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requiemforthepoets · 7 months ago

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you’re such a rollercoaster, some killer queen you are 𖦹 LN4

PAIRINGS: lando norris x female!reader

SUMMARY: it was a random encounter at a club in miami during lando’s first win and all he has to remind him of you was a polaroid.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i’m now done with my midterms, finally! i’ll be posting the requests soon. for the meantime, pls enjoy this lando oneshot i made. enjoy! :)

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

WARNINGS: not proofread, typos, reader has a full back tattoo, cursing, and no use of y/n

It’s finally the summer break, a month away from all university obligations. As the summer break kicks off, you find yourself in the vibrant heart of Miami, ready to enjoy the nightlife that awaits you with your best friends. The hotel room was filled with laughter and sounds of hurried preparations, with all of your excitement evident. In front of the mirror, you admired yourself in the silk black backless dress that definitely accentuates your figure, the fabric of the dress falling just right to showcase your stunning full Sak Yant tattoo that you had gotten on your last trip to Cambodia. It was a daring choice, but you loved the way it felt, and the dress paired effortlessly with your trusty white low-cut chucks—a perfect blend of style and comfort for the night ahead. Your friends squealed in approval of your whole fit, each one hyping how amazing you looked.

“Are we ready to paint the town red?” One of them chimed, a teasing grin plastered on her face.

“Absolutely! Let’s make the most of this summer!” You replied, excitement bubbling in your chest.

The first club was already buzzing when you arrived, its lively atmosphere spilling out onto the street. It was packed—it was way more crowded than you had anticipated, and the thumping bass reverberated through your chest, the energy was electric. But as always, you and your friends pushed through the throngs of people, determined to start the night off right. You managed to snag a table near the dance floor, which is also quite close to the DJ booth. You could feel the energy of the crowd surge, especially when the DJ began playing the iconic beats of 2011 club hits.

The moment we found love by Rihanna started playing, you and your friends erupted in cheers, and memories of late-night dance parties flooding back. This song was your jam and you guys won’t let this pass, so you grabbed your friends’ hands and rushed to the dance floor. All the people began to sing along to the song at the top of their lungs, including you, and losing yourself in the infectious energy that surrounded you.

In the midst of your carefree dancing, you suddenly felt a gentle yet firm grip on your waist that made you turn. You found yourself face-to-face with an incredibly handsome man—his curly hair framed a sharp jawline, his aquamarine eyes sparkled under the flashing lights, and a small, charming smile played on his lips. You noticed that he’s a little bit tipsy, evident by his slight sway, but still managed to maintain a charming composure with an air of confidence.

“Your tattoo is incredible.” He leaned down to whisper it in your ears. His voice was low and warm, sending a delightful shiver down your spine. Heat immediately rushed to your cheeks as you blushed, momentarily lost for words.

“Thanks!” You shouted over the loud noise for him to hear you, but not really sure if he heard you or not.

Just then, your friend—the one who always photographs, had tapped your shoulder, her polaroid camera ready. She aimed it at you, and without thinking, you turned to the handsome stranger, flashing a playful smile as your friend pressed the shutter button. The photo was developed quickly, perfectly capturing the moment, and she handed it to you with a knowing look. An idea suddenly sparked in your mind, and you quickly rummaged through your friend’s bag.

“Hey, do you have a pen that I could borrow?” You asked, almost breathless with excitement.

She handed you a sharpie, raising an eyebrow but not questioning your sudden burst of creativity at the moment. You wrote a quick “thank you” on the empty space of the polaroid, signing it with the initial of your first name with a flourish before slipping it into the pocket of the white polo the stranger was wearing. The stranger looked surprised, a mix of confusion and excitement on his face, but he simply smiled back, his eyes lighting up as he reached for you.

“Wait, I didn’t get your name—” before he could finish his sentence, your friend pulled you in your arm, her eyes sparkling with mischief, “time to hit the next club!” She called, pulling you away.

You turned back at the stranger, waving him goodbye, feeling an unexpected pang of regret for leaving him behind. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that this night isn't over yet. You exchanged glances with him one last time, a silent promise hanging in the air, your heart fluttering with the hope that somehow, you’d see him again.

As you and your friends spilled out onto the bustling Miami street, your laughter filled the night as you headed to the next club. However, all you could think about was the brief connection you had felt on the dance floor, a sweet moment that seemed to linger in the air, leaving you yearning for more.

The night had ended in a blur for Lando. After the wild celebration of his first Formula 1 win in Miami, the euphoria was slowly dissipating and replaced by a wave of drunkenness that hit harder than he had expected. By the time the club lights dimmed and the crowd began to thin, Lando could barely stand on his own two feet, let alone string together a coherent sentence.

Max and Carlos had taken one look at him and immediately decided that they needed to step in. “C’mon mate, let’s get you back to the hotel,” Max grunted, slinging Lando’s arm over his shoulder, while Carlos grabbed the other side.

Carlos chuckled, equally amused and exasperated, “he kept pace with everyone at the party. Now he’s paying the price.”

Lando, wasted out of his mind, stumbled along between them, mumbling a mix of incoherent phrases. “She…she was…beautiful,” he slurred, eyes half-closed, as they maneuvered through the hotel lobby. “The tattoo…I need to…find her.”

Max raised an eyebrow, exchanging a knowing look with Carlos. “Who’s he talking about now?” Carlos asked, chuckling under his breath.

“Who knows? Maybe some random girl from the party,” Max shrugged, though the curiosity in his tone was undeniable. “You think he’s talking about some girl he met tonight?”

Carlos nodded, “definitely. He kept disappearing from the group. Bet it’s some girl who caught his eyes.”

They wrestled Lando into the elevator, which was a challenge in itself as Lando kept sagging against the walls. When they finally reached his hotel room, Carlos fumbled with the keycard, managing to get the door open while Max dragged Lando inside.

“Alright, bed time for you, champ.” Max muttered, carefully tossing Lando onto the bed. Lando landed face-first into the pillows, groaning something incomprehensible as he sprawled out, completely out of it.

As they started to leave, Carlos noticed something peeking out of Lando’s polo pocket. “Wait, hold on. What’s this?” He said, pulling out a small polaroid photo. He studied it for a moment before handing it to Max.

Max blinked, holding the picture up to the light. It was a snapshot of Lando at the club, with a girl smiling beside him. They were both smiling and looking like they were having the time of their lives, clearly caught up in the moment. Lando’s arm was around her waist, and she was beaming up at him.

“So this is who he’s been going on about, huh,” Max mused, smirking as he showed it to Carlos.

Carlos grinned, leaning closer to inspect the photo. “It has no name, no number on the back. Just the word thank you and a signature,” he said, pointing at the small initial written on the bottom corner of the polaroid.

Max gave a low whistle, eyes flicking to Lando, who had now turned onto his back, snoring loudly. “The way he’s looking at her, though…” Max said, shaking his head with an amused sigh. “Poor guy. He’ll surely lose his mind trying to find her again.”

“You think he’s going to go all in on this mystery girl?” Carlos asked, already imagining the chaos that could ensue once Lando wakes up.

“Oh, definitely. Look at that face—he’s going to lose his mind trying to find her.” Max chuckled, running a hand through his hair.

“If he does, it’ll be entertaining for us. He might actually be serious about someone for once.” Carlos smirked.

Max laughed, tucking the polaroid back into Lando’s pocket. “Well, whatever happens, tomorrow’s going to be interesting for sure. But first, I’m betting his hangover’s going to be the real pain in the ass.”

“I second that.” Carlos clapped Max on the back as they both made their way to the door. “Let him sleep it off. If fate has any say in this, maybe he’ll see her again.”

Once Max and Carlos had managed to leave the room, the soft snores of their friend filled the silence behind them, but they couldn’t help but share one last grin. Lando Norris, hopelessly wasted and smitten, was in for one wild ride the moment he wakes up in the morning.

When Lando woke up the next day, it felt like the world had caved in on him. His head pounded relentlessly like a jackhammer, every inch of his body felt heavy, and the sunlight seeping through the curtains are making everything worse. He groaned, pressing a hand to his face as he tried to piece together the events of the previous night. His mouth even felt dry, and every muscle ached—classic hangover. Glancing at the clock, his stomach sank. It was already past one in the afternoon.

“Ah shit.” He muttered, rubbing his temples.

