rainandsentences

[rainandsentences]

The space between

a Luca x f!reader

synopsis: You don't understand your constant anger, you don't let anyone approach but somehow you could see how people notice, how he notices.

rating: 16+

word count: 1.3 k

warnings: mention of implied past sexual abuse

a/n: this is the first part of three that i have planned. i understand somehow the pain that comes with locking traumas, specially such as grooming and sexual abuse. i want to express how the topic can affect on the victim even years later, i know each individual is different and each of us deal with it in also different ways. i want to comfort myself and also others that unfortunately might relate with it.

you're so strong, don't forget it. ❤️‍🩹

——————————————————————————

Most of the time you weren’t trying to get the attention. You were always the quiet girl that sat on the corner. So, most of your life was focused on being the best at whatever you did. That was your way of standing out, to be noticeable. That brought you there, one of the best restaurants of high quality in all of Copenhagen.

You’re not mean.

But most people wouldn’t believe that.

They think you are — sharp-tongued, stiff-backed, untouchable. Firm and always giving the orders as you should.

You’re not trying to change their perspective either. It’s easier, in some messed-up way, to be seen as cold than to be seen as scared. Because scared invites questions. And you’ve spent years building your silence like a shelter. It’s ugly, maybe. But it’s safe.

Mostly.

So, when you were transferred to another restaurant and met your coworkers you couldn’t help but notice the tall blonde man with arms covered in tattoos.

After you find out that his name was Luca and you see him working in the kitchen two nights a week.

 He’s quiet. Keeps to himself. Polite, but not too much. The kind of person who speaks only when needed moves like he’s thinking about something no one else can see.

Your favorite kind of person: the one who doesn't ask for anything.

It’s the third or fourth time you end up near him during closing that you start to pick up on the small things.

He wipes down surfaces with method, but not perfection. Doesn’t like wasting time on pointless steps. Don’t look over your shoulder. Doesn’t interrupt.

He doesn’t touch people, either.

He’ll pass a container to someone without making contact. Stand just a little further back than everyone else. Not in a way that draws attention. Just… aware. Careful.

You notice. But you don’t say anything.

He doesn’t either.

Which is maybe the first thing you like about him.

Weeks pass like that. Easy, distant rhythm. The kind of neutral space that doesn’t ask you to be more than what you are. You don’t think he’s watching you — not like that. But he notices things. You can tell.

You drop a tray once. Reflexive flinch. He doesn’t comment.

Another time, someone at the bar gets too handsy with one of the waitresses. You freeze, can’t stop watching. He watches too — but not with interest. With concern. Quiet, unreadable.

Then he’s gone for two weeks.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

But when he shows up again, something in you exhales.

You hate that. Why him? Ew.

The day he returned to the restaurant was quiet. His polite salute to everyone when he arrived made you look at him. He nodded easily and kept his gaze at his work.

Clearly you tried not to gaze at him, but that day was full of interactions between you and him. “The flour” or “Hand me the stir.”

After the shift, there were just the two of you.

“Thought you left,” you say, first words you’ve spoken to him directly.

He shrugs; eyes focused as he put his coat on. “Just went back to Chicago for a bit. Had to check in.”

You nod, even though you didn’t ask for details.

He doesn’t offer them.

Another reason you like him.

The first shift after that is normal. Or as normal as things get for you.

The kitchen’s loud. Someone blasts music. You keep your head down, do your part, stay out of the way. But the air is tight today. Your chest is already aching from tension you didn’t know you were carrying.

And then someone — one of the newer guys, trying too hard to be funny — throws a towel.

It hits your shoulder.

Not hard. Not even meant for you, maybe. But you freeze anyway. You feel inexplicable anger.

Your hands are numb. Stomach drops. You feel heat behind your eyes.

You hear laughter. Not cruel — just unaware. And as you wanted to burst for something so simple as that you hear: “Hey. Not cool.”

Luca’s voice.

Quiet, low, calm. But firm.

The laughter stopped.

You don’t look at him. Can’t.

But your hands stop shaking. And you sigh softly.

Later, after closing, you’re wiping down the stainless steel by the sink when he approaches. Not close. Just near enough that you can feel his presence shift the air.

“You okay?”

You could lie. Say yes. Say you didn’t even notice.

Instead you say, “Yeah. Just hate surprises.”

He nods like he understands. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t say you’re overreacting.

Just nods, and says, “Me too.”

And you don’t become friends. Not really. You just… exist near each other. You talk a little more. Exchange dry observations. Share long silences that don’t ask to be filled.

It’s nothing. And it’s everything.

Because for once, someone doesn’t make you feel wrong for being how you are.

One night, it gets quiet.

Too quiet.

You’re locking up alone. Everyone else has gone. You thought Luca left too.

But then you see him — in the back alley, smoking something slowly. Leaning against the wall, staring up at the sky like he’s trying to memorize the darkness.

You pause.

He glances over, lifts his chin in a silent greeting.

You hesitate, then walk over — stopping a good few feet away.

He doesn’t move.

You stand there, silent, unsure why you came.

“I thought you had left.” he says suddenly.

“No, I needed to check out some things for tomorrow.”

He nods.

“I leave tomorrow to Boston again.”

Now you nod.

“I was wandering if you want to dinner with me when I come back.” He says confident and now looking at you.

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“You need something? I mean, we can talk if you do.”

He looks clearly confused.

“No, I don’t need anything. I just want to dine with you.”

You swallow.

“Right.” She says sarcastic. “Just say that you want to fuck me, that’s it.”

He finally straightened, his eyes locked on her, completely wide.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He says firmly.

You look away.

