#i will be posting two more sets from this same scene

[saltedfishmaiden]

When I was writing my post about why Sanji loves love, why he sometimes seems too much invested in the concept and idea of it which goes deeper than being only a hopeless romantic, I got to the part with Judge and Luffy, and then wanted to make a whole post about that.

There's this sentiment that Sanji didn't need to have another story with Germa or this added background seems pointless. And while I get it somewhat, I also enjoy getting two cakes and have my fun by poking at parallels and contrasts. So here are all my thoughts and ramblings on the subject. 

I feel WCI is to Sanji in One Piece that Enchantix was to Bloom in Winx Club. For getting that enchantix transformation, all the fairies had to sacrifice something for their people. And while Bloom still gets her transformation, it wasn't at its complete because she hadn't fulfilled the condition of her transformation. Because, you know, she didn't have her people left. (I am talking about season 3, not the newer seasons). 

So how is it even remotely similar to Sanji's Germa origins? Or even ties in with Judge vs Luffy? This got quite lengthy, so under the cut, here we go:

Luffy stands as a figure of freedom and liberation. He has freed islands, thrown off corrupt governments and has saved many, many people. You should start doing good things from your home. And Luffy does it by saving every member of his crew too. But if you closely look at the flashbacks before and during the 3D2Y thing, one of them doesn't hold the same weight as the other. (It didn't for me, at least.) 

Most of the others have flashbacks to being rescued from high stakes situations. Sanji's flashback has a bigger focus on the scene where he asks Luffy if he has ever heard of the All Blue.

Luffy saved Zoro from being killed by Marines, from a death that comes from betrayal and not with a warrior's honor. He saves Kaya, Usopp, and Syrup Village from a fate that was going to befall them. Nami asks for Luffy’s help and he defeats Arlong. He declares war on the world government for Robin. Taking Franky with him so the WG doesn't constantly hunt him down is his decision in the end. Brook spent five decades in literal darkness. Luffy saves him, defeats Moria to restore their shadows, and takes him out of the waters he was stuck for so long at. He is the reason Brook can see sunlight again. He brings the light to the darkness Brook had been in. By launching the prison break, he sets Jinbei free from his cell in the Impel Down. 

Yes he saves Sanji too by fighting Don Krieg. But it differs here that after being set free from their captors or situations, the strawhats have an impact that becomes a trait or a part of their personality. 

Nami doesn't have to free her village any longer. So she's more assertive in taking charge of everyone's finances. Zoro takes quickly to piracy and while his own condition was never jeopardizing his dream, he was ready to give up for Luffy’s life. Robin decides she wants to live. Brook becomes more cheery. Chopper learns some people will love him Because he is a monster. While initially he doesn't want to be one, he is ready to become one for Luffy post time skip.

Coming back to Luffy at Baratie.. he does defeat Don Krieg. (Luffy wasn't the only one influencing his decision. Zoro's refusal to back down from his dream was doing something to his brain too.) But look at it from Sanji's angle:

A pirate crew returns from the Grand Line and attacks a ship on the East Blue that he currently calls his current home. That sounds very familiar though. 

A pirate saves him from a seemingly worse fate after that attack. That too has already happened. 

For Sanji, it's probably another Tuesday. Even if it probably repeats every nine years or so.

Interestingly, Sanji doesn't actually change after Baratie is saved by Luffy. He's still all traits and characteristics that he was. He was ready to die on the Baratie. Then, from Drum Island and onwards, his sacrificial tendencies and (passively) suicidal behavior becomes a recurring theme. At the restaurant, he declares he is ready to die because dying is how he can repay Zeff for saving him. Luffy tells him it's stupid and Zeff didn't save Sanji for him to pull this. But Sanji still keeps this stance, which he again repeats at Thriller Bark that he has always been ready to die. This thing continues post time skip too, as seen in Dressrosa where he was ready for his fate by willingly giving himself up to save the crewmates on the ship. 

So Sanji had yet to change that streak. And it makes you wonder WHY he is so ready to die, to put other's lives and dreams above his own, why his self worth is lower than Punk Hazard’s temperature? Because, again, Zeff didn't save Sanji so he can throw himself away every chance he gets. So where does his behavior even come from? A random nobody kid on a cruise ship shouldn't come with this much baggage. Then why does he? 

Those questions are answered with the WCI arc. Father vs father figure gets the focus. But Zeff isn't physically present there. You know who is? Luffy! The center stage is taken by authority figure vs authority figure. Or, well, leader versus authority figure. And the two couldn't be more different. Which the arc shows throughout.

Judge is a colonizer and symbolizes oppression. In contrast to him, Luffy is the liberator, symbolizing freedom. One of them is power hungry, the other craves freedom. Judge is someone who thrives on hierarchy, on being the biggest, the oldest, the one who looms over others. Luffy is the captain but he is also the second youngest, and usually lets his crewmates do their own thing. 

When Sanji goes back to his bio family, he ends up beaten. When Luffy catches up to him, and Sanji reacts to send him away, Luffy refuses to fight him back. While Judge ignores Sanji's pain and hurt, Luffy acknowledges it. Judge refuses to give Sanji any choice in being used as a pawn. Luffy asks Sanji what he wants. 

Judge goes back against his own word that he had bound Sanji to. Luffy makes a promise of staying there come whatever. Luffy binds himself to his promise. Judge is ready to blow up Sanji's hand. Luffy was ready to give up his own.

What Judge says he doesn't do. Luffy always does what he says.

Luffy picked Sanji as his cook at the Baratie before ever tasting his food. On Whole Cake, the food is ruined but Luffy had nothing but praise. The two stories, both, have Luffy choosing Sanji and it's not because of how good the food is. 

Judge puts everything above Sanji and Luffy puts Sanji above everything else. 

Whatever Judge does, Luffy does the opposite. We have Sanji realizing that he's worth it too. That no, he shouldn't be thrown in a dungeon or used as a chip. 

(Back to my kinda silly comparison to Bloom’s enchantix, isn't it interesting Sanji awakens his own sense of self worth while saving his family too?) 

He changes from that point forward. He asks Robin for help. He questions if Luffy would want him more useful or how he is. And doesn't wait for an answer. Because he already has one. Luffy isn't Judge. For the latter, everything is about usefulness and that's why Sanji is a failure because of what he can't do. But now Sanji knows he is Sora’s success and he already knew Luffy has never cared for what others are of use to him. 

Sanji has never doubted Luffy. He just hasn't believed himself of any worth.

Luffy at Baratie was throwing hands with a pirate who failed on the Grand Line, in exchange of not being the chore boy any longer. Luffy on Whole Cake Island was throwing hands with an Emperor of the Sea for someone he deemed worth more than his dream. That's the difference. 

[hunnam]

Barry Sloane as Zachary Heflin Longmire (2012-2017) Pt. 1

[ijustwannabecool]

Rolling, Rolling, Red Bull

Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

Summary… When the Drive to Survive crew shows up to film a behind-the-scenes look at Max Verstappen’s life off track, Y/N is less than thrilled to be in the spotlight. But between sarcastic interviews, soft domestic moments, and a now-viral deleted scene involving a jar of pesto, the world gets a glimpse of a Max they’ve never seen before. Boyfriend-coded. Cat-dad certified. And very, very soft for her.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy! I’ve been kinda M.I.A. & irregular on my posting but I have been out of town for the last two week so I’ve been writing on my phone and it has been a little difficult.

I hope you guys enjoy this story and feel free to donate on my Ko-Fi, maybe that way I can buy a better computer and write more consistently for you guys.

like, comment, reblog, enjoy (:

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Y/N was halfway through brushing her teeth when Max knocked on the bathroom door.

“They’re here,” he said, muffled through the wood. “The Drive to Survive guys.”

She spat into the sink. “Tell them to come back never.”

Max laughed, leaning against the doorframe in joggers and a Red Bull hoodie, his hair still wet from the shower. “You said yes last night.”

“I was half-asleep and you bribed me with stroopwafels.”

He pushed the door open and gave her the most annoyingly charming grin. “And yet, here we are.”

⸻

The Netflix crew had set up in their living room, pretending the chaos of wires and camera angles was “low-key.” Max greeted them like old friends, casual and cool, while Y/N hovered awkwardly behind a kitchen stool, holding her coffee like a shield.

“Just pretend we’re not here,” the producer said, adjusting his headset.

“Impossible,” she muttered.

Max, ever the calm in the storm, slipped a hand around her waist. “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”

“That is the problem.”

⸻

They followed the couple through a normal day: breakfast on the balcony, Max fiddling with a simulator, Y/N curled up reading a book while their cats tried to chew on a mic cord.

But then they asked for a sit-down interview.

“Can you two just talk about what it’s like being in a relationship during the season?” the director asked, arranging pillows behind Y/N like this was a cozy podcast and not her personal nightmare.

Max shrugged. “It’s good. We don’t really fight.”

Y/N snorted. “You say that because you don’t consider ignoring my texts for six hours a fight.”

“I was driving,” he said, deadpan.

“You were on the simulator.”

“Same thing.”

The crew laughed. Max smiled sideways at her.

Then the director leaned in. “Y/N, how do you handle the pressure of being with someone constantly in the spotlight?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know, but because she hadn’t expected the question to feel so… real.

“I don’t try to handle it,” she said slowly. “I just try to remind him that there’s a world outside of racing. That he’s more than just Max Verstappen the driver.”

Max’s expression softened—one of those rare looks he saved just for her, all warm gaze and relaxed jawline.

“And she’s the only one who gets away with calling me out when I start acting like a robot,” he added, voice lower now.

There was a pause.

“Wow,” the sound guy whispered.

“Keep rolling,” the director whispered back.

⸻

Later, when they were reviewing footage in the trailer, someone asked if they could get a shot of Max hugging Y/N.

“We have the paddock stuff, the Monaco stuff—but we need something soft to end on.”

Max found her sitting on the edge of the Red Bull hospitality couch, phone in hand.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked up, pulled her into his chest, and kissed the top of her head. Cameras or not.

“You’re doing great,” he said.

“You owe me ten stroopwafels and a massage.”

“I’ll give you twelve.”

The camera rolled as she smiled against his hoodie, arms tightening around his waist.

And later, when the season aired, fans clipped that moment. Over and over.

“Who knew Max Verstappen could be soft?”

“Protect this woman at all costs.”

“Relationship goals.”

But to Max, it was just Tuesday.

_______

Deleted Scene

Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, struggling with a stubborn jar of pesto. The label peeled at the edge, and the lid refused to budge despite two dish towels and her full body weight.

“Max!” she called, mildly annoyed. “Can you come here?”

Off-camera, you hear footsteps. Then Max appears in the kitchen doorway, looking suspicious. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. Just open this before I yeet it into the sea.”

He walks over, takes the jar, and opens it effortlessly with one twist.

She stares. “Are you serious?”

He grins, proud. “You loosened it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Without missing a beat, he dips a finger into the pesto and sticks it in his mouth.

“Max!” she gasps, swatting him with a tea towel. “That’s for dinner!”

He shrugs. “Taste test.”

A Netflix producer can be heard laughing behind the camera.

“Can we actually keep rolling?” another asks. “This is gold.”

Y/N turns, catching the crew still filming, and mock-glares at the camera.

“I’m going to need hazard pay.”

Max wraps an arm around her waist and plants a pesto-flavored kiss on her cheek.

“No one would believe how domestic you are,” Y/N mutters, smirking.

“Good. Let them think I’m scary.”

⸻

But don’t worry. The pesto jar ended up on eBay “signed by Max,” with a sticky note that read:

“She loosened it.” – M.V.

All proceeds went to cat shelters. Because Max demanded it.

⸻

FAN REACTIONS TO DELETED SCENE

Twitter/X:

@paddockbabie:

MAX OPENED A JAR AND A NATION FELL IN LOVE

#driveToSurvive #maxverstappen #domesticking

@softf1updates:

the way he dipped his finger into the pesto and then kissed her with zero shame?? I’m on the floor.

literally who gave him permission to be this boyfriend-coded

@f1spicypage:

“you loosened it.”

OH OKAY MAX VERSTAPPEN KING OF HUMBLE DOMESTICITY

⸻

Tumblr:

f1blurbs:

It’s not about the pesto.

It’s about her calling him like a husband.

It’s about him walking in like “what did I do?” like he knows he exists to be summoned.

It’s about the quiet love.

It’s about the damn jar.

I’m crying.

netflix-please:

Reblog if you too would risk it all to have Max Verstappen open a jar for you and call it “loosened by you.”

⸻

TikTok Comments (under the leaked scene with 4.8M views):

@formulalover44:

the way she’s like “MAX” and he just comes?? we love an obedient man

@jamgirlie:

petition to release ALL deleted scenes or i riot

@pestoprincess:

me @ my boyfriend: “why can’t you be more like max verstappen opening pesto jars and donating to cat shelters?”

⸻

Instagram Stories:

@f1gossipgrid:

MAX & Y/N: PESTO-GATE

This leaked deleted scene is the best PR Netflix never meant to drop.

Rumors say Red Bull marketing is already printing “You loosened it” merch.

We’ll take 5.

⸻

And yes—someone already made pesto-themed merch on Etsy with:

“You loosened it – M.V.” in sleek Helvetica on tote bags, mugs, and aprons.

⸻

the end.

[no-144444]

cherry kisses- l.norris

summary: all's fair in love and fake relationships, yet Lando Norris somehow still finds a way to play dirty

pairing: fakeboyfriend! lando norris x fem! fakegirlfriend! actress! reader

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Falling for Lando Norris was a disaster waiting to happen, and one you chose to avoid. On paper, you two were the perfect power couple, your instagram pages meticulously curated with a snippet of each other in every post, perfectly planned paparazzi picture of you kissing outside pubs or bars or award shows, engagement rumours every few months- rumours that weren’t helped by Lando constantly choosing to get himself a new watch or piece of jewellery a week before you were seen together.

But in the real world, you two were simply business ventures to the other. Entirely uninterested in each other's lives unless it pertained to the contract. He came to support you at award shows or showed up on set to snap some photos, and you went to races to support him. 

Nothing else. No need for it in your life anyway. No room for silly boys, and Lando Norris was the silliest of all boys. 

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“You look pretty,” he smirked from across the room. He had the damn smirk that he always thought would make you break, but it never did. 

“Thank you,” you smiled pleasantly, the image of a perfectly PR-trained celebrity. You really did wonder what they taught F1 drivers about PR, and then you realised it was probably just Lando enjoying breaking the rules. 

“What’s the occasion?” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you. You two were bound for a Ralph Lauren event. Lucky you! 

“Have to look good for my boyfriend, don’t I?” you faked a bright smile, which made him laugh, and you rolled your eyes. You pushed his arms off of you and took another sip of your tea.

“So I’m officially your boyfriend now?” he teased. 

You sighed, exasperated. “That’s what it says in the contract, doesn’t it?” You watched as his smirk fell for a split second, almost… upset? Hardly. He didn’t care, and neither did you.  “And anyway, I was talking about Keegan.” 

He giggled behind you in the mirror. You looked up and met his eyes with an awkward smile, and you felt his hand rest on your hip. 

And you felt it. You felt the burn of your skin under his touch. You felt the way his breathing was much too quick for someone calm. You felt the way he was cautiously wanting more. 

“We’re a pretty good-looking couple when you think about it,” he spoke slowly, but that same playfulness laced his tone. “Keegan’s too short for you.”

You scoffed, laughing. “Alright 5’9. Christ,” you chuckled, breaking away from him. “Alright, I have everything, ready?” 

He stared at you for a moment, then turned towards the door of his hotel room with a smirk. He opened it, waiting for you to walk through. What a-. “Always ready, Sugar.” 

That damned nickname, you thought, It was one time. You walked through the door with your head held high, then grabbed his hand when you got to the foyer. 

It was going to be a long day. 

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He watched as you made your way around the room, dutifully greeting those who needed greeting, introducing yourself to people you had to, and generally being your perfect self. It was annoying, you annoyed him. But there was one thing he liked above all else, which was annoying you, which he seemed to be pretty spectacular at. 

“You keep staring,” Keegan leaned in. “You do realise she’s not your actual girlfriend, right?” he chuckled, and Lando joined in, but he couldn’t help but feel the tightness in his chest worsen when he saw one of your old cast mates put his hand on your shoulder. 

He frowned at the scene in front of him, then brushed it off. He knew you’d never do anything to fuck up the contract. While yes, he technically got more professional benefit from it (exposure, more fans, etc.), you got more personal benefits (aka, money), and you wanted to fully fund your directorial debut, so you needed all the cash you could get. “I know,” he chuckled. “It’d look weird if I wasn’t looking at her though,” he explained as he took another sip of his milkshake. “She’s supposed to be my one and only true love, after all.” 

Keegan scoffed. “Tell that to the girls in Miami.”