Lando’s memories was a total fucking mess. Fragments of the party slipping in and out of focus. All he remembered is that he was celebrating his first F1 win in a Miami club with a bunch of friends, music, drinks…too many drinks, clearly. But then, there was something, or rather, someone—who stood out in the haze. A girl.

The image of you on the dance floor flickered in his mind. Lando couldn’t quite place every detail of your face, but the memory of your presence lingered, the feeling of being inexplicably drawn to you. It was like trying to recall a dream that was slipping away. He just shook his head, trying to clear the fog.

Struggling out of the bed, he tugged off the polo he had been wearing from the night before. As he did, something fell on the floor. Lando blinked, looking down to see a small polaroid photo lying by his feet. He picked it up and stared, the image hitting him like a bolt of clarity. It was a photo of you and him at the club, your face being illuminated by the flashing lights, both of you are smiling. Suddenly, the blurry memory sharpened. He remembered you—your black backless dress, the intricate back tattoo, the way you turned when he approached you. You had been so close, yet before he could really get to know you, your friends had whisked you away, leaving him standing alone on the dance floor, with only the photo to show for it.

Lando’s heart skipped a beat as he flipped the polaroid over, hoping to find some kind of clue, a way to find you. But the back was just frustratingly blank, except for the written thank you and an initial on the free space of the polaroid. He ran a thumb over the handwritten words, feeling a pang of disappointment. There was basically no number, no name. It was all just a fleeting memory. He sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“She’s probably just someone who came and went,” he muttered to himself, but even as he said it, the thought didn’t sit right.

There was something about the brief connection he felt with you that night, something that he couldn’t shake off. It was strange, almost unnerving, how much he remembered the feeling of being with you in that brief moment—like everything else had faded into the background.

Without fully understanding why, Lando grabbed his wallet and carefully tucked the polaroid photo into his wallet, sliding it into the hidden compartment where it could be safe. He wasn’t even sure why he decided to keep the polaroid, especially in such a personal place. It seemed silly, but it felt right to keep it there, like a small piece of that night he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

Lando sat there for a few moments longer, staring at the closed wallet in his hand. The next race was in a week, and he had the time to get his shit together before flying to Italy for the Imola GP. But now, instead of just focusing on the upcoming race, his mind kept drifting back to you—wondering if you were still out there somewhere, wondering if he would ever get the chance to see you again. He finally stood up to get ready for the day and fly out of Miami, he couldn’t help but smirk at himself.

“Guess I’m going to be thinking about this for a while,” he muttered, the memory of your smile etched into his thoughts.

Miami was fun, and now it’s time to go back to reality. Once you got back home, the vibrant memories of the trip slowly started to fade into the background, already having been replaced by the familiar routine of gearing up for the new university year. This was it—your final year at university, the last stretch before graduation, and you are determined to give it your all. It was time to buckle down and focus on academics. After all, everything you had done in Miami was meant to stay in Miami.

Yet, no matter how hard you tried to immerse yourself in your studies, your mind would always reel back to that night in the club. The memory of the man you had met—his aquamarine eyes, the way he had looked at you like you were the only person in the room had kept replaying in your head, keeping you awake at night. It was frustrating how much he lingered in your thoughts. You had only known him for a brief moment, not even long enough to learn his name, yet you couldn’t forget the instant connection that had sparked between you.

The way he had complimented your tattoo, the way he had smiled when you slipped the polaroid into his polo pocket—it had all felt surreal, like something out of a dream, and then there was the polaroid. You literally had no idea why you had given it to him, that was the only physical memory of that night, the only proof that your paths had crossed. Yet, in the moment, it felt like what you did was the right thing to do. Or maybe it was the excitement, the adrenaline of the night you felt that had pushed you to make such a spontaneous decision. But now, you found yourself wondering if he had even kept it, or if it had ended up crumpled in some corner, forgotten in the blur of a party boy’s life.

You tried to push these lingering and uninvited thoughts aside. After all, he had seemed like the type who enjoyed the party scene, the kind of guy who was probably very used to fleeting moments like the one you had shared. You definitely have no reason to expect anything more from it. It was fun while it lasted—a brief, electric encounter in the middle of a packed club. Still, a small part of you couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if your friend hadn’t pulled you away so soon. Would you have stayed and talked more, gotten to know him beyond that brief moment on the dance floor? Or maybe it was better this way, a perfect memory left untouched by reality.

With a sigh, you snapped yourself back to the present, staring down at the pile of thick college textbooks and notebooks waiting for you. It was time to focus on what was real, what was tangible—your studies, your future. The man from Miami would remain just a distant memory, one that you would tuck away with all the other wild moments from your summer. After all, you had more important things to focus on now.

Still, every now and then, as you walked to your lectures or sat in the library, you would catch yourself thinking about him—wondering if he still had that polaroid tucked away somewhere, just like you secretly hoped he did.

Lando was no better. Ever since that night in Miami, his mind has been drifting more than usual. He found himself distracted during meetings, zoning out during race prep, and even spacing out in the garage most of the time. His usual easy going demeanor was now often replaced by a more serious, almost contemplative expression. It was as if something had taken root in his mind, and no matter how hard he tried to shake it, the memory of you wouldn’t let go.

He had replayed that night over and over again in his mind—the moment he saw you, how he had felt an unexplainable pull towards you, the way you had smiled when he complimented your tattoo, and how effortlessly everything had seemed to click between you in that brief encounter. It was ridiculous, really, how hung up he had become over someone he barely even knew. He hadn’t even caught your name—and yet, the polaroid was still inside his wallet, tucked away like a secret he carried with him everywhere he went.

Whenever he felt particularly lost in thought, he’d pull it out and stare at it, trying to remember every detail of your face, laugh, and the way you looked at him. He was becoming a lovesick fool. But that only made it worse—like he had been shot by cupid, now hopelessly stuck in this strange limbo of longing for someone who felt like a distant memory. The problem was, he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. But now, half of the grid knew about the mysterious girl in the polaroid. It had all started with Oscar.

Lando had been so deep in his dilemma that he couldn’t contain it anymore and had to vent about it, and Oscar, being a good listener, and always the voice of reason, had been the unfortunate recipient of Lando’s endless stream of confusion and longing.

“Mate, I don’t even know where to start looking,” Lando groaned one afternoon, slumping into a chair next to Oscar. They were in the motorhome, waiting for a debrief. “She didn’t even leave her name, no number, nothing. Just…this. I don’t even know why I’m so hung up on this! It was just one night.” He pulled out the polaroid for what felt like the hundredth time, showing it again to Oscar.

“Well, that tends to happen when you let Max and Carlos feed you shots all night. You’re lucky that you remember anything.” Oscar teased, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“That’s not helping.” Lando shot him a look, half amused and half exasperated. “I just—there was something about her, you know? It wasn’t just the drinks. I felt this connection, and then she was gone.”

“You really got hit hard, didn’t you?” Oscar chuckled.

“You have no idea, Osc,” Lando muttered, running a hand through his curly hair in frustration. “I mean, what are the odds, right? A random night in Miami, and now…I can't stop thinking about her. What’s wrong with me?”

Oscar chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Hey, nothing’s wrong with you. You just like her, I guess. A lot.” He glanced at the polaroid again, shaking his head in amusement. “You’ve got the entire grid buzzing about this by now, you know. Everyone’s rooting for you to find her.”

“Great. So now everyone’s invested in my love life too.” Lando groaned, leaning his head back.

“You did show them the photo,” Oscar pointed out with a grin. “It’s hard not to get curious when you’ve been carrying that thing around like a lovesick fool.”

“I know it’s stupid, but it feels like more than just a random encounter. There was something there, Oscar. I swear.” Lando let out a dramatic sigh, though a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“So what are you going to do? Just sit around and hope she magically walks into the next race?” Oscar leaned back in his seat.

“I was thinking that maybe, I could hire a private investigator or something, you know.” Lando shrugged.

Oscar’s eyes widened in disbelief. “A private investigator? Tell me you’re joking.” Lando’s expression remained serious. “No, I’m not! Or, I could just post the photo online, let the fans do their thing. They could help me find her—someone has to know who she is.”

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Lando, mate, listen to me.” He turned to Lando, face serious. “You’re out of your mind. You can’t hire a PI or ask your fans to find this girl. Think about how creepy that sounds.”