“I mean…”

He sighs and turns his cigarette off.

“Goodnight.” He mumbles as he walks away.

You close your eyes and scoff in anger as you leave too.

Why did you say that?

That night you had the same dream, unwanted hands, the tears, the physical ache, the secret you were forced to keep over the years. The pain you learned to live with and the anger that it caused you. 

Because you never asked for it, you were a child, and he was supposed to take care of you.

So, you learned that it was all they wanted from you, and you coped with it, you learned to use it at your favor, but you despised it. You despised yourself for that.

When he came back, you didn’t speak to him. He didn’t either.  And you weren’t going to be the one to fold first, not against him. And even if it wasn’t a competition, you felt like it.

He kept his politeness, and you kept your indifference.

The next shift, someone pats your back in passing.

You flinch. It’s quick, involuntary. You look at the guy as you hear a scoff. “Jesus, Relax.”

You’re ready to snap. Already pulling words like weapons from your throat.

But Luca’s voice cuts through first. “Mate, it’s simple, just don’t touch her.”

The room stills.

You blink, stunned.

He doesn’t look angry. Just… firm. Protective, without being loud.

The guy mutters something and walks off.  You frown silently and look at him.

Luca doesn’t look at you. Just keep working.

And somehow that’s worse. And better. You don’t know how to thank him. So, you don’t.

He noticed how much you didn’t want to be touched, and you thought about it in your room at night.

You wonder if you had to apologize, if you should call him… No, you don’t even have his phone number and what for? 

But you think about his voice. The way it didn’t waver.  You press your forehead to your knees and breathe.

Maybe, just maybe, you could finally dine with him.

[rainandsentences]

Nothing real stays still

a Colin Ritman x f!reader

synopsis: He is there with you no matter what, not even the headaches.

rating: 16+

word count: 6.2k

warnings: mention of mental illnesses and medication, no smut

a/n: i suck at making synopsis but i hope you take the time to read this one! thanks to everyone that has supported me! xo

——————————————————————————

You don’t remember the first time you met Colin.

Or maybe you do, but it’s layered — memory like film that’s been exposed too many times. It plays out differently depending on the light. Sometimes, you think it was a party. Sometimes, a record shop. Sometimes, you swear he was already in your flat before you knew his name.

But however it started — it started.

He looked at you like he already knew you.

And somehow, that felt safer than anything else.

You’d always felt a little off from the world. A step behind or to the left. People talk, and it’s like you’re supposed to be following a script you never got the first page of. You smile, nod, mirror, pretend. They don’t notice.

Colin did.

From the beginning, he didn’t ask surface questions. Didn’t smile for the sake of politeness.

He looked at you and said, “Feels fake, doesn’t it?”

You blinked. “What?”

“All of it,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Life. Structure. Pretending we have free will.”

You stared. He smiled — slow, half-tilted. Not smug. Knowing.

It should’ve scared you.

It didn’t.

You see him often after that.

He shows up in places you weren’t expecting him to be. Underground venues. Cafés with no signage. A rooftop once, where he was already sitting cross-legged on the ledge, smoking something sweet-smelling, like he’d been waiting for you.

Colin is sharp and soft all at once. His mind is a web and you’re never sure where he’ll land. He speaks in riddles, half-truths, theories that sound like spirals.

But when you’re alone with him, it’s different.

There are moments of silence that feel sacred. His fingertips brush yours when he passes you a cigarette. He reads over your shoulder and doesn’t comment — just stays near. You feel seen, but not evaluated.

He never tells you how to be.

You didn’t know how much you needed that.

“I like you,” he says one night, when you’re lying flat on your back in his bed, both of you staring at the ceiling fan as it hums in slow, hypnotic circles.

“You don’t know me,” you answer, voice soft.

He turns his head. “I know the version of you that doesn’t perform.”

You go still.

He reaches over and touches your wrist, like anchoring you in place.

“You think you need to earn being loved,” he says, almost like a thought slipping out. “But you don’t.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t answer.

But you don’t pull away either.

The unraveling begins slow…

It’s not obvious at first. Just little things. A text you’re sure he sent that vanishes from your phone. A conversation you have twice — word for word. A mark on your hand you don’t remember making.

You ask Colin about it. He just says, “Sometimes things loop. It’s not always linear.”

You think he’s messing with you. But his eyes — tired, too clear — don’t lie.

“You’re not scared?” you ask him.

He shrugs. “What’s real is real, whether we can prove it or not.”

That doesn’t help. But you pretend it does.

He kisses you for the first time after you ask him what he’s afraid of.

He says, “Not being able to stay.”

And then he leans in, gentle, hesitant — like he’s not sure if this version of the timeline will let him.

The kiss is soft, deep, slightly trembling.

He tastes like tea and something bitter underneath. His hand rests at the back of your neck like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your presence.

Then all vanishes, you and him.

Then you wake up, feeling dizzy, feeling lost. Then he’s there, his eyes and his firm presence.

Not lost anymore.

You fall harder than you should.

And maybe he does too. But he’s harder to read now.

There are days he’s brilliant — electric — holding your face in his hands and telling you things that make your skin hum. And then there are days he’s gone. Physically there, but his eyes look through you. Like he’s slipping

You try to pull him back with softness. With stillness.

But sometimes he looks at you like he’s already grieving what you haven’t lost yet.

One night, you wake up and he’s pacing.

You feel dizzy and your eyesight is blurry.

The window’s open. Cold air bites your bare skin.

You sit up. “Colin?”

He turns, startled — eyes wide. He’s breathing too fast.

“They changed something,” he says, voice strained. “I can feel it. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

Your heart drops.