The guilt in Lando’s gut twisted, making his last sip go down funny. Miami was a mistake, one he hadn’t told you about, but a mistake all the same. “Shut up man-”

“Keegan!” you smiled, wrapping him up in one of your hugs. He hugged you right back, just as tight. Lando frowned. You turned to him. “Hey baby,” you smiled and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, which he accepted gratefully by pulling you into his side. 

“Hey Sugar,” he smirked as you rolled your eyes. 

“Where does that come from?” Keegan asked. You slapped a hand over Lando’s smirking mouth before he could explain.

“Don’t ask,” you scoffed, dropping your hand when he licked it. “You’re a child, y’know that?” 

“How was Jer?” he asked, his eyes levelling you. Was he seriously jealous here? Was he jealous of you and Jeremy? 

“He was great. Was wondering where you were, actually,” you answered through gritted teeth. 

“Maybe I’ll see him before the end of the night,” he shrugged, but he was anything but calm. “Go say hi.” 

“You should,” you nodded, taking a sip of his milkshake. “He’d love to see you.” 

Keegan stared at the two of you with a confused expression, then ultimately decided to slowly back away as you two played 5D chess with your words. 

“Taste this,” Lando offered out a cherry from the top of his milkshake, a wicked plan forming in his head. “I know how much you love cherries.” 

You did, in fact, love cherries. Despite your reason to doubt him, Lando would never do anything to break the contract, you knew that. You leaned in to catch the cherry in your mouth, noticing the camera on you two. He pulled it out of your reach until he captured your lips with his own in a gross, open-mouthed kiss. 

The kind that sets your entire body on fire. The kind you leaned in to. The kind that made his other hand circle your waist and distract you enough so that he could slip it further down. The kind that made him feel completely and utterly fucked for you. 

You both pulled back, just staring at each other, until you finally bit the cherry, and turned back to the party, knowing that clip would be all over social media by the next day. You huffed and plastered your best fake smile back on your face, and Lando was left feeling distraught by the counter. 

Like you said, long night. 

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navigation for my blog :)

mclaren masterlist

[psformybss]

You Said You Loved Me

drew starkey x costar!secretgf!reader

warnings: emotional whiplash, betrayal, heartbreak, mental health themes, self-harm mention, panic attack, regret, heavy emotions

a/n: tumblr isn’t letting me answer the request like usual but here is this one requested by @kieeslove . this is one is probably one of the most heartbreaking one-shots i’ve written to be honest but i love how it ended up coming out. please please please read the warnings before reading it.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You’ve had the whole day to yourself—no call time, no script changes, no wardrobe fittings. Just a long, open stretch of silence that you’d usually welcome.

But today, it’s been anything but peaceful.

You’ve barely moved from the couch since noon, wrapped in the hoodie Drew left on the kitchen chair last night, half-watching a show you’ve seen before just to fill the space. Your phone rests in your lap, screen dim, but your mind hasn’t stopped racing for hours.

You saw it this morning.

The story.

Odessa’s.

It popped up right after breakfast, when you were still groggy, sipping coffee on the balcony. You tapped through mindlessly until you froze on a video—shaky, close-up, her voice giggling behind the camera.

Drew.

He was leaning against a trailer, smiling—no, laughing. That wide, rare kind of laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. She flipped the camera back to herself, grinning like it was an inside joke between just the two of them.

And maybe it was.

The next slide was a photo. A candid. He had his head thrown back, laughing at something you couldn’t hear, while she stood beside him with only half her face in the frame.

But it was enough.

Enough to make your stomach twist.

Enough to make you stare too long at the caption.

“Set life with this goof 🤍”

The cast knows about you and Drew. Everyone on set does. You’ve stopped pretending around them—stopped hiding the way you slip into his trailer during breaks, how he kisses your temple when he thinks no one’s looking.

But outside of that circle, no one knows. No Instagram posts. No red carpets. Not even soft launches in the comments section.

And you understood why at first.

Keeping it private felt safer. Cleaner. Something just for you two.

Until moments like this.

Moments where he looks like someone else’s.

You scroll back through the texts—between you and Drew, between you and Odessa.

There’s nothing wrong, not really. But there’s a shift. A subtle unraveling.

He doesn’t say “I love you” before bed anymore. Doesn’t kiss your forehead when he leaves for work.

And Odessa—your best friend, the person who once felt like your other half—she’s been on set more and more. Not because she has to be. Just because.

You used to think she came to see you. To hang out between scenes, raid craft services, sit on your trailer floor and gossip about everything and nothing.

But lately, it feels like she’s there for him.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Not to read too much into the way her hand lingers on his arm when she laughs, or the way he seems more awake when she’s around.

But today, alone with your thoughts and too much time, the pit in your stomach hasn’t let up.

You pick up your phone again and scroll to your thread with Odessa.

No new messages.

She didn’t text you today.

Not after she posted those stories. Not after she spent half the afternoon on the same set your boyfriend was working on.

You’d texted her earlier—just a casual “You on set today?”—but it’s still sitting there, unanswered.

You switch to Drew’s messages.

You (9:42am): Miss you today. Hope the scene went okay.

You (12:16pm): Odessa still there?

You (3:03pm): Are you home late tonight?

All read. None replied to.

The front door opens at 1:14 a.m.

You don’t even flinch anymore. You just pull the hoodie tighter around you and pretend the tightness in your chest isn’t there.

Drew walks in with slow, tired steps, jacket slung over his arm, hair tousled from a long shoot.

You look up at him, soft but cautious. “Hey.”

He pauses at the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey. You’re up?”

“Didn’t have any scenes today,” you say, voice quieter than you mean. “Just stayed home.”

He nods, distracted. Opens the fridge. Grabs a bottle of water. Doesn’t ask about your day.

He scrolls his phone, thumbs moving quickly.

“Long shoot?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah,” he says, cracking open the bottle. “Ran over like an hour. Just wrapped a little while ago.”

You hesitate. “Was Odessa still there?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “For a bit. She left before we wrapped.”

Another beat of silence.

You want to say more. You want to ask why she’s always there lately, or why he hasn’t said I love you in four nights straight.

But your throat closes around the words, like saying them out loud would make it worse.

Drew glances at you again. “I’m gonna crash. Early call.”

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He disappears down the hall. No kiss. No touch.

And again—no I love you.

You stare at your phone until the screen fades.

Open Odessa’s story one more time.

Watch the way he laughs like he’s weightless. The way she looks at him like she knows something you don’t.

They don’t look like they’re hiding anything.

But you feel like you’re the only one being kept in the dark.

You wake up to an empty apartment again. Drew left early for set, just like he said, but something’s different today. You didn’t have to film any scenes today either, so you stayed home, hoping maybe things would feel normal again. Maybe Drew would come back and the silence wouldn’t stretch so thin between you two.

But that’s not how it goes anymore.

You scroll through your phone, trying to shake the heaviness. You glance at your messages—nothing new from Drew, just the usual short replies.

Your eyes flick to Odessa’s name, the friend you’ve known for years—the one who always seemed like your sister, the person who knew you better than anyone. But lately, even she’s become distant.

You tap her name and open your texts.

“Can’t wait to hang out tomorrow! Dinner and drinks like old times?” you typed a few days ago. No reply. Just like the other texts since then.

The next morning, you woke to a curt text from Odessa: “Had to fly back to LA today. Sorry, last minute. Hope you understand.”

No call. Just a text.

Your stomach dropped. You’d been looking forward to that night all week, but now it was gone—just like her.

You tried not to overthink it, telling yourself she was busy.

She returned, just a few days later but didn’t tell you. You found out the worst way possible.

You were walking past the trailers on set when you saw them.

Drew and Odessa.

Laughing together.

Close.

Too close.

The easy way they leaned into each other—like you used to, all three of you—felt like a punch to the gut.

You stopped, heart hammering in your chest.

They looked up and caught your eyes. Drew smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Odessa’s grin faltered for a moment before she turned back to him.

Your throat tightened.

You blinked, trying to tell yourself you were imagining things. Maybe they were just friends. Maybe you were just overthinking.

But deep down, the pit in your stomach grew.

The distance between you and Drew had been growing too. More than growing—it had widened into a chasm you didn’t know how to cross.

Your conversations were clipped, like you were just two roommates trying to coexist rather than the couple you once were.

You found yourself wondering if maybe you were the problem.

Maybe I’m too much.

Maybe I’m not enough.

You replayed every conversation, every look, every silence between you two.

The way Drew would zone out when you talked about your day.

The way he spent more and more time texting someone you couldn’t see.

The way Odessa—your best friend—pulled away too, her responses short and distracted whenever you tried to ask if she was okay.

One afternoon, you caught her alone near the trailers.

“Hey, you’ve seemed… different lately. Is everything okay?” you asked, voice gentle.

She glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, but you knew better.

She was closing off, just like Drew.

You wanted to reach through the walls that were building around her, but you didn’t know how.

The days blur together, each one heavier than the last.

You watch the calendar pages turn—slow and unforgiving—but the distance between you and Drew feels like it’s growing faster by the day.

He’s quieter. More distracted. Even when he’s in the room with you, it’s like you’re separate islands sharing the same space.

It’s been over a week since he kissed you.

Not a single brush of lips, not even a quick peck in passing.

You catch yourself waiting, holding your breath for the moment it will happen. But it never does.

You try to convince yourself it’s just stress. Long shoots. Exhaustion.

But when the lights go out and the apartment is still, the silence screams louder than any excuse.

One night, you find yourself standing in the bathroom, warm water streaming over your face, blurring your vision.

You don’t want him to hear the quietness of your tears—so you let them fall only in the shower, behind the locked door.

The water carries the ache away for a little while.

Later, when Drew leaves for set—his phone forgotten on the kitchen counter, screen unlocked—you hesitate.

Curiosity gnaws at you.

You pick it up, fingers trembling.

His messages open to a thread with Odessa.

You scroll through, the words soft but sharp:

“Missed you today.”

“Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

There’s nothing explicit. No promises or declarations.

Just the kind of words that linger in the spaces between.

Your chest tightens.

You close the phone carefully and set it back down.

Staring at the ceiling, you wonder how long this has been going on.

How long you’ve been standing on the outside looking in.

You want to confront him. To demand the truth.

But the words catch in your throat.

The apartment is quiet again.

That terrible, airless quiet that makes you feel like even the walls are watching.

Your phone buzzes.

You almost don’t check. You’ve been trying to be good—trying to stop torturing yourself by scrolling through Instagram, through posts with her name tagged beside his, through photos where his eyes don’t even look like his anymore.

But the name on your screen is one you can’t ignore.

Odessa.

Your pulse jumps. You hesitate. Then you open it.

“I told Drew I’m in love with him. He feels the same. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The air leaves your lungs in one slow, numb exhale.

You reread it once. Twice. A third time, as if the words might change if you look hard enough.

They don’t.

No emoji. No nervous laughter. No gray area.

Just a quiet confession and a knife between your ribs.

But you don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even blink.

You just sit there on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, the message open on your screen, the cursor blinking like it’s daring you to respond.

You don’t.

The front door opens not long after.

You hear it before you see him—his key sliding into the lock, the door creaking open, boots hitting hardwood.

He walks in humming, like he’s had a good day.

Like the world didn’t just drop out from under you.

Then he sees you.

And the humming dies.

“Hey,” Drew says slowly, careful. His voice is soft, uncertain now. “You got her text.”

Your head turns slowly toward him. Your eyes are glassy, unreadable.

So he knows.

Of course he knows.

“She told you she was going to send it?” you ask, voice flat.

He nods once. “She said she felt guilty. She didn’t want to lie anymore.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“And you let her?”

“I didn’t let her,” he says, stepping closer. “I tried to stop her, but—”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. It sounds like something breaking.

“She said you feel the same.”

Drew hesitates. “That’s not what I—look, it’s not black and white, okay? It’s complicated—”

You stare at him. “Complicated,” you repeat, the word like acid in your mouth.

He moves toward you, crouching beside the couch, reaching for your hand.

You flinch before he can touch you.

He freezes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says quietly.

Your hands shake as you stand, your voice rising without warning. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

His eyes go wide. “I—”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back. “You don’t get to say you didn’t mean to. You chose this.”

“You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“You did hurt me.”

The fury rises in you like a tide—faster than you can stop it.

“I’ve been here,” you whisper. “Every single day. Loving you. Waiting for you to love me back the way you used to.”

You grab the photo from the coffee table—the one from Paris, the one where you look happiest, safest, most certain of him.

You throw it across the room with every ounce of strength you have.

It hits the wall and shatters, glass and memories scattering across the floor.

He flinches.

“You were supposed to love me,” you say, voice cracking now. “Not her. Me.”

Drew steps forward like he’s trying to fix something already broken. “I do love you—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap. “Not really. Because if you did, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He tries to hug you, arms reaching for you like he still has a right to them.

You let him.

But not out of love.

Out of exhaustion.

His chest presses to yours, and for one brief second you remember the comfort that used to live in that space.

Now it feels foreign.

He murmurs, “We can fix this. Please. I’ll cut things off with her. We can go to therapy or—”

You press your hands to his chest and push him back gently.

“No,” you say. “This isn’t something you fix.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Well, you did.”

You walk to the door. Open it.

His breath catches. “You’re really kicking me out?”

You nod.

“I need space. I need you gone.”

Drew just stands there, stunned.

You look him straight in the eye.

“Come back for your things when I’m not here.”

“Please,” he says again, voice cracking. “Just let me explain—”

“You already did.”

And then you close the door.

Not hard.

Just enough to say this is final.

The click of the lock is the only sound in the apartment now.

The kind of silence that feels like grief.

Weeks pass.

The days don’t feel like days anymore.

Just hours strung together like dim beads on a thread you didn’t ask to hold.

You’re back on set.

Back in makeup chairs and wardrobe trailers. Back in long shooting days and artificial sunsets. Back in scenes where you’re supposed to smile, touch, kiss. Where you’re supposed to cry in the rain, shout until your throat is raw, crumble in someone else’s arms like your heart is breaking.

Pretend.

You move through it all like a ghost.

Quiet. Efficient. Detached.

You say your lines. You hit your marks. You laugh when the script says you’re supposed to. You kiss him when the camera rolls. You sob against his chest on cue, let your voice crack in that way the director loves. You even slap him in one scene—your eyes glassy, your voice trembling as you yell through clenched teeth.

But nothing touches you.

Not really.

You feel like someone’s removed your insides and left only the outline of you behind. Something hollowed out and left on autopilot.

Between takes, you sit by yourself.

No music in your headphones. No books cracked open. Just silence, staring at nothing, like you’re afraid to fill the space with anything real.

You used to light up on set. You used to steal the crew’s snacks, laugh between takes, tease Drew when he flubbed his lines. There was always an energy around you—light, warm, full of spark.

Now, the spark is gone.

And everyone feels it.

They don’t say anything, not directly. But you can feel the stares. The too-gentle hellos. The quiet way people check on you like they’re afraid you might shatter if they speak too loud.

Even Drew notices.

Especially Drew.

You don’t look at him unless the scene requires it.

You don’t answer when he says your name off camera.

You don’t sit near him at lunch, don’t meet his eyes when the director gives you blocking notes, don’t flinch when you’re told you’ll be filming another kiss today.

You just nod.

And do it.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

Like it doesn’t kill you every time his hands touch your waist, every time he looks at you like he remembers what it used to feel like to be loved by you.

The worst part is—he still looks at you like he’s in love.

Like he’s sorry.

But sorry doesn’t undo the wreckage.

You’ve already learned how to carry the debris.

Today, there’s a scene. You’re arguing. The kind that gets rewritten the night before for “heightened emotional stakes.” You scream at him, tears in your eyes, spit flying as you shove him in the chest. Your voice breaks in all the right places. The crew holds their breath.

"Cut."

You step back. Wipe your face. The tears vanish as fast as they came.

You turn away from him without a glance, your expression flat. Cold.

Drew just stands there, stunned. Still catching his breath from a fight that wasn’t real—at least not on paper. Still staring at you like he’s waiting for something soft to return to your face.

But your face is steel now.

Sharp angles. No trace of the vulnerability from a moment ago. Just rage simmering under the surface, quiet and controlled and utterly unreachable.

Like flipping a switch.

And that’s what terrifies him.

The way you can drop the emotion like it never existed. Like he doesn’t exist.

Between takes, you walk off set. You need air. Space. Anything that doesn’t feel like recycled heartbreak.

You step out behind the trailers, where no one’s watching.

Your hands tremble as you pull a cigarette from your jacket pocket. You haven’t smoked since college, since a messy breakup you thought nothing would ever top.

Funny.

You light it with shaking fingers, inhale, exhale, trying to find some kind of calm in the burn.

You don’t hear Rudy approach.

But you feel him.

He walks up slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes kind.

Without a word, he reaches out and gently takes the cigarette from your fingers.

