#code behind perception

[ingoampt]

Day 9 _ Deep Learning _ Perception

Here I explain perception in 3 different ways which can show same purpose but first only explain the mathematic behind perception to show what’s the mathematic behind Perception when we import perception in a deep learning code , we also show this mathematic in a code based so how the code look if we do not import perception and wanna do it with mathematic. Lastly, we show how it look like ima a…

[skitskatdacat63]

Oh my god....Strollonso are so "The Boy With The Thorn in His Side" coded

[1800-fight-me]

Safety in Your Arms

Logan Howlett x Female!Reader Rating: M (Mature but as always-MINORS DO NOT INTERACT) Warnings: Cursing, threats of violence, stranger danger i.e. stalking but don't worry Logan saves the day Word count: A bit over 2k Synopsis: Logan protects you from the unwanted advances of another man and shows protectiveness and care you didn't know he had for you. Author’s note: I'm thinking this might need a part two, let me know what y'all think- I hope you enjoy! P.S. I do not have a taglist! Instead if you would like to be notified when I post new fics follow my side blog @jo-writes-fanfic and turn your post notifications on! Comments and reblogs make my day! Logan Howlett Masterlist Main Masterlist

There was a cold panic that shot down your spine. Fight or flight, you’d learned the technical term, but now experienced it for yourself. 

The five minute walk between your work and your apartment had never felt so long. It all started with a creepy customer- which was a regular occurrence at your job- but this customer took it far beyond creepy. 

He tried to make too much small talk, stared too much, made a few too many over the line comments, and was entirely too pushy when asking for your phone number. Your one male coworker escorted him out and you thought that was the end of it. 

Hours went by, you assured your coworkers multiple times that you were fine and you were safe, and eventually you were the last one left to close and lock up. 

But only one block away from your workplace, you had the feeling of being watched- of being followed. And it was just your luck that your phone was dead and you’d forgotten your charger at home.

You changed your route, taking one that was a bit longer but also more well lit and populated. With a glance back you confirmed your worry, that it was in fact the same creepy guy from hours before. 

Your heart pounded with terror as you contemplated every option for safety. Your apartment building required a code to enter, so you sped your walk, hoping if you slipped into the building and shut the door behind you that it would be enough. 

“Hey,” the man’s voice called out, but you refused to look back. 

Your apartment building was within sight, but the man’s catcalls and jeers were also getting louder and closer. 

“Hey, c’mere pretty lady! I’ve got somethin’ for ya!” 

Your whole body shuddered in fear. Your next door neighbor stepped outside of the front door of the apartment building and you nearly sobbed in relief. 

“Logan!” you called out. 

He looked up in surprise, but his expression quickly turned to concern as he saw the stress in your entire demeanor. 

You practically ran to him and threw your arms around his torso in a hug he clearly did not expect. He hugged you back, but you felt him stiffen as he looked behind you. 

That was one thing about Logan, he was extremely perceptive and quick to notice any form of danger. 

“Hey bub, what can I do for you?” he said to the man behind you in a gruff tone that was not at all welcoming as he gently maneuvered you so that you stood safely behind him. 

You gripped Logan’s strong bicep as you peered around his shoulder at the stalker. 

“I was just-” 

“Just nothin’. You better leave her alone,” Logan interrupted. 

“C’mon, I was just inviting the pretty lady to have a good time. Does he speak for you?” the creep asked as he made eye contact with you. The malice in his eyes made your heartbeat spike again. 

“Yeah, he’s my boyfriend,” you said nervously. 

He glanced between you and Logan as if uncertain. 

“She just told you, she’s mine- so fuck off,” Logan growled. A different kind of shiver went down your spine. 

“You live here?” the man asked. 

“No,” Logan growled before you could even open your mouth. “But I do, and if I see you around here again it’ll be a problem.” 

The man looked at Logan and finally seemed to take in the gravity of the situation, the danger that the large muscled man protecting you could pose. 

He gulped and nodded, yielded a step back as Logan took a step forward- muscles tense and fist clenched. 

The man turned and scurried away. You took your first full deep breath in several long minutes. 

Logan watched the man until he was completely out of view before he turned to you. He placed a large comforting hand on your shoulder and you looked up at him with tears in your eyes. 

“Princess,” he said in a gentle voice. 

He pulled you into a hug as a tear fell from your eye and made its way down your cheek. You were enveloped in his warmth and woodsy masculine scent and finally felt safe. 

“Thanks for pretending to be my boyfriend,” you said as you pulled back and wiped the tears from your eyes. 

“Anytime,” he said with a smirk. Your breath caught and you bit your lip as you looked up at him and saw such care and concern on his handsome face. 

“Who was that guy?” he asked. 

You shrugged, “Some crazy customer from earlier today, my coworker made him leave, but I guess he came back and waited until I was leaving alone….” 

Logan’s brow furrowed and he gritted his teeth. “That motherfucker,” he growled, “I’m walking you to and from work tomorrow.” 

“You don’t have to-” 

“No, I do. And I’ll do it until I’m sure he isn’t gonna bother you anymore. And if he shows up again…” he trailed off as his claws extended from his fist in an action that seemed involuntary due to his rage. 

A shiver ran down your spine. You had no idea Logan felt so protective over you. 

“Thank you,” you said in a soft voice, “I appreciate it.” 

This was not helping your ridiculous crush on your neighbor. From the minute he moved in with your friend Wade, you had heart eyes for him. 

The Wolverine, he took your breath away without even trying. With his large stature, huge muscles, and handsome face- you were a goner. It didn’t matter that he was older, way out of your league, and generally altogether grumpy. You were head over heels for him, and you were certain he had never noticed you before, that he merely thought you were Wade’s annoying friend. 

But you adored him, you adored the gentle heart you knew he buried under that gruff exterior, and displays of protectiveness such as this only proved what an amazing person you already knew he was. 

“I’m headed to meet Wade at the bar, d’you wanna come?” he offered. 

You nodded eagerly, not wanting to be alone after the stress of the day. 

“Lead the way,” you said with a smile. 

—--------

“Look who I brought,” Logan said as you walked behind him into the bar and approached a booth in the back corner. 

He stepped to the side so your friends could see you. Wade, Vanessa, and Dopinder sat at the table, already laughing and drinking beer. 

Wade gasped dramatically and exclaimed, “Princess Cupcake!” 

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your lips betrayed you and showed your amusement. 

“Hey Wade,” you replied then greeted the others. 

“What? No comeback? I’m hurt! What’s wrong?” he asked, speaking in that way too fast pattern that was his norm. 

Logan placed a hand on your back and leaned down closer to your ear as he asked quietly, “You wanna sit down? I can get you a drink- what do you want?” 

You smiled and sat down as you were told and told him your drink order. 

Wade wiggled his non-existent eyebrows at you in a rather suggestive manner. 

“What’s up between you and peanut? Did you finally fu-” 

“No,” you interjected quickly. 

“Wade, she’s clearly upset and Logan is helping her,” Vanessa said as she elbowed her boyfriend. 

You sighed and explained the events of your afternoon. During your explanation Logan came back to the table with two drinks and sat next to you. His large form crowded you into the corner of the booth, but you didn’t mind. 

“That motherfucker,” Wade said in anger at the end of your story. Vanessa gave you a look of solidarity, you knew she had experienced plenty of creepy men in her life. 

“That’s what I said,” Logan replied, clearly somewhat amused. 

“We should kill him,” Dopinder said.

“Calm down wannabe-vigilante,” you muttered which caused everyone to chuckle. 

“Don’t worry cupcake, ole honey badger and I will make sure you’re safe,” Wade reassured. 

You nodded and said, “I appreciate it, but I don’t think he’ll return. Logan can be pretty intimidating, it was amazing - I’m sure he scared him off.”

Logan grunted in agreement, although when you looked at him you could’ve sworn there was a tint of pink on his cheeks and the tops of his ears. 

As the evening stretched on, you were thoroughly distracted from your troubles and amused by Wade’s antics and Dopinder’s stories. 

“So, Princess Cupcake, any luck on the dating front?” Wade asked. 

You tugged at the sleeves of your shirt- a nervous habit, and without looking up from the table said, “Nope.” 

Logan let out a soft sigh of what your aching heart could only hope was relief. 

“I’ve never asked, what’s with the nickname?” Dopinder asked. 

You shrugged and gestured to Wade. 

“When Blind Al and I moved into our apartment this sweetie pie here brought us cupcakes!” Wade explained. 

“Good thing it was cupcakes instead of a pie because being constantly called sweetie pie would make me want to die,” you muttered and everyone laughed. 

“What about the princess part though?” Dopinder asked. 

“Just look at her,” Logan mumbled and you and everyone at the table looked over at him in surprise. 

“She’s got that innocent sort of pretty you only see in big bright eyed animated Disney princesses,” Wade said. 

Embarrassed at the attention you changed the subject immediately. Your constant filthy thoughts about Logan proved you were anything but innocent. 

“But why is Logan’s nickname peanut?” you asked quickly. 

Wade shrugged, “Just fits.” 

Logan rolled his eyes. 

You smirked and said, “I bet we could come up with a hundred nicknames for him that would fit better.” 

“Like what?” Wade challenged. 

You glanced over at the large handsome man sitting next to you as your face warmed. 

Daddy was the first word that came to mind. Wade chuckled in a way that made you momentarily worried that mind reading was one of his mutant abilities. 

The silence at the table stretched on, becoming a tad awkward, before you said, “Nevermind I’m not very good with nicknames anyways.” 

“Yeah, it’s probably best to leave choosing nicknames to the professional,” Vanessa said in a joking tone to ease the tension. You shot her a look of gratitude and she winked at you before she effectively changed the subject all together. 

Eventually, after enough drinks and conversation, you declared that it was time for you to go home. 

“C’mon!” Wade protested. “The night has just begun!” 

“I wish I could stay but I’ve got work in the morning.” 

“I’ll walk you home,” Logan said in a soft but firm tone that left no room for argument as he stood and took a step back to give you room to get out of the booth. 

You nodded in agreement and smiled in pleasant surprise as he offered you his arm. You wrapped your arm around his large bicep and linked your elbows as you followed him out into the cold winter air. 

The city glowed in warm orange light that reflected on the wet pavement. Your breath was visible in frostbitten wind, and you shivered slightly which caused you to burrow further into your coat and move closer to Logan and the heat his body provided. 

He then pulled his arm from yours, causing you to momentarily panic, but just as swiftly he wrapped his arm around your shoulder. 

You smiled and filled the short walk with endless chatter, you used to worry that your yapping irritated him, but the small uptick of his lips- the ghost of a smile- showed fond amusement and filled you with warmth enough to make you forget about the cold. 

“What time do you leave for work in the morning?” Logan asked as you reached the door of your apartment- his apartment door only a few steps away. 

“Eight o’clock,” you replied as you unlocked the door.

“But really, you don’t have to-”

“I’ll see you then,” he interrupted in a tone that indicated you would not win this argument. 

Then he did something you didn’t expect at all, he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to your forehead. 

You grinned, your smile wider than probably ever before as you said, “Goodnight Logan, see you bright and bleary eyed tomorrow.” 

He chuckled as he bid you goodnight and you walked into your apartment and shut the door only after he smiled at you again before disappearing behind his own door. 

You shut your door and locked it before leaning against it. You muffled your squeal of excitement with your hand- all too aware how thin the walls are. The stressful events of the day completely forgotten. 

[incloudcity]

hii could i request a quinn hughes fic where he’s dating someone in the pwhl ?

offside | qh43

requests are open

a/n: took some liberties with the plot here hope you don’t mind

Your phone buzzes somewhere under a pile of practice gear. You find it just before the call goes to voicemail.

“You’re not going to like this,” your agent says before you can speak.

“Then why are you calling?”

“Because you’re going to say no. And then say yes.”

You sit on the floor, stretching out your legs. “Try me.”

“There’s a league-wide marketing initiative between the NHL and PWHL. You’re on the shortlist.”

You frown. “Marketing, like... billboards?”

“Not exactly. They want a crossover story. Public-facing. Human interest.” She exhales. “They’re calling it a soft promo campaign for both leagues. ‘Interpersonal branding.’”

You tilt your head. “Is that code for dating?”

A pause. Then, reluctantly: “Fake dating. Light touch. Just a few public appearances, some media spots. Nothing wild.”

You scoff. “Why me?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Because you’re polarizing. People either love you or hate you. You’re too blunt, too aggressive, too… competitive, apparently.”

You close your eyes. That word again.

“And who,” you ask, not bothering to hide your irritation, “is the NHL sacrificing to this noble cause?”

“Quinn Hughes.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Clean-cut, articulate, painfully polite. Your opposite. PR thinks it’ll be good contrast.”

You lean your head back against the wall, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with hockey. “This is so stupid.”

“Probably. But it’s two months. You do it, smile for the camera, and maybe people stop calling you ‘uncoachable.’”

You say nothing.

“Just meet him,” she adds. “If it’s a no, it’s a no.”

The meeting is over Zoom. His camera is on before yours, posture straight, background tidy. He looks like a guy who irons his socks.

“Hey,” he says, nodding once. “Thanks for doing this.”

You give a short nod back. “Don’t thank me yet.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Right. Guess we’re co-stars.”

“I was thinking ‘hostages.’”

That gets a real smile. Brief, but there.

The call is mostly logistics—dates, appearances, things you’re expected to say or not say. You listen, arms crossed, as a PR rep suggests light PDA, “if it feels natural.” You glance at Quinn’s screen. He looks just as uncomfortable.

When the call ends, you stay behind a beat.

He does too.

Neither of you speaks, but the look he gives you—half amusement, half apology—feels oddly like camaraderie.

The first event is a photo call at a community rink. You’re in full gear; he’s in a hoodie and jeans. There are camera flashes, kids with autograph pads, a guy yelling for you to “put your arm around him.”