He walks over, kneels in front of you, cups your face.

“If I leave,” he whispers, “you have to remember that this — you and me — it mattered.”

You shake your head. “You’re not leaving.”

His hands tremble.

“Colin—”

“I don’t think I get to choose.”

“What are you talking about?” You say as you feel a deep pain in the lower of your head.

He doesn’t seem to notice so you stand up and walk to the bathroom, you wash your face and look at yourself in the mirror. Eye bags and messy hair, the normal everyday look.

You calm his name as you return to the bed, you can’t find him anywhere.

Then you look over your shoulder, he’s still, looking at you.

“Colin?”

“I’m sorry, i don’t know what happened to me.” He whispers.

You see him approaching and you sit down in the bed.

“Let’s just sleep, pretty girl.”

You frowned, he barely called you any pet name. You didn’t mind so you lay down in the bed.

And he stays. That night, at least.

You hold him while he trembles, while his brain spins through timelines and code and fate. You whisper his name like it’s the only thing that can tether him.

And for a moment, he’s still.

You don’t talk about it the next day.

But something has cracked open between you.

The next morning he’s not on your bed, his scent is gone. Like a ghost.

You stand up and step over something, a pill bottle, it’s full. You pick it up and read the label, your name was written on it.

Olanzapine.

“The patient must take the medication as prescribed or the symptoms of delirium and hallucinations will increase.”

A wave of confusion rushed over you.

Hallucinations?

You throw the bottle away and looked around your apartment. Then to a wall, a big poster was there.

And the face on it was familiar.

“The game changes you before you change the game.”

— Colin Ritman

And everything clicked.

You forgot to take the pills, he was never there and you were just staring at his poster.

Then his voice called your name from the kitchen.

You smiled again.

[rainandsentences]

Quiet Proof

a Luca x f!reader

synopsis: no grand gestures. no loud declarations. just quiet proof that he’s not going anywhere.

rating: 16+

warning: attachment insecurity · soft comfort · people pleaser oc · slow emotional build · no smut

word count: 6.3k

a/n: wanted to do something short, i still hope you like it. Thank you for reading. You’re not too much. You never were. 🤍

——————————————————————————

You try not to need too much.

That’s the rule you learned early — keep your voice light, your opinions easy. Don’t be a burden. Don’t make people tired of you.

You’ve always been the one who gives more. You don’t mind, most days. It feels safe, being the helper. The fixer. The one who says, “It’s okay, really.” Even when it’s not.

With Luca, you want so badly to be easy to love.

He doesn’t know that. Not fully.

But you think he sees pieces.

Like now — when you're sitting on the edge of his bed in the soft wash of afternoon light, your hands clenched in your lap because you just apologized for the third time in an hour.

He tilts his head. “You keep saying sorry. Why?”

You freeze. Shrug. “I don’t know.”

But you do.

Because the thought that you might be too much — too talkative, too emotional, too clingy — hums under your skin like an old wound.

He doesn’t push.

He just sits beside you, letting the silence stretch, safe and unjudging.

You were friends before this — before you started sleeping over, before he looked at you like he’d memorized the shape of your laugh.

You think it’s easier when you’re not this close. When it’s casual. Low stakes.

Because now he’s seen you nervous. He’s seen you overthink a text for ten minutes. He’s seen you flinch when plans change and you weren’t ready.

And still — he’s here.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You catch yourself one night, apologizing again.

He’s cooking, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed in concentration as he plates something that smells like butter and thyme and warmth. You’re curled up on the couch, your socked feet tucked under you, and you ask — too softly — if you’re bothering him being here so much.

He looks over his shoulder, confused. “Why would you be bothering me?”

You give a small, noncommittal smile. “I don’t know. Just — I’m here a lot. I don’t want to take up your space.”

He pauses.

Then he puts down the spoon, walks over, and sits beside you. He doesn't say anything at first. Just rests his hand over yours.

“I want you here,” he says, quiet. “Not because I have to say that. But because I look forward to it.”

Your throat tightens.

He squeezes your hand gently. “You don’t need to earn it, you know?”

You nod. But you don’t quite believe him yet.

Not yet.

It gets worse after a bad day.

Your boss nitpicked everything. Your train ran late. You had to cancel dinner with a friend who hasn’t texted back since.

You come over anyway, hoping being near Luca will soothe the ache. But even then, your voice feels too loud. You laugh at the wrong time. You knock over a glass, and it shatters.

You’re on your knees cleaning it up, heart pounding, apologizing again and again.

Luca crouches beside you. “Hey,” he says softly. “Stop.”

You stop.

He gently takes the glass from your hands. His fingers graze yours — steady, warm.

“It’s just a glass.”

You stare at the floor. You’re blinking too fast. You don’t want to cry over this. You don’t want to be that person.

But your chest is tight, and the shame in your ribs won’t go down.

He senses it.

So he sits with you on the kitchen floor, silent for a beat. Then: “Did someone make you feel like you always had to say sorry?”

You don’t answer.

You just remembered your father always yelled.

Your shoulders shake a little.

And that’s enough.

He leans his shoulder against yours, grounding.

“It's okay, darling.” he murmurs.

You fall asleep on his chest later, tear-damp and quiet, your body finally relaxing. He doesn’t say anything when you cling to his shirt in your sleep. Doesn’t move when your arm ends up awkwardly across his stomach. He just holds you tighter.

You don’t know how long it’ll take for the fear to go away — the fear that if you say the wrong thing, need too much, he’ll leave like the others.

But you’re learning.

Because Luca stays. Every time.

Without asking you to be easier, or smaller, or quieter.

And for once — That’s enough.