“But how else am I supposed to find her! I can’t even stop thinking about her, Oscar. I didn’t even get her name, and now I’m stuck.” Lando groaned again.

“Mate, if you’re meant to find her, you will. You can’t force something like this, and you definitely shouldn’t involve the internet.” Oscar sighed. “Just let it go for now. Focus on the races, and if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.” He added.

Lando sat in silence for a moment, staring at the polaroid again. As much as he hated to admit it, Oscar was right. He couldn’t exactly post the photo online and hope for the best—that would be absolute madness and would really violate your privacy. But letting it go? That shit felt realy impossible.

“Yeah, I guess.” Lando muttered.

Lando tucked the polaroid carefully back into his wallet. He knew deep down, he wasn’t really ready to let go of the idea of finding you again. Even if it seemed impossible.

More months passed by, and life had already moved on, but the memory of that night in Miami still lingered in your mind—and in Lando’s too. The connection, however, had left an impression on both of you, though neither expected to cross paths again. You had already given up any hope of seeing him again, and had decided to leave it all to fate. If it’s meant to be, then it’ll be. Besides, life has been busy enough for you. With your final year at university, you had too much on your plate to spend time wondering about a man whose name you still didn’t know. But it seems like fate had other plans in store for the both of you.

It started when you had a week off from university, and you and your best friends decided to go on a trip to Greece over your week off. You have no qualms about it, since you really needed a break as well, and what better way to relax than exploring the beautiful beaches and Acropolis of Athens.

The trip to Greece was everything you had hoped for, but unbeknownst to you, Lando was in Greece too, enjoying his own vacation with his close friends. You were sunbathing on a pristine beach, chatting away with your friends, when Lando walked by just a few meters away. He didn’t notice you, and you didn’t see him either—both of you are too caught up in your own worlds, yet there you were, so close but so far away.

The second time was when you took a trip to Ibiza. Another spontaneous getaway with your best friends. The vibrant nightlife and endless summer energy called your name. As you danced and had the time of your life at a beachside club, oblivious to the fact that Lando was just at a private party down the shore. His friends had dragged him out for the night, hoping to help him unwind after a tough race. You and your friends left just as Lando was arriving, two paths almost crossing once again.

It was starting to become a strange pattern—wherever you were, Lando seemed to be there too. The two of you had shared the same sunsets, wandered the same winding streets, and probably passed by each other without even realizing it.

The third time was in Monaco. A beautiful city, with its glamor and breathtaking views, it was the perfect escape before starting your last semester. You and your friends are strolling down the harbor one afternoon, laughing as you all pointed at the massive yachts that were all lined up, imagining what it would be like to live such a luxurious life.

Inside a nearby café, Lando was sitting by the window, sipping on a coffee and looking out over the same harbor. He had been restless, unable to shake the feeling that he was missing something—or someone. He looked up just as you and your friends passed by outside, laughing and taking selfies by the water, but you did not look his way, and he didn’t get up, assuming it was just another passing group of tourists. Once again, fate brought you together, only to keep you just out of reach.

It was as though the universe was playing a cruel game, constantly bringing you and Lando to the same place at the same time, but never allowing your paths to fully align. You could be randomly walking down the street while he was sitting just a few doors away in a café. Lando could be entering a restaurant as you and your friends exited from a nearby boutique. It was almost laughable how close you came to seeing him again, yet how impossibly far away it felt.

As the months passed, both you and Lando accepted that what had happened in Miami was a beautiful, fleeting moment. Something to be kept, but perhaps never meant to be revisited. But there’s still a small part of you that couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, fate wasn’t done with you yet.

For now, though, it seemed like fate was content with keeping the both of you on the edge—close enough to feel the pull, but never quite close enough to collide.

One night, it seemed like that fate had finally decided it was time to stop playing games. You were in the middle of preparing for your final exams when your cousins called with an unexpected invitation. They will be flying to Singapore for the Gran Prix two months from now, and they have already secured a paddock club pass for you—for all three days of the event. The kicker? They will be paying for everything; flights, accommodations, and even meals. It was definitely a golden opportunity, and although you had no clue what a Grand Prix was or even what Formula 1 is, you couldn’t turn down an all-expenses-paid trip to a place you had been saving up to visit anyway.

“Trust me, it’s going to be amazing,” your cousin assured you over the phone. “You’ll get to be up close to the cars, the drivers, and the entire F1 spectacle. It’s a vibe.”

While you were excited about the trip, the idea of spending three days around race cars didn’t exactly thrill you. You knew nothing about cars or Formula 1, and the most you had ever watched were glimpses of motorsports on TV at home with your father. But a free trip to Singapore was too good to pass up, and maybe, you would find something to enjoy about this whole Grand Prix thing.

Fast forward to your arrival in Singapore. The sweltering heat of Singapore was almost overwhelming, but the excitement in the air was noticeable as you strolled through the paddock area, soaking in the energy of the Grand Prix weekend. You are dressed in a flowing white sundress that caught the breeze just right, paired with chic Prada Monolith Crisscross sandals, a cute beige mini Lady Dior handbag that matches complete your whole outfit, and the paddock club pass hanging around your neck—in all honesty, you looked like you belonged at a chic summer brunch rather than a motorsport event. But you were grateful for your outfit choices, especially given how hot and humid it was in Singapore. You weren’t sure what to expect from the race weekend, but at least you felt prepared for the weather.

The atmosphere was buzzing, with fans eagerly awaiting glimpses of their favorite drivers. You and your cousins meandered around, snapping photos of the three of you to send to your parents for updates, and enjoying the free-flowing drinks and gourmet food available in the exclusive paddock club. Your cousins, die-hard Formula 1 fans, were thrilled to spot drivers walking around, rushing up to get photos with anyone they could.

At one point, they had spotted Oscar Piastri, the young driver who seemed to be gathering a crowd in the paddock. Your cousins were excited and hurried up to him, asking for a quick photo. Instead of joining them, you volunteered to take the photo, your cousin had handed you his phone and took a photo of them with Oscar. As Oscar posed with your cousins, you framed the shot perfectly, capturing their wide smiles and his easygoing grin. After the photo was snapped, you handed the phone back to your cousin, but something odd caught your attention.

Oscar was staring at you, a look of recognition flashing briefly across his face, though he didn’t say anything. His gaze lingered for a second too long, as if he was trying to place where he had seen you before. But before you could ask if something was wrong, he quickly and politely excused himself, saying something about needing to be somewhere else.

“Thank you!” Your cousin beamed, oblivious to the strange moment, as they admired the picture you had taken.

However, you were left feeling slightly unsettled. Why had Oscar looked at you like that? You just shrugged it off, thinking it was probably nothing. After all, he must meet thousands of people all the time, maybe you just had one of those faces.

You continued walking around with your cousins, admiring the cars as the mechanics prepared for the weekend’s race during the pitlane walk. The energy was contagious, you could feel it in the air—tension and excitement. While you didn’t quite understand the intricacies of the sport, you were starting to get why so many people were hooked.

As Oscar made his way back to the McLaren garage, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just seen someone important. The brief encounter with you lingered in his mind, he considered telling Lando about it, but something held him back. What if he was just mistaken? What if you were just another face in the crowd, one of the many people who flocked to the Grand Prix? He surely didn’t want to get Lando’s hopes up if he was wrong because the boy is already losing his mind of finding you.

But still, there was an undeniable spark of recognition in Oscar’s gut. The way you had smiled at him, the familiarity in your eyes—it was as if you were embedded into his memories, even if he couldn’t quite place you. The thought of Lando obsessing over someone who may not even be worth it felt almost cruel, so he kept quiet as he stepped into the garage.

“Hey Osc!” Lando called out from where he was working on some last-minute adjustments to the car. His energy was infectious, his usual charisma shining through despite the long day ahead.

“Just met some fans,” Oscar replied, casually brushing off the encounter. He knew Lando was too focused on the race to delve into any side stories, so he played it cool. “Pretty excited about the weekend.”

“That’s good! We need that energy. It’s going to be a wild race!” Lando said enthusiastically and grinned.