You don’t.

But Quinn, perceptive or just decent, slides his hand into yours like it’s casual. Like this isn’t ridiculous.

You glance at him.

He just shrugs. “Apparently we like each other.”

You turn toward the camera and smile—barely.

The pictures hit social media within the hour. Most of the comments are harmless fluff. Some are worse.

You expected it.

Still stings, though.

Over the next few weeks, you play along. Sort of. You're in press junkets, soft-focus videos, awkward TikToks neither of you understands. You hate pretending to giggle when he says something mildly clever. You hate how they frame your resting face like it's a character flaw.

But you don't hate him.

He listens more than he talks, and when he does speak, it's careful, thoughtful. He doesn’t tell you to smile or soften. Doesn’t shrink away when you bristle at dumb questions or roll your eyes during takes.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says one day after a shoot.

“Let me guess: you expected angry and impossible?”

“I expected tired,” he says. “You just hide it badly.”

You look at him. “And you don’t?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve just had more practice.”

The clip goes viral within hours.

A scrimmage game, meant to be light-hearted. You’re mic’d up, joking with kids, chirping gently. Then someone in the stands makes a comment—about your place in the sport, about women’s hockey being “cute.” The words hit wrong.

You snap.

Not violently. But with heat. Precision.

Security doesn’t move fast enough, so you do.

Someone leaks the raw audio.

They call it a meltdown. You call it standing up.

You log off for two days.

When you finally turn your phone back on, there’s a clip of Quinn, mid-press conference. A reporter asks about you—about the outburst, about whether the campaign was a mistake.

He shifts in his seat, annoyed.

“If standing up for yourself is a mistake, we’ve got bigger problems.”

It’s simple. Off-script. Not protective—just honest.

And it changes everything.

You’re stranded in Calgary after an unexpected snowstorm. Most of the joint press tour has been cancelled, and the hotel is down to its last few rooms.

They stick you in a shared suite.

Of course they do.

You toss your bag down. “Don’t worry, I’m not the type to talk through my feelings.”

Quinn grins faintly. “Good. I’m the type to fall asleep with a podcast on.”

The silence that settles between you is comfortable, not tense. You order takeout, sit at opposite ends of the couch, and pick at each other’s fries. You talk about road games and playlists, the pressure of captaining a team you’re still learning to lead, and what it feels like to be constantly misunderstood by people who haven’t played a minute of your sport.

“I used to think being quiet meant I’d stay out of it,” he says. “Turns out, silence doesn’t protect you. It just makes other people louder.”

You nod. “Same goes for not playing nice.”

You don’t sleep in the bed. Neither does he. You both fall asleep on the couch, your hoodie rolled under your neck, his jacket tucked over your legs.

It’s not romantic.

But it’s real.

The campaign ends quietly.

No joint statement. No drama. The leagues shift focus to playoffs, team milestones, Olympic buzz. Your name trends less. His interviews stay clean.

You go back to your team. He goes back to his.

Nothing changes. And everything does.

You start getting more questions about your game, less about your personality. People stop calling you difficult. Start calling you deliberate.

The article comes a month later. A feature in a mid-season profile.

“She’s a fighter,” it says. “But not in the way you think. Not reckless. Not impulsive. Intentional. Exacting. A storm with aim.”

You read it twice.

You’re in Vancouver for a weekend road trip. A back-to-back. Your team is exhausted, half the roster taped together with ice packs and adrenaline.

Between games, you spot him.

Not backstage. Not in a media scrum. In the stands, near the top row. Hoodie up, cap low, head down.

No signs. No posts. Just watching.

You don’t wave.

After the game, he’s waiting in the tunnel.

“Nice assist,” he says.

You smirk. “Didn’t know you still followed the campaign.”

“I don’t,” he says. “I follow you.”

The moment lingers—not heavy, but not nothing.

You don’t ask for more.

He doesn’t offer.

There’s no kiss, no confession.

Just mutual recognition.

An understanding.

Something like respect.

You never officially speak again—not in a headline-worthy way. No breakup posts. No lingering statements.

But every once in a while, when schedules line up and cities overlap, you see him.

Always out of frame.

Always watching.

And when people talk about you now, they don’t say too much.

They say underrated.

They say undeniable.

They say herself.

And finally, that’s enough.

[formulaonecrumbs]

thirteen days and my thirteenth reason ✍️

Lando Norris x depressed!reader

summary: she’s drowning under exam pressure, but lando stays beside her through it all.

warnings: established relationship, depression, burnout, academic pressure, comfort

A/N: this is the most self-indulgent fic i have EVER written. it’s based off my exact situation so if it seems specific uhhh that’s why. i literally only have 12 days till these exams start (most imp of my life i think) and i haven’t began studying for a single subject KILL ME. ADHD paralysis is real asf 😔😔 i originally wrote this only so i’d feel motivated to actually study but it didn’t work so now i’m posting it so it doesn’t go to waste ☺️ embarrassing to say but i will be coming back to read my own fic. i need it rn 😕 anyways enjoy lovies!! ❤️

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

the curtains hadn’t been opened in three days.

the floor was a mess—scattered notebooks, a few balled-up tissues, a hoodie half-hanging off the edge of the bed. her laptop sat untouched on the desk, still open to a study schedule she’d typed up with shaky hands three weeks ago. color-coded. hopeful. delusional.

it was thirteen days until her final exams. the most important ones of her life. everyone kept saying that. like she didn’t already know. like the weight of it wasn’t the reason she could barely lift her head off the pillow.

she’d meant to start studying two weeks ago. then one week ago. then yesterday. then this morning.

and now the sun was setting again, and she’d done nothing. absolutely nothing. just stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry. or did cry. she honestly couldn’t remember. it all blurred together now—hours and hours of feeling like she was stuck underwater while the world kept going on without her.

the front door opened.

she didn’t move.

“baby?”

lando’s voice was gentle. careful. like he already knew what kind of day it had been.

he was home earlier than she expected. that or her time perception was fairly off (it was. she thought it was sunday, it was tuesday). she heard the shuffle of his sneakers being kicked off, the clink of his keys on the counter, and then quiet footsteps down the hallway. the bedroom door creaked open slowly.

there was a pause.

then the bed dipped beside her.

she didn’t look at him.

lando didn’t say anything at first. he just lay there beside her, head propped up on his hand, eyes studying her profile in the dim light. she looked so small. in a pathetic i-can-barely-hold-myself-up kind of way. like the duvet was the only thing keeping her together.

finally, he spoke. “have you eaten?”

she shook her head. barely.

“studied?”

another shake.

lando sighed softly, but not in a disappointed way. more like it physically hurt him to see her like this. like the girl he loved—his girl, the one who once made him laugh so hard he spilled water out his nose—had been replaced by this quiet, heavy version of herself who barely spoke anymore.

he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. his fingers lingered against her cheek.

“talk to me,” he whispered. “please.”

her throat tightened.

“i can’t,” she said hoarsely. “i don’t know what to say.”

“say anything.”

“i feel like a failure.”

lando’s chest ached.

she blinked up at the ceiling, eyes glassy. “i have thirteen days. and i’ve done nothing. nothing. i’m so behind. i’m going to fail. and i don’t even care. that’s the worst part. i don’t care. i should care, but i just… don’t. and then i hate myself for not caring. and then i just lie here and do nothing again.”

her voice cracked on the last word.

lando didn’t try to fix it. not yet. he didn’t offer solutions or motivation or some inspirational quote he found online.

he just reached for her hand under the covers and held it tightly.

“you’re not a failure,” he said quietly.

she shook her head, tears slipping down her temples.

“you’re not,” he said again. “you’re burnt out. you’re exhausted. you’re scared. you’re human.”

she didn’t respond. just squeezed his hand tighter.

“you don’t have to pretend with me,” he murmured. “you don’t have to be okay.”

“i’m not.”

“i know.”

they lay there for a long time. eventually, he shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into his chest. she didn’t resist. just let herself fall into him, cheek pressed against his hoodie, fingers gripping the fabric like it might anchor her back to the world.

“i’ll help you,” he said into her hair. “we’ll figure it out. we’ll make a plan. we’ll break it into little pieces. you don’t have to do it all at once.”

she shook her head weakly. “i don’t think i can.”

“then we’ll start with something small. just one thing.”

she didn’t say anything.

“we’ll do it together,” he promised. “and if all you can do today is brush your teeth or drink some water, that’s enough. you’re enough.”

she exhaled a shaky breath.

“i’m so tired,” she whispered.

“then rest,” he said. “you’re allowed to rest.”

he didn’t leave her side. not for the rest of the night. he ordered takeout—her favorite. he brought her a glass of water and sat beside her while she drank it slowly, like every sip was a mountain climbed. he helped her brush her hair when she couldn’t lift her arms without trembling. and when she finally crawled out from under the covers to shower, he waited outside the bathroom just in case.

the next morning, he woke her with a soft kiss to her forehead and a sticky note stuck to the lamp that said:

baby steps.

she sat up.

she opened her laptop.

and for the first time in weeks, she tried.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

four days in, she was already starting to fray at the edges.

it wasn’t that she wasn’t trying. for the first time in a while she was. she’d stuck to the plan—lando’s plan, the one he’d helped her make with gentle hands and sleepy morning kisses and a color-coded spreadsheet that didn’t feel like it was out to kill her. one subject per day. built-in breaks. kind reminders written on sticky notes in his handwriting like: you’re doing amazing and five minutes of dancing > five minutes of crying.

but trying didn’t mean it was easy.

especially not tonight.

she’d been sitting at the kitchen table for two hours now, blinking at the same paragraph in her textbook without actually reading a word. her brain was buzzing, her back ached, and the weight of everything—every page she hadn’t read, every topic she didn’t understand, every second slipping by too fast—was pressing against her chest like a vice.

her eyes burned.

her fingers curled into fists in her lap.

and then, just like that, it snapped.

a single sob cracked out of her like a warning shot, and then the floodgates opened.

she pushed the textbook away with trembling hands and dropped her head onto the table, tears slipping fast and hot down her cheeks, shoulders shaking. she didn’t even try to stop it. she couldn’t. all the pressure she’d been holding in for days, weeks—it came pouring out like it had been waiting for this exact moment to break her.

“fuck,” she whispered. “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“hey—hey, hey.”

lando’s voice was soft but immediate.

she hadn’t even heard him come in.

he crossed the room in two seconds, dropping to his knees beside her chair and cupping her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tears even as more fell.

“what happened?” he whispered.

she tried to talk, but it came out in a choked sob.

“breathe,” he said, gently. “deep breath. c’mon, baby. with me.”

he inhaled slow and deep. she tried to follow. couldn’t quite get there. tried again.

“that’s it. good girl. again.”

a few breaths later, her chest started to ease—just a little.

“i can’t do it,” she whispered, voice shaking. “i can’t—i don’t know anything, i’m so behind—“

“hey,” he interrupted, rubbing her arm. “no. don’t say that. you’ve been doing so well. i’ve seen you.”

“but it’s not enough—there’s too much—and i’m so tired, lando. i can’t think straight. i feel like my brain is broken—”

“it’s not,” he said immediately. “you’re not broken. you’re overwhelmed. you’re exhausted. and you’ve been pushing through it like a fucking warrior.”

she sniffled.

“you don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he added. “not to me. not to anyone else. not even to yourself. you’re already enough, just like this.”

“but the exams—”

“will come. and we’ll face them. one question at a time. one hour at a time. but not like this. not when you’re this close to burning out.”

he pulled her into a hug—tight, grounding, real. she clung to him like a lifeline.

“you’re not alone, okay?” he murmured into her hair. “you’ve got me. always.”

they stayed like that for a while, her tears slowly soaking into the shoulder of his hoodie.

eventually, she pulled back just enough to whisper, “i’m sorry.”

he frowned. “for what?”

“for falling apart.”

“baby,” he said, brushing his nose against hers. “falling apart doesn’t scare me. not when it’s you. not when i love you.”

her lip trembled.

“you don’t have to be strong all the time,” he whispered. “sometimes being strong is letting yourself break and asking someone else to help you pick up the pieces.”

she nodded, barely.

“come on,” he said softly, standing and tugging her up with him. “no more tonight. you need rest.”

“but—”

“i’ll quiz you in the morning,” he promised. “i’ll make flashcards and everything. but right now, you need to lie down. cuddle quota’s running low.”

she cracked the tiniest smile through the tears. “that’s not a real thing.”

“sure it is,” he said, leading her to the couch and pulling a blanket over the both of them. “mandatory. doctor’s orders.”

she curled into his chest, still aching, still overwhelmed—but held. safe.

and for the first time in hours, her breathing slowed.

lando pressed a kiss to her temple. “we’ll get through it, baby. together.”

THE END :>

[dioslesbianwife]

Could you write some headcannons about stardust crusaders x fem!reader that has been living in an abusive environment but nevertheless has a healing/calming stand and is the nicest person imaginable?

I LOVE your works

❣️

mhm, thank you for requesting and i hope you enjoy <33333 and im so happy u love my works!! tyyy

Jotaro Kujo

At first, Jotaro doesn't know about your home life. You always smile, you always help, and your Stand, soft glowing hands that radiate warmth and dull pain, soothes everyone around you.

You even calm him without trying. His anger, his stress, the weight of responsibility, it melts away when you're near.

He notices the bruises before you ever say anything. “Tell me the truth,” he says one night, voice low and unreadable. And when you finally whisper it, everything, you expect him to look at you differently.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pity you. But his eyes darken with a cold anger you’ve never seen.

“You’re never going back there,” he says simply.

Jotaro becomes your silent guardian. He’s not great with words, but he’ll always reach for your hand when you look far away. He doesn’t ask for healing, he just wants you to feel safe.

Joseph Joestar

Joseph is furious when he finds out about your past. Not in a yelling way, but in a heartbroken way.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!” he demands, voice cracking. “You’ve been carrying this all alone?”