[rainandsentences]

It stays

a luca x f!reader

synopsis: she didn’t mean for him to see the scars. but he didn’t flinch. he didn’t ask. he just held her hand.

rating: 16+

warning: mention of self-harm scars, slight mention of intimacy.

word count: 6k

a/n: here’s another one, i hope y’all like it. i write it with all the admiration and respect when it comes to slf hrm.

if you ever went through it, you’re so brave and the world is lucky to have you here. 🕊️

——————————————————————————

You’re not sure when you started dreading the quiet moments — the soft pauses between conversations, the seconds before taking your shirt off, the flickers of stillness when there’s nothing left to hide behind.

There are things you’ve never shown anyone.

Not just because you want to hide.

But because you’re terrified of being seen — and then left.

He has been always understanding.

Since they met that day in the restaurant, since he glanced at her with his blue eyes, since the first day and the first kiss.

Because that’s him.

Tender, Kind.

And you didn’t want to scare him away.

And there you are, quiet now — hidden under the fabric of a long-sleeved shirt even though it’s warm in Luca’s apartment. You sit cross-legged on his couch, wrapped in a soft throw, your hair pulled up, a mug cooling between your palms. He’s finishing the dishes, sleeves rolled, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

The two of you have been in this thing — this almost-relationship — for a few months now. Close enough that he knows how you take your coffee. That you hate being tickled. That you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot.

You should be tired. You should say you should go. But you don’t. He hasn’t asked you to.

You think about telling him. Not everything. Just the barest truth: I have scars and they are not pleasant to look at.

But the words stay in your throat.

He joins you with a smile, nudging your foot under the blanket with his. “You falling asleep on me?”

You shrug. “Maybe.”

He grins. “You look like a cozy little burrito.”

“High praise.”

“You’re the best kind of burrito.”

You laugh softly, but your fingers curl tighter around the mug. 

He notices. He always does.

You end up watching an old movie — the kind you’ve both seen a dozen times, which makes it easier to talk over it, or drift off mid-scene. His hand finds yours somewhere in the second act, and the quiet between you softens.

It’s like that for a while — easy. Steady

Until you stretch without thinking.

The blanket slips. Your sleeve rides up.

And everything stills.

You feel it the second it happens. The air shifts. His gaze catches for a second too long on your forearm — on the pale, faded scars that curve across your skin like old, half-healed confessions.

Your breath halts.

“Shit” You tug the blanket back up. “Sorry” You pull your sleeve down fast. Too fast.

Luca doesn’t say anything right away. And somehow, that makes it worse.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” you say quietly.

“I know,” he says.

Your throat tightens.

“Well, it’s nothing.” You say and look away.

There they are, an old reminder of how low you were, of how much you improved and the meaning that you chose to stay.

He shifts closer. Not pressing. Not forcing. Just… there. Present.

You’re ready for the questions. For him to ask when, or why, or what happened.

You’ve answered those before, quietly, in therapists’ offices and to one or two friends you trusted just enough. You could do it again if he asked.

But he doesn’t.

He says, gently, “Can I hold your hand?”

You blink and look at him, his gentle gaze on you.

Not judging, not pitying, understanding.

Then you nod.

“I’m not gonna ask what happened. Unless you want me to.”

You nod, honestly, you could tell him.

Of your dark years of high school, your terrible family and your abusive friends.

But you chose not to.

“I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t.”

You wait for pity.

What you get is warmth.

Of course, it’s Luca.

He’s like that.

And that made you lose a weight you had no idea you were carrying.

“I don’t do it anymore, it… it’s okay.” You say simply.

He brushes his thumb across your knuckles. “Sadness doesn’t scare me.”

You don’t say anything.

“But losing you would,” he adds. “So, tell me if you ever feel like… doing it again.”

“I won’t!”

He doesn’t flinch, just nods and gives a soft kiss on your hands. He stands up and caress your cheek before leaving to his bedroom.

——————————————————————————

You knock at the door later.

“It’s open.” He says softly.

“I… I better get going.” You say.

“It’s too late.”

“I’ll get an uber, it’s no big deal.”

“No, if you want to go i’ll take you.”

You gaze at the clock.

12:54

“Do you mind if… if i stay?”

He looks at you, surprised.

You’ve never asked to stay.

But he doesn’t mind.

You borrow one of his hoodies and stay in underwear.

The light dim and the sheets cool against your back, you hesitate. You always do.

“You okay?” he asks, already propped up on one elbow, watching you with quiet patience.

“Yeah.” You smile softly.

“You don’t have to hide anything from me.” He caresses your knuckles softly.

“I’m not hiding.” You chuckle.

“You’re protecting yourself. That’s different.”

He reaches for the hem of his hoodie on you. He touches it slightly, asking for permission. You let him.

He lifts it slowly, his eyes never sharp, never prying. He sees the scars.

He doesn’t flinch.

He leans down and kisses the inside of your arm. Right where the line curves.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers.

“I thought you’d think they were ugly,” you admit, breath catching.

“I think they’re yours,” he says. “And that’s never been ugly to me.”

“I’m sorry i yelled before.”

“It’s okay.” He says now looking at you.

And as you loom at him a little tingle in your stomach grows.

The sight of his messy blonde hair, his blue eyes and thin lips makes you admire him almost in devotion.

He also looks at you the same way, you feel it, you know it.

But you’ve never done anything like that.

You’ve kissed before but what you were thinking was another step.

And Luca doesn’t know yet. Not because you’ve kept it a secret — but because it never felt like the right time to say. Until now.

He touches your cheek and slowly leans to kiss you, softly and tenderly as always.