Lando was really in the zone, and Oscar didn’t want to disrupt that by bringing up something that might end up being inconsequential, but Oscar couldn’t help himself. As he watched Lando tinker with the car, a thought struck him. If he had indeed seen you, and if you were that same girl that Lando had met at the club in Miami, then there was a chance for another confirmation that it really is indeed you. Singapore is a big place, but the paddock? Not so much. People cross paths here all the time. Fate could also work in you and Lando’s favor.

“I have a feeling we’ll meet some interesting people this weekend,” Oscar said, casually testing the waters. “You never know who might show up in the paddock.”

“You think so? Like who?” Lando raised an eyebrow, now intrigued.

“Just a hunch. You know how these events go, a lot of fans and celebrities come through.” Oscar shrugged, playing it cool as he smiled at Lando. Hoping what he said wouldn’t come off too eager.

“Yeah, I guess we’ll see. It’d be nice to connect with some new faces.” Lando grinned.

Oscar just decided to remain quiet, but inside his mind, he had promised himself that if your paths didn’t cross naturally over the course of the race weekend, he would make sure to plan the two of you to meet. It was high time for Lando to get that second chance, and if fate wouldn’t still bring you and Lando together, then Oscar would be more happy to lend a hand.

As you and your cousins walked around the bustling paddock, the excitement of the day washed over you. You were engaged in conversation, pointing out different drivers, when suddenly, your cousins spotted someone they knew and ran off to catch up. You paused, taking a moment to soak in the atmosphere and admire the vibrant energy that surrounded you. You never knew that you’ll be enjoying the Grand Prix with your cousin—it was eventful, but really fun.

Suddenly, your eyes caught sight of someone familiar stepping out of the McLaren motorhome—a head of curly hair, sharp jawline, and those aquamarine eyes that had been burned deep into your memory since that night at the club in Miami. It was him. Most of all, you wouldn’t expect that the man you had met in the club was Lando Norris. You had seen his face all over the paddock, and your cousin telling you who he was.

You froze for a moment, your heart was caught up in your throat. Lando was walking with a group of people, laughing and chatting, completely unaware that you were standing just meters away. It felt like time had slowed down for you. Could this really be happening? After all those months of missed chances and near encounters, fate had finally decided to stop playing games and let your paths cross again—and here you were, in Singapore, of all places.

But just as you gathered your thoughts, Lando turned his head in your direction. His laughter faded, and his eyes locked onto yours. There was a flicker of surprise, then sudden recognition as his face shifted from casual curiosity to something more intense. It was like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, and neither could you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in a strange limbo of disbelief. But as you or cousins called out to you, completely oblivious to the emotional earthquake happening between you and Lando, you snapped back to reality. You offered a nervous smile and a small wave, really unsure of what to do next. Would he even remember you? Should you go over and say something? Or maybe he was just staring at someone behind you.

“Hey! We’re heading over there!” Your cousins shouted, pointing toward another part of the paddock.

You felt a wave of disappointment was over you, knowing that you had no choice but follow and be with them. As you turn to leave, you glance back at Lando one last time, just in time to catch him staring intently at your back. Lando’s expression shifted as his eyes widened, and you realized he had spotted your tattoo—the intricate Sak Yant design that adored your skin.

In that moment, you could almost see the gears turning in his mind as he began connecting the dots. Your heart raced again, a mix of hope and fear. But before you could linger on your thoughts, your cousins tugged at your arm, leading you away. You felt a strange sense of longing, wishing desperately for a chance to bridge the gap. Little did you know, Lando was feeling the same way.

Fate had finally brought you together again. Now, the ball is in Lando’s court.

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chaaistained · 2 months ago

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hi chaai! do you have any ideas on where to shift to?

ideas on where to shift .*+

we’ll get the obvious out of the way, there are many different locations you can shift to anon !! and i personally don’t know what your interests and hyperfixations are :( but ! i still want to help in any way i can ≈ so here are a list of general ideas and suggestions and maybe some inspo into different realities to which you (any of you!) can shift !! and ofcs you can tweak it all to your liking xx

sink into self indulgence …

—» shifting at its core is self indulgent and the first example i can think of is your favourite childhood books, movies and shows — the kind of self indulgence where you go back to what made your life sparkle as a child, what made you believe in the impossible, what made you wish the impossible was real, whether it’s fairies, dragons, mermaids, or monsters going to high school, you should take a trip down memory lane and figure out what had you rushing to finish your meal to go watch the latest episode, or work hard at your homework so you could buy the next edition of the game. there’s also the media consumed in your teenage years, the kinds of media that helps you feel like you were escaping and yet at the same time like you were understood

examples include : hogwarts , narnia , my little pony , monster high , ever after high , how to train your dragon , percy jackson and the olympians , h2o , pixie hollow , barbie fairytopia/mermaidia , hilda , bridge to terabithia , wizards of waverley place , minecraft , power rangers , tmnt , disney princesses , little women , gilmore girls , studio ghibli , etc.

—» there are also the realities where you play a part in the bigger picture, you are a significant piece in a vast and intricate puzzle, you stand among your peers, your friends, as someone to be recognised, maybe you’re looking for some thrill? some excitement? some sort of battle or mystery or revolution where you can fight for the underdog or reclaim some form of power — be careful if you do choose to explore these places, but i’m sure you’ll handle it just fine

examples include : marvel/mcu/the avengers/spiderverse , dc/justice league/the arrowverse/smallville , the hunger games , the walking dead , arcane , supernatural , teen wolf , the maze runner , the vampire diaries , pretty little liars , gossip girl , mean girls , outer banks , criminal minds , brooklyn nine nine , the rookie , dune , star wars , avatar: the last airbender , james cameron’s avatar , jurassic park/world , pirates of the caribbean , twilight , etc.

—» conversely, your dr doesn’t even need to be fantastical, sometimes, the things that bring us comfort are in fact the most relaxing, they slow our lives down for whatever time we spend engaging in them, they let us unwind and unravel any burden we’ve unknowingly put on ourselves, the dr doesn’t even need to be based on some form of media, it could be your dream life and/or career

examples include : better cr (HIGHLY RECOMMEND) , cafe/barista , librarian , farmer , florist , artist , museum curator , boarding school , summer camp , bookstore owner , writer , painter , photographer , chef , designer , animator , game developer , director , etc.

—» but maybe you would like a career in the spotlight, where you can finally show the world what you’re capable of, the talent and skills that you know are innate to your being and you just need the opportunity to showcase it

examples include : actor , pop star , band member , kpop idol , youtuber , broadway singer , talk show host , dancer , professional athlete , model , travel vlogger , socialite , royalty , etc.

when all is said and done, shifting is inherently a form of self love, you’re picking yourself and you’re choosing to shift and experience a reality that will fulfil you in some way !! the ideas in this post are not the limit, there is no limit, [cue mean girls’ “the limit does not exist” scene] so let your creativity take control and let yourself indulge in what makes you happy

cuppa queries; order in — ask responses

2025 © chaaistained

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choerypetal · 1 year ago

Text

Nap Time. / Mike Schmidt

Summary : You knew Mike ever since moving next door to his. While you were suggesting to look for a job and him in deed for a babysitter, to keep Abby during his night shifts. You accepted even at times to offer overtime, due to the nights at his work being somewhat more difficult than he had thought. Meaning having to also prepare tonight's dinner when Mike went to take a Nap. Warning : None, Just fluff!

Enjoy!

Mike had diligently prepared your paychecks for the past few months. Despite facing personal challenges, he consistently maintained his commitment to honesty. However, as he handed you your paycheck this time, there was a noticeable change in his demeanor. His gaze appeared strangely vacant, and he seemed to avoid eye contact, in line with his prior preference for avoiding meaningless, drawn-out conversations. You couldn't help but observe his bloodshot eyes and the dark circles underneath them, signaling that he hadn't enjoyed a peaceful night's sleep in quite a while.

Although you offered to stay a little longer, realizing that dinner wasn't ready and Abby was getting ready for bed, he firmly declined, shaking his head nervously, his stuttering making his anxiety apparent. "No–Noo– It’s– Abby can–" It was at this moment that you understood he had lost everything. The memories from that second night at the Pizzeria and the children were haunting him. He began to disconnect from reality, feeling his body temperature rise and sweat bead on his forehead. If Mike wasn't already in a state of torment, he had surely been gone for a long time.