He admires you more than words can express. The fact that someone who’s been through that can still be so kind, can still smile for others? To him, that’s strength greater than any Stand.

Joseph’s love is loud and obvious, he praises you constantly, cracks jokes just to see you laugh, and spoils you a bit.

Your Stand fascinates him. “You’re like an angel,” he’ll say, watching it glow. “A real miracle worker.”

But if anyone from your past ever came near you again? Joseph would break his own moral code. And that says everything.

Polnareff

Polnareff cries when you open up about your past. Literally. No shame, no holding back.

“You didn’t deserve any of that,” he says, hugging you tightly, “no one deserves that.”

He treats you like you’re made of gold, not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because he believes you’re sacred.

He brags about your Stand to strangers like a proud boyfriend. “She healed a whole burn last week, and still smiled like it was nothing! This girl’s a goddess!”

But he watches you closely. He can tell when you're faking your smile. Those are the days he holds your hand a little tighter.

You’re the light of his life, and he’ll never let anyone dim it again. Ever.

Avdol

Avdol is incredibly perceptive. He knew something was wrong long before you said anything.

“There’s a sadness behind your eyes,” he tells you one evening. “You do not have to carry it alone.”

When you finally tell him everything, he listens with silent reverence, never interrupting.

Avdol treats your Stand like a divine gift. He often meditates with you nearby, saying your presence brings peace like no other.

He helps you unlearn the fear of being a burden. Teaches you that your worth isn’t tied to how much you give.

“Let me protect you, as you have healed so many.” That’s his vow.

Kakyoin

Kakyoin immediately recognizes the signs of abuse.

You always say you’re okay. You’re always the one who helps, never asks. He sees the way your hands tremble when you think no one is looking.

He doesn’t push you. He just sits beside you more often, shares little parts of himself, opens up, until one night, you break down in his arms.

Kakyoin is gentle rage. His anger is quiet, cold, and calculated. He doesn’t yell, but he will end anyone who hurt you.

You inspire him. He thinks you’re the strongest person he’s ever met. “You have every right to hate the world,” he whispers one night. “But you chose to love it anyway.”

You and your Stand become his peace. He sleeps better when you're around, breathes easier when you touch his shoulder.

He never wants you to feel alone again.

[sanguinesky-if]

Sanguine Sky

DEMO [Public] [Updated 07/12/2024] genres: romance, modern-fantasy, supernatural, mystery, dark-fantasy.

Sanguine Sky is a work-in-progress modern dark-fantasy interactive novel. The story is heavily focused on romance, characters, and relationships.

The story rated 18+, contains mature and distressing content that may be triggering to certain individuals. It is recommend to check the full list of warnings before you proceed to the story. Please exercise caution and take care of yourself.

Total word count: 197k words [excl. code] | 227k words [incl. code].

You are a detective, tasked with investigating mysterious murders that have taken place in your normally quiet and peaceful hometown, Fallenmor. 

With two victims confirmed already, the initial one being your former mentor, Detective Bergmann, the situation couldn't seem more dire. Or so you thought until you received the news of another body, a possible third victim, discovered at the police station. In your very own office. 

An accident, a mere coincidence, a straightforward warning, a looming threat, or something entirely else… Whatever is happening, you feel it affecting you, awakening something both significantly familiar and distinctly foreign inside of you.

If only you knew that this was just the beginning… Things could have been different. 

But back then, in your ignorance, your singular concern lay with a pressing question: if you failed to find the murderer, who would become the next victim?

➤ Play as male, female, non-binary or trans; straight, gay, or bisexual.

➤ Customize your appearance and shape your personality.

➤ Take on the role of a detective, immerse yourself in the work of the police station.

➤ Embrace the mystery of your existence, or reject that inner sight of you.

➤ Seven romance options to choose from. Select their gender, be assertive or reserved, or focus on your goal without pursuing anyone.

All ROs are player-sexual and gender-selectable [M/F].

Kyle / Keira Moreno

Your colleague, a police inspector, and one of the rudest people you have ever met. Sharp and stern, K is surprisingly perceptive, and they use it to really see you. The good, the bad. Everything. Appearance: icy blue eyes, dark red hair, very pale skin.

Alexis 'Lex / Lexie' Conlan

Your best friend, and also your former partner from times when you were just a patrol officer. With a heart of gold and an approachable attitude, L always chooses you over the others. Appearance: forest green eyes, copper hair, beige freckled skin.

Morgan Schoivell

Your other colleague, a highly-skilled lab technician. M is rather reserved when it comes to emotions, and after almost a year of working together, M is still a walking mystery for you. Appearance: dark brown eyes, ash blond hair, light skin.

Roderick / Rebecca Reyes

The commanding agent of the Criminal Investigative Division (CID) team sent to catch the killer. Overbearing and ruthless, R has their own way of getting things done. Appearance: gray eyes, blond hair, pale skin.

Theodore 'Theo' / Theresa 'Tess' Vazquez

Another member of the CID team. With a cocky smile, T is full of flirts and sneering comments, regardless of the occasion. T has no doubts about what they want and isn't afraid to vocalize it. Appearance: dark green eyes, black curly hair, rich brown skin.

Isaac / Iris Brailsford

I looks the most mature and approachable of CID's fellow agents. Looks can be deceiving, though. Working behind the scene and watching from afar, I carries all the scars within. Appearance: hazel eyes, dark brown hair, olive skin.

Sebastian / Selena Goldstein

Someone new and temporary, S has a velvety voice and a perfect smile that doesn't reach their eyes. You're not sure if your paths will cross in the future, but something tells you S can't be trusted. Appearance: black eyes, long black wavy hair, bronze skin.

Other notable characters:

Your twin-sister: Your sweet, kind, caring, and gentle twin sister. She always tries to be there for you, and show how much she appreciates you, no matter what. Chief of Police, Kendrick Nash: Your boss, who is not handling his job so well after the recent death of his husband, Klemens Bergmann. Detective Klemens Bergmann: Police chief's husband, who happened to be a senior detective and your mentor. He was the first victim, murdered under mysterious circumstances.

A full list of warnings is available in the demo before beginning of the story. I recommend to check it before you proceed to reading.

Links: DEMO | CoG Forum | Q&A | Romance | Tags & Links | Patreon | Ko-Fi | Error Reports |

Thank you for your interest ♥

[prone-to-fleeting-obsessions]

Dating Veritas Ratio Affection hc's

Will not leave you alone...

He's like a tall, very vocal shadow

It's basically just become common place for him to immediately follow you whenever you're heading, without saying a single word, continuing the focus on his activity of writing or reading or whatever as he follows a step behind you

Occasionally he'll look up and be sort of surprised about where exactly you've unconsciously led him, but won't actively admit he was just following you mindlessly

It's very common for him to be constantly solving your minor problems, too

He doesn't want to encourage you relying on him for everything, of course, but any small way he can make your life easier is an action of second nature

Obviously, he has a drink you like all set out and ready for you after an exhausting day, of course the bills, taxes, and other horrible legalities are already taken care of, and yes there's a bath drawn for you, don't look so surprised

He's basically constantly anticipating potential problems or dangers you might face, and takes preemptive steps to keep things safe and pleasant, you can be pretty much positive any action you take has been preemptively thought over thoroughly on your behalf

He's not necessarily going to tell you what to do, but if there is a 'right answer', he will be making it known

Despite his schedule, he is almost borderline devoted to taking some time out of the day to more thoroughly learn about your hobbies and current interests

If you are going to be engaging in stimulating conversation, it wouldn't be fair to make it only about his interests, and all knowledge is beneficial knowledge

Really, engaging in thoughtful conversations and taking real initiative to show he values your interest is his love language

Pretty much any hobby you love, he'll be making an attempt at, if only to spend more time together

If you go searching, you might occasionally find little sticky notes written around his working area, a lot of which are simply fleeting thoughts to be explored in greater depth later (including design plans for a little gadgets he thinks you might get use out of), but a good handful mention your name specifically and different things he wants to bring up with you, or even gift ideas for down the line

Once he realizes that you've been digging around there, he'll probably start writing them in code, giving you just enough time to crack exactly what the conversion is before switching to another, making it into a sort of puzzle

Due to his connections, note taking, and overall general perceptiveness, he is utterly fantastic at giving gifts

If he realizes you two are growing sort of disconnected, or even drifting, because of your need for emotional support, he begrudgingly takes a course or reads extensively on emotional intelligence to better understand and respond, without directly telling you of course

On days when you two aren't able to see each other because of his traveling, he writes stupid long texts filled with his usual style of difficult to read sophisticated language detailing everything you're missing out on and a good handful of check ins for what exactly you're doing and if you're fairing ok

Definitely won't admit to it, but he gets a little paranoid sometimes

His physical affection is usually subtle, that's not his specialty after all... But it's common to find a hand resting somewhere on you keeping you close, or a subtle small kiss on your hand or cheek as a reminder that he does really love you, even if it's done with a rather stoic face

Genuinely doesn't get embarrassed over PDA

Why on earth would he care what anybody else thinks? It's not their business, he's certainly not going to hold back making you feel better over something as stupid as how other people think of him

His compliments tend to feel a bit blunt, as with the rest of his speaking, lacking any sort of nuance or emotional flair, but they all feel incredibly genuine too, like a real testament to your character and accomplishments, always catching you off guard when they do happen

At the very least, you can be thoroughly sure any sort of compliment is given genuinely and with plenty of thought put into it, as he isn't known to hold back on telling his real feelings about somebody to their face...

[mikaylathenerd5]

The Code We Carry + Chapter 2

Previous Chapter ৹ Main Mainlist ৹ Join My Taglist

Pairing: Isla Sage Navarro x AU Roman Reigns

Content Warning: This chapter contains references to pregnancy, alcohol consumption, sexual content, and workplace pressure/stress. There are also brief mentions of nausea/vomiting and social media scrutiny. Please take care if these topics are sensitive for you.

Word Count: 6.8k

“I…”

Isla’s voice cracked on the single syllable. Her lips parted, but the rest of the sentence died in her throat. Her breath hitched, panic clawing at her ribs. She could feel the weight of Roman’s gaze—heavy, unrelenting, and far too perceptive.

Roman didn’t move. His arms crossed over his broad chest, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away.

“Isla.” Just her name. Low, rough, careful. Like a warning and a plea in one breath.

She swallowed hard and looked away, her fingers clenching the strap of her bag like a lifeline.

“I don’t know what you think you saw,” she whispered. “It—it was just a calendar reminder.”

He took a step closer. “Don’t lie to me.” The words weren’t angry, not exactly. They were tight. Controlled. But beneath that surface, something cracked.

“I’m not lying.”

His jaw twitched. “Then look me in the eye and say it again.”

She didn’t. Couldn’t. Her gaze dropped to the floor, shame burning her cheeks.

Roman exhaled slowly through his nose. “You froze. Like the world was ending. That wasn’t nothing, Isla.”

“Why do you care?” she shot back, voice sharper than she meant. Her armor slid into place, brittle and trembling. “We had one night. You don’t get to—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice low and dangerous now. “Don’t reduce it to that. You know it wasn’t just one night for me.”

Isla flinched.

Footsteps echoed around the corner. She stiffened as a staff member strolled past, clipboard in hand. Roman shifted slightly, angling his body so they were partially shielded. His proximity sent heat coiling in her chest and nausea twisting her gut. The silence between them thickened.

When the hallway cleared again, Isla let out a shaky breath. “You don’t know anything about what I’m going through.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But I want to.”

She stared at him, stunned by the softness in his voice, the vulnerability etched across his usually impenetrable expression.

Roman stepped back—barely. Enough to let her breathe, not enough to let her escape. “If it’s mine…” He hesitated, emotion catching behind his words. “I need to know. Don’t shut me out, Isla.”

Her eyes burned. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. For once, the brilliance she wielded like armor failed her.

“I need time,” she whispered.

Roman nodded once, jaw clenched tight. “Then take it. But don’t take too long.”

He turned and walked away, leaving her in the hallway, her world spinning.

Isla stood frozen long after Roman disappeared around the corner. Her legs felt like stone, her pulse a frantic drumbeat behind her ribs. She blinked once. Twice. Then her fingers moved on instinct, digging her phone from her bag with trembling hands.

She didn’t hesitate. Camila.

The phone rang once. Twice.

“Girl, don’t tell me you finally hit him with your car. Because if you did, I brought the shovel and I got bail money ready—”

“Camila,” Isla whispered, and her voice cracked.

The humor drained from Camila’s voice instantly. “Isla? What’s wrong?”

Isla ducked into a quiet alcove, shielding herself from view. “He saw it. The calendar reminder. For the check-up. He asked me if it’s his.”

Camila went silent for a moment, then let out a slow breath. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I tried to lie, but he knew. He looked at me like—like I betrayed him.”

“Well,” Camila said carefully, “you didn’t lie, exactly. You just… paused the truth.”

“That’s not how it felt.” Isla sank onto a bench, her head in her hands. “He was so close. And he wasn’t mad, Cam. He was hurt. I didn’t expect that.”

“Because you expected him to be a dick about it. But he’s not.”

“I don’t know what he is,” she muttered.

“You know exactly what he is,” Camila replied. “He’s the man you keep thinking about every night, the one who calls you ‘babygirl’ in your dreams. Don’t play.”

Isla groaned. “Camila, I cannot do this with you right now.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. Look… he saw it. That cat’s out the bag, boo. So now what?”

“I told him I need time.”

“And what happens if you wait too long and he walks away?”

Isla went quiet. The ache in her chest pulsed harder.

“I’m scared, Cam,” she said finally. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I don’t know if I can trust him with something this big. With me.”

Camila’s voice softened. “You don’t have to trust him with everything yet. But maybe you let him show you what kind of man he wants to be. For you. And for that baby.”