You break the kiss and your hand moves to his chest. “Can I tell you something?”

His expression softens. “Anything.”

“I… i know we’ve never talked about this… like, going all the way.”

His eyebrows come up in an instant.

“You mean?” He says suggesting.

“Yes.”

You swallow. “I’ve never… done this before.” You look down. “Not with anyone.”

A pause.

“Okay,” he says. Not surprised. Not disappointed. Just — okay. Like it changes nothing.

“You don’t have to,” he adds, gently. “We don’t have to.”

“The thing is that I do want to.” Your voice is quiet, but certain. “I just… I want it to be with you.”

He nods.

“Okay.”

“You want to?” You ask softly.

“Yes, i want to.” He smiles softly.

You nod and he kisses you again, this time differently. Firmer, constant.

He touches you like a secret. Like a memory. Like something he doesn’t want to rush.

The hoodie comes off, but not in a hurry. Your scars are exposed again — and again, he doesn’t flinch.

When he kisses you, it’s not out of desire alone — it’s reverent. It’s an I see you. It’s an I’m here.

His mouth traces the path from your shoulder to your wrist. His hands ask before they move. He looks at you every step of the way, making sure you’re still with him.

And you are.

You say yes with your eyes, your breath, the way your fingers curl into his when he rests above you, weight held with care.

There’s no pressure. No urgency. Just this quiet, growing warmth that rises and pulses and carries you both into something new.

When he finally moves inside you, he holds your gaze. Forehead to forehead. Breath shared.

And it’s not what you were afraid it would be — it’s not something taken.

It’s something given.

Something shared.

After, you lie tangled in the sheets, your bare arm across his chest. He traces slow circles on your back, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

You don’t need to.

Because this — this quiet, this stillness, this love — says everything.

You are here.

You are held.

You are loved.

Not despite the scars.

But with them.

[rainandsentences]

[rainandsentences]

Not too close

a luca x f!reader

synopsis: She’s never been shy — not with her laughter, not with her words. But when it comes to her skin, she hides behind makeup like armor. One careless comment at a night out leaves her spiraling, but Luca sees through the silence.

rating: 16+

word count: 6k!

warnings: openly speaking about acne

a/n: here’s another os for this gorgeous man. i must say that this is a very important piece for me as i struggle with this myself so i hope everyone that lives the same feels recognized and appreciated. everyone is worth of love.

——————————————————————————

You weren’t supposed to be here tonight.

It was supposed to be dinner at home, just you and Luca. But at the last second one call and the big invitation for both to stop by to a fancy restaurant to get some drinks and celebrate the birthday of one of his friends.

You’re not shy.

You never have been.

That’s the thing people always misunderstand about you — as if being quiet about your skin meant you were quiet about everything else. But you’re loud, often the first to laugh, the last to leave, the one who dances when no one else will. You just prefer not to be seen too closely. Not under harsh lighting. Not with bare cheeks.

You’ve always had acne. Since you were twelve. Then scars, hyperpigmentation, that one angry bump that always comes back in the same place.

Even now — grown, independent, loved — you still keep a tinted moisturizer by your bed. Just in case.

So now, as you were invited, you don’t hesitate to say yes. Maybe you would’ve preferred just you and him snuggling in bed after a good homemade dinner but if you were attending, you’ll be sure of having fun. When it comes time to get ready, you give yourself nearly two hours. Not because of your outfit. But because of the mirror.

Foundation. Color corrector. Powder. A gentle contour. Blush — just enough to look effortless.

You know how to wear your skin like armor.

And sometimes you wish you didn’t have to put all of that on you to feel better, safer.

You see his tall figure at the door of your room, his navy blue shirt with two open buttons lit up his face, framing his eyes and blonde hair.

“Ready, gorgeous?” He always spoke with a compliment.

You just nodded as you walked towards him.

“May i have a kiss before?” He says softly.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.” He leans over.

Your lips met his softly, tender like him.

And after that a soft smile decorated your face.

The restaurant is one of those warm, low-lit places where everyone looks golden. Luca’s friends are already there when you arrive — a few chefs, two stylists, someone who knows someone from Bon Appétit. You recognize a few faces. They smile at you like they already know who you are, which both helps and hurts.

As soon as you sit down in the restaurant, under the flickering candlelight and the warm glow of twinkling lights, you feel it: eyes.

Not judgmental. Not exactly. But… observant.

The woman across from you — tall, toned, with perfect skin and one of those voices that sounds expensive — leans in.

She compliments your earrings. You thank her and finally relax.

You look at Luca, laughing and smiling without glancing occasionally at you to make sure you’re doing well.

Adele, that was the name of the woman. You got lost between all her comments, her lifestyle, her successful husband and her recent trip to Rome. The comment was unexpected, soft.

“I love how you can pull off a full face without it looking cakey. I’d break out like crazy. But your skin’s probably used to it, right?”

The other women laughs — not meanly. Just lightly. Like it’s a joke.

Like you are a joke.

Your stomach flips. For a second, you don’t breathe.

“She didn’t mean it,” someone might say. “It was just a passing comment.”

But it wasn’t. Not to you.

To you, it’s middle school. It’s your first dance. It’s the first time someone said “ew.” It’s your mom telling you “don’t touch it, it’ll get worse.” It’s the pharmacy aisles, the photos you untagged, the years of hoping no one noticed.

You blink down at your napkin, pretending to check your phone. You force a smile. Luca’s voice threads through the conversation like silk, but he keeps glancing at you.

He saw it. He felt the shift.

And you?

You’re trying to cope with it so you excuse yourself to the bathroom after the entrees are served. You say it casually, even make a joke. “Too much wine,” you quip.