"I insist." You firmly stated, believing in your words this time. Abby, who had been hesitant to peek from outside her room, came over to hug you. Seeing that you were still there, she tugged at the end of your shirt, signaling that you could stay even if her brother had chosen not to. She preferred spending more time with you, especially after all the recent events. While she deeply cared about her brother, she understood that sometimes adults needed their space, particularly when it involved taking Abby away from Mike and into the care of her aunt, who she herself had strongly objected to it.

Mike observed the two of you, momentarily captivated by how he managed to keep his composure after all he had been through. He let out a sigh, soothingly rubbed his neck, and finally agreed before Abby could voice another protest directly. "Alright, alright. It wouldn't hurt if you stayed a little longer... Maybe to also getting dinner ready too?"

A smile graced your features as you graciously accepted his request, fully aware of his fatigue. "I'll go take a nap if you... don't mind?" Without waiting for your response, he promptly headed to his room, leaving Abby and you alone in the room. "He's been rather grumpy lately." Abby remarked, her expression conveying her amusement as you playfully ruffled her hair. "Can I help?" She then offered to assist you with dinner, a proposition you welcomed with enthusiasm. "Of course. How about I handle the vegetables, and you mix everything?" Abby's face lit up with delight, and she eagerly took your arm, guiding you both to the kitchen.

The cooking process unfolded smoothly, with you patiently waiting for the spaghetti sauce to simmer according to your mother's cherished recipe, allowing it to develop its flavors over a few hours. As Abby settled in to watch her favorite nighttime comedy shows, you made the decision to rouse Mike from his nap before dinner was ready. You couldn't help but feel a tinge of guilt knowing he was in a somewhat disheveled state.

Carefully entering his room, your eyes wandered around, taking in the old drawings, family photographs, and a few posters that appeared to be recent additions, their sheen reflecting the moonlight streaming in through the window. Moving closer to his slumbering form, you gently brushed your fingers across his cheek, prompting him to emit a few soft whimpers in response to your tender touch. You couldn't help but smile, and as you continued to caress his cheek, you noticed his fingers entwining with yours. Initially, you thought it might be a sign to stop, but he murmured, "Please continue..." So softly that it nearly startled you, caught off guard by his vulnerability.

Mike unmistakably recognized your presence, discerning your perfume's scent and the tender affection you consistently bestowed upon him whenever the opportunity arose. However, tonight felt notably distinct, one of those nights when he needed your support the most. It pained him to see you openly caring for a guy burdened with numerous life problems, yet it was one of the aspects about you that he strangely admired, particularly your strong bond with Abby. As you prepared to rise and apologize for waking him so abruptly, he urged you to do the opposite. "Stay for a little while." he murmured, his words soft and slightly hoarse due to his dehydration, as he struggled to express himself.

In response, you emitted a soft hum and nodded, though you were uncertain if he truly meant it. He gently took hold of your wrist, assisting you in settling on his bed in front of him, his body shifting closer to yours. He rested his head on the crook of your neck, exhaling the familiar scent he had always been infatuated with. Though initially feeling a bit uneasy, you nervously cleared your throat and mentioned that dinner was nearly ready. However, he declined, saying, "Abby will know when to... Just stay here for a while."

You realized that declining wasn't even an option as Mike's arms were wrapped around your waist so tightly that he showed no intention of letting go any time soon. Although the sudden display of affection caught you off guard, you couldn't help but thoroughly enjoy this tranquil moment. Your soft smile graced your lips, and at just the right moment, Mike's eyes opened from his deep slumber, fixing on yours with a quizzical brow raised at the sight of your unexpected smile.

"What's the smile for?" He inquired, though he understood the meaning behind it and pretended not to, instead focusing on admiring every feature of your face. You shrugged, perhaps waiting for Mike to provide an answer, but he insisted that you share your thoughts. "I suppose it's just about sharing this moment with you." You confessed with a gentle smile.

"Is it?" He inquired, adopting a teasing tone, causing your cheeks to flush with warmth in response to the unexpected situation. Despite working as a babysitter for Mike, you had never anticipated or considered the possibility of a deeper relationship, let alone sharing his bed at this moment. As you found yourself also admiring his face, a subtle tingling sensation fluttered in your stomach—a mix of desire and affection for the man who had initially been nothing more than a neighbor.

"It is." You firmly concurred, your smile now more at ease. You couldn't help but giggle at how silly you must have sounded, only to then realize that the man who loved you, perhaps even adored you, had been right there in front of you all along. "I'm glad then..." He whispered softly, gently caressing your cheek. He showed no intention of releasing you for a while, even when he sensed your desire to do so, as the aroma of tomato sauce filled the entire house, signaling that dinner was ready.

"Nuh-Uh." He protested with a playful pout, fully aware of where your attention had swiftly shifted. "Pasta can wait just a little longer, please." He pleaded, emphasizing the word 'please.' His protest was more of a source of amusement than a genuine plea for pity. This time it was more of an theatrical performance, and you understood his intention. Even though you didn't make a strong effort to comply, you decided to stay a little longer, especially when you felt his lips against your skin. “I bet you even taste better than your mom’s spaghetti..” His journey from your neck to your collarbone brought a smile to your lips, intensifying the blush that had adorned your cheeks earlier.

In an attempt to deflect from your deepening blush, you attempted to cover it, but Mike had the time to gently lifted your chin as he turned your body to face him. "Did I ever told you that you look like an angel sent from above?" He boldly stated, making you initially think he might have lost his mind with such a bold compliment. However, you chuckled casually and replied. "I suppose so?" You decided to play along, mimicking the playful banter he had engaged in earlier, feigning innocence with a hint of sarcasm. To your surprise, this seemed to arouse him even more, making him desire you exclusively.

"You know."A familiar and youthful voice suddenly chimed in between the two of you, and Abby's figure peeked into Mike's room. You heard a sigh of annoyance, coupled with a sense of embarrassment, as you both realized where you had been all this time. Mike chuckled, "Yes, yes, Abby. We'll be right there for dinner."

"You heard her," you declared, joining Abby to help her get ready to serve dinner. Just as you were about to rise, Mike couldn't hide a pout, one that compelled you to lean in and press a soft kiss on his lips without hesitation. "Come on, grumpy old man. I'm hungry," you playfully protested, rubbing your stomach and indicating that he wouldn't receive any more kisses if he didn't comply. He sighed but abandoned the idea of keeping you both in bed, realizing his own hunger as his stomach grumbled in agreement.

As you got up and left the room, you glanced back at him with affectionate eyes before finally leaving to join Abby. It was in that moment that Mike fully comprehended the depth of what was happening—sharing his life with someone else, someone he loved and cared for deeply. It was something he hadn't expected, but here you were.

For once, Mike felt a sense of rest and inner peace.

#mike schmidt imagine #mike schmidt imagines #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt #josh fnaf #josh fnaf gif #josh hutcherson x reader #josh hutcherson #fnaf movie #fnaf x reader #micheal afton x reader #william afton #mike schmidt x you #josh hutcherson imagine #fnaf movies

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val-made-a-mistake · 1 year ago

Note

Currently imagining a scenario where you and Eddie have some sort of split custody arrangement for Venom, and you have some sort of NSFW dream about Eddie, and Venom sees the whole thing because of brain link or whatever, and then shares this exciting development with Eddie the next time he's bonded to Venom

venom is definitely not one to keep a secret, for sure 😭 thank you so much for your request, i hope you enjoy. :) smut-wise, it's a bit more focused on eddie than my previous fics where it was either symbiote-focused or an even split, hope that's okay. this was SO much fun to write!

warnings: brief smut, mentions of oral f receiving, mentions of "striking" the reader but it's totally a misunderstanding, loneliness, mentions of eating people/murder

word count: 3.3k

//////

It had been six days since Eddie had left for Seattle, and honestly, you hadn’t been expecting to fall into this loneliness so quickly. Venom might have been keeping you company by providing you with an endless stream of commentary in your inner conscience, and the chickens were constantly squawking and squabbling and wandering the length of the apartment as per usual, so it wasn’t like the space was totally silent, but still, Eddie’s absence was more saddening than you thought it would be. Over the course of the six days, you struggled to busy yourself. Of course you preferred Eddie having a job as to being without one, but one thing you particularly hated was how vague investigative jobs were, so as a result, you had no idea when he would come back or how long the work would take to be done.

For the time being, it looked like you were stuck here.