You don’t fight him.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance at him, just barely. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

It’s the kind of question that should come with a dozen follow-ups. But he doesn’t push. Just asks it like he’ll believe whatever answer you give him.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie.

He knows it’s a lie.

But he lets you have it anyway.

Rudy looks at you for a long moment before dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

Then he slings an arm loosely around your shoulders.

You don’t lean into it. But you don’t pull away, either.

You just stand there.

Side by side.

Quiet.

Because some silences don’t beg to be filled.

Some are just there to be witnessed.

The moon is a sliver above the water—ghostly and thin, like it’s watching but too tired to shine.

Drew finds you sitting at the edge of the dock, legs drawn up, arms locked around your knees like if you let go, you’d come apart completely.

You haven’t moved in what feels like hours.

He stands behind you for a while, saying nothing. Just… watching.

You look so still.

Too still.

So he steps forward, wood groaning beneath his weight, careful not to scare you. Not that you react. Not even a glance. Your eyes are locked on the black water, the surface rippling quietly like it’s holding your secrets.

He settles beside you, close but not touching. The wind brushes through your hair.

For a moment, all he hears is the hush of the waves and the far-off echo of laughter from the house.

He thinks maybe you’re calm.

Then he hears it.

That faint, stuttering breath. The wet sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

He turns to look at you—and sees it.

Your shoulders trembling.

Your jaw clenched so tight it’s trembling.

The soft, broken sound clawing from your throat as your lungs fail you.

You’re crying.

But it’s not just crying.

It’s a full-body unraveling.

He shifts closer, alarm rising in his chest. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Your body hunches in tighter, shoulders shaking harder as your breath gets faster, shallower—like you’re trapped under something heavy.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Drew tries again, voice soft. “Just… follow me.”

He reaches out carefully, fingers brushing your wrist to anchor you, like he used to do back when things were simpler—back when that touch meant safety.

But this time, the contact makes you flinch.

And still, his hand closes gently around your wrist—and that’s when he feels it.

His fingers still.

Then tighten—just slightly.

Because he knows what he’s touching.

Scars.

Fresh ones.

Fainter than they used to be, maybe. But new. Raw.

His entire body goes cold.

“Please…” His voice breaks, a whisper edged in panic. “Please tell me those are old.”

Your head snaps toward him.

Your eyes—red, wide, furious—are like a slap.

You rip your arm from his grip and clutch it against your chest like a secret.

“I told you I wasn’t doing that anymore,” you snap, voice cracking. “I told you I was okay.”

“I thought you were,” he says, stunned. “You promised—”

“You think I wanted to start again?” you explode. “You think I wanted to go back to that?”

Your voice is all rage and ache and grief. “Do you know what it’s like? To sit in a bathroom with a towel under you and a razor in your hand, and you’re shaking so bad you can’t tell if you want to die or just want it to stop?”

He’s silent.

Paralyzed.

“I stopped for you,” you say, trembling. “I stopped because you made me feel like I was enough.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “But then you weren’t mine anymore. You were hers. And I couldn’t breathe, Drew. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

You stand up so fast he can barely react.

You stumble backward a few steps, chest heaving, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield.

“If you were just gonna fall in love with my best friend…” Your voice cracks. “Then you shouldn’t have asked me to be your fucking girlfriend.”

He rises slowly, hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“But you did!” you scream, backing away. “You knew how fragile I was. You knew. I told you everything. I told you what it felt like to want to hurt myself. I told you what it cost to survive it.”

Tears streak your face, wild and fast.

“And you still chose her.”

He tries to reach for you. “Please—just talk to me.”

You shove his chest with both hands. Hard. Then again. And again.

“You were supposed to love me.”

He doesn’t stop you. He just stands there and takes it.

“You were supposed to be different,” you cry. “I trusted you with everything. I gave you every broken piece and you just—God—Drew, you left me there.”

More footsteps. Fast ones. The house has gone silent behind you, but now someone’s running.

Rudy reaches you just as you collapse forward.

He catches you in his arms, sinking with you to the dock.

Your body shakes with silent sobs, all strength gone, all resistance dissolved.

Madelyn grabs Drew, her expression unreadable—fear and fury clashing behind her eyes.

She pulls him back, away from you, away from the collapse.

“What happened?” she hisses, voice low and sharp.

But Drew can’t answer.

He’s crying too.

Watching the way Rudy holds you like something sacred and shattered.

Your voice, small and hoarse, cuts through the stillness.

“I really loved you,” you whisper, like you’re trying to remind yourself it mattered. “I really did.”

Rudy closes his eyes, jaw tight, hugging you closer.

“And I tried,” you say, your breath hitching again. “I really tried not to hurt myself. I really did.”

The only sound left is your broken breathing and the water moving beneath the dock.

No one knows what to say.

No one knows if anything would help.

And Drew—

He kneels in the shadows, hands shaking, the words I’m sorry caught somewhere between his heart and throat, knowing they’ll never be enough.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

The room is cold. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting pale shadows across the long table that stretches between you and the others.

You sit at one end, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the wood, knuckles blanching with pressure.

Across from you, the cast shifts uncomfortably in their seats—Jonas standing at the head of the table, his hands resting on its surface like an anchor, eyes serious and tired.

Drew sits near the middle, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the scuffs in the floor.

The silence hangs like a storm about to break, thick and unyielding.

Jonas clears his throat.

“We can’t keep filming like this,” he says, voice low but steady.

“This tension, this… distance. It’s hurting the work. And it’s hurting all of you.”

He looks around the room, then back at you.

“We all want to move forward. But that means you and Drew need to talk. You need to clear this, or at least try.”

Your throat tightens, words lodged in your chest like shards.

You stare down at the table, tracing a scratch in the grain with your finger.

Drew finally speaks, voice hesitant, raw.

“I never meant for things to get this messed up. For me to fall for Odessa.”

He looks up, meeting your eyes briefly.

“I wasn’t trying to use you, YN. I swear. You have to believe me.”

You swallow hard.

Bitter words claw at your throat, but they spill out before you can stop them.

“You promised me everything.”

Your voice breaks, trembling like a frayed wire.

“Paris. A house with a garden.”

“Kids. Marley from the pound.”

You close your eyes and press your palms to the table to stop them from shaking.

A cold certainty wraps around your words, unshakable.

The room is still.

Drew’s shoulders slump, a bitter twist in his chest.

“Do you really think I fell for her just to hurt you?”

His voice breaks like glass, fragile and jagged.

You don’t answer.

You don’t want to.

“You think you’re the only one hurting?”

He shakes his head, voice rising with desperate frustration.

“You think this is easy for me?”

The words are raw, ragged.

You lean forward, voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Easy?” you scoff. “You and Odessa? The perfect little couple who ruined me?”

Jonas steps between you with a steadying hand raised.

“Enough.”

You lift your head slowly, voice low and final.

“I can do the scenes. But Drew stays away from me.”

“Odessa stays away, too. If she ever visits, I don’t want to see her.”

The words fall like a decree, clear and unyielding.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping hard against the floor.

Your breath catches—sharp and uneven.

The door slams behind you.

Leaving behind only silence and the lingering weight of what’s broken.

Time passes in strange ways after everything breaks.

The apartment is quieter now. Not silent—just… softer. Like everyone’s learned to move around the wound without touching it.

You’ve stopped crying in the bathroom.

You still avoid him on set.

But you’re functioning again.

You wake up with the sun instead of dragging yourself out of bed at noon. You drink water. You make your bed. You sit on the balcony in the mornings with a journal in your lap and your knees curled to your chest, scribbling down thoughts you won’t say out loud.

You don’t live in the old apartment anymore.

You couldn’t. Not after everything.

The quiet was too loud there. The walls still held the shape of him—his coffee mug on the counter, his laugh echoing in the hallway, the soft imprint of a life you built and lost all at once.

So you packed it all up and left. New place. New routine. Smaller, lonelier, but yours.

No ghosts.

Just space to breathe.

Sometimes, you paint again. You drag an old easel out to the balcony and lose yourself in blues and golds and soft, wide brushstrokes. Your fingers end up stained for days.

Sometimes, you laugh.

Mostly with Rudy. He’s your shadow now. Always close. Always watching.

He knows when to joke, when to distract you, when to sit in silence and just breathe beside you.

JD brings you coffee every morning from town, no matter what. It started as a quiet gesture. Now it’s a ritual. He doesn’t say much—but you know it’s his way of reminding you you’re seen. Still wanted. Still here.

The cast has adjusted. They don’t talk about what happened. Not in front of you. Not in front of him.

You and Drew still share scenes. Still work together like professionals.

But off-camera? You orbit each other like broken planets.

Not friends.

Not enemies.

Just… nothing.

And maybe that’s worse.

Drew keeps his distance, like you asked. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try.

But he watches you when he thinks you won’t notice.

From the far side of the room, across the lawn, just past the camera setup.

Always just out of reach.

You caught him once, lingering in the doorway as you laughed too hard at something Rudy said, your head thrown back, hair messy, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks.

He didn’t smile.

He just stood there, quiet and still, his expression unreadable.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel anything.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

Some days, you think you might hate him.

Other days, you ache just thinking his name.

But mostly—you’re just tired.

Tired of missing someone who’s still right there.

Tired of feeling haunted by a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.

And Drew—

He wonders how it got like this.

How a joke at a table, a few lingering glances, a shared hoodie and some stupid, unspoken boundaries turned into something he’d ruin with a single mistake.

How he lost the girl who loved him enough to break for him.

He watches you from afar, regret curling in his chest like smoke.

You’re still beautiful. Still brilliant. Still trying.

But now, when you smile—it’s never at him.

And he doesn’t know if it ever will be again.

[stopaskingme]

The curious case of Adeyemi's (missing) watch in Conclave (2024)

the longer watch friend and I think on it, the more it blows our minds how intentional the costumers were wrt to the friggin watches in this movie. If you're interested in watch meta for Lawrence, Benitez, Bellini, Tremblay and Tedesco, I have linked the previous posts :D

This post is about Adeyemi's watch and what it means.

The Different Shorthands the Watches have throughout the movie

Despite like 100 close-ups of hands in Conclave, only six characters are depicted with watches. Only the serious contenders for the papacy.

Before the conclave starts, Watches are windows to a Character

they are quick snapshots of who a character is, or their current state of mind.

Tremblay and Tedesco: Watches with black dials, signalling their roles as antagonists; Bellini and Lawrence: White dials. more on Bellini later. Benitez: Digital watch face, neutral unknown

Two characters stand out because of how plainly the camera shows us their watches

– and then how completely those watches disappear once the conclave begins.

Benitez's Casio in his first full-profile shot, and Lawrence's Orient in the emotionally vulnerable bathroom scene

Which leads into the second role the watches play.

Once the conclave begins, Watches are Signals of Ambition

BENITEZ & LAWRENCE Their watches are gone. Even in settings which you'd expect to see them, like the bedroom. Because they lack any desire to be pope.

What's the point? Well, Adeyemi's Watch.

We see glimpses of it when he was still in the running for the papacy. But that's all we get. Glimpses. His watch cannot be identified.

It can't be accidental, since the movie has been so deliberate about who wears the watches. Rather, the camera refuses details on Adeyemi's watch because there's nothing more about him we needed to know.

ADEYEMI He didn't need to prove himself. He was the 'natural' successor. He led the votes in the first three ballots. He's the closest thing to a shoo-in candidate. That changes, however, when Lawrence comes to confront him. When he pleads with Lawrence to give him a chance, this unidentified watch peeks in and out from under his right wrist (left screenshot). By the following ballot scene, however, that watch has been stripped from him (right screenshot).

To hammer the point home, the camera shows us the individual candidates following the results of the next ballot.

Adeyemi sits with his hands tucked under the table. Tremblay has a watch, but as the new frontrunner, the watch is mostly hidden.

Bellini and Tedesco's watches are full-faced, out in the open. They are still actively chasing the papacy. Lawrence, on the other hand, genuinely doesn't want it, so his hands are firmly under the table.

The One Time Bellini loses his Watch

When Tremblay is outed for simony, his watch goes through the same treatment as Adeyemi's. More interesting to note is that Bellini loses his watch when he was prepared to support a Tremblay papacy.

True, he was in a nightgown when Lawrence shares the incriminating report with him. Most people don't wear watches with their nightgowns. At the same time, Bellini had also given up on his own candidacy.

After Tremblay is out of the running, look who's wearing a watch again!

Lawrence

Most telling of all is Lawrence's watch. The only time it appears after the conclave begins is – you guessed it – WHEN HE VOTES FOR HIMSELF.

And Benitez?

His Casio is hidden even during his game-changing monologue. It only appears in the final voting scene after he's lectured the curia.

Benitez might not have dreamt of becoming pope. Rather he'd grasped the situation at hand and knew what direction he'd steer the Mother Church given the opportunity. And that was enough.

His watch is symbolic proof of his conviction and visual proof of his character.

In short, the watches show up when the candidates need to prove themselves worthy of being the next pope.

They lose their watches when they are no longer eligible.

Going back to ADEYEMI when he realises he's lost his chance, Lawrence places his hand over Adeyemi's right wrist when praying for him, covering where his watch would be. Adeyemi's watch makes its last appearance when Tremblay is outed; his hope rearing its head. But he also realises he doesn't stand a viable chance because the watch is gone when he's clapping for Benitez.

After BENITEZ has been elected Tremblay's hands are beneath the table. The camera lingers only on the crack in his glasses. Bellini's Seiko Dolce is there in its full tank face glory. He was never 'disqualified' from the race. Should there be another conclave in his lifetime, he might run again. Tedesco's Oris out and in even fuller, naked display. He hadn't been 'disqualified' either. He could and would run if he's alive for the next conclave.

And after the conclave?

In the Room of Tears, Benitez holds Lawrence's hands. Benitez wears no watch. There's nothing more we need to know.

We already understand who he is and why he deserves to be Pope.

🐢 Conclave watches part 1 / part 2 / part 3

[totalswag]

hey i love your work so much and if it’s not to much go ask i was wondering if you could do a fic where fem!reader is part of the cast on obx and she is really close friends with drew where they are flirting and what not and everyone ships them and they are at an interview with the rest of the cast and that gets brought up? sorry if that doesn’t make sense! if you don’t have time it’s completely

behind the scenes ⎯ RAFE CAMERON

authors note thank you so much lovie!! i'm open to take requests and write them. i've thought of this concept before and all i gotta say is thank you for requesting this because I NEED THIS!! super sorry for not posting for a small while, there were stuff i needed to take care of first.

taglist ⤕ if you would like to be notified every time i post you will type in your username then be all set.

summary having a close relationship with drew that send hints to fans they like each other based on the way they flirt with each other.

warning(s) flirting, shipping, co-stars secretly like each other?

Being apart of the Outer Banks cast has been such a blessing. You've created relationships with people you consider family now and who you can count on no matter what the circumstances are. Being on set for weeks on end filming scenes and making memories is what you look forward to most.

You grew closer with Drew Starkey because your characters are dating in the show and always next together on set too. Drew has become someone that you consider very important in your life.

You joined the Outer Banks cast during the second season. Drew appeared in a couple appearances near the end of the season, implying that he is interested in someone— love interest. You recall fans going nuts trying to figure out if this will continue. Fast forward two seasons, and your characters are together.

After a long day of filming, the cast decided to gather for dinner at a local beachside restaurant. The atmosphere was vibrant, with laughter and the sound of waves breaking on the shore. You and Drew were seated next to each other, much to the joy of your cast members, who were closely watching your interaction with Drew.

"Drew, look at the camera," you softly sang, your phone in your hand on the table, Drew in the frame of the video— he was speaking to Rudy across the table. He gives you a look that shows he knows you are heard before looking down at your phone and waving.

"Oh! "Hello there," he smiles even more when he sees himself on the screen—you giggle at the end of the video before sharing it to your Instagram story. 

"You posted it on your story?" he inquires, his body language focused solely on you. "I obviously had to; it was cute," you said as you placed your phone on the table next to your wallet. You suddenly felt nervous in front of Drew.

He raises his eyebrows in satisfaction. "Cute, huh?" He smirks and smiles, patting your thigh.

Fans began to ship you and Drew together as your relationship grew. The chemistry between you two is clearly obvious on and off screen, which is why you perform scenarios so well. Fans go berserk every time you post something on social media about Drew.

You two flirt without even realizing it at times. You will compliment each other as if you were a relationship, but this is nothing out of the norm for you two. Even your cast members have boarded the train and made a few comments about when you'll finish up together. 

You can't lie, he's an attractive young man. There's no doubt about that.

Few hours after you posted on your story, fans have been discussing the video you shared in which Drew looks at you as if you are the most beautiful person on the planet and no one else is present.

Today, you and the cast will be doing interviews all day to promote Season four. For the first portion, everyone will sit in the same room as the interviewer, but thereafter everyone will be separated.