Isla’s hand drifted to her stomach without thinking, her fingers resting just beneath her blouse. The motion startled her.

“I’ve gotta go,” she whispered.

“Call me after the check-up. And Isla?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re stronger than you think. And whatever happens with Roman? You’re not doing this alone. Got it?”

Isla closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“Got it.”

Roman didn’t remember the walk back to his car. His boots hit the pavement in hard, even strides, but his mind was a riot. Noise. Her silence. The calendar. First Trimester Check-Up. 2 PM.

He ran a hand through his hair as he reached the driver’s side, his jaw locked so tight it ached. The sun was too bright. The air too still. His pulse thundered like a war drum.

She didn’t deny it.

He leaned against the door, exhaling slow through his nose, trying to breathe through the pressure building behind his ribs. His heart felt caught between rage and something softer—hope, maybe. Or the stupid, naïve version of it.

A baby.

He closed his eyes, and her face burned against the backs of his lids. The tight pull of her mouth. The flicker of fear in her eyes. The way her hand trembled when she reached for her laptop.

It wasn’t just a fling. It wasn’t nothing. No matter how carefully she’d tried to pretend it was.

He hadn’t been sure what he was walking into that morning—seeing her again, pretending to be just coworkers, watching her brilliance burn like wildfire during the demo. But nothing had prepared him for that tiny notification with the power to split the ground beneath his feet.

He wasn’t angry. Not really. Not even at her.

He was terrified.

And that pissed him off.

Roman shoved away from the car, pacing. “Get it together, Roman,” he muttered under his breath. But the weight in his chest refused to lift. All his training, his discipline, the iron control he’d learned on the field—it didn’t mean shit when the woman you can’t stop thinking about might be carrying your child.

He’d buried too much to be soft now.

He’d already lost too many things that should have been his.

The thought clenched like a fist in his stomach. His hands balled at his sides, a tremor riding through them. If she was pregnant, if it was his… why hadn’t she told him?

Did she think he wouldn’t care?

Did she think he’d walk away?

The ache that crawled up his throat caught him off guard. Isla, you could’ve just told me.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and climbed into his SUV, slamming the door shut. The silence inside was oppressive. Her voice echoed in his memory—steady, brilliant, professional—but behind it was something else. A shadow. A crack she’d tried to hide.

Don’t shut me out, he thought, gripping the steering wheel.

Then, without thinking, he pulled out his phone.

No message. No call. Not yet.

But his thumb hovered over her name anyway.

Dr. Isla Navarro.

A long beat passed before he set the phone down on the seat beside him. He wasn’t going to chase her—not yet. But if she didn’t come to him soon?

He would.

The clinic’s waiting room smelled like lemon disinfectant and nerves.

Isla sat stiff in the plastic chair, her hands cradling the bottle of water she hadn’t sipped from in ten minutes. Her eyes flicked to the clock. 2:08 PM. Her name would be called any minute.

She hadn’t stopped shaking since she left the building.

Not since Roman’s voice, low and tight, asked, Is it mine?

And her silence—god, her silence had answered him.

She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her stomach. The nausea had eased, replaced by something worse—guilt. Fear. Grief.

She didn’t know what terrified her more: the idea of raising this baby alone… or the idea of letting him in and it not being enough.

Her phone buzzed quietly in her bag.

A message from Camila: Let me know how it goes, mami. I’m free later if you wanna talk.

Isla swallowed hard and typed back one word: Soon.

Her name was called.

She stood, palms damp, heart rattling in her chest. The nurse led her down a hallway bathed in soft light, murmuring reassurances and asking standard questions Isla barely processed.

In the exam room, the paper crinkled beneath her as she settled onto the table, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. The doctor entered with a warm smile and gentle eyes—too gentle. Isla could feel the weight of her choices press against her spine.

“Alright, Dr. Navarro,” the woman said kindly, glancing at the chart. “You’re just over nine weeks, yes? We’ll do the initial scan today, check vitals, and get you scheduled for bloodwork.”

Isla nodded numbly.

The gel was cold. The wand pressed lightly against her lower belly.

And then—

The heartbeat.

A fast, rhythmic thrum, like hummingbird wings in the dark.

Her breath caught. Her fingers curled against the edge of the table. There it was. Real. Alive. Inside her.

Her eyes welled up before she could stop them.

“There’s your little one,” the doctor murmured, turning the screen toward her.

The grainy shape didn’t make sense at first—but the sound did. That heartbeat shattered her like glass. No hiding now. No dismissing it as maybe. No erasing what had happened between them.

And suddenly, all she could think was: He deserves to know. For real. For sure.

Even if it scared her. Even if she didn’t know what came next.

The ultrasound photo was face-down on the passenger seat, but it still felt like it was staring at her.

Isla sat in her parked car, motionless. The late afternoon sun spilled through the windshield, warming her skin, but her hands were cold. Numb.

She’d heard the heartbeat.

Felt her own accelerate in response, like they were echoing each other—tiny and fragile, but alive.

And now she was just sitting there, phone in hand, staring at Camila’s contact name.

She pressed call.

Camila answered fast, like she’d been waiting. “Isla? What did they say?”

“They said…” Her voice caught. “They said everything looks normal. Strong. The heartbeat was strong.”

A pause.

Then Camila exhaled, long and shaky. “Mierda.”

Isla swallowed the lump in her throat. “Cami… it’s real. This is happening. It’s not just a maybe anymore. It’s a person. A little person.”

“I know, mami,” Camila said, soft. “And you’re scared. But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing.” Isla laughed, but it was humorless. “I sat there in the room and thought about running. Just walking out before the nurse came back.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

“And Roman?” Camila finally asked. “Any word?”

Isla stared out the windshield. “He texted. Just said, ‘You okay?’ That’s it.”

“Not ‘Are you pregnant?’ Not ‘Talk to me’?”

“No. Just that.”

“Well,” Camila muttered, “at least he’s not blowing up your phone or demanding proof like a jackass. That’s… something.”

Isla closed her eyes. “I don’t know what I want him to do. I don’t even know what I want from myself.”

Camila’s voice softened. “You want not to be judged. You want to feel safe. And deep down, I think you want to tell him. Really tell him. Because you’ve never been good at shutting your heart down completely.”

Isla blinked back tears. “He looked hurt, Camila. In the hallway. Not angry. Just… like I’d punched him.”

“Because he cares.”

“But what if he walks away?”

“Then he was never yours to begin with.”

Silence again.

Then Isla let out a shaky breath. “I’m not ready to tell him. Not yet. But I know I will.”

“And when you do,” Camila said, “I’ll be right here. No matter what.”

Five weeks later, the Georgia Tech dining hall was crowded but not loud enough to drown out Isla’s thoughts. The ultrasound’s heartbeat still echoed in her mind, a constant reminder of the truth she hadn’t yet shared. She sat in a corner booth, her tray untouched, her appetite buried under the weight of guilt and fear. She’d been avoiding Roman since the hallway confrontation, their interactions limited to brief, professional exchanges, each one heavy with unspoken questions.

Now, she was trying to blend into the background, to survive another day on campus without facing the reality she’d heard in that exam room. But the world had other plans. Austin Theory stood over her table, holding his smoothie like a trophy, a smirk stretching across his face. “Looks like the secret’s out,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her without invitation. “I figured you’d be glowing, not hiding. The picture’s all over the place—you and Coach Reigns outside the seminar a couple of weeks ago. The one where you looked like you belonged on a damn movie poster.”

“What picture?” Isla’s voice was flat, guarded, as she looked up, annoyance blooming in her gut.

Austin pulled out his phone and flipped the screen around, showing a shot of her and Roman standing close, eyes locked, in a private-looking moment that now had over 25,000 likes and the caption: “Georgia Tech’s finest? 👀🔥 #campuscouple.” Isla’s heart sank—she hadn’t noticed someone watching, and that moment, one of the last calm ones she’d had, felt too personal to be viral content. “I’m just saying,” Austin added, his voice dropping low, “if you’re not ready for the attention, maybe you need someone who knows how to manage it. You know… control the narrative.”

“You mean you?” she asked, her tone sharper now, eyes narrowing as he leaned in with a condescending smirk.

“Exactly,” Austin replied, his voice dripping with confidence. “You and Reigns? That story’s hot. But messy. If he walks, you’ll be the one left dealing with it. Just saying.”

“Back off,” came a cold, dangerous voice from behind them—not Isla’s, but Roman’s. He stood near the table with a to-go bag in one hand, his expression unreadable but his tone unmistakable. 

Austin leaned back slowly, faking casual. “Coach,” he said, his smirk faltering. 

Roman’s eyes flicked to Isla for a second, then locked on Austin. “I said, back off,” he repeated, stepping closer, his presence a warning. Austin stood, raising both hands like it was a joke, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away. “Didn’t realize lunch hour came with security detail,” he muttered, stepping around Roman and disappearing into the crowd, leaving a thick silence.

Roman didn’t sit, his gaze settling on Isla, heavy and piercing, making her feel exposed in the crowded dining hall. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentler now, though his jaw was still tight. 

She nodded slowly, her throat tightening. “I didn’t know someone took that photo. I didn’t know it was out there,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“I figured,” he replied, glancing down briefly, his tone softening further. “You looked surprised.” They stood there, two people on opposite sides of an unspoken truth, the air thick with tension. “You haven’t answered my texts,” he said finally, his voice low, careful. “I didn’t want to push, but… I need to know where your head is.” 

Her chest ached, guilt and fear coiling tighter, but she managed, “I don’t know yet,” her voice trembling. 

“That’s okay,” he said, his eyes steady, unwavering. “But I’m here. And I’m not walking away from this—whatever this becomes.” 

She couldn’t speak, the dining hall too open, too bright, but something in her loosened, like she wasn’t as alone as she thought. Roman nodded once, understanding, and turned to leave, glancing back over his shoulder. “I meant it. I’m not walking away,” he said, before disappearing through the exit.

A couple of days later, the Georgia Tech campus thrummed with late autumn’s crisp vitality, crimson and gold leaves dancing across brick pathways as dusk cloaked Atlanta in a violet haze. In the College of Computing, servers buzzed faintly, mingling with the warm, spiced scent of cinnamon coffee from the faculty lounge’s battered Keurig. Isla’s office, a third-floor sanctuary of organized chaos, held journals piled on shelves, a cluttered dry-erase board of algorithms, and a wilting succulent she kept forgetting to water. Late sun slanted through the blinds, casting golden stripes across her desk, where her laptop glowed with Python code.

Isla sat at her desk, fingers hovering over her keyboard, the weight of avoidance pressing against her chest. For weeks, she’d dodged Roman, limiting their interactions to curt emails or athletics board updates, but their project—a predictive algorithm for lineman footwork—demanded collaboration, and with a deadline looming, she couldn’t hide forever. Her stomach churned, not just from her secret but from his dining hall gaze, steady and unrelenting, promising he wouldn’t walk away. It was too much—his intensity, her guilt, the pull she felt despite herself.

Exhaling sharply, she typed a clipped email: Roman, please meet me at my office, 7 PM, to review the algorithm’s latest iteration. We need to finalize the temporal sensitivity adjustments. She hit send before overthinking, expecting him to delay, hoping he’d let her keep her distance a little longer—a flimsy shield, but all she had.

At 6:55 PM, Isla stood in her office, adjusting a stack of journals to steady her nerves, the servers’ hum thick with ink and dust. She’d prepared notes, a script to focus on the project, to dodge his unspoken questions. The clock ticked past 7:00, her shoulders relaxing slightly—he wasn’t coming, she thought, relief and disappointment tangling in her gut.

But a knock at the door froze her, heart lurching. The door opened, and Roman filled the frame, his navy Georgia Tech polo stretched taut across his broad chest, gold embroidery catching the light, his dark eyes locking on hers, steady and piercing, commanding the room. Isla blurted, “You’re here,” her voice betraying surprise, cheeks flushing as she gripped her notes tighter. His mouth curved into a faint, knowing smirk as he stepped inside, Jordans soft against the tile.

“You invited me,” he said, his voice low, teasing, laced with hunger that made her pulse race. “Thought I’d show up on time for once.” Her carefully planned script dissolved under his gaze, and she managed, “Right,” gesturing to the lab setup, “Let’s… get started.” He nodded, the air crackling with inevitability as they moved toward the screen, the project pulling them closer than she’d planned.

Isla perched on a rolling chair, legs tucked under her, laptop on her knees, while Roman loomed behind, his presence a physical force as they watched a practice video on the wall-mounted screen. She pointed out a lag in the lineman’s stance, fingers flying over the keyboard to adjust the model’s parameters, trying to ignore his radiating heat. “See that lag in his stance?” she asked, her voice wavering as his hand grazed her shoulder, fingers lingering, tracing her neck in a deliberate, searing touch that made her breath hitch. He leaned closer, lips near her ear, murmuring, “Yeah, he’s late off the snap. Misreading the QB,” his voice a low rumble sending shivers down her spine. “Exactly,” she said, struggling to focus, “The algorithm needs to catch that split-second delay. I can widen the predictive range.” Roman’s fingers slid down her arm, leaving goosebumps, and he said, “Isla, you gonna keep pretending you don’t feel this?” Her core clenched, wetness pooling between her thighs, fingers freezing on the keys.

Smirking to deflect, Isla kept her eyes on the screen. “What, the thrill of clean code? It’s hotter than you think,” she teased, her voice husky, betraying her need. Roman chuckled, dark and rough, nudging her chair with his knee. “Fuck that. You know what’s hot? You, trying to act like you don’t want me to bend you over that desk right now,” he growled, his hand hovering over her thigh, the air electric, his smirk daring her to push back. Her pulse raced, body screaming for his touch, and she turned, meeting his molten gaze, trembling as she whispered, “You’re awfully confident for a guy who can’t keep up with my variables.” He stepped closer, towering, muscles flexing under his polo. “Confident? I could have you screaming my name before you finish that line of code,” he said, his smirk darkening. “Big talk,” she challenged, lips inches from his, eyes sparking, “Prove it.”