But when the door closes behind you, you stare into the mirror and feel everything break.

Your concealer has faded on one cheek, revealing the raised bump beneath. Your nose is shiny. Your chin is textured — scarred, angry. You press a finger against it and instantly regret it.

No, No, No…

You feel sick. Small. Like a paper cut no one sees.

Your hands start to tremble. You feel the panic blooming beneath your ribs — the kind that tells you to leave before you make a scene. Before someone else notices.

You text Luca:

“Hey, I might Uber back early. Don’t want to be the tired girlfriend, but I think the wine hit me wrong.”

You put your phone away. Try to breathe.

Minutes later you hear a knock.

You flinch. But it’s not the knock of a stranger.

“Babe?”

Luca’s voice. Soft. Gentle. Just outside the door.

You open it a crack. “I’m okay,” you lie.

“Don’t worry, we’re leaving.” He says.

“What? No, i’ll go.”

“Nonsenses, we got here together and we leave together. Come on.” He kindly holds her arm, taking her out of the bathroom.

He speaks to the table and with a few smiles they finally leave.

The drive home is silent.

You enter the apartment and go straight to the balcony. The cold breeze caressing your face, your bumpy face.

You don’t say any thing. You don’t have to. Luca stands next to you, hands in his coat pockets, not pushing.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

You shake your head. “It’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” he says.

You stare at the reflection in the glass behind him. You can see the way your foundation has started to crack slightly near your nose, the way the scar on your chin is catching the light now that the powder’s worn thin.

You swallow. “She didn’t mean anything by it. Probably.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

A soft pause.

“I always wear makeup,” you murmur. “Even when I don’t need to.”

You take a breath. “It’s not just the breakouts. It’s what they mean. Every time I look in the mirror, I see failure. Like I didn’t do enough. Wash enough. Cover it right.”

- “I’ve tried everything. Dermatologists, diets, no dairy, every serum. Still, it just… stays. And no one says it out loud, but I know what people think. That I’m dirty. That I don’t take care of myself. That I’m ugly.”

Luca turns toward you, slow. “Can I say something?

“Do you remember when I told you your skin doesn’t scare me? And that there’s no reason to say that.”

You smile, barely. “I remember you said that while you were making pasta like it was nothing.”

He leans a little closer. “It is nothing. To me.”

You exhale.

“But to you,” he continues, “it’s everything. I know. I know how much it costs you to take it off. Even with me.”

Your throat tightens.

He continues, softer now. “You’re not hiding anything from me. You’re surviving. You don’t have to, not with me.”

You close your eyes.

“I just wanted tonight to feel normal,” you whisper. “Like I wasn’t carrying this thing around on my face.”

He doesn’t move for a second. Then, he walks forward — slowly, deliberately — and gently places his hands on yours, still pressed against your cheek.

He doesn’t pull them down.

He just waits.

After a long pause, you let him.

And then, Luca does the thing you least expect. The thing that breaks you open in the best possible way.

He leans in… and kisses your cheek.

Right where the raised scar is.

Right where the pain sits.

It’s not pity. It’s not reassurance.

It’s love. Quiet, tender love.

Your breath catches. Your memory goes back to eight grade, to that boy who openly said how disgusting your cheeks were.

You look at him.

He squeezed his nose with a tender smile.

“Pretty girl.” He whispers.

And you breathe again.

You don’t take off your makeup that night.

Or the next one.

But just when you felt right, you walked to the bathroom. You take your time. It’s not a dramatic, cinematic thing. It’s real. You run warm water. Rub the balm into your skin. Watch the layers melt. You pause when you see yourself fully bare — red marks, texture, scars.

You touch your cheek lightly.

Then you walk out.

Luca’s in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, making tea. He turns, sees you — sees all of you — and doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t look surprised. Or polite. He just looks like he sees you.

And you feel your shoulders loosen, just a little.

He hands you the mug. “Chamomile okay?”

You nod, voice caught.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “You look beautiful.”

You look away. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” He says it like fact.

You don’t cry that night. You let yourself laugh when he tells a dumb story. You let your face be touched. You let your skin exist.

And when you fall asleep on his chest — bare-faced, scared, brave — he doesn’t say anything. Just brushes his thumb across the spot he kissed and holds you closer.

Like you’re soft.

Like you’re safe.

Like you’ve never been anything less than beautiful.

[rainandsentences]

Do you see me like this?

a luca and f! plus size reader

synopsis: You’re confident, outgoing — but the weight of old insecurities lingers. One quiet night in Luca’s kitchen, you ask the question you’re afraid to voice: do you really see me?

rating: 16+

word count:4k

warnings: none!

a/n: this is a very important os for me and the beginning of what i’m trying to be a series. everyone has insecurities and it’s important to be seen and understood about them. what i’m trying to do is find beauty in them. i hope y’all like it.

——————————————————————————

Luca’s kitchen smells like butter and warmth. Not just heat — warmth — the kind that softens your edges.

It’s almost midnight. The lights are dimmed low. You’re curled on the counter in his oversized hoodie, legs tucked beneath you, hair a little messy, face bare. No armor. Just you.

The hoodie’s big, but not enough to hide how your body curves — your stomach soft, thighs generous, the kind of full-bodied presence that some people glance past and others try to whisper around.

But not him. Not Luca.

He moves through the kitchen quietly, like he respects the silence. He dries a cup that doesn’t need drying. Wipes down a spotless counter. It’s his way of giving you space. Letting you breathe.

Your fingers toy with the drawstring on the hoodie.

You’re not shy. You’re the kind of person who talks loud when you’re excited, who dresses with intention, who laughs without checking if anyone else is laughing. But some nights — like this one — your thoughts catch up to you.