"Alright, everyone," said the interviewer, "we've got some fun questions from fans today, and they're dying to know more about the dynamic between some of our favorite cast members."

Everyone said "Oooo," anxious to see what else the interviewer would say.

"Let's start with a fan favorite," the interviewer added, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "There's been a lot of talk about the chemistry between you two." She pointed to Drew and you. "Care to share any insights on that?"

Your stomach dropped.

The question hung in the air, drawing a chorus of “Oohs” and playful nudges from the cast. You felt your cheeks heat up as you exchanged a glance with Drew. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement, a smirk playing on his lips

"Well," Drew said, leaning in slightly. "Y/N and I have always been close. We simply clicked, you know?"

"Really?" the interviewer asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Because the way you two flirt on and off set is pretty convincing."

You laughed and shook your head. "We simply have fun with it. Drew is a terrific person, and we like joking around. "It keeps things moving on set."

"From our first reading together, I knew she was going to be a great co star of mine and we've formed an amazing bond throughout the years" Drew says with his hands. In gratitude, you give him a pat on the back.

Your cast mates' eyes are constantly drawn to you and Drew since they can tell you have mutual feelings for each other. Granted, you two have scenes together all the time and have developed a strong bond. However, you consider being more than friends with him.

The interview continued on with more questions popping up that were exciting to answer. In the back of your mind you were thinking about the question about Drew and you— do you want more?

Later that evening, you and Drew returned to your apartment and relaxed in your living room. The city lights outside your window gave a soft glow across the room, and the steady hum of the air conditioner broke the silence. You'd both changed into more comfortable clothes, eager to relax after a long day.

"Today was something, huh?" Drew murmured, breaking the silence as he sprawled down on your couch, seemingly at peace.

"Yeah, it was," you said, sitting next to him. "They really went all in on the whole shipping thing."

Drew chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made your heart race. "Yes, they did. "Makes you think, doesn't it?"

He sat up, his face instantly serious. "About Us. I mean, everybody sees it. Hell, we see it, don't we?

Your breath became locked in your throat. The playful flirtation, the lingering touches, the way your heart raced whenever he was close—it all hinted at something more than friendship. However, hearing him say it aloud was another. It made it real.

"I suppose we do," you confessed gently.

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[nikibogwater]

Actually while I'm thinking about it, I just wanna say that the more live-action remakes Disney shlups out like shoveled manure, the more amazed I am that Cinderella (2015) exists. It breaks literally every standard of Disney's LA remakes.

It's not a shot-for-shot remake of the original 1950 animated film, though it does include small references and homages to it, but only when such things can be incorporated organically into the story.

The creators understood and respected the cross-cultural significance of the Cinderella story. They didn't want to "fix" it, or add some wacky twist to it, they just wanted to make the best possible version of the Quintessential Cinderella that they could.

Everything that could be done practically was done practically. The carriage was a real, the horses pulling it were real, and all of the other animals (with the exception of the mice and lizards, since their performance was a lot more involved than the others') were real living animals, the lizard footman and goose carriage driver were wearing prosthetics instead of just having their animal features added in post, the Fairy Godmother's dress had little LED lights sewn into it so that it would actually glow for real, the ballroom set was built by hand and included real chandeliers with more than 2000 total candles that were all actually lit for the scene, and I could go on but you get the point.

There's a ton of attention paid to little details that make the world feel real and lived in. Ella's shoes are always a little scuffed and dirty. Her farm dress is faded and wrinkled. When she breaks down and runs away to the woods, she rides her horse bareback (which, once again, was a thing Lily James actually did, no stunt-double or editing in post), because not only is that something a country girl like her would know how to do, but it also makes sense that with as upset as she is, she wouldn't want to waste time with saddling the horse. When she's dancing with the prince, it's visually obvious that he is leading her and giving her cues because of course Ella wouldn't know the latest ballroom dances, and would need him to guide her through it.

Hey speaking of dancing, y'know what else this movie does that no other LA remake has been allowed to do (at least not to this extent)? ROMANCE. Land sakes alive, this is one of the most unabashedly and yet still tastefully romantic movies I've ever seen. Ella and Kit are just oozing romantic chemistry from the moment they lock eyes for the first time. It all comes down to the fact that these two characters both have the same core values of courage and kindness, which makes their admiration for each other feel grounded and believable. Richard Madden also really sells Kit's feelings for Ella with the way his eyes go all big and soft whenever he looks at her. And don't even get me started on Lily's performance as Ella. Her quiet awe that someone as powerful as the prince loves her. The timidity and fear that she's not really worthy of that. The selfless determination to protect him from her family's cruelty, even if it means she'll never see him again, I'm just-- *banging my fist against the table and screaming into a pillow*

Absolutely god-tier costume design. No notes, I think Sandy Powell's work speaks for itself. Btw, in case you were somehow still wondering, yes, Ella's ballgown is fully practical--those layers upon layers of dreamy silk skirts are real. CG was only used to brighten up the blue color to make her stand out from the crowd more.

Wicked stepmother was allowed to actually be wicked. The movie never tries to make you sympathize with Lady Tremaine, or shift the blame off to someone else. And her villainy is given an extra layer of depth with the reveal that she is a dark reflection of Ella. They've both lost people they loved, but where Ella refused to let her grief get in the way of kindness, Lady Tremaine became utterly consumed by it. She views the death of her first husband as a sort of twisted justification for pursuing all her worst impulses. She despises Ella for her ability to flourish even while enduring terrible suffering, for being everything Lady Tremaine was either unable or flat-out refused to be.

Also Cate Blanchet absolutely SLAYS in this role. Hands-down my favorite portrayal of the wicked stepmother character.

Anyways, TLDR: Cinderella (2015) is the only Disney live-action remake that can justify its own existence and that's because it actively defies everything the LA remakes are today.

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader   word count: 1k whoops!! notes: i wrote it thinking of the couple from all my other jack x reader blurbs but they can all be read standalone! Also I stole some of this from ER S2 E10 bc Shep gave me Abbot vibes in that scene lol

You’ve been planning this barbecue for weeks. It finally feels like summer in the city, and you and Jack agreed it was time to start integrating your friend groups — a real "see how the worlds blend" kind of thing.

He’s already met your friends. They’re obsessed with him, obviously. And you’ve stopped by the bar a few times for post-shift drinks with his people. But this? This was something a little more planned. A little more intentional. And you have a sneaking suspicion he’s hoping to set up your friend Olivia with Shen, but that’s a whole other story.

You’re a bit stressed.

Sure, it was your idea together, but with Jack’s schedule (and his, let’s say, casual approach to logistics for all things outside of patient care) most of the planning has fallen on you. And you’ve only been dating officially for three-ish months.

He did go with you to the grocery store on his most recent day off, which only reminded you why you never grocery shop with him. Jack handles produce the same way he handles incoming traumas: focused, grim, and entirely too intense. You watch him inspect an avocado like it might code on the cart if he squeezes it wrong. He lets out a low huff every time you toss something in the cart that wasn’t on your shared list. You roll your eyes. He side-eyes your impulse-buy lemonade. It's a whole thing.

Still, the day-of, he’s been great. His townhouse is bigger than your apartment and has a small backyard that he’s clearly invested in — fire pit, outdoor furniture, and even those outdoor string lights you once offhandedly said would be cute. He’s prepped all the food and is fully committed to manning the grill all night.

That doesn’t stop you from snapping a little when, two hours before guests arrive, he decides now is the perfect time to repaint the baseboards.

“Seriously?” you say, exasperated. “That’s what you think people are going to notice?”

He blinks, caught mid-brush stroke. “They’re chipping. I already had the paint out.”

You throw your hands up, immediately regretting your tone. “Sorry. I’m just stressed. I’m worried your friends aren’t going to like mine.”

He sets the paint down, walks over, and settles his hands gently on your hips.

“Baby,” he murmurs, eyes soft. “You’ve never seen my crew at a real party. I’m worried they’re gonna make me look like a fool.”

The party’s in full swing by the time you finally get a breath. Laughter drifts from the yard. Drinks clink. Someone’s put on a playlist that’s very heavy on 2000s throwbacks. You duck into the kitchen to refill the chips when you hear footsteps behind you.

Jack leans in the doorway, smiling, “Not very good hosts if we’re both inside.” 

There’s a beat — just a little too long — before he says it, casual as anything: “I love you.”

You blink. Freeze. He grins, that cocky, endearing little smirk. “I do. I said it. I do. I think i even want you to have my babies.”

“Jack,” you say, half-laughing, “you’re drunk. And probably have heatstroke.”

“I’ve had one beer. And I’ve been wearing a hat. I mean it. Every word. I think we’d have really good ones. I think they’d look nice. I think we should spend every day together and throw parties all the time and do this.”

He’s inched closer, now practically nose to nose with you.

“Jack…” you whisper, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and giddiness, arms resting on his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t back off. If anything, he steps even closer.

“I know it’s sudden. I know it’s out of the blue,” he says, voice low but steady. “But I said it. And I don’t take it back. You don’t have to say it back. I’m just… happy. So happy. And I wanted you to know. Okay?”

The back door creaks open. “Found any more—oop. Okay, I’ll, um. Bye.” Samira spins on her heel and disappears before the door even fully closes again.

You stare at Jack, totally unaware of the interruption, still stunned. There’s this moment suspended between you, like time is trying to decide whether to speed up or stop completely.

“Say the first part again,” you whisper.

He softens instantly. “What, the ‘I love you’?”

You nod.

“I love you,” he says.

You lean in and kiss him. And he kisses you back like it’s something he’s been meaning to do his whole life. Like now that he’s started, he doesn’t plan to stop. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he murmurs between kisses, each one soft and sure and just a little breathless.

You laugh, smiling against his mouth. “I think… maybe… we should head back out.”

He rests his forehead against yours, still catching his breath. “See? That’s why I love you. I need someone responsible in my life. Need me to bring anything out?”

“Yeah,” you grin. “The chips.”

“Got it. Love you,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads for the back door, all ease and satisfaction.

You hesitate, just a second, then call after him.

“Hey… Jack.”

He turns, one hand already on the doorknob.

“I love you too.”

His grin spreads slow and wide — full, unfiltered, proud — and he winks like he just won something. 

“Yeah you do.”

The party winds down in a blur of campfire light and half-finished drinks.

Olivia and Shen are tucked in the corner, deep in conversation, completely oblivious to the fact that half the party is placing silent bets on when they’ll kiss. You’re tucked against Jack’s side on the patio couch, his arm around your shoulders, your knees pulled up and your head resting lightly against him. Your friends are chatting around you, the last embers of the fire pit glowing low.

Jack’s talking to Robby, low-voiced and relaxed, when you hear it. “Thought we were gonna have to wrap this thing up without you,” Robby teases. “Heard you were getting climbed like a tree in the kitchen.”

You tense, heat rising in your face. But Jack just squeezes your hip — gentle, grounding — and replies, cool as ever:

“What can I say? I’m in love.”

[haniette]

untouchable. // ln4

pairing l lando norris x fem!reader

genre | smut, angst, college au, enemies to ???

word count l 8.2k

warnings | no use of y/n, fratboy!lando, smut (18+) minors dni. (dom!lando, sub!reader, fingering, bathroom (mirror) sex, p in v, dirty talk, voyeurism, heavy degradation kink, semi-public sex, hair pulling, some cum play) possessive!lando, kinda mean!lando :(, pet names (baby, sweetheart, darling), kissing/hot makeout scenes, lots of tention, cursing.

(losely) inspired by: madison beer — make you mine, nessa barret — pornstar

summary: everyone called you the untouchable girl—too pretty, too bitchy, and too far out of reach. Lando didn’t believe in the rumors, didn’t want to believe it. so he set out to prove them wrong, and he did. just not in the way anyone would have expected.

a/n: omg.. it was my first time writing smut, and y’all.. i hope it’s okay 😭 also big shoutout to @norristrii for believing in me and making me finally post it, love you babsie 🧡 anyways, tell me if you’d like a part two or smth hehe~ hope you’ll enjoy !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡

You weren’t trying to make an entrance. Not really. It just kind of happened.

The sky was clear, the air cool enough for your coat to feel just the right amount of heavy on your shoulders, but warm enough that your legs, exposed in your perfect-fitting skirt, could still breathe.

First day of the semester—new campus, new faces. New everything.

You stepped out of the car and the world felt like it tilted for a second. Not because you looked back or hesitated, you didn’t. Every step you took was measured, as if you were walking a runway no one could see but you. The sound of your heels clicking against the pavement was hypnotic, like a warning before the storm. 

Your skirt was hugging your hips just right, and your sunglasses hiding half your face but none of your expression—bored. Distant, yet still slightly amused. You didn’t smile, not even once but still, heads turned. 

And when you reached the entrance of the college campus, it felt like the world held its breath. You weren’t in a hurry, you never were.

But the moment you walked through those gates, everything slowed.

There was a murmur. A ripple, like a stone dropped in a quiet pond. A girl laughed too loudly. A guy stumbled over his words. A group near the steps whispered and turned their heads, eyes widening, mouths barely moving.

You didn’t even look around to see who was watching. You already knew everyone was.

Every gaze on you was slipping under your skin like a shiver you couldn’t shake off. You were used to the attention, and the looks that never quite left you alone. But here, in this sea of strangers, it felt… different. Bigger, more intense.

Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Boys straightened up, and girls narrowed their eyes. They didn’t know your name yet but it didn’t matter. You walked across campus like it belonged to you—like they belonged to you—and everyone felt it.

You knew you were pretty. But there was something else about you, something more. A quiet confidence that was too much for them to just ignore.

After three days, they already knew your name. And after a week, they were saying it like it’s a dare.

Some claimed you transferred from a different elite private college in England, and others suspected that it had to be from another country. Rumors swirled like smoke, impossible to catch. Maybe your dad was loaded? Maybe you were a model? Or maybe you had a scandal back at your old school?

No one really knew the truth, and you never bothered correcting them. Instead, you walked into the class and sat alone—always early, always in the same spot, always with that faint scent of expensive perfume, and that don’t-talk-to-me aura.

By a week or two, the more complicated stories had already started. You didn’t give anyone much to go on—you were polite, sure, but still unbothered. 

Untouchable.

You sat at the front in every class, never late, always alert. Answered questions with a sharp tongue and a smoother voice.

The girls—they hated you on principle. Even the ones who wanted to like you, felt the heat of their own insecurity rise the longer you were near them. You weren’t loud, weren’t fake-nice. You didn’t beg for approval. You just existed—and that’s the part that stung the most.

You didn’t ask anyone to notice you, you just made it impossible not to.

They saw their boyfriends look at you a little too long, and observed how their exes stalked your socials and liked old pictures. You wore confidence like lingerie under every outfit—hidden, but felt.

And so they whispered.

“She’s such a bitch.”

“She thinks she’s above everyone.”

“Has she even spoken to anyone?”

“I bet she hasn't even given head to anyone in her life.”

“Probably just a pretty face with daddy’s credit card.”

But they still glanced, still had to double look. Still tried to pathetically copy your outfits, thinking no one would notice.

And the boys? That was a whole different story. 

They were bolder. Eyes raking over you like they wanted to strip you of that power.

“She's insanely hot.”

“Nah, she’s cold. Look at her, she doesn’t talk to anyone.”

“My homie said he tried to ask her out and she laughed in his face.”

“She’s such a fucking bitch. Thinks she’s better than everyone.”

“I heard she turned down Jake. Yeah, she told him to fuck off.”

“I’d still fuck her.”

You heard it all, the whispers in the halls. Noticed the glances in the library, the subtle shifts in group dynamics when you walked into a room. And every single time, you kept your chin up, eyes forward, lips painted in a color too bold for anyone else to wear at 9AM.

You knew what they thought, and you didn’t care.

They wanted you. Desperately and pathetically. Some tried subtle—a smile here, a compliment there. Some tried bold, “Hey, you free this weekend?” And every single time, you turned them down.

Once, one guy said you smiled at him after a class, and touched his arm, leaning in close. He told everyone that you were into him. But the truth was, you didn’t even remember his name. And the next time he approached you, you stared at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of your shoe.

After that, the rumors have changed drastically. Now it wasn’t just that you were pretty. You were unreachable, above all of them.

They called you the untouchable princess like it was an insult—but you actually liked it. It just felt right because none of them had a chance with you. They never did.

None of them, except him—Lando Norris.

The kind of a guy your old friends would have warned you about. The kind of a guy who didn’t chase anymore, because he didn’t have to. Girls came to him—fell for his accent, soft, chocolate colored curls, that stupid grin, and those muscles hidden under his hoodie.

You noticed him before he said a single word to you. Not because he was loud, not because he flirted.

He didn’t. And that was the whole point.