Their breaths mingled, his scent—sandalwood, sweat, raw masculinity—drowning her senses, his eyes locked on hers like a predator savoring prey. “Careful, baby,” Roman murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr, “You’re begging for trouble.” Isla leaned closer, her body aching, every nerve alight, and shot back, “Then give it to me,” her voice thick with want. He moved like a storm, hands gripping her waist, lifting her from the chair with effortless strength, setting her on the desk’s edge, papers scattering, ink smearing under her thighs. His fingers hovered over her hips, teasing, his gaze raking over her flushed cheeks, parted lips, and sweater-hugged curves. “Fuck, Isla, you’re driving me insane,” he rasped, voice raw. She reached for him, fingers grazing his chest, nails digging into the hard planes beneath his polo, making him hiss. “Then stop talking and do something about it,” she whispered, her plea desperate.

His restraint shattered, lips crashing against hers in a feral, consuming kiss, tongue claiming her mouth in a filthy dance of heat and coffee. Isla moaned loudly, hands clawing at his polo, yanking it up, desperate for skin. He tore it off, revealing his chiseled torso, scars glinting, muscles flexing under her touch as she dragged nails down his pecs, relishing his shudder, his cock straining against his joggers, pressing hard against her thigh. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” Roman growled against her neck, lips sucking hard, leaving a bruising mark pulsing with heat, his hands sliding under her sweater, calloused palms possessive, grazing her breasts. He ripped the sweater off, her bra flicked away, baring her to his gaze, his eyes darkening with a primal groan at her hardened nipples, flushed skin. “Gonna ruin you, baby,” he promised, voice thick with hunger. “Roman, please,” Isla gasped, tugging his hair, urging him closer, her wetness soaking her panties, dripping onto the desk.

His smirk wicked, Roman kneaded her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she arched, moaning, the sensation shooting to her core. “So fucking responsive,” he murmured, lips trailing lower, kissing a scorching path down her stomach, fingers hooking into her jeans, yanking them down with her panties in one brutal motion, her slick heat glistening, pooling on the desk, papers sticking to the wood, ink smearing chaotically. “Goddamn, look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on her dripping folds, his cock throbbing, “So wet, you’re making a fucking mess.” Kneeling between her thighs, his broad shoulders forced her legs wide, his breath hot against her skin, making her tremble. He inhaled deeply, a guttural growl rumbling. “Smell so fucking good. Gonna make you scream my name, Isla,” he said, his voice a vow.

His tongue teased her clit with a slow flick, the contact electric, her hips bucking. Gripping her thighs, Roman pinned her to the desk, fingers bruising, his control absolute. “Stay still,” he commanded, lips brushing her folds, the vibration making her moan. He licked slower, savoring, circling her clit, then sucking hard, drawing a scream, her slickness coating his lips, chin, dripping onto the desk, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet office.

Teasing her entrance, his tongue dipped inside, then returned to her clit, alternating soft flicks and relentless suction, eyes locked on hers, watching her unravel. “Roman, fuck,” Isla cried, hands fisting his hair, body trembling, moans escalating as he devoured her, his fingers sliding inside, two, then three, curling against that spot, pumping slowly, building her higher. Her slick heat flooded his hand, the desk, papers ruined, as he sucked harder, his tongue relentless, her orgasm crashing through, a tidal wave, body convulsing, screams echoing as her wetness gushed, soaking his face, hand, and wood. He licked her through the aftershocks, drawing every shudder, her thighs quaking.

Rising, lips glistening, eyes feral, Roman slid his fingers back inside, scissoring deep, stretching her walls, coaxing a whimper from her oversensitive body. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, thumb circling her clit, slow and torturous, building her back up, “Gonna make you come again, baby. Want you dripping for me.” His fingers pumped faster, the scissoring motion relentless, her moans incoherent, body climbing as he leaned in, whispering against her ear, “Scream my name when you break.” Her second orgasm hit harder, walls pulsing around his fingers, slickness flooding his hand, dripping onto the floor, the desk a glistening wreck. She screamed his name, voice raw, nails raking his shoulders, leaving red trails. He kissed her, filthy and deep, letting her taste herself, her moans swallowed by his tongue, the act primal, making her core clench.

Isla’s hands tore at his joggers, shoving them down, freeing his thick, pulsing cock, the tip glistening with precum. Stroking him, her thumb smeared the precum, relishing his hiss, hips jerking into her touch. “Fuck, Isla, you’re gonna fucking destroy me,” Roman groaned, forehead against hers, breaths ragged. “Then do it to me first,” she challenged, guiding his cock to her entrance, legs locking around his hips, wetness coating him as she rubbed him against her slick folds. He teased her, sliding his tip along her clit, slow, deliberate, making her whimper, body begging. “Roman, please,” she gasped, nails digging into his back, urging him closer. “Beg for it,” he growled, eyes burning into hers, hands gripping her hips, holding her still, “Tell me how bad you want me.” “I need you,” she moaned, voice breaking, body trembling, “Fuck me, Roman. Please.”

Surging forward, Roman thrust into her in one slow, brutal motion, the stretch overwhelming, her walls gripping him like a vice, every ridge pulsing inside her, driving her wild. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasped, hands bruising her hips, eyes locked on hers, sweat beading on his brow, “So fucking wet, you’re coating me.” Isla moaned, nails clawing his back, the slick sound of their bodies loud as he pulled back and thrust again, deeper, harder, the desk groaning, papers scattering, ink pooling with her slickness. His hands roamed—one pinning her thigh wide, the other gripping her breast, pinching her nipple until she cried out, pain sparking pleasure. His thrusts grew relentless, hitting that spot inside her, making her vision blur, body trembling, sweat slicking their skin. “You’re mine,” he growled, lips crashing into hers, tongue ravaging her mouth, hips slamming in a punishing rhythm.

Lifting her off the desk, Roman spun her effortlessly, bending her over the edge, her palms slapping the slick wood, wetness pooling beneath her, hair sticking to her sweat-damp neck, papers tearing under her grip. He stood behind her, hands gripping her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, leaving marks she’d feel for days, teasing her entrance with his cock, sliding the tip along her slick folds, slow, torturous, making her whimper, body trembling with need. Leaning over her, his chest pressing against her back, muscles flexing, he whispered against her ear, “Tell me you want it. Tell me you’re mine,” his breath hot, voice a low growl. “I’m yours,” Isla gasped, voice raw, desperate, hips pushing back, craving more, “Please, Roman, fuck me. I need you.”

Roman entered her in one deep, brutal thrust, the angle searing, his cock hitting deeper, stretching her walls, her knees buckling from the intensity, but he caught her hips, holding her up, his grip unyielding, strength overwhelming. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, voice thick with hunger, hips snapping against hers, the wet slap of their bodies echoing, primal, her slickness coating him, dripping down her thighs, soaking the floor, the desk a chaotic mess of torn papers and smeared ink.

His thrusts were relentless, each deliberate, powerful, dragging against that perfect spot, sending shockwaves through her core. Slowing suddenly, teasing, he pulled out almost completely, leaving her aching, walls clenching around nothing, and murmured, “You want more? Beg for it, Isla. Let me hear you,” his lips brushing her ear, one hand gripping her breast, pinching her nipple hard, the other wrapping gently around her throat, a possessive claim making her moan. “More,” she pleaded, voice breaking, nails scraping the desk, leaving gouges, “Fuck me harder, Roman. Please, don’t stop,” her hips rocking back, slick heat glistening.

Growling low and feral, Roman slammed back into her, the force rocking the desk, a journal thudding to the floor. His pace turned punishing, each thrust deeper, harder, his cock pulsing, her walls gripping tighter. Sweat slicked their bodies, her thighs trembling, moans escalating to screams as he drove into her, the office filled with their obscene symphony—wet slaps, creaking wood, ragged gasps. His hand on her throat tightened slightly, heightening the thrill, the other gripping her hip, guiding her back onto him, controlling every move.

“Look at you, taking me so fucking well, baby. This pussy’s mine,” he rasped, eyes locked on where they joined, her slickness coating him, dripping onto the floor, slowing again, teasing with shallow thrusts, making her whimper, body shaking. Leaning over, he bit her shoulder softly, then harder, leaving a mark, his hand sliding from her throat to her hair, tugging gently, arching her back further, exposing her completely. “Say it,” he demanded, voice raw, “Say you’re mine.” “I’m yours,” Isla screamed, voice hoarse, body surrendering, “All yours, Roman, fuck!”

Roaring, Roman’s thrusts turned savage, slamming into her, hitting that spot with ruthless precision, his hand reaching around to circle her clit, fast and relentless. Her third orgasm obliterated her, a white-hot explosion, body convulsing, slickness gushing, soaking his cock, thighs, and floor, the desk a ruined, glistening wreck, papers tearing under her hands, ink smearing across her palms, screams echoing raw and unrestrained.

Roman followed, his release searing, spilling into her with a primal roar, body shuddering, grip on her hips bruising as he pressed deep, their combined release dripping down her thighs, pooling on the floor. Collapsing against the desk, hearts pounding, the air thick with sex and sweat, papers ruined, Roman’s hands softened, tracing her sides, lips brushing her shoulder, tender now. Pulling out slowly, their combined release dripped further, and he turned her, lifting her onto the desk, kissing her gently, hands cupping her face, breaths mingling. 

Isla panted, “Statistically fucking significant,” her voice hoarse, a teasing spark in her eyes. Roman chuckled, lips grazing her ear, 

“Peer-reviewed and goddamn approved,” his voice low and warm.

Later that night, Isla’s Midtown apartment glowed softly, city lights filtering through the window, casting a warm sheen over the cozy space cluttered with books, code printouts, and a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. The faint scent of pizza lingered from the box they’d brought from the lab, a reminder of their chaotic evening.

Isla opened the door, stepping aside as Roman entered, his broad frame filling the small entryway, the fitted black t-shirt he’d swapped for his polo hugging his muscles, his presence grounding yet electric. As he set the pizza box on the counter, a soft thud of paws drew Isla’s attention, and Toby, her sleek Siamese cat with striking blue eyes, slunk from under a bookshelf, his gaze locking onto Roman with intense curiosity.

Isla paused, watching as Toby’s tail flicked, his stare unwavering. “That’s Toby,” she said, voice soft, a smile tugging at her lips. “He’s usually not social with strangers, so don’t be surprised if he bolts.” Roman crouched slowly, meeting Toby’s gaze, his movements gentle, and Toby padded closer, sniffing Roman’s shoe, then, to Isla’s shock, rubbed his sleek head against Roman’s leg, a low purr rumbling.

Isla’s eyes widened, a laugh escaping. “Okay, that’s new. He’s never like this with anyone,” she said, her tone warm, heart lifting at the unexpected connection, Roman’s faint smile softening his features as he scratched Toby’s ear, the cat leaning into his touch.

Rising, Roman moved to the kitchen, pouring water into two glasses, his frame dominating the space, the warmth of Toby’s approval lingering in Isla’s chest. She sat cross-legged on the couch, leggings and oversized sweater a stark contrast to the raw vulnerability she felt, the weight of her lie—“It’s not what you think”—heavier after the office, where desire had drowned out the truth. The ultrasound photo, tucked in her bag on the floor, pulsed in her thoughts, its heartbeat a quiet echo she couldn’t ignore.

Roman set a glass on the coffee table and sank onto the couch beside her, their knees brushing, the contact sparking through her like a live wire. Leaning back, one arm draped over the cushion, he studied her with dark eyes, a mix of tenderness and intensity making her pulse quicken. “You’re quiet, more than usual,” he said, voice low, careful, testing the waters. Isla tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, fingers lingering, buying time. “Just… processing. Today was a lot,” she admitted, eyes flicking to the pizza box, then back to him, her voice soft.

Nodding, Roman’s gaze never left her, lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Yeah, it was. You gonna tell me I’m a bad influence for derailing your algorithm demo?” he teased, leaning closer, shoulder brushing hers. Laughing, the sound breaking the tension, light and genuine, Isla nudged his knee with hers, the playful contact igniting a familiar heat, Toby’s earlier warmth easing her nerves. “Oh, please. If anything, you’re the one who can’t keep up with my code. I saw you squinting at that variable loop,” she shot back, cheeks flushing, warmth spreading through her chest. “Low blow, Navarro,” Roman teased, voice warm, “I was distracted by the professor running the show. Hard to focus when she’s throwing around words like ‘temporal sensitivity’ like it’s foreplay.”

Her smile faded as she looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together, the flirtation not erasing the weight in her heart, Toby’s purr a faint backdrop. Roman noticed, his hand covering hers, warm and steady, grounding her. “Isla, talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked, voice softer, serious, thumb brushing her knuckles.

Swallowing, her throat tight, the confession pressed against Isla’s ribs, the office’s wildfire of need not erasing her fear—or the truth. Reaching for her bag, fingers trembling, she pulled out the ultrasound photo, its glossy edge catching the light, Toby’s blue eyes watching from the floor. “Roman, I’m sorry. For lying. In the hallway, when you asked… it is yours. I was terrified, and I didn’t know how to tell you,” she whispered, voice trembling, barely above a whisper, holding the photo out, her hand shaking. “This is… our baby. I saw the heartbeat. It’s real.”

Roman’s eyes widened, softening as he took the photo, his calloused fingers brushing hers, lingering, his breath catching. He studied the grainy image, the tiny shape barely discernible, his jaw tightening with emotion, awe flickering in his gaze, Toby’s purr softening the silence.