You shift, feeling the pressure of the counter under your thighs.

Your body has always been something you carry with both pride and caution. You don’t hate it — not anymore. But you know how the world sees it. How some people call it brave to wear a crop top, how love always felt like something you had to earn, not simply receive.

Luca doesn’t make you feel that way. He makes sure you feel good, to remind you every day with lazy kisses in the morning or soft touches in the couch. Sometimes your minds just flutters around, thinks of the what if …

“Hey,” you say quietly, half to the room, half to him.

He looks up right away. “Yeah?” His blue eyes lightened slightly , framing his features.

You pause. “Do you ever… think about how people see you?”

He cocks his head, thoughtful. “What do you mean, gorgeous?”

You sigh and sit down correctly. “Like, the way you’re perceived by others. Physically.”

He makes a soft frown with his mouth. “Sometimes,” he says. “ Especially when I was younger.“

She nods.

“Why?” He leans on the counter.

“Well, there’s this thing where you have to change to be accepted, like if ruining your insides and making yourself look good to the exterior will make you worth of something.”

“You’re philosophical today.” He smiles softly but when he looks at you face his smiles drops slightly.

You look at your hands. “I used to think if I could just change enough, someone would love me easier.”

There’s no pity in his expression — only presence.

“I don’t feel like that with you,” you add quickly. “But sometimes, the thoughts sneak back in.”

He nods and steps a little closer.

“Can I tell you what I see?” he asks gently.

You nod, you tend to be confident, you would tease him sometimes with eye contact but tonight it’s different.

“I see someone whose presence fills a room before they speak. I see strength, softness, confidence — and when it flickers, I see the courage to stay anyway. I see a body...” He pauses and exhales “A body to die for.”

You try to laugh it off, but your throat tightens.

“Well, i don’t -“

He interrupted you.

“And I see the body of someone I want to know in every light,” he says. “Not to fix. Not to change. Just… to know.”

You breathe in, slow and shaky.

“It’s wild,” you say. “How something I’ve learned to carry with caution — you speak about like it’s something sacred.”

He shrugs lightly. “Maybe it is.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps close enough for his knees to brush yours.

“Maybe the body that’s held your joy and pain and courage deserves more than tolerance. Maybe it deserves reverence.”

Something breaks open in you — gently.

“No one’s ever said it like that.”

Luca smiles softly. “I meant every word.”

“I’ve spent so long trying not to take up space,” you whisper.

“You don’t just take up space,” he says. “You belong in it.”

You sit with that. Let it sink into the corners of you that usually brace for rejection.

Then, almost shyly, you say, “Sometimes I wish someone had told me younger that softness isn’t failure. That full doesn’t mean unlovable.”

He brushes a thumb across your cheek. “You deserve someone who never asks you to shrink.”

You search his face. “And you’re that person?”

“I’m trying to be. Every day.”

You smile, just barely. “You’re making it hard to keep believing the old stories in my head.”

“Then I’ll just keep telling you new ones,” he says.

And when he leans in to kiss you, it’s slow — not claiming, not fixing. Just being. His hand settles on your thigh like it’s meant to rest there, and for once, you don’t flinch. You let him hold the softest parts of you like they’re just as worthy.

Later, curled up with him on the couch, your body tucked into his without hesitation, you don’t feel like you need to earn his gaze. You’re not bracing for rejection.

You’re allowing love to land in a body you’ve spent years learning to make peace with.

And in this moment — soft, full, real — you feel something rare:

Safe.

[rainandsentences]

Why Ethel Cain songs are just so painful and comforting at the same time?

[rainandsentences]

Open Requests

Hey! This is a small space for you to know what characters/celebrities i will be writing for. Maybe i can expand my options if you request it!

Pedro Pascal (any of his characters)

Will Poulter (any of his characters)

Mike Faist ( Any of his characters)

The Maze Runner character

TWD characters

TLOU characters

The Hunger Games characters

Please include pronouns and any other relevant details, it will help me add details so the story sounds natural.

Also, I will not write the following:

Rape, cheating, domestic violence.

And thank you very much for sticking around!

Feel free to message me or to drop your request below.

xo, nina.

[rainandsentences]

⸻

✨𓂃 ࣪˖ ࿐

Welcome to my account

𓍯·˚ ༘

Hi, I’m Nina! My pronouns are she/her. English isn’t my first language, so please be kind about any little mistakes ♡

My requests are open! Don’t be shy — send me a message anytime. I love talking about characters, feelings, soft moments, and a little angst (okay… maybe a lot of angst sometimes).

Sometimes I include pictures for the aesthetic, but they’re never meant to describe the reader! I want everyone to feel seen and imagined.

Thanks for stopping by <3

drop your request ;)

⸻

[rainandsentences]

𝘈 𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺

a luca x f!neighbor reader

synopsis: A rainy morning in Copenhagen. The power’s out. You’re alone. Somehow, knocking on Luca’s door feels like the only thing that makes sense

rating: 16+

word count: 2.1k

warnings: none

a/n: this is my first work here! i hope y’all like it, i haven’t seen many os with luca so i said: “why not?”

——————————————————————————

The rain had started before sunrise, steady and soundless against the thick windows of the building. You woke to the hush of electricity gone missing—no hum from the fridge, no click from the radiator, no light when you pressed the switch beside your bed.

Copenhagen, in June, still held a chill.

You threw on a hoodie and socks, wandering to the kitchen out of habit, only to find the coffee machine useless and blinking nothing at all. You stood there for a moment too long, your fingers curled around the empty mug, wondering if this loneliness was yours or just the weather’s.