He didn’t gawk or shift uncomfortably like the rest of the guys. He just watched from the back row, those aquamarine eyes of his stayed locked on you, tracing every curve of your body, every movement you made. You could feel him studying you, but he never tried to approach. Never even gave you a hint of a smile. Most guys would have tried something—a wink, a subtle compliment. But not him. 

Lando seemed to be more of a silent observer—the kind of guy who liked to watch before making a move. The kind who liked to study what he couldn’t quite believe. 

You didn’t give him any reason to break his silence. Your gaze never strayed toward him. You didn’t need to—you were above that. Still, the tension between you and him was palpable, and you felt it. Every second you were in that lecture hall, that magnetic pull of him watching you from across the room.

And for the first time since stepping on campus, you felt it—that flicker. That little electric twinge at the base of your spine. Because he wasn’t trying to win you over. He was studying you, testing you. And that? That was far more dangerous than any compliment.

When lunch time came, you barely bothered with the cafeteria. Why would you? You weren’t some average college student who ate their meals at the same tables as everyone else. No, you had your own routine. 

You went to your favorite spot, a quiet bench by the trees at the edge of campus. The breeze was always perfect there, your skin kissed by the sunlight while you scrolled on your phone—every so often glancing up to see who noticed.

It was there you saw Lando again. He was with a group of guys, laughing a little too loud, but his eyes kept flicking toward you.

You watched him as he glanced your way, his gaze lingering. His friends didn’t notice, too caught up in their conversation. But you noticed, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to meet his eyes.

You didn’t smile, didn’t even acknowledge him. But you locked eyes for a split second, and he didn’t look away. There was something about the way he watched you—intense, intrigued, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. 

You felt that stare burn into you like a mark. And when you stood up to leave, the air felt even heavier. It was the first time you’d felt this kind of electricity, this tension between you and someone else. Not just because he was looking at you. Not just because he was intrigued by the mystery of the untouchable girl.

But because Lando wasn’t like the others.

He knew what you were. He didn’t try to approach—he watched, and something in his eyes told you he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had figured you out.

────୨ৎ────

For Lando, it should’ve been nothing—just another girl in a sea of faces. Another pretty one among hundreds of college students, all trying to stand out in their own way. 

But you? You were different.

Lando knew it before he even saw you. It wasn’t the beauty—he’d seen beautiful girls before. Hell, he’d had more than his fair share. It was the way the entire atmosphere seemed to shift when you first walked in. The murmur of voices dropped, conversations paused mid-sentence, and there was this subtle tension in the air—like the campus collectively held its breath.

He glanced up, his irritation already starting to build—he hated the drama, the unspoken competition among his friends, the way everyone seemed to lose their minds over a new girl. 

But then he saw you. Tall and graceful. Skin glowing in a way that made no sense under fluorescent lights. You wore confidence like a second skin, head high, eyes forward, never faltering. There was a quiet authority in your presence that didn’t need words. 

You weren’t looking for attention—but you got it, anyway. And fuck, that did kind of annoy him.

He watched you move through the hall like you owned it. Every step was deliberate, every motion sharp and controlled. You didn’t smile at anyone, didn’t even glance at the people who were already undressing you with their eyes.

“Oh, fuck me,” One of his friends muttered under his breath. “She’s a total 100.”

Lando snickered at his comment as he was used to the talk. He’d heard it all before. And the way every guy’s jaw dropped the second you walked into a room, the way they tripped over themselves just to be noticed by you. He’d seen it a hundred times. 

But surprisingly, you didn’t seem to care. In fact, you seemed to enjoy it—the way they wanted you, the way they tried so damn hard, but couldn’t even get a chance to look you in the eye.

He rolled his eyes. Fuck this.

By the end of the week, the rumors started spreading.

“She’s untouchable. No one’s ever gotten close.”

“I tried to ask her out. She laughed and told me to fuck off.”

“She’s just a bitch. Thinks she’s too good for anyone here.”

But the one that stuck? The one everyone repeated like it was the gospel truth—the untouchable princess.

Lando didn’t even know why it irritated him so much. It was just a nickname. Just three, meaningless words for him. Yet for some reason, he couldn’t shake it off. It crawled under his skin in a way he wasn’t used to. It was the way people were treating you like a myth—this perfect, untouchable creature who couldn’t be touched, couldn’t be reached.

And as much as he tried to keep his composure, he had to admit that he hated it.

There was no denying that Lando had his own reputation. Everyone on campus knew who he was: the loud, cocky frat boy who always seemed to be having fun, who lived for the challenge of pulling the next girl into his bed. But you? You were different. You didn’t care about guys like him—and that was infuriating.

He’d watched other guys try. Some were bold, others sweet, some obnoxious, and a few damn near desperate. But you never blinked. You never even acknowledged them—except for the rare moments when you’d look at them with that cold, almost condescending smile.

“You know, I tried talking to her the other day,” One of the guys complained, rolling his eyes at the mere thought of you. “And can you believe that she just looked at me and said, ‘I don’t think you’re worth my time.’ What a fucking bitch.”

Lando had heard the stories. Hell, everyone had. But the thing that got him wasn’t the stories themselves. It was the fact that you never gave anyone—anyone—a shot. You made it clear, in a way that was so effortless it was almost cruel, that you were above them.

That was what pissed him off so much.

One night, Lando sat with a few of his friends at the campus bar, listening to them debate how they might finally break through your perfect little bubble. 

“She’s a challenge,” One of the guys said, taking a swig from his beer. “No one’s gotten in. But I bet she’ll crack soon.”

Lando had been quiet. Too quiet, in fact. He didn’t know why he was even bothered by the conversation, but he was. He didn’t like the way they talked about you like you were some kind of conquest. He didn’t like how they dismissed you as just another pretty face, like they could wear you down if they just kept trying hard enough.

What made you untouchable, anyway? Was it your looks? Your attitude? The way you always seemed so goddamn unbothered by the world around you?

Fuck, he was tired of it already. Still, something about it nagged at him. And Lando wasn’t the kind of guy who backed down from a challenge—not even if that challenge was wrapped up in a cold, perfect, untouchable package.

By the time the first party of the semester rolled around, everyone knew you’d be there. It was like some kind of unspoken rule—you never skipped a chance to make an appearance, but you never really engaged either. You’d show up, stand in the corner in that definitely too short skirt and a tube top while casually sipping your drink, and making sure no one got too close.

And that’s when Lando saw you again. You were standing there, across the room, looking like you didn’t care about a single thing happening around you. Your friends laughed in the distance, but you were… separate. Like you didn’t belong to them. Like you belonged somewhere else entirely.

And Lando? Well, he wasn’t about to let this go on much longer.

“Hey,” One of his friends said, elbowing him. “Isn’t that the untouchable princess?”

Lando narrowed his eyes, watching you across the room. You hadn’t even noticed him yet.

“Yeah,” He muttered, his voice thick with annoyance. “Untouchable. Sure.”

Lando didn’t know what had possessed him, but before he knew it, he excused himself from his group and pushed through the crowd towards you. His mind was racing, irritation bubbling up in his chest. 

What the hell was he doing? He didn’t need to chase anyone—especially not someone like you.

But there was something in the way you stood there, pretty and untouched, like you were above everyone else. Something about it— about you—made him need to test it for himself.

────୨ৎ────

You were already tipsy when he found you. Not drunk—never sloppy—but softened. Loosened, like your walls had finally cracked, just enough to let something in.

You were in the hallway, lit by the low pulse of party lights and the bass thudding through the floor. The air smelled like cheap beer and sweat, but somehow, when you turned your head to look at him, all he could smell was your perfume. Warm, sharp, and dangerous.

“Looking for something?” Lando asked, leaning in like he already knew the answer.

You stared at him for half a beat before finally answering, “Privacy.” 

His brow rose, a smile wandering on his lips, “And you’re telling me that… why?” His eyes fell to your lips before looking back into your eyes, and biting his lower lip. 

He knew what he was doing.

After a moment of silence, you finally shot, “Bathroom. Now.” To which Lando’s eyes shined almost immediately as if he was anticipating you saying that. 

Then, you turned, slow and graceful, and walked into the nearest bathroom, his hands on you before the lock even clicked.

The second the door shut behind you two, the air went thick. His hand was at your waist, spinning you around, pressing you back against the counter so hard the edge dug into the skin of your thighs. It was like the pressure in the room doubled, the music from the party outside growing muffled, distant. Everything shrank down until it was just the two of you—just Lando, and that unstoppable pull he had toward you. 

You didn’t need to say a word. The moment you stepped into this space, the moment you looked at him with that gaze—he knew what you wanted. You were too pretty to hide it. Too perfect to pretend. And in here, with the door locked behind you? You couldn’t lie to him anymore.

“Fucking finally.” Lando muttered as he crushed his mouth against yours like he’d been waiting years for it, not just weeks. 

He kissed you like he hated you—like you’d pissed him off just by existing, and maybe you had. The way you walked around with your chin high, that bored little smirk on your face, pretending like nothing and no one could touch you. Well, now he was going to.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, lifting you off the ground and slamming you into the sink. The cold tile of the counter pressed against your thighs, and you gasped, head falling back as your breath caught. Then he proceeded to slide his hands under your top, dragging them upward like he couldn’t decide what to rip off first.

His kiss felt as if he wanted to devour you, not just taste your lips. Like he could rip the pride out of you with his mouth alone. Lando’s tongue slipped inside your mouth, claiming you, leaving no space between you and him. His lips were bruising against yours—not soft, not caring. 

After finally pulling himself away from your intoxicating kiss, he slid lower, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses along your skin like he couldn’t get enough of you. Lando grinned against the skin of your jaw, because fuck, he’d known it. Knew the rumors were wrong. Knew you weren’t some frigid little ice queen. You were fire.

“Been watching you,” He growled into your neck, lips hot against your skin. “Strutting around like some fucking queen. All the guys panting. You act like they don’t exist. You think you’re too good for them, don’t you?”

You let out a breathy laugh, cocky, smug. “Oh, but I am.”

He grinned against your throat. “Yeah? Let’s see then, shall we?”

His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking just enough to make your mouth open wider, lipstick smeared at the corner of your lips—already ruined, and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet. He stared at you like you were a prey, chest rising, jaw clenched.

And he could feel it now as he slid his hands under your skirt. The truth—no panties. You wanted this, had wanted it all along.

“Of course you’re not wearing anything under this,” He snickered, voice low and rough as his hand slid up your thigh. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”

You blinked up at him—breathless, already trembling. “Maybe.”

“Such a fucking tease.” He muttered, voice low, almost a growl. 

Your heart pounded. God, you couldn’t even pretend anymore. There was nothing but need, desperate and raw, coiling deep in your belly. You were so wet for him—every inch of you had been waiting for this.

You could feel his breath against your neck as he whispered low, his voice dark and rough. “You think I’m just gonna fuck you?” Lando paused, his  hands sliding over your stomach, up to your ribs, then down again to your thighs. “No, sweetheart. You’re gonna let me make you come first.”

His fingers traced the curve of your thigh—just a light touch, just enough to make you shiver. Then, without warning, his hand slid up between your thighs, his fingers dragging through your folds again, slow and deliberate, testing, teasing.

“God, you’re so wet,” He snickered, fingers gently brushing over your clit. “And all of this for me? For a guy like me?”

“S-shut up.” You tried to answer him while trying to hold yourself together as his fingers circled your clit again, a little firmer this time. 

You couldn’t help the shiver that ran through you, your hips involuntarily grinding back against his hand. 

“Oh, darling, don’t act like you’re not into this,” He teased, his voice dripping with that signature smirk. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Wanted me to touch you.”

His thumb pressed down a little harder, dragging through your slickness, and you gasped, a small sound escaping before you could stop it. 

Lando smirked at your reaction, “You like that?” He asked, his voice low, and husky.

Your body answered for you—a tremor passed through you, and you had to grip the counter harder, trying to steady yourself as his fingers slid down, slipping inside you with one slow move. Your breath immediately caught in your throat. The sweet stretch of his fingers, and the pressure was just enough to make you gasp, make your body pulse around him.

“There we go,” He grinned, chuckling at how responsive you were. “So fucking tight. I bet no one’s ever made you feel this way. Bet they’ve all just fucked you without taking care of you, haven’t they?” You clenched around him, the words stinging even though you weren’t sure if they were true. 

Lando’s fingers worked you, pulling out, pushing in again, circling inside you, deep enough to make you ache, but never enough to break you—at least, not yet.

“Oh, fuck—” You moaned, sounding already wrecked.

“God, listen to you,” He groaned, scrutinizing your facial expressions, “You sound perfectly, and you feel so good,” Lando added, his voice turning rougher. “Tighter than I thought. Like you’ve been holding out for me.”

You could barely breathe, your pulse racing, and your hips moved involuntarily with the rhythm of his hand, desperate for more. You felt every flick of his fingers, every press against that one sweet spot deep inside you. You whimpered, soft and broken, and your hips rolled toward his hand instinctively—needy, just like he knew you were.

“That’s right, baby,” Lando whispered against your skin, lips leaving wet kisses down your throat. “Rub your perfect little cunt on my hand. C’mon, make it messy.” 

And you did—rocking back against him, desperate for friction, for anything. 

“I knew it,” Lando groaned, the corner of his lips lifing slightly, “Knew you weren’t some cold, untouchable princess. You’re a filthy fucking girl in disguise, aren’t you?”

Your voice was breathy, wrecked. “Yes—”

“Louder.”

“Yes! Fuck—” His thumb brushed against your clit, the pressure sending a jolt of pleasure through you, and you gasped. “Oh shit— Lan—”

“You’re getting close, huh?” His voice was almost a growl now, his hand moving faster, firmer. “I can feel it because you’re fucking soaked for me. Want me to make you come on my fingers? Want me to touch you until you can’t think straight, sweetheart?”

You nodded, desperate now, your body already trembling, the heat building in your core. You felt like you were on the edge, and he was the only thing keeping you from falling.

“Yes—yes, Lando— please!”

“Come for me then,” He demanded, his voice cold and commanding, but there was an edge of tenderness beneath it. “Show me how good my fingers make you feel.”

And with the last push of his fingers, you came with a strangled cry, your legs nearly buckling, pussy clenching so hard around his fingers it dragged a groan out of him. 

You collapsed against the counter, gripping it tightly as the orgasm ripped through you, your body trembling and pulsing as you came all over his hand. His fingers never stopped, though—still working you through it, gently, teasingly, until your hips jerked away from him, too sensitive to take any more.

You instinctively leaned forward, resting your head against his chest as the impact of your orgasm had caught up with you. One of Lando’s arms wrapped around your fragile figure, trying to ground you for the moment.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” He whispered, his voice rough, but there was something different in it now—something darker. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that? Could watch you all night long.”

Lando pulled his fingers out of you slowly, deliberately, watching the way your slick clung to them—thick and glistening under the low light of the bathroom. His chest rose with a sharp inhale, and you watched, breath caught in your throat, as he brought those same fingers to his lips. He didn’t look away from you. Not once.

He sucked the tips into his mouth, tasting you with a low groan rumbling from his chest — guttural, unrestrained, and so visceral it made your stomach twist.

“Fuck,” He breathed against his fingers, voice dark and reverent. “You taste just how I imagined—sweet and so fucking delicious.”

The praise struck something deep in you, heat blooming fast, sharp and needy. You squirmed under his gaze, lips parted, barely breathing as you watched him slowly pull his fingers from his mouth.

And then he brought them to your lips.

“Open your mouth.”

You didn’t need him to say it again. Your lips parted willingly, your pulse hammering in your ears as his slick-coated fingers slid inside. Your tongue wrapped around them, eagerly licking your taste off of him, eyes locked with his the entire time.

The way he watched you—so focused, and so possessive—made your whole body tense. There was nothing playful in his expression now. Only hunger. Only claiming.

He dragged his fingers back out with a deliberate slowness, lips curling into something wicked as he brushed a damp strand of hair behind your ear, voice lowering.

“Still think you’re untouchable?”

Your breath caught in your throat because right now, you didn’t feel untouchable at all. You felt owned.

While still recovering from the aftershocks, you could barely speak. But as you pushed away from his chest to look up at him, you managed to smirk—just a little.

“Maybe I’m just not easy.”

Lando chuckled, that wicked grin returning to his lips. He pressed his forehead against yours, body still flush against yours, but his hands never stopped roaming—touching, caressing, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Don’t worry, princess. You’re not easy, I’ll give you that.” He leaned in close, voice just a whisper against your ear. “But I’m gonna make you mine.”

In the split of the second, Lando turned you towards the sink, forcing you to face the mirror. The glass of the mirror fogged slightly in front of you from your breath, your palms flattening on either side of the basin to steady yourself. Your eyes met his in the reflection, wide, glossy, mascara already beginning to melt. Your reflection was already flushed, dazed—lips kiss-bruised, hair tugged loose.

“Look at yourself,” He murmured, “Pretty little thing. Bet you’ve never looked this messy before.”