Before he’d left, Eddie had asked you to babysit Venom and his apartment, and now that you’d been here for an extended amount of time, you felt horribly restless.

Feeling the weight of the quiet apartment settling in, you cast a glance around the room. The hum of the refrigerator seemed to amplify in the sort-of silence, and you found yourself drawn to staring at Eddie's belongings scattered around.

Your gaze fell on a framed photograph on the shelf – Eddie with a carefree grin, arm slung around your shoulders. The memories flooded back, and a bittersweet smile touched your lips.

As if sensing your thoughts, Venom's voice rumbled in your mind.

EDDIE IS DEFINITELY MISSING OUT WITHOUT US AROUND.

The symbiote's attempt at comfort was appreciated, but it only deepened your sense of solitude.

Sighing you folded yourself into a ball on the couch, tucking your chin into your knees. The TV in front of you was off, and you had no intention to turn it on. For now, it was okay to mull in the quiet.

You mumbled into your knees, “What do you think he's up to in Seattle?"

CATCHING BAD GUYS. KICKING BUTT. EATING SEATTLE FOOD. ZOOMING AROUND. ACTING PATHETIC WITHOUT US THERE.

“V, you and I don’t know anything about investigative journalism,” you put in gently.

Venom was, of course, offended.

I KNOW A LOT ABOUT EATING BAD GUYS!

“Yeah, but Eddie won’t let you eat bad guys in Seattle any more than he does here.”

It was at that moment that Venom popped out from your shoulder blade, miniature head scowling.

HE SHOULD!

“Wanna go get a bite to eat?” you interjected, effectively ending the conversation. “I’ll even let you drive, if you want.”

Venom grinned much too wide for his intentions to be anything but nefarious, so you quickly added, “No eating people.”

You turned fast and pointed to the pizza box sign in the kitchen. “Eddie might not be here, but that rule’s definitely still active while you’re in my body, okay?”

Venom, for lack of a better word with his gaping mouth full of super-sized fangs, pouted.

YOU ARE NO FUN!

I just don’t want to be involved in any murder, you wanted to say, but slimy, black, glittering goo was already wrapping and contorting around your middle. Venom was enveloping you, taking over.

It was a bit of an unpleasant sensation as Venom’s monstrous gooey head locked into place over where yours used to be, and rows of impressive fangs unfolded in your suddenly super-sized mouth. It felt like somebody had cracked an egg over your head and the yolk was dripping down your body. You weren’t sure if you’d ever get used to it. You had no idea how Eddie put up with it.

For how quickly his annoyance started, Venom seemed to get over it pretty quickly. He grinned and licked his lips.

I WOULD LIKE TO GO TO MCDONALDS.

//////

The room was shrouded in the quiet stillness of the night. The dim glow of a bedside lamp cast a warm pool of light on the walls, creating a cozy haven within the four corners of Eddie’s bedroom. You were in bed. Venom, for the first time that day, was quiet.

Under the soft blanket, your eyelids were growing heavy with the weight of the day's endeavours. You still missed Eddie, a lot, so much that your nightly FaceTime call almost wasn’t enough. Seeing his face on your laptop screen was just a further reminder of how far two states away felt, and how binded you felt to him since you met him — he pulled at you without even realizing it, like you’d been sewn together with invisible thread.

Hopefully he wouldn’t be in Seattle for too much longer.

The rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to synchronize with the slowing pace of your breath. As the minutes ticked away, you found yourself on the threshold of the dream world, caught between wakefulness and the gentle pull of slumber. Not even the distant murmur of passing cars was enough to distract you now.

Closing your eyes, you surrendered to the sensation of falling asleep, gently gliding down into the abyss of dreams. Eddie’s bedroom, once familiar and defined, now blurred at the edges, transforming into a surreal landscape of colours and shapes.

As you drifted further into the realms of slumber, a sensation of weightlessness enveloped you. It was as if you were floating on a sea of tranquility, carried away by the ebb and flow of your own breath. The boundaries between reality and imagination began to dissolve, and the world outside melted.

//////

Sometime between now and then, you’d ended up bent over in Eddie’s lap, on a couch that felt just like his couch, but was ambiguous enough that it could’ve been anywhere. Things were slightly blurry around the edges, surreal enough to have you breathless, but real enough that you weren’t questioning your surroundings.

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathed as he tilted his head, carefully examining the swelling ass on his lap. Your pussy was dripping, there was a dribble of arousal forming, but in all honesty, he was a little scared to touch you, he didn’t want to hurt you. “I don’t think I’m getting a finger in there, girl. Wow.”

“Luckily, I’m not that fragile,” you responded playfully as you arched your back for him. Eddie bit his lip as this only accentuated the curve of your ass.

“God,” he whispered as he ran a hand up your thigh: he was able to break them apart easily, and he pulled one leg over his lap, wedging you firmly between his legs.

Even though you were already soaking wet, Eddie’s fingers ran over your dripping slit for a moment, as if he were admiring the way your pussy fluttered at his touch in front of him.

God, you could just feel how wet you were, and you bit your lip, anticipating for Eddie to lean forward, and—

Y/N!!!

In an instant you’d jumped awake: you’d sprang to attention without really realizing how you’d done it, scrambling for the lamp. “What’s going on?”

Venom was protruding from your shoulderblade again, bouncing even more than normal, very clearly in extreme distress.

SWEET GIRL. WE ARE RECEIVING VISIONS.

You stifled your yawn with your hand. “V, do you mean, like - like a dream?”

WE ARE RECEIVING VISIONS! RECEIVING VISIONS OF EDDIE EATING YOU! THIS IS VERY SERIOUS! WE NEED TO KEEP YOU SAFE!

Your cheeks instantly warmed, and you froze, scrambling for something to say. “Oh - oh, shit, Venom - that - I’m so sorry, but I really don’t think that was what you think it was.”

HE WAS STRIKING YOU! Venom snapped.

Oh my god. He really saw all of that.

You reached for the water bottle on your nightstand. “V, you seriously don’t need to worry about this. It wasn’t real. It was a dream. Nothing bad will come from it."

Venom was, of course, still hysterical.

IT WAS A PROPHECY! THIS IS BAD!

I wouldn’t mind if it was a prophecy, you thought selfishly before you could stop yourself, but you shoved it down. “Everything’s alright, Venom. Okay? Everything's fine. Let’s just go back to bed.”

I WILL NOT APOLOGIZE FOR CARING ABOUT YOU, Y/N.

You were already sliding back under the blanket. “I’m not asking you to, V. I appreciate it.”

You hesitated.

“Just, uh, next time you’re bonded to Eddie, please don’t tell him about this, okay? It could make him - I don't know, uncomfortable. You know, I - I don’t know how he’d react to the prophecy of him supposedly hurting me, that’s all. I don’t want to worry him.”

(You were hoping wildly that he would accept, and you and Venom would never talk about this again.)

In a move you’d never seen before, Venom raised one gloopy, black tentacle towards you, and recognizing the movement, you extended your pinky towards him. Your pinky and the black goo linked together for a moment, signifying your trust.

Venom grinned, now bouncing significantly less.

I NEVER BREAK A PINKY PROMISE, SWEET GIRL.

You raised your eyebrow.

I TRY NOT TO.

You were much too tired for any of this, you simply turned over to switch off the lamp and finally return to whatever remnants of that dream was left. “Okay then. Goodnight, V.”

//////

It was satisfying to have everything fall back into the natural order once Eddie returned home from Seattle. You returned to your own apartment on the opposite side of town, but of course visited frequently, and Eddie was grateful to be back in a low-stakes environment once more, with a snarky symbiote that would terrify anyone who would try to harm him. Seattle had been thrilling, and he'd recounted the adventure to you several times, but now he was back to something familiar.

The job was done. He was covered for the time being. Freelancing was difficult, but for now, everything would be okay.

In the intervening time, Venom talked about you, a lot. Ever since he met you, he’d taken to mentioning you. But ever since you’d agreed to split custody of the symbiote, and especially since Eddie had disappeared for Seattle, he was talking about you even more.

I AM WORRIED ABOUT Y/N, he said one day.

Eddie was idly clicking through TV channels, watching everything from the news to a police drama to a basketball game zoom past, finding none of them interesting. “Why?”

I DO NOT WANT ANY BAD OMENS TO BE FOLLOWING HER. WE NEED TO KEEP HER SAFE.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, a bit confused.