“Isla,” Roman said, voice rough with feeling, setting the photo on the coffee table, his hand cupping her cheek, pulling her gaze to his, “I know. I’m not mad. I just need you to let me in. I’m here—for you, for our kid. You don’t have to do this alone.” Tears pricked Isla’s eyes, and she blinked them back, nodding, the ultrasound’s weight now shared, a bridge between them, Toby’s quiet presence grounding the moment. “I want to,” she whispered, voice breaking, “I’m just… scared. This wasn’t the plan. I’m good at data, at control. Not this.”

He shifted closer, palm warm against her cheek, eyes unwavering. “You think I’m not scared? I’m fucking terrified, Isla. But I’m more scared of losing you—of not being there for you, for this,” he said, voice low, raw, glancing at the photo, then back to her. “I meant what I said in the dining hall. I’m not walking away.”

Her breath caught, his sincerity shattering her defenses, the ultrasound and Toby’s trust anchoring her hope. Leaning into his touch, lips trembling, she tried to smile. “You’re too good at this, making me believe it’s gonna be okay,” she murmured, voice shaky.

“It will be,” Roman said, thumb brushing her cheekbone, gaze steady, “We’ll figure it out. Together.” The word—together—settled over her like a blanket, warm and heavy, and she turned her head, pressing a soft kiss to his palm, lips lingering, the gesture intimate, unguarded, his breath hitching as the air shifted, emotional rawness blending with a quiet, simmering heat, softer, more vulnerable, Toby’s purr a gentle hum.

“You keep doing that, and we’re not gonna finish this pizza,” Roman murmured, voice dropping, a playful edge cutting through the weight, his fingers tangling gently in her hair.

Laughing, the sound shaky but real, Isla leaned closer, forehead resting against his, Toby’s blue eyes glinting from the floor. “Maybe I’m not that hungry for pizza,” she whispered, eyes burning with a need beyond the physical, a need to anchor herself in him. His grin was slow, warm, lips brushing hers, featherlight, a promise.

“Careful, baby, you’re playing with fire,” he murmured, hand sliding to the nape of her neck. “Then burn me,” she whispered, closing the distance, their kiss deep, unhurried, searing, his tongue teasing hers, drawing a quiet moan, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the hard planes beneath his shirt.

The kiss deepened, breaths mingling, heat building as Isla shifted onto his lap, thighs straddling his, the friction of his jeans against her leggings sending a jolt through her core. His hands settled on her hips, guiding her closer, touch firm but gentle, lips trailing to her jaw, kissing the sensitive spot below her ear.

“Isla, you’re everything,” he murmured against her skin, voice thick with want, her breath hitching as her fingers tugged at his shirt, pulling it off to reveal his sculpted chest, hands tracing his pecs, the faint scars, memorizing him. Rocking against him, feeling his hardness through his jeans, a soft whimper escaped her, wetness dampening her panties, the heat electric but restrained. His hands slid under her sweater, calloused palms grazing her skin, lifting the fabric slowly, eyes locked on hers, asking permission. Nodding, breathless, she let him peel it off, leaving her in a thin tank top, nipples hardening under his gaze.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Roman rasped, hands cupping her face, kissing her slower, deeper, their bodies pressed close, hearts racing. Her hands fumbled with his belt, movements desperate but not rushed, the air thick with shared need. His lips found her collarbone, kissing softly, and she arched into him, whispering his name, a plea and a promise. They didn’t need words—the way he held her, the way she clung to him, said everything, the ultrasound photo on the table and Toby’s quiet purr a testament to their bond.

As their clothes fell away, the world narrowed to just them—skin against skin, breaths intertwined, an unspoken vow. The night carried them into a haze of closeness, their bodies finding each other like coming home.

When they stilled, tangled on the couch, Roman’s hand rested gently on her stomach, lips brushing her forehead. “We’re gonna be okay,” he murmured, voice steady, certain, his other hand brushing the ultrasound photo beside them. Isla nestled closer, head against his chest, his heartbeat grounding her, Toby’s soft purr echoing faintly. “Yeah, we are,” she whispered, a small smile curving her lips, the photo’s presence and Toby’s trust anchoring her hope.

Whew… that hallway scene was a lot, huh? 😮‍💨 Thank you so much for reading Chapter 2! Things are definitely getting real between Isla and Roman, and the emotions are only going to run deeper from here. Secrets never stay buried for long—and now that Roman knows something, we’re about to see how he shows up (or doesn't). That smut was for science, right?!?! 😭😭

Also… shoutout to Camila for being the ride-or-die cousin we all need. 💅🏽

Feel free to scream in the tags, drop your thoughts in the replies, or send me asks—I'd love to hear your reactions, predictions, or anything you’re curious about.

[aventurineswife]

so how do you think sahsrau would react if they found out that fem reader liked one night stands like she has a body count in the hundreds (her personally is kinda like the girl from that rabbit hole song) would they be horrified to learn that their creator was defiled by such lowly insects or would they also choose to adopt her life style just wondering since as you've said in a previous reply to and ask sagau's and sahsrau's don't really get into the human aspect of the reader

Also love your writing love you!!!!!! (*^*)

Oooooh that is such a juicy and chaotic question—

If we’re talking SAHSRAU and not just a soft romantic AU, then yeah: the reaction would be intense, but not necessarily all the same across the cast.

Initial Reaction: Shock + Intrigue + Conflict

SAHSRAU characters don’t fully grasp the human element of the reader—they worship her, revere her, or treat her as some omnipotent concept. So when they learn something so deeply personal and intimate, it shatters that perception for a moment. It’s not that they’re disgusted—no, no. It’s that they don’t understand how something so sacred could allow herself to be touched by… mortals.

Divided Reactions

1. Those who would be absolutely horrified (but internalize it):

Jing Yuan, Welt, and maybe Himeko — they'd keep their composure, but their entire worldview just cracked. They’d start to overthink like, “Was it pleasure? Was it loneliness? Was it… penance?”

Jing Yuan in particular might start researching Earth’s culture on sexuality like he’s studying scripture.

2. Those who would want to purge the memory from existence:

Cocolia, Yaoshi-coded beings, some Aeons, and definitely Kafka (but secretly). These are the “you’ve been defiled” types. They’d go full “they were insects unworthy of your skin” and might even start tracking these people down to erase them like an obsessive zealot faction.

They might also try to protect the reader from her own urges after this.

3. Those who would adopt the lifestyle out of devotion or mimicry:

Silver Wolf, March 7th, Sampo, and weirdly enough, Blade (in a very unhinged, obsessive, if you let them touch you then I’ll let you break me too way).

Silver Wolf especially would be like: “Okay queen, body count at 100+? Slay. Wanna make it 101?”

They’d start seeing sex as a form of divine expression—“If this is how she conquers the world, then we must become fluent in it.”

4. Those who don’t fully get it but love her anyway:

Dan Heng, Luocha, maybe Ruan Mei. They’d struggle to reconcile the image of the reader with this behavior, but they wouldn’t condemn her. Dan Heng might quietly mourn the emotional side of it, thinking, “Did no one love her?”

Ruan Mei, on the other hand, would be fascinated—she’d want to study the psychology behind it.

But here's the kicker: no matter how they feel about it emotionally or spiritually, they’re still afraid to shame her. She's their god, their shepherd, the source of their universe. If the reader casually mentioned this with zero shame—just vibes and mascara streaks—they’d be forced to either:

Accept that their god is a wild creature of the night

Or snap under the pressure of their idealization cracking

Also, thank you!! <33

[crimsonservalite]

Welcome to my perception of Starlight Express where everyone is animal-like because you can't tell me not to😌

Starting with Electra, they're based on the Great Curassow because, quite frankly, look at that mohawk and tell me that's not Electra-coded.

They are obnoxiously bright and glowy and flip their hair in people's faces to show off.

Not sure if I'm completely happy with the design but I'll rework it later maybe 🤔

(they definitely call the Components their flock behind closed doors but never out loud because that isn't very powerful and godlike of them)

[seoafin]

ship of theseus pt. III pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader ; bruce wayne & reader warnings/tags: word count: ~2.2k one two

You have roughly twenty five minutes to leave. When Dick comes back, he’ll be expecting a morning after conversation. What are we hangs in the air. It’s a conversation you never thought you’d be having. It’s oddly mundane, like the scent of Dick’s aftershave, or the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on your wrist last night as the two of you waited for your popcorn. 

You reach down, grab your jeans—

A knock at the door stops you. You pause. It could be anybody. Dick's elderly neighbor who dotes on him with baked goods and stories of her late husband. A wayward friend (Dick has many friends) in need of assistance. One of his brothers (he has four). Dick is out getting breakfast, and you are contemplating leaving through the fire escape. A litany of excuses come to mind. Emergency shift at the library. Someone broke into your apartment. Your elderly neighbor got stuck in the out-of-code elevator and called the fire department.

You're a secret. You should stay a secret. Which means you should leave now. Swiftly slip away, and send an unimpressive text about how you thought you could, but can't. A generic statement about how it's all been fun, but you've never been meant to settle down. Something he'll laugh about in a week.

Dick would understand. You imagine him reading your text: that dip between his eyebrows, his lips edging into a disappointed frown. The glimmer of hurt in his eyes.

You open the door.

The man at the door stares at you. Tall, broad, and undeniably striking. Fitted in a perfectly tailored suit. Armani. From the platinum watch encircling his wrist (Philippe Dufour) down to his ridiculously expensive leather oxfords ( Italian), the man in front of you looks out of place in the deteriorating hall of Dick’s rundown apartment considering his watch could buy the building several times over. You make sure your gaze doesn’t linger on his hands, but a glance confirms everything you thought. Large and scarred from years of crime fighting. Jagged lines that run down his knuckles.

Hands. They always tell a story. The calluses on Dick’s hands speak to weapons. The scars on this man’s hands speak to brute force, telling an incriminating story of crushed bones and teeth. 

Hello, Batman.

Bruce Wayne blinks in surprise exactly once, before immediately masking it with a perfunctory friendly smile that reaches his eyes just enough that most people will never notice the assessing gaze behind it. 

He's a handsome man, a face made for the magazines and tabloids. You know this because you've seen Brucie Wayne, grinning face plastered on one too many glossy covers with his arm around a beautiful woman, one too many times. 

"Hello," Bruce says, voice all dulcet tones, and perfect enunciation, like any respectable upper class Gothamite. "My name is Bruce Wayne. I’m looking for my son."

Son. There's an implicit warning in the way he says the word, a possessive wrap around that doesn't surprise you in the slightest. It's barely perceptible. Gotham is the Bat's city, it's said. Batman guards her zealously. I'm looking for my son. Who are you?

You stare at him. He hasn't looked down your tank top once, not even a perfunctory glance to keep in line with his famed lady killer image. You suppose it wouldn’t be appropriate in this context, and that this is a line he’s not willing to cross, but it’s difficult for most men to resist the temptation. Especially when you aren't wearing pants.

He keeps his gaze level.

You break into a wide smile. Let him think you a bumbling, empty headed fool. You don't plan on becoming a permanent fixture in Dick's life.

"He just went to get breakfast, but he should be back soon. But come in, come in! Do you want some coffee or tea?"

You step out of the way to let him in. He smoothly makes his way to the expensive couch he probably bought himself in the living room. Every step is purposeful. He's been here before. 

Bruce smiles. "Just water please, if you don't mind."

You pour a glass of water and stride back to the living room. If he’s surprised you didn't put on clothes, he doesn't let it show. Placing the cup down on the table in front of him, you make yourself comfortable on the couch. 

When you make it clear you aren’t going to speak first, he inclines his head.

"Thank you. I apologize for the sudden intrusion," he says lightly, expression pleasantly congenial. He could easily be dining at the Ritz with his expensive clothes and perfect posture, but he seems overall unfazed by your bare appearance. A man used to the female presence. “I didn’t realize Dick had a guest.”

“Guest!” You laugh obnoxiously, waving a hand. “That’s me, I suppose.” 

Who do you want to be right now? You eye the man next to you. Who do you have to be to garner a reaction from the Batman? There’s an itch in you. You want to peel the layers from this man, and disturb the impenetrable facade behind that calm smile. This is a familiar feeling, and it’s dangerous. Last night with Dick was dangerous.

You want to put this world’s greatest detective up to the test against you.  

You’re still you. Even here, alone in a strange new universe where masked vigilantes in spandex swing from buildings and mete out justice with their fists. The concept is not entirely new to you. New York had its fair share. You called some of those vigilantes friends. Your sister called one a lover. You’re here though. You’re not dead. It’s been so long since you felt something pervading that encompassing numbness. 

You almost feel like yourself again.

You hear her laughter in her ears, gentle like a spring breeze. A fleeting pressure in the crook of your shoulder where she would always rest her head. A ghost touch. Bad habit, she says, achingly amused. You just can’t help yourself can you? Everyone is a puzzle to you. Have you figured me out ptichka?

I know you better than I know myself.

You slow your breathing, feeling your heartbeat settle back into a sedate rate.  

“You’re family. ‘Sides, I’m sure it’ll be a nice surprise. Dick is going to be so happy to see you!” By now, you'd guess he's trying to place your accent. An odd unidentifiable mix of different cities, combined with a New York drawl. 

You lean back, and feign a yawn. 

“Late night?” He asks, concerned. You recognize the question for the calculated prodding it is. 

“Don’t you know it,” you contort your voice into a drawl, lowering it into a conspiratorial whisper as you pointedly wiggle your toes. “My feet are just ‘bout killin’ me!”

His gaze follows the line of your leg up to your bare thigh, before it swiftly darts back to your face. Your smile widens when he imperceptibly freezes, a tensing so quick that it could be a sneeze. "I…see.” He clears his throat. A few paces of silence. “How long have you known my son?”

You shrug, absentmindedly tugging at a strand of hair. “Not long. I wouldn’t say ‘ know’… I mean. It’s not like we were talking much last night.” You meet his gaze. “I dance, here and there. I get to meet all kinds of people. I’m sure you know.” You inch closer. “ Bruce Wayne. A man like you..." your gaze appreciatively lingers on his watch. "You must get around!”