The reflection in the mirror stared back at you. You already looked wrecked—lips swollen, eyes dark, cheeks flushed—and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. But he was going to. And oh, he was going to make a goddamn mess out of you.

Lando didn’t even have to pull you into place. You were already bending for him—hands braced on the edge of the sink, ass tilted just right, like your body knew what it was for before your mind caught up. 

You didn’t even get a chance to recover before you heard the rip of a condom packet, barely being able to register it over your own panting. Then, he was already lining himself up, one hand gripping your waist, and the other guiding himself to your entrance.

“Still so wet for me, sweetheart,” He chuckled, “You’re gonna take every inch of me, aren’t you?” Lando asked before he finally pushed into you—slowly, the head of his cock stretching you, making you cry out again.

“Fuck—” His fingers dug into your waist as he buried himself deeper, forcing a cry out of you as your body stretched to accommodate him.

For a moment, all you could hear was your breath—heavy and desperate, mingling with his. Your hands were planted on the counter, gripping so tightly you thought you might break the ceramic. But you didn’t care. In that moment, every inch of you in was focused on him—on his cock filling you up.

“Shit—so fucking tight,” He hissed under his breath. “Taking me so well, though. Look at that. Every inch.” 

He didn’t stop until he was buried inside you. The stretch was perfect—just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to make you feel full, completely. He held still for a moment, grinding his hips into yours, letting you feel it, letting it burn a little.

“You okay?” Lando asked, voice suddenly quieter and tender as he leaned down to you. His eyes met yours in the mirror, gentle and caring, “Is it too much?” 

“N-no—” You answered as you shook your head frantically, desperate, breathless.

“Good,” He murmured, lips kissing softly your shoulder. “Because I’m not stopping.” 

And then he started to move. Long, slow thrusts at first—like he wanted you to feel every dragging inch as he slid in and out of you. 

You moaned loudly, and Lando lost it. His hands dug into your hips as his thrusts turned rough, desperate, each one slamming into you harder than the last. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, obscene and beautiful.

“You feel that?” He groaned, pounding into you, voice breaking. “That’s what being fucked feels like.”

You were too far gone to answer. Just moaned again, louder, hips moving back against him like you needed more. “Lan—”

“Say it again,” He growled. “Say my name like that.”

“Lan…” You gasped, eyes fluttering, mascara streaking down you cheeks. “God— Lando!”

His hand wrapped in your hair and he pulled your head up, forcing your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at you, sweetheart,” He murmured, “This is the girl everyone’s scared to talk to?”

You whimpered a noise that didn’t sound like it belonged to you. Not the cold, controlled, perfect girl everyone knew.

“But this is how I want to see you,” He whispered, hips snapping forward again. “Bent over, begging. Not walking past me like you don’t even see me. Not pretending you’re too good for this.”

You weren’t even pretending anymore. You were completely gone. Eyes glassy, mouth open, nails dragging down the edge of the sink. You whimpered, arching your back as your body took everything he gave and still begged for more. 

“I knew it. I knew you were gonna feel like this,” His voice was breaking now, hips snapping forward. “I’ve dreamt about it. Losing my fucking mind thinking about it. Every time I saw you walk past me in that tiny little skirt—”

Slap. His hand came down hard on your ass. You cried out, grinding back on him like you loved it.

“I knew I had to be the one to break you. Not just fuck you. But ruin you.” Your makeup was smudged, eyes glassy, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth.

“Look at yourself,” He growled again, one hand tangling in your hair once again, yanking your head up. “Eyes on the fucking mirror.” He forced you to watch. 

When you did as he said, you were immediately met with the sight of your mascara streaking down your cheeks, the red bite marks on your neck, the tremble in your thighs every time he drove into you.

“I look—” You gasped, not being able to form a proper sentence.

“Say it,” He snickered, “Tell me how you look, baby.”

“I… I look—” You blinked, eyes glossy from the tears that had gathered in the meantime. “Ugly.”

Lando smirked, lips brushing your ear as he slowed the rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that made your whole body jolt. “Finally. Finally not so fucking perfect. But shit—” His voice cracked. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”

As much as he didn’t want to, Lando had to admit that the rumors weren’t just a noise.

You were every bit as breathtaking as they said. No, not just pretty. Stunning, ethereal, and achingly divine. The kind of beauty that didn’t require introductions—it walked in before you did, settled into rooms before your name was even spoken. 

What pissed Lando off was that no one was exaggerating it. There was no illusion here, no inflated tale passed down in drunken whispers between boys at frat parties.

And the worst part? You knew it. 

You were the kind of pretty that hurt to look at too long. Everything about you was deliberate—every glance, every flick of your hair, every sharp curve of your smile. Even the way you told boys “no” had a certain poise to it. Like rejection was a language you were fluent in.

It was that confidence that infuriating, untouchable grace that made you impossible to ignore. Even now—half-undressed, flushed, breathless—that same air clung to you. Head tipped back, mouth parted, eyes glazed over from the intensity of his touch. You looked utterly wrecked, and yet somehow still composed, still powerful in your vulnerability. And that made Lando grit his fucking teeth.

Strands of hair that stuck to your skin because of the sweat, were now framing your face. Some were sticking out in wild directions from how tightly he’d gripped your hair moments ago. Your top slid down your body, and your bralette was tugged down just enough for your breasts to spill out. Lando’s hickeys and marks were littered across your chest, your neck, and your thighs as some silent reminders of the chaos between you, of how tightly he’d held you, how desperately he’d tried to burn himself into your skin.

You looked completely ruined. Yet still impossibly, maddeningly, gorgeous. 

Your legs were shaking, whimpering louder with each thrust. Lando leaned forward—chest pressing to your back, one hand snaking up to grip your jaw, forcing your eyes back to your own reflection.

“All that attitude, and that untouchable bullshit. But you’re fucking soaked, sweetheart. So wet that it’s pathetic. Where is that attitude now, huh?”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t. The words were lodged somewhere in your throat, drowning in the way your body was still twitching from the last orgasm he’d torn out of you. You weren’t sure if you could find your voice even if you wanted to because you were crying now—not sobbing, but tears had welled in your eyes, smudging your mascara, making streaks down your cheeks.

And it was beautiful.

“That’s what I thought,” He breathed, lips ghosting over your ear. “You’re not untouchable, that’s some bullshit. You’re just mine.”

His words felt like silk and gasoline, soft and destructive at once, setting fire to everything you thought you knew about yourself. And as he rocked into you again—slow, deep, possessive—the mirror gave you nowhere to hide.

This wasn’t the version of you the world knew, and this wasn’t the girl they whispered about in dining halls and locker rooms. This was the one Lando had—unraveling, trembling, bare in every sense of the word.

As Lando watched you fall apart again beneath him, he couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t out of cruelty, but with the satisfaction that he’d gotten closer to something no one else ever would.

The sight of you like this—breathing heavy, lips kiss-swollen, eyes glossy—wasn’t supposed to exist. You weren’t supposed to exist like this. vulnerable. Letting him or anyone see you like this. But here you were, and it fucking wrecked him. 

If this was what you looked like when you were ruined, then no wonder no one could shut the fuck up about you. And now that he’d seen it for himself, touched it, tasted it, and felt it—there was no going back.

He slammed into you again, and again, and your walls clenched around him like you were close. The wet sound of your arousal echoed between you, loud and filthy and raw as your thighs trembled.

You moaned, loud, and broken. Your hips rocked back, chasing him as he leaned in, lips at your ear. “Tell me, baby,” He whispered. “Tell me you’ve been thinking about this.”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He slammed his cock into you deeper—harder—and your mouth fell open on a cry.

“Say it.”

“Yes— Lando—fuck—I’ve been thinking about it,” You gasped. “Your hands— your dick— I wanted all of you—”

“I know you did,” He laughed smugly. “I felt it the second you walked in the room. Every fucking guy here’s been drooling over you, but you didn’t want them, did you?”

“No—” You managed to stutter.

“You wanted me. The one who wasn’t chasing you.”

Your head dropped forward, breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Hie was relentless now—deep and steady, thumb matching the rhythm on your clit until your legs threatened to give. 

“Please, Lan! Fuck, let me come—”

“That’s it, princess,” He whispered. “Come for me. Come while you look like this—crying, filthy, and drooling on my cock. Let them call you untouchable now.”

You came hard—body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream, nails digging into porcelain like you might break it. Your moans filled the room, echoing off tile and mirror and the sound of skin slapping skin. Your whole body shook, muscles clamping around him like a vice. 

And as you were still gasping, limp against the sink, legs trembling hard, Lando wrapped his arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“Such a good fucking girl,” He murmured, “Taking it all, and letting me wreck you.”

When he came, deep and hard inside you, growling your name, he didn’t pull out. He just held you there, trembling, gasping, both of you sticky with sweat and slick and spit and the heat of the kind of sex that left marks long after it ended.

You both stayed there for a beat, panting. You couldn’t even find any strength to lift your head. Your legs were shaking, lips wet with spit. And when you finally raised your head up, you met his eyes in the mirror again. Still flushed, still gorgeous, even like this.

He leaned down, lips brushing your neck, voice low. “Yeah,” Lando muttered, like a confession, still holding you as if your were the most fragile thing in the world.

“Even ruined like this, you’re still the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

────୨ৎ────

Lando barely heard the words of his friends at first.

He was too far gone in his own head, back in that bathroom. 

His chest tightened with the memory. He barely noticed when one of his buddies kicked his foot again under the table. 

“Yo, Lando, you hear me?”

Lando blinked, dragging himself out of the fog of his thoughts. The conversation buzzed around him, a lazy backdrop to the one thing still on his mind. It was almost laughable.

The untouchable girl. The girl everyone else talked about like a goddamn riddle—like some unreachable prize. You walked past them all like you were a queen, and they were your peasants. Everyone knew your name but you never cared. You acted like you were above it all—and they let you, watching from afar, too scared to get too close.

But Lando? He’d made it past the walls you built. He knew the truth—you weren’t untouchable—you were just playing hard to get. A little game to you. But to him? You were ruined.

He could still feel you in his hands, your lips trembling beneath his. He could still smell your perfume clinging to his skin, the taste of your tears as he drove you to the edge of what you were pretending to be. Untouchable, but only because you were scared to admit you wanted it.

“Bro,” Said someone to his left, “You guys saw her last night?” Lando didn’t respond, just took a slow sip from his cup, eyes half-lidded as he leaned back into the couch, looking at them like they were all idiots.

“Seriously, she was there, and that skirt—fuck. She was clearly looking for attention.” He still didn’t look over. He knew exactly who they were talking about—you.

“Bet I could get her number,” Someone muttered. “Easy. Just gotta catch her alone.”

Lando snorted into his drink. He had you bent over a sink, tears down your cheeks, crying for his cock while you watched yourself fall apart. And they were still here, talking about how they might try and get your number.

Fucking idiots.

“She doesn’t even talk to people,” Another guy argued. “Dude, she shot Justin down in front of everyone. Just laughed in his face and walked away.”

Lando barely managed to hide his grin behind his cup. They still had no fucking idea.

“Someone’s gotta break the streak.” One of them said, stretching his arms.

“Shit, I’d take the risk. I’d fuckin’ die happy if she just spat on me.” Another replied, making everyone from the group laugh.

Everyone, except Lando. He was too busy replaying the way you looked with your thighs trembling, cum dripping down your leg. 

That memory hit like a drug, hot and thick in his veins. You’d tried to keep it together—of course you had. But he saw the way your eyes fluttered when he grabbed your chin. Heard the way your voice cracked when you whimpered his name. 

The voices of his friends slowly broke through again,“We need to do it,” Someone said, “Seriously. We’ve all been talking about it for weeks now. Someone’s gotta prove it.”

You had a funny way of making people go stupid. The moment you set foot on campus, the entire food chain reset. Boys barked, girls bristled, and the world tilted slightly in your direction like it didn’t know how to resist. And they still thought you were a fantasy.

“She’s such a fucking tease,” Another one muttered, “Walks around like she’s better than everyone. Bet she’s cold as hell in bed.”

Lando’s jaw tightened at those words. Wrong. You were a fucking fire. 

“I’d give anything to see that skirt hit the floor,” Another said. “Bet no one’s even touched her yet.” And at that, Lando finally laughed—a quiet, smug sound from deep in his chest.

“Told you,” The first guy said, grinning as he elbowed Lando. “He’s obsessed with her, but thinks he’s sneaky about it. Lando, when are you gonna do it, huh? Be the one to finally shut her up. Break the curse, mate.”

Lando leaned back, stretching out like a lion who’d already been fed. He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

“You need to do it, mate,” Another guy said, “C’mon, be the one to finally shut her up. Imagine what it’d be like.” In response, Lando just hummed while taking another lazy sip of his drink, letting them talk.

He didn’t need to imagine anything.

“C’mon, man,” One laughed, nodding. “It’s like she’s asking for it. Walks around with that short skirt and attitude, like she owns the place. There’s gotta be a way to crack her.” The rest of the group agreed, their voices rising with excitement, as if one of them was going to be the first to conquer the impossible. 

They all joked about it—how it had to be done, how someone needed to step up, take the challenge, and finally prove the rumors wrong. And through it all, Lando couldn’t help but smirk.

Because unlike them? He didn’t need to prove anything. He already had you.

And as if on cue, the front door opened, and there you were. You walked in like you owned the place—like you always did. 

Sunlight hit your skin just right—a golden sheen over every inch of you, glowing like the campus might as well have been your throne. You had your usual face on—blank and unreadable, your perfectly glossed lips slightly parted like you were always bored. 

And that fucking, black skirt. The way it barely covered your ass, a little too short for anyone’s comfort, showing off legs that seemed to go on forever. Of course he noticed the faint bruise near the top of your thigh, peeking out just below the hem. His bruise. He remembered placing it there with his own hands, his fucking name.

You moved through the crowd like you didn’t even notice them, your gaze focused, but not on anything. It was like you had a bubble around you, a forcefield that kept them at arm’s length. And Lando? He just smirked, slowly but deliberately. He wasn’t going to let them know anything, after all.

“Yeah, man,” One of the guys continued, his voice too loud, eager. “Someone’s gotta put their hands on her. I’m serious. It’s time to prove she’s not untouchable.”

The others nodded, excited. “You’re right. One of us just has to get close, ask her out, show her what she’s missing.”

Lando’s gaze never left you, even as you turned and walked past him. The moment was electric, almost suffocating, as your eyes flickered to his once again. And just like that, that slight blush crept up your neck—a quiet acknowledgment. Your lips curled into that small, knowing smile. And that? That was all the confirmation he needed. You might be untouchable to everyone else, but he had already claimed you.

Lando’s stomach tightened. His smirk was immediate, lazy, like it was second nature.

He let the moment hang, drew it out. Watched the way you walked away like nothing had happened, like the two of you weren’t still vibrating with the tension of it all. Like you hadn’t made eye contact while his cum was still drying on your thigh the night before.

“Damn,” One of the guys said, cutting into the silence. “She’s unreal. We really gotta get someone to prove it, man.”

Lando’s hand gripped tighter his phone, feeling that same familiar tug in his chest. They were still talking, and now it started to fucking irritate him.

He leaned back in his seat, chin tilted just slightly. His voice was low, easy, almost amused. “Yeah, well, I don’t think so,” Lando finally muttered, voice smooth and cold. “Did you guys forget already? She’s untouchable.”

The guys groaned, laughed, and swore like they thought he was giving up. But Lando didn’t even flinch. He didn’t need to explain anything. He just kept watching the path you’d walked, imagining you with your back arched, mascara running, breath hitching as you came apart around him, moaning his name.

Because the truth was—he’d already tasted you, and already ruined you. Basically, Lando had you wrapped around his finger.

And most importantly, he proved you’re not as untouchable as everyone thought.

© haniette | 2025, all rights reserved.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

taglist: @norristrii @ernegren

[infamous-if]

✭INFAMOUS UPDATE IS HERE ✭

238K -> 457K WORDS

Please read this post before playing! It's finally here! After five months of writing and rewriting and salvaging and crying and sweating and bleeding I finally finished sort of kind of! Firstly, I want to thank you for your patience and understanding over this duration of this rewrite. It was stressful at times but I'm happy with the end result and I hope everyone else will be too :)

This will be the last chapter I release without beta testers/other sets of eyes so expect errors. I can playtest until my fingers turn blue but I'm just one person </3 I'm bound to have missed stuff.