Venom suddenly popped out of his shoulder, howling.

SHE - SHE HAS -

Before Venom could get any actual words out, Eddie was lifted from the couch as the symbiote rose and slammed his head into the ceiling, denting it severely and sending bits of drywall raining down from the heavens like it was a form of self-punishment.

As quickly as it started, Eddie had been dropped on the couch, red in the face and gasping for air.

Venom hardly noticed: he seemed to be in extreme distress.

I WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO TELL!

Eddie put a hand to his throat, still sweaty and gasping, forcing an inhale. “V - what?”

Venom was beside himself, now.

Y/N IS RECEIVING VISIONS! VISIONS OF YOU!

"Visions? What do you mean, visions of me?" Eddie asked, his concern deepening. Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling half-strangled anymore. His mind was racing, his thoughts a jumble of confusion and worry. "What kind of visions? Is she in danger?"

He couldn't fathom what could be causing you to have distressing dreams about him.

Right after Seattle? Right after he thought the work was finished?

I DO NOT KNOW. BUT WE MUST PROTECT HER.

Without waiting for further response, Venom oozed off Eddie's shoulder and began slithering around the room, agitated.

Eddie remained on the couch, trying to process this information. "If something's going on, then we need to talk to her, right? Figure out what's happening."

I AGREE. SHE IS PART OF US, AND WE WILL NOT LET ANY HARM BEFALL HER.

He paused, awkwardly.

BUT PLEASE LET HER KNOW I AM SORRY. I WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO SHARE THIS WITH YOU, EDDIE. SHE SAYS SHE DOES NOT WANT TO WORRY YOU. SHE DOES NOT SHARE THE SAME CONCERN I HAVE.

It didn’t matter: Eddie was already grabbing his phone and dialling your number, fingers tapping nervously against his screen.

After a few tense rings, you picked up.

“Hey, Eddie!”

"Hey, we need to talk," Eddie said urgently, glancing at Venom, who was now wrapping himself around the coffee table, sticky and pulsating, in deep despair.

Concern filled your voice. "Is everything okay?"

“Oh, I mean, yeah, right now it is,” he responded wildly, vaguely aiming for nonchalant. “I was just talking to V, you know, and he said something, and - I just kinda wanted to call, y’know, see if you were alright-”

“Oh, I'm fine,” you confirmed, but you still sounded confused. “I don’t have anything going on today, so I’m just spending some time to myself. What did V tell you?”

Across from Eddie, Venom moaned in despair, a mere gooey black glob of depression on his sitting room floor.

SWEET GIRL, I AM SORRY!

“He said you were getting some disturbing visions, and not gonna lie, it kinda freaked me out a bit,” Eddie said sheepishly, hoping you hadn’t heard that. “I just wanted to call and see if you were okay, that’s all. I know this is random. Sorry. Just, with the nature of the last case, y’know, up in Seattle-”

It didn’t take long before he realized he was rambling again about the Seattle case, so he stopped. “Sorry.”

"No, it's okay."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then a sigh.

Of course this was happening.

“Eddie, there’s been a misunderstanding,” you said. “Just, look - do you mind coming over? I’ll explain everything to you once you’re here. This might be better in person.”

Eddie was on his feet in an instant. “Sure, yeah.”

//////

Eddie rushed through the city streets, a mixture of worry and curiosity gnawing at him. Venom was bonded to him again, because he’d rather not think about the consequences of a depressed Venom lingering around the apartment while he was out, and the symbiote seemed to writhe within him with impatience. Or maybe that was just the motorbike rumbling underneath him. Whichever it was, he felt nauseous.

The symbiote had a tendency to jump to conclusions, but Eddie definitely couldn't shake the unease that settled in his gut.

Upon arriving at your apartment, Eddie knocked hastily.

To his surprise, you opened the door with a small smile.

"Hey," you greeted, ushering him inside. "Thanks for coming over."

Eddie nodded, glancing around your living room as if expecting something unusual. Venom, still on edge, clung within him like a sentient black backpack.

He didn’t want to come off as too eager, or too worried, so he just shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and hoped he looked casual despite the storm of questions brewing inside of him.

“So - what’s the deal?”

Deep inside of him, Venom was quivering with fright. As his gooey molecular form had to be closely intertwined with several of his most important organs right now, it was very hard not to notice the sensation.

You winced. “He’s just freaking out about nothing. There’s no bad omens or visions. I just had a dream, and you were in it. Simple stuff. Nothing to worry about.”

“It wasn’t a bad dream?” Eddie said, cautious.

You were definitely closer, now. “Actually, I’d say it was a pretty damn good dream.”

Eddie’s breath was caught in his throat. Out of everything that could’ve happened tonight, he definitely hadn’t been expecting…this.

He was a little confused, honestly. What was going on? The hairs on the back of his neck were raised, but he didn't feel as though he was in danger. On the contrary, he felt quite warm.

“Let me show you?” you offered.

"Okay," he bit out before he was conscious of making the decision, and you were stepping in front of him, and realizing, he closed his eyes on instinct--

The kiss that followed was absolutely dizzying.

There was something so particularly desperate about this: you were kissing, gasping against his mouth and pulling at his jacket, which made the two of you blindly scramble backwards into the apartment, messy and needy. The kiss quickly turned into a battle of control, with Eddie being the one to guide you forward, his hands on your hips. You bit his bottom lip in response, forcing him to open up and then the kiss was all about tongues, wet and sensitive.

You were on the couch when you finally broke apart, gasping.

"Baby," Eddie wheezed, his eyes darting across your face in disbelief, "I - what was that?"

"Is V with you?" you asked, instead of answering the question.

He was apprehensive now. "Yeah?"

"He needs to know I'm not in danger," you whispered, and you leaned forward to kiss him again.

It was much too chaste, and after you pulled away, Eddie was in mute astonishment for a moment.

His voice was scratchy when he spoke. "Disturbing visions, huh?"

You just smiled. "In my dream, we were on a couch, like this."

Eddie still couldn't believe this was happening. The anxiety in his gut on the way over had been completely forgotten now, blurring out of his memory, the future was an impossible thing, there was just this. This was all he had; this was all he wanted. "Were we, now?"

He didn't know what to do, but that didn't seem to matter, you were leading.

You nodded. "It was kinda hot."

"Kinda?" Eddie repeated dumbly, breathless. His voice sounded like a stranger's.

Before he could embarrass himself, Venom's voice rumbled within him, frustrated.

EDDIE, STOP BEING A PUSSY!

Wondering vaguely if this had been a trap all along, Eddie grabbed the nape of your neck and pulled you in for a kiss. Your mouths roved together, and he took the opportunity to pull you over, closer to him. The curve of your bare spine was warm from under your sweater. He kept his hand there, roaming carelessly, drifting up to the clasp of your bra.

You seemed to get what he was going for, and then suddenly you were straddling him, and with you on top of him, he could no longer ignore how interested his dick was in the proceedings.

Slightly, just slightly, you rolled your hips against his clothed crotch, and Eddie choked out a moan.

Oh, fuck. He could feel the sweat materializing and running down his back. This was better than good.

(Venom was definitely going to tease him about this later.)

"What happened next?" Eddie mumbled, looking up at you, his eyes blown black.

You smiled, then crossed your arms and peeled off your sweater. Eddie shifted his grip, holding you by the hips again, and you tossed your sweater elsewhere.

Venom was going absolutely insane from inside him: it felt like he was rumbling somewhere around his large intestine.

DO NOT MESS THIS UP, EDDIE!

Meanwhile, you were, of course, oblivious to the commentary in Eddie's mind.

"I mean," you said, and your voice wasn't smoky like it had been before. It was just curious, with a note of teasing, like this was an everyday conversation. "You ate me out."

He pressed a light kiss to your throat. "Then flip over, baby."

Inside his head, Venom seemed to be having some kind of meltdown. Maybe he had just realized what the dream was. Maybe he was jealous. Either way, he was rambling in Eddie's mind.