It wasn’t the first time the power went out, but this morning felt different. Heavier. Quieter.

The kind of quiet that made you feel too present in your own skin.

You padded down the hallway and stopped in front of the door across from yours. Third floor, apartment C. You didn’t exactly know him, not really, but you’d exchanged enough glances in the stairwell to gather a few truths: his name was Luca, he didn’t smile much, and he always held the door for you.

That felt like enough.

You knocked once, then again, softer, almost hoping he wouldn’t hear.

He did.

The door opened slowly. Luca blinked back at you, half-awake, hoodie on backward, sleeves pushed up. His hair stuck out in strange directions, flattened on one side like he’d slept deeply. There was flour on his left wrist.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, rough with sleep but still kind.

You hesitated. “Yeah. I just—power’s out. ”

A beat. A quick gaze. Then he stepped aside. 

“Come in.”

Inside, it smelled like something warm. Something sweet. Pastry dough. Butter. Sugar browned to the edge of caramel. He had lit a few tea candles in the kitchen, just enough to cast soft pools of light on the counter. It made everything feel closer. Quieter.

“I boiled water about half an hour ago,” he said. “Still warm. Tea okay?”

You nodded, a little stunned by how gentle he was with the silence between you.

He handed you a mug—something herbal and soft—and you took it with two hands, grateful for the heat. You watched him as he moved through the kitchen with quiet focus. There was something comforting about the way he existed—careful, precise, not in a hurry to fill space.

“I thought I’d be the only one awake this early,” you said.

He glanced up. “Old habit. Kitchen rhythm.”

You smiled. “Still baking on your day off?”

He shrugged. “It’s just… what I do.”

He turned back to the counter where a bowl of dough waited under a towel. He lifted it gently, checked the rise, and nodded to himself. Then, without speaking, he dusted the surface with flour and began folding.

His movements were fluid. Practiced. Respectful.

You sat on the windowsill, watching him work. It didn’t feel intrusive, somehow. Just… natural.

He looks calm, the view of his back as he works a pale dough and his blonde hair a little messy than usual.

“Am I interrupting?” she says softly.

“No.” he answers calmly. “Your company it’s unusual, that’s it.”

“I know, we barely speak.”

“Now we have enough time.” his gaze peeks at her for a brief second.

She nods as he could see her and sighs.

“Where are you from?” she asks. “I can have a hint for your accent.”

“Take a guess.”

“London.”

He imitated the sound of a winning bell.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked.

Luca looked up, brow lifting slightly.

“London,” you clarified. “The chaos. The rush.”

He was quiet for a moment, then returned to shaping the dough.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But then I make bread… and I forget.”

“Just like that?”

“No,” he said, a small twitch of amusement near his mouth. “But it helps.”

You stared down into your mug. “I used to think noise meant I was alive. Now I wonder if I was just trying not to hear myself.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. Not with pity, but something steadier. Understanding.

“I know what that feels like,” he said.

He moved around the kitchen slowly, folding, pressing, setting the dough aside again. You watched his hands more than the motion. They were strong, but not rough. Clean. Sure.

You weren’t sure how long you sat like that. Just the two of you. The kind of silence that asks nothing of you. The kind that feels like a conversation.

After a few seconds she felt comfortable enough to ask, “Do you ever… wish you had someone here?”

Why did she asked ? No idea. But she wanted to know, why not?

The question came out softer than intended. But it hung in the room, suspended.

Luca didn’t flinch. He rested his hands on the edge of the counter, fingers dusted with flour, and let out a breath.

“I think about it,” he said. “I don’t know if I’d be good at it.”

You tilted your head. “At what?”

“Letting someone in.”

You wanted to say you understood. That maybe letting someone in wasn’t about knowing how—it was about wanting to try. But the words caught behind your teeth.

Instead, you asked, “What would it look like, if you did?”

He was quiet for a long time.

“Someone who’s okay with silence,” he said finally. “Someone who doesn’t need fixing. Who doesn’t try to fix me, either.”

Your throat tightened.

“That doesn’t sound so hard,” you murmured.

He smiled then. Small. Almost shy.

“It might be the hardest thing.”

And all of the sudden the lights flickered back without warning. The soft buzz of the refrigerator kicked in. The heater stuttered and then settled into its familiar hum. The world returned.

You stood, unsure whether to thank him or apologize for showing up unannounced. You weren’t even sure what you had been looking for when you knocked on his door. Warmth? Company? Something not so lonely?

You took a breath.

“I should let you get back to your Sunday,” you said.

He wiped his hands on a towel. “You could stay.”

Your eyes met his.

“If you want,” he added.

You nodded. Quietly.

You helped him prep the counter, your movements unpolished next to his, but he didn’t mind. He offered guidance with soft words and half-smiles, correcting your folding with gentle hands. At one point, your fingers brushed, and neither of you pulled away.

He poured coffee once the machine kicked back on. Made toast with marmalade. Nothing extravagant, but it felt like an offering.

You talked, then. Slowly. About Copenhagen. About nothing. About everything. He asked what you did, and you told him. He nodded like it mattered. Like you mattered.

And when the rain finally slowed to a mist, and you stood again near the door, he said:

“You can come by next Sunday. I usually make too much.”

You smiled. “Only if I get to help this time.”

He handed you a small linen-wrapped bundle. Still warm.

“For now,” he said.

Back in your apartment, you unwrapped it carefully.

A single pastry. Golden. Perfect.

It tasted like quiet mornings. Like soft places. Like maybe, just maybe, you’d found something you weren’t looking for.

And maybe, you’d knock again next Sunday—just because.