable precision.

“You noticed?” you asked, hoarse.

“I always notice,” he said.

And it wasn’t proud. It wasn’t pity.

It was just the truth.

He handed you a sealed bottle of water. Waited.

You took the pill. Sipped the water.

Pressed your sleeve to your face.

And then… sat.

Right there on the SUV bumper, shoulder to shoulder with him. You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

His hand stayed on your back, patient and warm. His presence was steady, like gravity. Like you could orbit around it and know you wouldn’t float away.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t apologize.

You just breathed.

“I’m not good at this,” you said after a while, voice raw.

“You’re doing fine,” he replied, without hesitation.

You looked at him.

He was already looking at you.

And in that look, there was no shame. No disappointment. Just a quiet steadiness. A kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

Like this wasn’t a burden. Like you weren’t too much. Like this moment wasn’t a failure—it was just another part of being human.

You weren’t broken.

You were just… you.

And he remembered that.

Even when you didn’t.

[stickandthorn]

The thing about fanon for me is that it, at the most basic level, is assigning a characteristic to preexisting character who either explicitly does not possess it, or who is not directly stated to possess it, but theoretically could (or warping a character’s preexisting traits so heavily they are basically a separate character). For example, it is not saying “I’m making a character and I want this character to be fat,” it’s saying “there is something specific about this character that makes me think they should be fat.” And the reasons for fanon can definitely be good or morally neutral, but way more often than people wanna admit, fanon just plays into stereotypes and biases, sometimes while actively trying to combat those very stereotypes and biases.

For instance. Why is fanon Yasha giant and muscular? Now, I do think parts of it come from a genuine lack of clarity from Ashley over how big Yasha was. But in her initial description and all of her art (approved by the cast btw, crazy that I have to say that, but the artists are just executing the player’s vision they do not have control) she is around 5’10 and not especially visibly built. Muscular, certainly, but not massive. Yet fanon Yasha is usually built like Shaq.

Now I think part of this just comes from a desire to see larger women, women who are allowed to be athletic without being skinny, in media, and that’s totally fine. However, I saw a lot of people arguing for fanon Yasha because it was not realistic for a woman to be 5’10 and not exceedingly muscular, and have Yasha’s strength score. She HAD to be physically big. And that is just not true. Strength is not determined by how visible your muscles are, how tall you are, what size you are, none of it. Athletic ability is not a trait that is inherently visible, and not a trait that only belongs to certain body types. And while I don’t think headcanoning a woman as big and buff is somehow playing into conservative stereotypes, assuming that a certain body type cannot possess a trait like physical strength, that “strong woman = big woman” could be. Because while the rhetoric of certain traits being inherent to certain body types is reasonably innocuous here, that rhetoric isn’t in a lot of other places.

Ok, maybe that one’s a bit of a grey area. But why is fanon Beau consistently dumb, aggressive, and poorly spoken?

In the start of the campaign, Beau is impulsive, gets into fights, doesn’t always know how to express herself and her feelings verbally, and has a hard time “sounding nice.” But even in the beginning, she was not as poorly spoken or anywhere NEAR as aggressive as fanon Beau is. And even at the beginning, Beau was smart, Beau was tactical, and Beau was not just some emotionally stunted meathead with the personality of a frat bro.

And that’s just the first few episodes. By the end of the campaign, Beau was incredibly smart in a variety of different ways, she was well spoken, she was quite persuasive at times, she could maintain healthy relationships, and she could express affection verbally and through action. And that wasn’t a loss of personality, Beau was still obviously Beau- because those traits were always a part of her.

Yet fanon Beau is consistently inconsiderate and dumb, aggressive and ham fisted, poorly spoken and unable to maintain a healthy relationships. Which are all dangerous stereotypes about real life brown lesbian women. Listen, I’m not here to argue about wether or not Beau in canon is “good rep,” that isn’t my place, but I will argue that the traits that a lot of fanon chooses to amplify (and chooses to discard) are blatantly racist. This is not innocuous in any way. This bias is the same bias that leads to huge amounts of systemic oppression and violence towards brown women and specifically brown lesbians.

And I’m not saying fanon is inherently bad, I’m saying fanon is just as prone to real life bias as any other place, even when you “don’t mean harm.” And sometimes people will act like fanon is inherently progressive, when it truly is not. And we should really analyze that.