Please let me know of errors! I tested it a few times with no problems but we know how it goes lol

IN THIS CHAPTER THREE UPDATE:

drama

mayhem

chaos

some betrayal

some surprises

just...read it lmao

PROLOGUE - CHAPTER 2 CHANGES:

**chapter two was too large of a file to upload on dd so I had to split it last minute and I uhhhh dont know how that translates in the demo but it should work lol please let me know if its wonky!**

fixed up grammatical errors and typos

expanded some scenes and added some more choices

you can now choose that your mc has "changed" in some way (drinking, no longer drinking, partier, no longer a partier, negative, positive, attached, detached, or a general default. I was asked to add an MC who "gets around" or hookups a lot but I'm still debating on whether I'll add that since there's already quite a bit lolol)

you can choose to have changed your band's genre before/after seven

TECHNICAL CHANGES:

you will be able to explicitly state your sexuality in the beginning. this was a big ask and I apologize for not doing it earlier! I wasn't good at coding when I started and I knew I always wanted to make the genders separate from MC's sexuality but I didn't know how to do that at the start :) So you can still choose the genders of the ROs for story purposes and variety. IF YOU DO NOT SEE ROMANCE OPTIONS THAT IS NOT A BUG. You simply chose a RO gender that doesn't correlate with the sexuality you chose for your MC. Having said that, if you do see a romance option available and it's not supposed to be there please let me know! That means I may have missed it coding-wise.

the stats have been all fixed! I've added all the necessary variables and such. The stat portion of the game has been updated with the appropriate pages but they're not finished. Still, the stats should be fine.

You will now have confessionals in the stat page! The feature still isn't a thing yet because I haven't come up with the confessionals lolol but you can click on it to see what it's about. Essentially, as you progress through the story you will be able to see confessionals from the cast of Infamous throughout. They disappear and appear periodically so if you miss it, THAT'S IT! You won't get a chance to see them again until MC watches an episode where it's relevant.

There is now a: Discography page, Infamous wiki, botb cast and staff page, and other characters page for organization. Those are not finished but they're there!

I changed a few stat names but their functions remain the same.

You will be able to choose how you would like to be described (masculine, feminine, neither, both).

O is officially gender-selectable.

You can set the genders of the ROs at the start or wait till you meet them.

PLAY HERE

[chilling-seavey]

The Patriarchy (gr63)

↳ A/N So @sadiethekoala encouraged my curiosity of dabbling in writing/posting my 'darker' kink content so...here you go 🫣

↳ Summary: Of course George is a feminist; but who is he to deny you when sometimes you just want him to treat you like his property.

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 3.5k

↳ Warnings: 18+, NSFW, light drinking, patriarchy kink (major fetishization of traditional gender roles), arguably free use kink, breeding kink, heavy degradation and dumbification and objectification (name calling like 'slut', 'whore', and 'bitch'), spanking, spitting, hair pulling, restraining, dirty talk, choking, rough unprotected sex, aftercare is NOT written in this fic but take it that it will be IMPLIED (aftercare is a MUST after intense and degrading scenes like this!!!).

George had been proud of you for as long as he had known you. You were a hardworking and determined woman and he loved seeing you pursue your career so strongly and passionately. It was honestly one of the things George admired you most for. You weren’t someone to take anyone’s shit and certainly not when it came at the expense of your beliefs, passions, or those you cared for the most.

In a man’s world, you pushed the boundaries of what a woman was capable of and George, of course, backed you every step of the way. Especially while so invested in a vastly male-dominate sport such as Formula 1, George only grew more and more aware of the prejudices and disparities that were hidden between the lines. And, in such, he always made himself publicly viable as someone who believed in equality without bounds.

Behind closed doors, that very same belief lingered. In your Monaco apartment, you equally divided up household chores and tasks, shared the responsibility of cooking, and came to mutually agreeable terms that made your life together that much more enjoyable and refreshing. A relationship built on trust and equality, it was the balance of give and take that left you both as strong as ever. 

What came with the ease of your relationship was open communication and, with that, a bit of a pre-disclosed agreement from months before that George had figured you had forgotten about. It was something said haphazardly one night when the two of you were wine drunk and cuddled up on the living room floor; a little secret you had been harbouring, whispering to him plainly about your deepest desires. Your smiling confession was something so unlike your natural persona that for a moment he had thought you were entirely joking. But you were serious, pleading with him that if he ever saw you donning that vintage blue gingham dress, that he had your unspoken consent to push the hazy boundaries into a roleplay vastly different from what you were familiar with sharing together. George agreed to your terms and thought it wouldn’t ever really come to fruition. 

It was a joke, he was sure of it. No fiercely independent woman such as yourself ever wanted to be treated under such taboo, out-dated, and almost cruel mid-century gender roles. Right? 

Until on Thursday night when George came home from media duties just about the time you had finished making dinner, finding you donning that sweet 1950s gingham dress and matching white kitten heels. It was the last thing he had expected to come home to, falling to a surprised stop as he entered the apartment to the smell of a delicious meal waiting for him. 

You smiled over at him in the foyer and hurried over to take his jacket off of him, “Welcome home, love.” 

“Hello.” George said slowly, letting his arms slip out of his collared jacket as you carefully pulled it from his shoulders. His suspicions were simmering as you leaned in to kiss him once before hanging up his jacket in the front closet. He asked a tentative, “What’s all this for?”

You tucked your hand in the crook of his arm and led him over to the table that was neatly made up with two place settings, “I figured you had a long day at work and wanted dinner as soon as you got home.”

“Yeah...that’s nice.” George said, testing the waters a little. 

He sat down and watched you walk over to the bar cart to pour him a drink, topping it with a few ice cubes before bringing it back over to him. You set the short glass in his hand and left a kiss to his cheek and headed into the kitchen again, your heels clicking over the hardwood floors. George watched you silently, sipping his drink and leaning back in his chair with his left hand drumming a slow quiet pattern on the mahogany table top as you bustled around the kitchen to finish up. 

“You look pretty today, love.” he tried. 

You smiled to yourself as you plated the food, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t far out of George’s mind that he wanted to marry you one day - although he always told himself that was for years in the future - but there was something about the stereotypical domesticity of it all that seemed to...enlist a change in him. At first hesitant about carrying through with your agreement, he suddenly felt a flutter of something curious deep within him, wanting to try this out for himself. And if you wanted it? Who was he to deny you that? 

“Was work alright?” you asked sweetly as you brought over two filled plates and set them on the table. 

“Yeah, it was hectic.” George set his half finished drink down on the table and pushed his chair back a little to lead you onto his lap. You obeyed, perching yourself on his thighs, staring at him quietly as he eyed you up. His blue eyed gaze traced the side of your dress up to the clothed curves of your breasts and then across your collarbones, your neck, and jaw, finishing at your rouge painted lips. He swiped the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip and pulled it down gently to watch it fall back into place, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” you replied, your voice a sweet drawling purr as your arm draped around his shoulders, manicured fingers toying with the seam of his Mercedes team shirt. 

Your soft words made a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth and he set his hand down on your thighs right at the hem of your dress, patting your lap gently before he gave a gentle squeeze to your flesh. 

He pressed you on with a cheeky, “How much?” 

“Way too much,” you answered, an angelic smile on your lips, knowing exactly what you were doing when you punctuated your reply with a, “sir.”

That word always snapped something in him, digging right down to his raw desire to just have you at that exact moment the three letters fell from your sweet lips. 

The sudden speed at which he moved made you gasp, forced off his lap as he stood. He pushed you right up against the edge of the table until the edge was pressing right against your pelvis and your hands fell flat against the wood surface. The filled plate rested, steaming, between the frame of your hands. 

“Is that so?”

He was right behind you, his body pressed up close and his breath right against your ear. His hands slid down your straight arms before resting right on top of yours, holding them down on the table. 

“Is that why you wore this pretty little dress for me?” 

“Yessir.” you breathed shakily, your heart already racing with anticipation. Your home cooked meal sat warm on the plates in front of you but any appetite for real food was gone; you were too busy craving him instead. 

“Yeah?” George growled against your ear as he pulled up the bottom of your dress, having to take a few handfuls to successfully bunch up the dress and the voluminous petticoat underneath. When he had enough of the fabric in one large hand, he used his other to slap down hard against your ass.

The sharp spank echoed through the apartment and you gasped forward at the impact. It wasn’t often that George got rough with you - he was more the sweet and gentle type within his passion - so the rare times the more dominant side of him came to the surface, you capitalized on it. Especially now, when something much more intense seemed to have come over him, like he was really ready to go all out to give you exactly what you had confessed to him that you wanted. 

You withered as he pushed his hand around your waist and under the bunched up fabric of your dress to slide over the front of your panties, pressing his whole hand down on your pussy, the heel of his palm right over your clothed clit. His lips met your neck in sloppy kisses, moaning lowly as he felt how warm you were under his touch while he sucked hickeys into your skin and breathed you in completely.

“Baby…” you whispered, “What about dinner?”

“I don’t want it.” he reached around you and shoved both plates to the side and out of the way, clattering the cutlery and a fork fell to the floor in his bit of an aggressive rush. He then bent you forward over the table and spanked you hard again, “I want my pretty little housewife to take my whole fucking dick while I fuck her like my own personal little whore.” 

You could have sworn you could have dripped down your thighs at his demand, biting back your eager grin as he held your head down against the table by a tight grip at the back of your neck. He spanked you again with his other hand, once, twice, a third time. A pink handprint was undoubtedly appearing on the curve of your bum where he hit you. Unperturbed, George just linked his finger in the thin fabric of your panties to pull the waistband higher, giving him a full canvas of your perfect ass for him to slap his palm down harder. 

“Please.” you squeaked out. 

“Please what, my love?” George pressed, groping your ass before spanking you hard again. “I hope you’re not trying to tell me what to do right now. You know who’s in charge here.”

You let out a little whimper in silent submission, your cheek still pressed to the table top from where he held you down. George then linked his finger around the lace of your underwear and followed the fabric right down between your legs where you were already soaking through the material. 

“Really missed me, huh, sweetheart?” George taunted, gently pinching your clit to pull a sharp gasp from your throat. Then, without warning, he grabbed the thin material of your panties in his fist and tore it right off you. 

The slight sting of the ripping fabric over your hips and the rough grunt that left his chest with his strength had your teeth sinking tightly into your bottom lip through a small whimper, hands still pressed flatly to the table top on either side of your head. 

“Fucking hell,” George chuckled darkly, lifting up the puffed skirt of your knee length dress again to keep it bunched up around your middle, “you look so fucking pretty like this.”

“Please, sir.” you breathed, pushing your hips back on him until the front of his slacks were pressed up snugly between your legs. 

You could feel the bulge in his pants and how it was pulling the fabric taut. It made your mouth water, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip again with a small hum, desperately grinding back on him to somehow get him right where you needed him most. 

“God, you’re such a pathetic little slut, my love.” George tisked, slapping his hand down on your ass one more time before shoving you forward again, trapping you entirely between his body and the edge of the table. He kept you there firmly while he worked to unpin his belt, the faint clinks of the metal buckle and what it implied had your pussy fluttering in anticipation. With his belt undone and slacks unzipped, his large hands groped your hips and followed your desperate motions back against him, grinding against you a little more with your feet planted securely on the floor in your kitten heels. 

George didn’t even strip completely, he just pushed his pants and boxers down to the tops of his thighs just enough to pull his dick out and then he was shuffling up close behind you. 

“Please, fuck me. I need you so bad, sir.” you whined. 

“Listen to you, sweetheart; calling me ‘sir’ like a submissive little bitch.” his voice was low and gravely, full of lust. 

He took his hand from the back of your neck to, instead, wrap around your throat to pull your chest off the table. This way, he could lean forward and brush his lips over the shell of your ear while his dick pressed teasingly up against your entrance, feeling the way your body shivered at his words. 

“Yeah, you like me calling you my little bitch?” George purred right into your ear, his hot breath falling against your neck and raising the hairs on your arms while his fingers squeezed the sides of your throat, “Wearing this pretty little dress...making a shitty little meal to get my attention...just asking for me to fuck you stupid.”

“Yeah.” was all you could whine out, lashes fluttering. 

“Yeah?” he mocked you tauntingly, barely giving you a moment's warning as he pushed inside you strongly. 

Your mouth fell open in silence as he stretched you out, letting out a soft little squeak at the pressure he spread across your hips. Your hand squeaked across the wood table as you tried to find something to hold onto, ending up reaching up to grasp his wrist.

“Fuck.” George huffed stiffly, his hips flexing against yours, tightening his hand around your throat. “Love this tight fucking cunt.” 

He started rocking into you slowly at first, savouring each stroke as if to feel you all, to give you every inch, and his slow breaths fell against the side of your face warmly. 

“So good.” you whimpered, pushing back on him in steady time, “You’re so big, sir.”

“Yeah, you love my cock, don’t you, sweetheart?” he spoke lowly, “Been waiting for this all day, huh? Wanting me to come home from work and fuck you full?”

“Yeah. Please.” you cried, pressing your palms down harder on the table top as he sped up. 

He shoved into you a bit harder, grunting hard against your ear until all you could focus on was him; the stretch he pushed through your body, the smell of the light alcohol on his breath and his familiar cologne that still dotted his shirt from that mornings application, and his hand around your throat. 

“Oohh, God.” you squeaked out, mouth falling open as he took you over the side of the dining room table. 

“Good girl.” George said lowly against your ear, his salacious words a lustful chant, “My good little housewife...good little fucking whore. So pretty and submissive for me. Gonna let me fuck you how I want, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir, please, please, please-” you begged shakily. 

“Yeah?” George pulled your head back by your throat, finger and thumb pressed right up under your jaw to hold you tightly. 

Your head was almost bent entirely back to look at him upside down, your mouth agape as a flurry of pleasured sounds tumbled from your lips uncontrollably. He fucked the sounds from your throat with practiced ease, the dishes on the table rattling with every firm ram into your body as he took you how he pleased. 

You squealed loudly, hands rolling into fists on the table top as tears pricked your eyes through the painful pleasure he expertly pushed through your whole body. He held you in place with one hand fisting your dress and petticoat over the small of your back and the other squeezing your throat until your mouth was falling open through little gasps. 

“That’s it.” George groaned, pulling your head back towards his shoulder before he was pinching your cheeks between thumb and forefinger to spit loudly in your mouth. “Want me to put a fucking baby in you, sweetheart?” 

The words were unexpected but the way your body clenched so hard around him that he almost lost it right then and there was his answer enough. He shoved two fingers in your mouth and picked up speed a little more, groaning hungrily against your cheek

“Yeah, you do. Gonna get you nice and full and pregnant. My pretty little wife’s gonna look so good knocked up.” 

“Yes, sir, yes, sir, please-” you mumbled through his fingers, words barely sensible as you drooled down his palm involuntarily as he kept you gagged. 

“Oh my God, baby.” George gripped you tighter, fucking you harder and faster until the table was nearly scraping across the hardwood floor with every thrust. “Gonna make a fucking mess of you...cum so fucking deep inside you. Gonna knock you up like my good little bitch.” 

“I need it! Fill me up, baby, please!” you cried messily, clawing at the table as your pussy pulsed strongly around him. 

“You need it?” he cooed, “You need me to cum inside you? To make you a mommy? Hm?”

All you could do was stumble out a chant of, “Yeah, yeah, yeah-” 

In one swift movement, George pulled his fingers from your mouth and tangled his hand in your hair to shove you down against the table again. You caught yourself on your forearms with a squealing gasp, sliding forward under his controlling hand until your chest was flat to the table and your fingers could wrap around the opposite edge of the table. The slick lewd sound of your skin colliding filled your modest apartment as he ravished you from behind, harmonized so prettily with your shared breaths and moans. 

“I want you to cum for me, sweetheart.” George spoke through his teeth as he held you face down on the table, “Show me how good I can make my pretty little wife feel while I pump her full of cum.” 

His other hand slipped around your waist under the plethora of fabric from your dress without faltering the firm thrusts he gave you. His fingers were easily coated in your slick wetness as they blindly found their way between your legs, making it almost effortless for him to rub easy circles over your clit. You fell perfectly silent at his added touch, gripping onto the edge of the table even tighter as you felt that indescribable warmth coiling strongly within you. In seconds, your eyes were nearly rolling back and your toes were curling in your heels as you came around him, gasping and panting and moaning as your body clutched right down on him like a vice. 

“That’s it!” George groaned loudly, shoving into you faster and more desperately to help you draw out your orgasm, “That’s fucking it, baby. I’m gonna put so many babies in you…show off that you’re mine. My perfect little cockslut housewife. Begging to be fucking knocked up. Shit-” 

Oversensitive from your orgasm, his aggression had you whining loudly, tears burning in the corners of your eyes. He wasn’t letting up, taking exactly what he wanted from you, just how you had begged him to all those weeks ago in your tipsy confession. Your eyes were screwed shut with pleasure that bordered on the precipice of pain, unable to control the way you cried out until your voice echoed through the apartment. George slapped his hand over your mouth.

“Take it.” he ordered through his teeth against your ear, “You’re gonna take my whole fucking load until you’re dripping like a pathetic little bitch.” 