An easy chuckle. “I’m afraid my days of 'getting around' are behind me.” Somehow, the latest gossip magazines easily dispute this claim. “I find myself more preoccupied these days with the things that matter the most.”

You tilt your head. 

There’s a glint in his eye. “Family.” He meets your gaze discerningly. A statement fit for a newscast. Yet, it's the most earnest thing he's said so far. “Do you have family here?”

The serene smile on your face doesn’t falter in the slightest. Whatever he’s looking for, he won’t find it. There are no weaknesses to be exploited in your demeanor. You’re a professional. “No.” You don’t elaborate. 

You receive a faint nonplussed, if not artistically pressed sympathetic smile in response. It lacks judgement, despite the judgement you know must be forming from all the subtle implications you’ve dropped.

He hasn’t touched his water. 

If you were religious, you'd say it's divine intervention, the way your phone on the table vibrates. Your face clouds over when you read the boring work email. “Oh god,” you say, standing. “I’ve gotta go. My elderly neighbor—she’s not at all right in the head, bless her—got herself stuck in the elevator. Again!” It's a bald faced lie and the both of you know it. A bad lie here and there only gives you authenticity. You give him a look of knowing exasperation as he schools his face into something politely commiserating. 

“A shame,” Bruce says.

“Well. Tell Dick I’ll be seeing him, yeah?” You lean in close, and put your hand on his shoulder. Strong from years of training. Friendly verging on flirtatious. You wonder what story he tells the women he takes to bed. His is not the build of any casual boxer.

You could see him in public, during some Wayne gala. It’d be easy enough to slip in, to observe. You imagine a whole new man who walks with the lazy yet strong gait of a man who has more money than time. He touches women and men easily, flirting against boundaries of propriety just enough for people to begin speculating. He’ll drink two glasses of champagne before some grand show of public inebriety that would be improper if it were anybody but him. A lightweight, people will laugh. But it’s Brucie Wayne, and Brucie Wayne is harmless .  

Bruce maintains his composure with an affable expression, but you can tell he’s scrutinizing you just as hard as you are him. You look him in the eye. “It was so nice to meet you Bruce.”

I know exactly who you are.

-

You think about texting Dick an apology on your way to your apartment even though it doesn’t matter. You don’t think he'll want to see you again. 

-

Three hours later, Dick calls you while you’re reading a book. You stare at the ringing phone on your nightstand and wonder if you should answer it.

Eventually, curiosity wins out.

“I was wondering if I’d have to stake out your apartment,” Dick jokes. “Bruce is under the impression you’re a stripper. Care to explain?"

"Well," you say, not exactly caught off guard. “I thought it’d be fun.”

"Fun," Dick repeats. 

"Did he believe me?" Of course he did.

There’s a beat of silence. Dick bursts out laughing. You think if she were here, she’d roll her eyes. What are you doing with a pretty boy like that? He even laughs pretty. You and your pretty blue eyed boys.

“He told me I was too old for teenage rebellion!” He relays gleefully. “In less words, but that’s Bruce. I think there may even be an intervention in the making. If I disappear for a few days, don't worry.” 

You hum. “Glad I made an impression.”

“I told him he really doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to relationships, and to butt out of mine.” There’s a pause. “Don’t tell me all that was a convoluted way of breaking up with me?”

You stay silent.

“Wow. You sure know how to make a guy sweat. And hurt his ego. I don't think anyone's ever broken up with me before we started dating.” 

There's a confidence in his words that belies his tone. Before we started dating. An innate confidence only possible with a certain self awareness of one's charms. Of course he knows. 

You stare at the book in your lap. “Would it matter? If I was a stripper?”

"Not if it made you happy," Dick replies easily, and you believe it. You can see him, lips curled into a grin. "Something you wanna tell me?"

Everything.

The thought surprises you. Brings you pause. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you say softly. “You should listen to your father.”

“Those are fighting words. If you knew that man’s romantic history, and every hookup I’ve had to witness as a child you’d think twice about saying that.” He exhales, and you think about running a hand through that dark tousled hair and lightly tugging it in a way you know would make him moan. The way the moonlight framed his face last night. The gentle brush of his touch. He thinks you’re normal, you think. As normal as you can be. You liked being fucked like a normal person. No fate of the world on your shoulders, no secret government agencies, no so-called conflicting loyalties, no sisters, no sorcerers with malfunctioning magic circles wearing ridiculous red capes who got you into this predicament to begin with. 

You don’t need to think about her here. She is neither here nor there. In this world where she never existed, you have no reason to mourn. You don’t exist here either. 

“So tell me. Over dinner, of course.”

“Those are fighting words,” you repeat. It’s not until you raise your fingers to your lips that you realize you’re faintly smiling.

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #15 - FINALE

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: All things end.

Word count: 3,400

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous]

Traveling through Strange’s inter-dimensional portal is a different experience from going through one of Miguel’s. It’s less of a laser light show and more of a psychedelic drug trip.

Shapes and patterns warps in front of you, and the strength of gravity seems to press in against you from all sides as you fall upwards through an endless space.

You lose track of time. You don’t know how long you’ve been in here. It could be hours or seconds, but you can't tell the difference. Then it stops.

There is a gentle light ahead of you, and as you pass through it, the soft warmth of it trickles away. Then you find yourself standing in a familiar vast and empty space once again.

Staring into the far distance, the only thing you see is the blank whiteness ahead of you, just as jarring and endless as last time.

You clutch onto the pink-gemmed amulet hanging from your neck, gifted to you by Strange. A magical artifact that’s meant to help you keep your physical form in this space so you don’t fade away like you did last time.

Everything is static here, stale. There’s no air flow, no sense of temperature. The environment is neither hot nor cold against your skin, but somehow you feel an ever-present chill seeping into your bones.

Taking a deep breath, you start to walk forward.

You're shivering with each step you take. There's no sound under your step. No shadows cast under the soles of your feet.

"Boss lady,” Lyla pipes up, her hologram avatar hovering over your shoulders. “I really don't like this. Let's go back home, Beyoncé is holding a concert in Amsterdam! I got us front row seat tickets."

It's a valiant attempt, Miguel really did a great job coding her, but you’re not going back without him. Ignoring Lyla, you continue on your path.

There’s no sign of Miguel anywhere. It's all infinite whiteness as far as the eye can see, with no signs of an end.

The last two times you were here, you didn’t have a chance to gain an understanding of how big this space is. For all you know it could be as vast and endless as the universe itself. What if you’re stuck wandering in this place for an eternity and still never find Miguel?

You walk on, eyes roaming the space, and a dull ache starts to form behind them from staring at the glaring brightness.

There! Off to your left, you finally spot… something.

Your heart leaps in your chest as you clock a disruption in the blank whiteness. A tiny disruption. Or maybe it’s just far away? The emptiness of this place is hell on your depth perception. You veer in that direction, squinting as you approach, until you’re finally close enough to make out what it is.

In the middle of the vast nothingness, there is a tiny ball of crumpled up yellowish paper floating at knee height.

Huh?

Isn't this a complete void where nothing exists or can exist? Why is there trash here?

You squat down hunching over your knees until the little paper ball is eye level and inspect it closer.

The color and thickness of the paper is familiar. It looks like a post-it note that’s been folded in half, tiny, uneven triangles sticking out at each of the four corners.

How weird.

Crumpled as it is, you can see now that the crooked folds and creases aren't all random. Looking closely, there seems to have been a failed attempt of trying to fold them in a sequence but lacking the proper hand to eye dexterity to do it properly.

Wait, is this…? It must be.

You recognize it now. It’s one of your unfortunate attempts at an origami frog from when you were killing time with Miguel at your work. But what is it doing here of all places?

Tentatively reaching out, you poke at the piece of paper. To your surprise there’s resistance.

That's... odd.

There's nothing else here. Nothing holding it.

Just the failed paper frog suspended in thin air.

You try again, grabbing a corner of the paper this time, but the results are the same. It stubbornly refuses to move. When you tug, it jerks back, away from you.

Squinting your eyes, you lean closer and carefully observe the space in front of you.

Now when you’re paying close attention, you can just about make out a vague, almost invisible outline.

It’s barely there, and you can only tell because the blank whiteness in front of you seems to warp slightly with the smallest tremor of a movement.

Whatever this is, it really doesn’t want you to take your piece of trash back from it.

You frown in annoyance. This doesn't make sense. Why would your poor deformed paper frog even be here? The only people who even had anything to do with the stupid thing are you and–

"Miguel?"

The movement stills at your voice.

When you don't look away, it seems spooked by your gaze, shirking at the attention. The thing shifts in its shape, shrinking down like it's trying to make itself smaller.

You try to move closer, and the obscure translucent form moves away from you, gliding seamlessly into the empty space.

Without a shape it takes you a few moments before you register its movement and what it's trying to do. It's moving fast, as if it's trying to flee from you.

Because it is. Shit!

You run after it, guided by the vague hazy contour against the nothingness that surrounds you. Even without legs, this shapeless thing is moving fast.

"Stop!" you shout, "Stop, stop, please stop! It's me!"

You leap forward, grabbing at the empty outline in front of you, and to your surprise find purchase on the nothingness under your grip.

"Miguel, stop running!" you shout.

It does. He does.

There is something there now, a semi-invisible mass, slightly more opaque than it was a second ago.

You open your mouth to speak, but you don't know what to say. Don't even know for certain that this is Miguel or not.

But you hope it is. Have to believe it is. You’re too desperate to overthink it, and you spout the first thing that comes into your head.

"Come back, Miguel. Come back, and I'll take you back to that cheap Chinese diner you liked so much. We can get all the food you want, all of it deep fried! I'll even share the egg tarts this time."

You think you see something shift before you. It could just be your imagination, but the tiniest speck of color seems to emerge from within the translucent mass.

Somehow, whatever you’re doing must be working, and you quickly try to think of what else you can say that will tempt him to come back.

Food. Maybe more about food will work? It worked for you, after all.

"The Reese buttercups in our other apartment are all expired, but I think they'd still be okay to eat, and– and– And I'll make you cookies if you come back! Blue spiderman ones that match your suit."

The speck of color pops, fading into thin air, your fingers sinking further into the nothingness of his form, and a spike of panic stabs through your chest.

Why isn’t it working!? Was it not the food that made him react after all? You don’t know what else to try.

That first time you were here, Miguel was able to bring you back to yourself with the intimate details he knew from the other lifetime you two had shared. Maybe you can do the same.

"Your name is Miguel O'hara," you start, "and- and-" And then you have to stop, not sure of what else to say. "And your eyes are red... for some reason. And you have fangs! Fangs that can deliver some kind of fucking paralysis venom, which is completely ridiculous by the way!"

Nothing happens. There’s no change save for that the form underneath you squirms and tries to get away from your grip.

"And... and..."

Shit. This is getting you nowhere.

Unlike Miguel, you haven't had the front seat experience of living a lifetime together with him. There's only so much you know about him. Because that man is more secretive than a CIA agent.

You bite down on your lip in frustration.

"Goddamnit, Miguel! I barely know anything about you because you never tell me shit!"

The shape underneath you stops wiggling underneath you.

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you gather yourself, then you reopen them again, staring up at the upper part of the half-invisible shape like he's standing in front of you.

There's no point in trying to beat Miguel at a game of knowledge. You will never win. You never got to learn or memorize every personal and intimate detail about the man and his life. But there's one thing that you know beyond any doubt.

"I miss you," you tell him.

Strokes of soft colors streaks through the translucent mass at your words. A gentle blossoming spreads and you can see the opaque material reform inch by inch, until it vaguely resembles the silhouette of a body.

"I can’t even eat without you around, which has never happened to me before. I’ve been able to eat through food poisoning. But now the cupcakes from Gladis remind me of you and how you're not here, and they taste like cardboard."

He feels firmer somehow, more solid, and there’s even the faintest trace of warmth under your fingertips. Hope flutters in your chest at the change, and you tighten your grip on him.

“I miss you. More than I ever thought it could be possible to miss someone."

You can faintly make out limbs and shoulders, and the outline of a head.

"I miss falling asleep next to you. It's too quiet without your snoring, and the bed is too big without you there."

The body grows taller, and you can see the familiar tan of his skin now, the line of his jaw and the sharp angle of his nose re-materializing before your eyes.

"I miss watching you eat three dozen tacos in one sitting, scaring the tables around us. I miss having you with me and getting to talk to you, or even just sitting next to you doing nothing.”

You lean up towards him, raised on the tip of your toes, until you're up against him. “I just want you to be here with me. Please come back," you whisper into him.

Then he's there. Right in front of you, large and firm and warm as he towers above you, forehead pressed against yours, in your arms.

He’s here. Miguel is here.

His hair is a soft tousled mess. Eyes warm and hazy as he slowly blinks them open like he's just woken up from a hibernation while he gazes down on your face in an intimate silence.

It doesn’t last for very long. His gaze sharpens, blinking in rapid succession as confusion bleeds into his face. You can see the exact moment that consciousness and awareness fully return to him. Because he steps back from you, red eyes burning with an angry determination.

"What are you doing here?" he snarls at you.

Because of course he does. Of course anger is his first reaction at seeing you here.

"You can't be here," he says.

You don't even get a word in before Miguel reaches for your wrist.

"Lyla!" he barks out, and there’s a ping on your arm in response.

"Lyla, stand down," you command, smacking your palm over the face of the dial before the hologram can pop up. You already know that the next words out of his mouth will be a command to whisk you away again if you let him speak.

His lips twist into a frustrated snarl. Eyes glowing with that red fury that you recognize by now as the beginnings of an anger tantrum.

“Why don't you get it? I need to do this," he seethes, gesturing at the void, "I have to disappear. For your sake! It's my fault. I'm the reason you keep dying. I’m killing you!”