You whined into his warm palm and felt him twitch inside you as your muscles pulsed around his thick length. 

“Fucking...take it.” 

George came hard, bucking into you sloppily through loud moans and grunts. His eyes scrunched closed through it, fingers pressing you harder into the tabletop as he shot thick warm spurts deep inside you. You could only grab onto his arm as he filled you up, withering behind the erotic feeling of him claiming you completely. His moans were heavenly and you nearly came a second time at the overwhelm of it all and his hand that was wrapped around the back of your neck only tightened as he finished. 

He let you go after a second and you pushed yourself up from the table, your arms straight and hands flat as you glanced back at him over your shoulder. George’s lips grazed your jaw and he left a few lazy kisses over your skin as you both took a moment to catch your breaths, lingering in the post-orgam bliss together for a moment longer. His hands ran down your sides warmly and you let out a shaky sigh. 

George then reached a hand up to gently tilt your chin towards him with a soft, “Come here.”

You kissed him sweetly, sharing lingering kisses with his dick still pressed up nice and deep inside you. After a few moments, he leaned back to look at your face and he gave your hand a squeeze before shifting back from you and pulled out slowly. Your body ached as he left you empty but his fingers pressed themselves between your legs instead. 

He could feel your heartbeat right there, not to mention how soaked you were, dripping his cum out and onto his fingers, hidden under the skirt of your dress as it fell back down around your thighs. George left a little kiss to your shoulder when he finally pulled back and he gave your bum a little pat before he was zipping up his pants again, 

“Order us a pizza, sweetheart. Dinner got cold.” 

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[laser-tripwires]

there's that Girl's Night Out Job deleted scene that I just can't stop thinking about at the moment.

"Tell me about the first thing you stole." "Mr Bunny. Yeah! He's my first friend."

parker was so alone, for SUCH a long time. and both the nigerian job and the stork job are pretty clear about the fact that she was beaten and starved as a kid. 12 step tells us that it was pathological neglect that drove her to kelptomania; boost job fills in some of the gaps as to how shitty foster parents ended up leaving her as a street kid with a record. she got lucky in picking archie's pocket, but this is still someone who blew up a house aged... what, nine? archie says that when he found her she was "A danger - to herself and to others." which, yeah, no shit.

parker absolutely was half-feral when the team found her, and even if archie had tamed her a little from when she was a kid, it wasn't exactly like he did a great job at teaching her to integrate with society.

instead, that's… what sophie did, and hardison, and to a lesser extent nate and eliot. her family. that she found, that she made, that she grew up into a place at. she tried to be something she wasn't for them, and they made sure she knew it was okay to be who she was. but at the same time there's a lot of unhealed trauma in her.

to an extent i think there always will be.

her brother died. she didn't even talk about it for two decades. she's fine with jumping off a building but she's terrified of loosing the people around her.

no wonder she had a crisis over the status quo changing. no wonder she was so lost as to who she is, and where, and why. because she knows and feels that darkness in her but she can never be quite sure if who she is is who she is or if she's just a product of the good and bad influences around her. that's half the question she sets out to adress in the side job.

and.

i dunno.

i just keep coming back to that deleted scene, that one line. to the image we get in the nigerian job of a little girl clutching a toy rabbit, her only friend in the world.

to what she says in the side job, about being so hurt as a child.

parker will always have a warmth and an innocence to her that the rest of the team won't. she'll always be the one who believes in santa and is afraid of horses and thinks fall damage isn't real. there will always be an innocence to her. but that innocence will always have an edge, because... "She was broken. You understand that? Parker was broken."

and she found a family, and she tried to be a better person for her family, but it never quite fully clicked. of course she couldn't trust that it did. that darkness, that pain, it's not gonna leave. but neither will the little girl clutching the stuffed build-a-bear toy, because they're one and the same. she's not crazy. she never was.

i don't... have a point here, really. but since watching the side job - and season three of redemption more broadly (a bunch of this post is cribbed from stuff i said @aardvaark a couple of months ago) it just feels like so many thoughts about parker are echoing around in my head. if r1 was harry's redemption and r2 was sophie's, then r3 is parker's - but i love that we never got a single solid conclusion. it's just. yeah.

and i can't stop thinking about that deleted scene.

[fangatic]

we need to talk about The Silence and The Song

[PLEASE READ] edit to add: i realise that this post has been reblogged far and wide and that there is not a lot i can do about it now, but this is me trying anyway.

posting examples from the fic about my issues with its repetitive structure was careless of me, and i apologise to those of you who read it and became insecure about your own writing style. as someone who has worked with ai in academic settings, it's incredibly difficult for me to explain to you how the tone and structure of ai-generated fiction works and how, after reading enough of it, you can simply just tell. i do also realise that this is an incredibly weak argument, which is why i didn't include it when i originally wrote this post.

all that to say: there is an enormous difference between "beginner's writing" and ai writing. being repetitive as a new writer (or a seasoned one who just likes using repetition) is so normal. as is flowery/purple language. i've read hundreds of books and fics and the difference between these traits in ai-text and actual works is starkly clear. please don't feel anxious over the examples i've used in this post.

again, i apologise for any distress i have caused.

as per my last post, i have received a lot of encouragement to go public with this, and the more disappointed people i have in my dms, the angrier i get. so i will.

the silence and the song is an ancient arlathan au DA fic on ao3 by luxannaslut, and it is partly, if not entirely, written by an ai. i have no wish to be involved in any kind of fandom drama or witch hunting or bullying, but as a writer myself there are few things that piss me off more than watching people steal the work of others because they can't be fucked to write. it's disrespectful to your fellow writers, it's disrespectful to your readers, and it's disrespectful to the authors of the works the ai is stealing from.

ai is a plague that has no business being in creative spaces and you must do better.

the writing pattern

there was something very odd and monotone about the sentence structure of tsats that i couldn't quite place, so i fed chatgpt a prompt along the lines of "two people in a fantasy novel hate each other, but they secretly desire one another, and they kiss", and the screenshots above are the results. the third one is an excerpt from chapter 40 of tsats. the writing pattern is identical and it doesn't seem like the "writer" has even bothered to pretend they wrote it. if you're going to use ai, at least be sneaky about it. you know, paraphrase a little.

nonsense descriptions

"her nimble fingers worked with quiet precision" (ct. 1), "his grip firm but tender" (ct. 33), "her gown pooling around her like embers" (ct. 1).

fingers don't make sound, so what does quiet precision mean? as opposed to what? her joints cracking with every movement? how is a grip firm but tender? what does that mean? since when do embers pool?

the entire fic is littered with these adjectives that contradict each other or just straight up do not make sense, because all an ai does is generate descriptive language with no understanding of what the words it's spitting out actually mean. i could spend hours picking out examples from the seven billion pages worth of text, but i quite frankly have better things to do and would simply challenge you to try getting through a chapter or two without noticing the pattern.

repetition at structure-level

all the scenes in this fic are described in pretty much the same way. they open with purple prose vomit of the surroundings; solas is standing somewhere looking "unreadable as ever"; ellana's fiery golden molten fire copper ember ginger red hair is flowing this and that way; there's some dialogue with whoever is present and it leaves ellana feeling different variations of "something she couldn't name". this is, once again, a blatantly obvious sign of ai. below is the result of me feeding chatgpt the line "write me a scene from a fantasy novel where a woman with red hair is sitting on the ground in a magical garden at night", and side by side with that is the opening scene of the fic. make your own judgement.

repetition at word-level

this one speaks for itself. we fucking get it. her dress is orange, her hair is red, mythal's presence is heavy in the room, solas looks unreadable, compassion is sitting on her head like a crown, solas' ears are betraying him and ellana's move with every thought she thinks. we get it. the issue here is that an ai remembers the info you feed it, but not necessarily the info it shits out. if it's being told to write scene after scene of an elven woman with a gown that looks like fire doing xyz, it's going to do so with no regard for how many times the reader has already been informed of these details.

lastly: the breakneck speed

359,6k words in four weeks by a person who allegedly is employed and married and hasn't pre-written anything? no. any writer will tell you that this simply isn't possible. it absolutely infuriates me to see how much praise this "writer" gets for posting up to three full chapters in a day without anyone calling bullshit. i am pulling out my hair, you guys.

why i'm not going to live and let live this one

perhaps i would be less angry if the fic was some silly bullshit court intrigue Y/A stuff, but this is a text that handles very heavy and triggering topics such as SA, coercion, domestic abuse, and other things of the same vein. to sit back and put your feet up while having a robot write these extremely sensitive and very real human experiences with words it has stolen from texts written by actual persons is fucking heinous. the "writer" should be deeply ashamed of themselves and i'm sick and tired of watching people eat up their bs.

and on that note: the amount of people in my dm's telling me that they feel stupid and naive for not clocking this has infuriated me more than anything else. you're not foolish for this. being fed ai-generated bullshit is not what is supposed to happen on any creative platform and much less a fandom-centred one, so of course no one approaches a fic through that lens. fandom and fic writing is supposed to be about passion and the only person in this situation who needs to do better and change their behaviour is luxannaslut. polluting our creative spaces, wasting the time of your readers, and minimising the effort of actual writers who are working hard to provide content for us all to share and enjoy is vile and so, so lazy. i beg of you: do better.

[khywren]

it's time for some more astarion analysis~

making this a separate post in case people wanted to reblog just the gifs on their own and don't care about the extra fluff. i'm certain this scene has been analyzed to the hells and back by this point, but when i was making this set something really stuck out to me and i wanted to throw my two cents in anyway.

this is the tail end of the mirror scene from act 1, where you catch astarion looking in the mirror and lamenting about not being able to see his reflection or knowing what he looks like anymore. and while that alone is sad enough, it gets SO MUCH WORSE.

if you express genuine interest in his predicament (i.e. asking him if he misses his reflection and what color his eyes were before he was turned), you get to see the mask slip. it's one of the first times in the game that he's not hiding behind his quick wit and silver tongue.

if you tell him you'll be his mirror, you can see the change in his demeanor immediately. his face softens, the cadence of his voice changes; you can literally hear the vulnerability in every word he says. huge props to neil and the rest of larian for making the distinction between these dialogue options, of course. it's the little details that really make moments like these shine.

but there was something else i noticed in the footage i recorded as well that i hadn't picked up on any of my other playthroughs. i've spent a lot of time staring at this man's face, especially while capturing idle animations for gifs and wallpapers, and most of the time it's what you'd expect, with minimal face movement, expressions changing, etc. most companions i record seem to behave the same way, with similar expressions/blinking/eye movement.

but just look at astarion's face here. this feels deliberately unique. he is SO anxious, so worried how you'll perceive him. the rapid blinking, the nervous darting of his eyes… it genuinely breaks my heart.

(tumblr will only let me upload one video per post, but just look at any other idle footage of him and you'll see the difference)

and the second you tell him what he thinks he wants to hear? that he's very attractive? he slips right back into his suave, flirtatious persona, and even praises you for complimenting his looks. even if you eventually ask him if all he wants is shallow praise, he still deflects and isn't completely honest with you.

note that if you choose to take the less compassionate route and simply tell them that he has a "very good face," he will still prompt you to tell him what you see when you look at him, and the delivery of the line is subtly but noticeably different and more guarded. similarly, if you poke a little too much fun at him by calling him old and draw too much attention to his mole, he gets very flustered and ends the conversation immediately. understandable, since he's relied on his appearance for so long, and hearing (even jokingly) that even that might not be something he can use anymore must be at least a little terrifying for him.

so naturally, you might think that by being truthful with him would perhaps net you a better result -- after all, you're telling him what he asked for, what you really see, that you see him as more than just someone to lust after -- but it doesn't. he actually seems a little upset if you choose those dialogue options. in that moment, he wants to know that you find him attractive, because he thinks that's all he's good for. because if you find him attractive, there's a chance that he could seduce you and use you for protection against cazador. i do think he also genuinely wants to know that there's so much more to him than just a pretty face, since that's a big theme of his entire story/romance arc, but that's not at the top of his priority list this early in the game. he's relying purely on instinct. he knows how to respond to people telling him he's attractive. accepting genuine compliments about the person beneath the mask? that's probably not something he's had much (if any) experience with in close to two centuries. he didn't have the luxury of being able to let anyone see who he really was.

all that to say that this interaction is really heartbreaking. he wants to be seen, wants to be understood and possibly loved, but at the same time he still thinks he needs to put on a front to ensure he can keep himself safe. watching him slowly start to unlearn those habits during the course of the game has been one of my favorite things about bg3 and a huge part of what's really endeared astarion to me as a character.

[kizzmexoxo]

Hidden. ~ P.sh

Pairing. Secretboyfriend!P.sh x Reader

Genre. Smut

Warnings. Public sex, elevator, living room, unprotected sex (don’t do this irl), rough sex, secret sex, literally just smut. (lmk if I missed anything.)

a/n. Sorry! I’m aware I’m taking so long making pt.2 of my other fics, I was too lazy and busy with my life. I promise im going to post them soon. Here’s a little drabble to make it up for it.

MDNI. Do not like, Do NOT read. Hate comments won’t be tolerated. Enjoy losers.

kizzmexoxo 2025 © all rights reserved.

~

SecretBf!Sunghoon that loves to touch you secretly even if his members are in the same room as you.

It was movie night. You and the boys agreed to watch a scary movie. 4 boys were set down on the floor layered with puffy comforters and blankets to keep them cozy. The other 3 boys, including you were on the couch.

Blankets were placed on top of your bodies, you can’t tell what’s happening beneath the covers.

You and sunghoon were very close to each other.

Both your legs were secretly positioned over Sunghoon’s as his palm grazes over your thigh.

Him stealing glances at you from time to time.

Observing his members focused on the movie, he took it as a chance to use his other hand to spread your leg open and place it over your lower mound.

Your breath hitched and immediately turn your head over to him, signaling him to stop.

He doesn’t listen as he continues to rub your covered cunt.

You bit the inside of your lip to avoid making any type of sounds that might come out of your mouth.

You find his hand sliding inside your shorts then to your underwear easily.

He suddenly places two fingers inside your now wet cunt.

You could hear the squelching noises. Good thing the movie was loud enough to cover the lewd sounds your pussy was making.

“You like this, baby?”

You hear him whisper as he leans his body closer to kiss your temple.

His fingers move faster, you had to bring up the blanket higher near your mouth to try to cover your moans and whimpers.

You finally reached your climax, causing you to pant.

“Y/n, you’re so red. Did you get scared?” Jungwon chuckles.

You immediately cleared your throat.

“Yeah. Don’t mind me..”

You could see Sunghoon smirking.

SecretBf!Sunghoon who fucks you everywhere.

During the movie night with the members, you all had ordered delivery for food.

You only had went downstairs with sunghoon to fetch the delivery.

So now why was he already aligning up his tip onto your entrance?

Funny that you were both in an elevator too.

If the camera inside wasn’t busted, he wouldn’t have done this.

His dorm with his members were up the 11th floor. You were in UG.

He reasons he has enough time to fuck you and that he would be finished by the time you would get to the 11th floor.

“You couldn’t.” You shouldn’t have challenged him.

Already in the 3rd floor, your back pressing against the elevator wall.

Sunghoon holding up one thigh and cause your leg to raise up while one stays standing on the ground.

His dick roughly moving in a fast pace inside your cunt.

You thank the universe no one had to use the elevator during this hour. Or they would’ve seen the lewd scene of you and sunghoon.

7th floor, sunghoon slipping in his free hand under his shirt your wearing to grab one of your tit, squeezing it.

His face buried into the crook of your neck, kissing, biting, and licking.

You’re sure he could have left a hickey.

9th floor, his thrusts were getting faster than before.

You swore you saw the stars as you roll your eyes back.

Not even reached the 11th floor, climax had reached you and sunghoon at the 10th floor.

He releases your leg while panting in your face.

He gives you one more kiss, grabbing your waist.

“I told you I could make you cum before the 11 floor.”

SecretBf!Sunghoon loves to eye fuck you, whether it is in his dorm, the backstage, make up room.

SecretBf!Sunghoon who pulls you into an empty room when he needs release.

You’re met with the cold, hard wall as sunghoon’s pulsing dick is thrusting inside your walls from behind.

He was so rough today.

Both his hands were on your sides to refrain you from escaping, as if you wanted to.

He pinning you to the wall, while he increases the speed of his hips.

His balls hitting your ass repeatedly, you could feel the burning under your buttcheeks.

SecretBf!Sunghoon whenever you struggle not to moan as he pounds on you roughly, he slides his palm against your mouth while he continues to thrust into your cunt, merciless.

His groans and moans fucking your ear, your eyes roll back, feeling his tip hit your cervix every thrust he makes.

SecretBf!Sunghoon “My girl.” He kisses your forehead after filling his sperm inside you, painting your walls white.

Then turning you around to face him.

“I love you.” He says breathlessly into your face before kissing you.

“I love you too.”