“That’s not true! You saved me! You caught me when I fell off the Chrysler building—twice!—and–”

“That doesn’t matter!” he snarls, rounding on you, “Don’t you understand!? You’re still going to die! If I'm with you, you die.”

There’s a moment of resounding silence, and you watch as the anger bleeds away from Miguel’s face, leaving something else in its place.

Something like grief.

“I can’t– I can’t do that again,” he says quietly, and he looks so sad that it damn near breaks your heart.

“Miguel…”

You don’t know what to say in the face of such raw and obvious grief. Until… suddenly, you do.

“Whether you're here or not, I could still die, Miguel."

Your words seem to hit him like a blow, and he flinches back, his eyes going round and liquid, open mouth quivering for a moment before it pulls right into a hard downturned line.

"Even if you were gone, there still wouldn’t be any guarantees," you say.

You brush your hand alongside his, trying to hold his hand in yours but he draws it away.

"You could save me by erasing yourself from existence and tomorrow a bus driver that isn't paying attention might hit me and I'd die anyhow," you continue, and he flinches visibly. "You can't control these things, and I would rather be with you and take the chance and be happy until it happens."

His hand balls up in agitation at his side. "I– I just don't want you to die again," he says, helplessness bleeding through every syllable of his words.

Your heart aches at his obvious pain. All you want, all you've ever wanted is to make that pain a little bit smaller. You step forward closing the distance between you, and he doesn't back away or move from you this time.

“Everybody dies. Regardless of what happens here I will too someday. But you’ve given me extra time. You did that. You saved me, again and again. And I’m so happy that you did. That I got to have that time with you. To share donuts with you in bed, or fold post-its frogs in the office."

His eyes close tightly, and he gives a slight shake of his head, grief and denial warring in his features. “None of that matters if you don’t survive,” he says quietly.

“You say it doesn’t matter, but it does, Miguel. Those moments matter to me. And even if we die here in this stupid video game loading screen, or if we make it out of here, but something else gets me, it will still matter to me.”

There's no telling if your grand speech is actually getting through to him because he's still not looking at you or meeting your eyes. You grab at his shoulder for his attention. It's all you can do to not shake him and rattle him until he accepts what you are trying to tell him.

"I want to be with you, and even if you can’t save me in the end, that's okay. I just want to be with you for as long as I can. However long or short of a time that is, I won’t have any regrets as long as I get to spend it with you. I told you, didn’t I? Every me in every universe would say the same, given a choice."

He doesn’t respond this time and part of you feels like you’re talking to a besieged wall. Reaching up, you cup his cheeks in your hands and pull his face down to meet your eyes.

“How many other universes are out there where those versions of us never get to know each other at all? …Thousands? …Millions? We’re the lucky ones, Miguel. We got to meet, and we have a chance against all odds. So what if it means we have to jump through a few hoops and universes to be together?”

His eyes open fully at your words, and lock on your face. You think you can see the cracks in his defenses. His hands unfurl and twitch at his sides as if he’s fighting himself to reach for you.

"I love you,” you tell him, and his lips part with a slight tremble.

You’re running out of things to say that can convince him now. The only thing that’s left is for Miguel to make the choice.

Your hand slides down from his face, and he looks distraught at the loss of contact as you take one small step back and away from him.

"Let's try to be happy this time," you tell him.

Reaching out your hand towards him, you try your best to smile through your nervousness, hoping that he is going to say yes to you this time despite his trademark stubbornness that you’ve come to love and hate sometimes.

Miguel looks at your hand, hesitation carved into every shade of red in those eyes. His hand flexes by his side, but doesn’t move.

He’s still unsure, and hope falls flat in your chest at the thought that he might very well make the choice to stay and destroy himself despite how much you don’t want him to.

But then he nods, and your heart begins to sing.

Tentative as it may be, his arm still reaches out towards you, fingers seeking out yours and he takes your hand.

"Yeah," he answers quietly. “Let’s be happy.”

Your smile grows wider, eyes watery as your vision blur around the edges when you look up at him. Happiness blossoming in your chest until it feels so full you think your ribs might burst from it.

You squeeze down on his larger hands in yours, to reassure yourself that he is really here, with you. And he is.

"Lyla," you say, and your watch pings at your command, before Lyla’s face lights up the space above.

"Good to have you back with us, boss," she says with a salute in Miguel’s direction. “Where to now?” 

“Lyla,” he acknowledges with a faint smile and a nod, but he doesn’t look away from your face. "Do the thing. Take us home. Home-home."

Warm amber light rises up to surround you both, and Miguel pulls you into his chest. A kaleidoscope of colors explodes before your eyes, swirling around the two of you as he holds you in his arms.

You can't stop smiling at him, grinning like an idiot, as you tilt up to press your forehead to his.

Reality reforms around you, specks of navy-blue filling the large and vast sky. You're standing on the rooftop of a tall building surrounded by the skyline of brightly lit skyscrapers, a labyrinth of levitating bridges and streets laid out beneath. Floating vehicles buzz and soar through the sky like flamboyant dragonflies. Below your feet there is an ocean of dotted neon lights and colorful hologram billboards filling every inch and corner of the city below.

This must be Miguel's home dimension. What did he call it?  Earth-3000-something? Nueva York, he said, and it certainly looks new—bright and fantastical, like nothing you’ve ever known before—but you only have eyes for the man in front of you.

Miguel pulls back slightly, squeezing down on your hand.

"So what do we do now? As long as I exist, the universe will still be out to get you," he says.

Despite the bleakness of the picture he’s painting, his eyes are soft and there’s something that sounds like hope in his tone.

You smile at him, eyes narrowing against the bright neon lights of the tall towering buildings around you.

"We live,” you answer, “Together. As long as we can. I hear you're some kind of genius scientist or something. I'm sure we'll think of something fun to do in the infinite multiverse."

“What do you want to do first?” he asks.

“Sleep.”

He's smiling at you, the corners of his fangs peeking out against his lower lip, eyes squinting in a way that makes him look almost boyish.

The sight of it makes your cheeks warm pleasantly and affection blossoms endlessly in your chest for him.

This isn’t the end, but if it were, it feels like it's a good one this time. Miguel walks out towards the ledge of the building, turning back to reach out his hand to you.

"Let’s go, Cielito."

[Nueva York, Earth 928-C]

The end.

Credit and Dedication: One final time, this is dedicated to @thirstworldproblemss who is my muse, my partner-in-writing-&-brainstorming, who makes writing so much more fun everyday.

And then of course. To everyone of you. We are finally here. Thank you for coming on this journey with me. I want to thank everyone who has followed along in this story this entire time. Writing Every You Every Me has been one of the most joyous writing experiences I've had. That is largely because of you guys! Thank you for every heartfelt feedback you guys have left here, thank you for coming into my asks, thank you for clicking that little heart on the bottom letting me know you've read it and for the lurkers who has followed along all the while, thank you for taking the time to read this story of mine! Having this audience has made me grow so much as a writer. Having your company while I wrote this has brought me so much joy. Reading everyone's reactions and theories has been a privilege that not a lot of writers get in the process of writing a multi-chaptered story. Thank you so so much.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[toopolar]

"V1 has no emotion" crowd is coping so hard. The argument that he is operating on "biological" / programmed drive is so silly to me.

Like at one point, yes, he was following the most primitive sense of hunger when he first entered hell. He only started his descent out of need for blood. But v1 surpasses his creators, evolving faster and better than humans did. He develops that little pang he feels for Hank, though not able to identify it, it's there and it's something. Something that doesn't really aid in survival, and yet is there regardless. When he meets v2, he feels competition, the need to win. It's not about just staying alive, it's about being better, stronger, cooler. It's an entirely social emotion. He meets Gabriel. V1 has destroyed every single thing thrown at him, and is capable of beating minos and earthmovers and sisyphus strength wise. He fights Gabriel twice and yet, let's him get away. This fact ALONE is directly counter intuitive to the narrative that v1 operates on a biological drive for blood and therefore survival alone. He is fully capable of beating Gabriel. He does so twice. What he isn't capable of is killing him, for whatever reason.

So with the new deathscreening, he's screaming (unsuccessfully). He's realizing that despite all the pain and immense difficulty the act of staying alive is, he wants to regardless. He is in the worst place in that universe, and is pleading to carry on. It's not like he doesn't KNOW what death is like, at some point v1 likely had far less sentience than he does now. At some point he was just a pile or wires and guts and code and nothing more. people are afraid of dying because they're afraid of pain, or the uncertainty, but only sometimes. More often than not, they're afraid of leaving it all behind. Letting go of the life and its moments that they held significant. Because you can't take it with you, and you can't get it back.

We as humans don't understand what its like to live operating on purely biological drive, pure animalistic impulse with little thoughts or emotion to it attached, so assigning that sort of existence to v1 while having only a vague concept of this sort of consciousness while he displays a simple yet profound perception of his life in hindsight and his existence being his experiences as a sum is sort of insulting idk

[dandelionjack]

alright. dot and bubble. here goes

interesting to see a totally unsympathetic “protagonist”, that’s a brand new angle the show has never tried before. ncuti shines — probably the first time fifteen’s Blackness has had a tangible impact on his perception in the world, now that’s a wake-up call for mr. “i’m not even human, just walk like you own the place” in a similar way to what the witchfinders proved to be for thirteen. the doctor’s been moving through the world as a white man for 2000 (?) years of his life, so… the slow laugh of disbelief switching to a yell of pure helpless anguish is a FANTASTIC display of his feelings at that moment, in the face of a complete lack of control he so rarely finds himself in.

on a pacing level, it felt a bit drawn out at times (you have to be doing something wrong for me to say that about a 45-minute episode) like some scenes were just there for filler i.e. ricky bashing the dot with a stick while lindy types the code numbers for a solid two minutes, or that’s how long it felt anyway. maybe my attention span is the problem. the motivation of the slugs and/or dots is… unclear… however i 100% stand behind their radical solution to the issue of this sundown town. #teamslug

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Deborah Kerr (Bonjour Tristesse, An Affair to Remember, The King and I)— For several decades she held the record for most Oscar nominations without a win (6 in total), and she was a prolific leading lady throughout the 40s and 50s. She's best known today for the romance An Affair to Remember with Cary Grant, and as the governess in The King and I. Many people have this erroneous perception of her as extremely prim, proper, and virginal, but this could not be further from the truth. When she first came to Hollywood under MGM she was typecast into boring decorative roles, but broke sexual boundaries for herself and Hollywood generally in From Here to Eternity, when she made out (horizontally!) with Burt Lancaster (on top of him!) in the famous Beach Scene. She went on to play many sexually conflicted women, a character type that would define most of her post- Eternity work. She continued to break Hays Code boundaries with Tea and Sympathy, which addresses homosexuality/homophobia head-on, and even did a topless scene in The Gypsy Moths 1969!! One of the only classic stars to do so. She deserves a more nuanced and frankly a hotter legacy than she currently has!!!

Ethel Merman (Anything Goes, Call Me Madam)— Possessed of a bold, brash voice, and an even bolder and brasher presence, Ethel Merman might be more well known for her stage roles, but she made several movies, and was bold and brash in them as well. Also I think if I don't submit her, she's going to come back and haunt me.

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

Ethel Merman:

You've gotta love any woman who got typecast as lead-MILF

Deborah Kerr:

I think she was one of my first crushes before I realised I was bi in The King and I when I watched it as a kid honestly. The kissing scene in From Here to Eternity is iconic for a reason. Actually tried to learn the accents for the characters she was playing if they weren't English which is more than pretty much anyone else was doing then. Played very restrained characters who frequently seemed to be desperate not to be so restrained. Did horror movies without venturing into hagsploitation tropes. Gave Marni Nixon the credit she deserved for her share of the singing in The King and I.

Anne Larsen is a peak late 1950s bisexual with big MILF energy. Have you seen the behind the scenes pics of her wearing a suit?? Have you????? Vote Deb as Anne Larsen.

Nominated for an Oscar six (6) times and never won, but besides her having actual talent (hot), and besides her looking Like That (very hot, also beautiful), she was always playing women who are, like, crazy repressed. Which makes it fun and easy for me to read these characters as queer. Icon!!!! You know what's hot? Playing ambiguously gay in vintage Hollywood.

Her face and talent and body, yes, ofc, duh. But also!!! Her HANDS!!!! I may be but a simple lesbian, but she is the best hactor (hand actor) that ever lived and that's HOT! For propriety's sake I feel I must redact a large portion of my commentary on this subject. Anyway. She's hot in her most famous roles (mentioned above), and also some of her sexiest hacting is on display in An Affair to Remember (her hand on the bannister when Cary Grant kisses her off-screen??? HELLO???), Tea and Sympathy (when she's trying to persuade Tom not to go out and she keeps flexing her hands like she wants to reach out to him but can't??? ALLY BEHAVIOR! WE STAN!), and The Innocents (which opens and closes with extended shots of her hands bc director Jack Clayton was also an ally and he did that for ME). Much of her appeal also lies in the fact that she often played deeply repressed characters and you know what's hot? When those uptight characters finally unravel. It's sexy. It's cathartic. It's erotic. Plus, she's beautiful to look at in both black & white and technicolor, and the more of her films you see, the more you can't help but fall in love!

Literally is in thee most famously sexy scene of all time (or maybe just during the hays code era which is what we're talking about HELLO), which is the beach scene with Burt Lancaster in from here to eternity. To quote a tumblr post of a screen capture of a tweet of a video of joy behar on the view: "y'know, there used to be movies where they were kissing on the beach... From Here to Eternity. They're kissing-- Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr are Kissing on the Beach and then the WAVES crash!! You know exactly what they did!"

She might have a reputation of being chaste and virginal or whatever, but we all know it's the quiet ones who are certifiable FREAKS