SWEET GIRL - SO FRAGILE - SO SWEET - SO DELICIOUS - I NEED TO TASTE -

#venom #venom smut #eddie brock #eddie brock x reader #eddie brock smut #eddie brock x reader smut #venom x reader smut #tom hardy #venom 2 #venom movie #venom let there be carnage #venom symbiote #venom imagine #venom 3

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deansbeer · 1 year ago

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morning muse ・ VHACKER. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ pinned library

SYNOPSIS. you wake before vinnie one morning, deciding you want to photograph his adorable sleepy form with your new polaroid camera he gifted you, resulting in lazy morning cuddles and kisses.

WARNING(S). fluff | kissing | fem!reader | cuddling | reader taking photos of vinnie.

KARI NOTES. my drafts are full of half-finished wips. i'm trying my best to get them all out !!! ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

warm morning light filters through the window as you start to stir from sleep. blinking awake, you take in vinnie's still-dozing form next to you, chest rising and falling steadily. a lazy smile tugs at your lips as memories of christmas day surface - exchanging gifts by the tree, vinnie presenting you with the vintage polaroid camera you'd been eyeing for months.

your fingers itch to try it out as you take in vinnie's handsome, relaxed features. his curls falls gently over his eyes, lashes fluttering lightly in dreams. you just have to capture this moment.

carefully slipping out of the bed so as not to disturb him, you retrieve the camera from your dresser. climbing back onto the mattress, you slowly straddle vinnie's lap, holding the camera up to frame the shot. but as you go to press the button, vinnie stirs from underneath you with a sleepy hum.

"good morning, sleepyhead," you greet him softly, brushing his hair back tenderly. vinnie blinks up at you, taking a moment to focus before smiling drowsily. "morning, baby. what're you up to?" he rumbles, voice husky from sleep. you lift the camera briefly.

"just wanna get some shots of you while you're all cozy. is that okay?" you ask sweetly. vinnie chuckles, stretching below you like a contented cat. "you sure know how to wake a guy up. go ahead, beautiful, do your thing."

grinning, you angle the camera down to capture your view—vinnie gazing up at you adoringly with sleepy eyes and bedhead, arms folded casually behind his head. when it prints, vinnie peeks at the square photo emerging.

"not bad for a first shot," he notes appreciatively. thrilled, you take a few more pictures from above; vinnie flashing lazy smiles and smug smirks, winking playfully in one. after the third print develops, you line them up on the nightstand with care.

"thank you for being my morning muse, babe," you coo, planting a kiss on his scruffy cheek. vinnie hums contentedly, large hands drifting up your bare thighs.

"no problem at all. i think i deserve some morning cuddles now though," he rumbles cheekily, strong arms wrapping around your waist to flip your positions. vinnie cages you below him, nuzzling your neck. sighing happily, you thread fingers through his messy curls as he trails kisses along your collarbones.

"thank you again for the camera, vinnie. i love it," you murmur gratefully. vinnie lifts his head, dark eyes glittering warmly. "only the best for my girl. i'm glad you're getting use out of it already. feel free to photograph me whenever you please," he teases playfully.

you laugh softly, tracing his defined jaw. "oh i plan to document all your cuddly, sleepy phases. might have to start an album," you muse. vinnie pretends to groan, burying his face back in your neck. "i think i've created a monster," he mumbles into your skin, making you giggle.

arching into his body heat, you exhaled sharply. "your handy work. now do these morning cuddles include kissing?" you inquire jokingly. vinnie chuckles, hovering over you with a playful smirk. "well, i suppose i could spare some kisses for my favorite girl," he drawls, dipping in to capture your lips warmly.

you hum happily into the tender kiss, hands sliding up vinnie's bare back. he holds your face gently between his large palms, slowly deepening the embrace with quiet reverence. you lose track of time drifting peacefully in vinnie's arms, exchanging sweet caresses and kisses under the golden morning light.

when you finally break for air, vinnie gazes down at you with so much adoration it takes your breath away. brushing back your tousled hair, he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. "i love you so much, baby. thanks for starting my day off right," he murmurs against your skin.

beaming, you squeeze vinnie tightly against you. "i love you too, babe. thanks for making every morning with you a gift." he smiles lovingly, pulling the blankets up cocoon-style to envelope you both protectively. your polaroid camera sits on the nightstand, ready to continue documenting all your cozy mornings together. and with vinnie's strong, comforting embrace all around you, you drift back to a peaceful doze with eyes full of promise for sweet tomorrows yet to come.

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blastzachilles · 4 days ago

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— Photograph .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: STANFORD BUTCH!ART x FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 1.6k CW: SMUT 18+, afab reader, oral (f!receiving), mentions of death

a/n: happy late challengersversary!! enjoy my loser butch baby <3 link to main post!

— She’s never missed anyone like she’s missed you.

Art still keeps the locket you gave him with your picture in it, and hasn’t been able to get rid of the photos he took of you. Those are still hanging up on his bulletin board, like he’s expecting you to walk in the door any moment now. Expectations that are more like prayers.

She’s lost without you, her only memories of you those captured forever on a polaroid or embedded into an SD card.

The breakup was messy. Screaming, crying, all of it. Art hasn’t moved on. She hopes you haven’t either. She thinks you haven’t, if the info she gets from your mutual friends in photography class is enough to say anything. Art doesn’t know for sure, though. You blocked him on everything, and while it stung, he gets it.

At least she tells herself that when she’s still, months later, sobbing herself to sleep.

Art’s always replaying all the memories in his head. From the first day you met in that god awful math gen ed, to the day she finally worked up the courage to ask you out on that picnic, to the day you both made it official, while she was showing you how she develops her film in the dark room.

Those same memories are currently replaying as Art takes her nightly walk through campus, enjoying the breeze that comes with dusk. Those same memories that make her think you’re just a hallucination, that you’re not real, until she walks right into you, sending you flying forward.

“Fuck! I’m so sorry!” she exclaims, quickly reaching out a hand to help you.

“No, no, you’re okay—” You begin with a chuckle, but it quickly silences itself as you grab the offender’s arm, looking up at them, a blank expression writing itself onto your face. “Art.”

You let him help you up, but are quick to retract your hand from his arm. Especially when you feel blood start to rush to your cheeks. And your hands go sweaty. And your mind go fuzzy.

“Uh… hi?” she manages to get out awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Hey. You still go on these walks?”

Shit. You started these nightly walks with her. One day, when you two were cuddled up in her twin bed together, you mentioned wanting to see the stars. She suggested going out for a walk, and when you said something about light pollution and being unable to see the stars here at Stanford, you both just laughed. God. He misses that laugh.

“Oh—uh, yeah. You too?”

“Yeah.”

You nod back, the air tense and awkward, filled with both too little unsaid and too much said. The words she wants to blurt out, that she still loves you, that she never stopped, that she still wants you. But the words she spoke to you during the breakup are those she’ll never be able to take back. No matter how much she wishes she could.

“Well. Nice seeing you, Art.” you break the silence with your goodbye, and turn around, beginning to walk off.

Which sends Art into a frenzy, running after you to catch up, before she grabs your wrist.

“Wait!”

“Art, seriously. What do you want?” You fight the urge to let your face soften the way you so badly want it to, but if you gave an inch, you know she’d take a mile.

But she’s always had an exceptional eye.

“I want to show you some things. I have some more photos I’m developing of you, and want you to come pick up the locket and old photos of us.”

“Art—”

“Please?”

You never could let her lose. “Fine.”

The walk back to her place is silent, save for the sounds of the night, the air still awkward. The crickets sound like they’re mocking you, the cars driving past inviting enough for you to get into should you wish to leave, and the sounds of other people roaming campus comforting to have as background conversation.

Art lets you into the unfamiliar townhouse, and you both slide off your shoes before she leads you into her basement.

“Since when did you set up your own dark room?”

“Since we broke up and I found my own place.” He chuckles, but it’s strained, like the words hurt to say.

She wasn’t lying when she said she still had developed photos to give you, as she turns the red light on and walks over to where they’re hanging. unclipping the dry photos and handing them to you. Art thinks they’re his best work. You’re inclined to agree.

Her shots of you always had the most emotion. Like you could feel the love you both shared in that one little screenshot of life.

“Art, these are…”

“You think?”

“I know.”

Art smiles, trying to fight the giddy feeling creeping up on her. Your compliments always mean the most.

“Art, I—”

She cuts you off, face soft as she stares at you.

“Do you remember our first kiss?”

“Art, please.”

“Under the lamppost?”

“Art.”

“It was so dark everywhere else, like, four am. And we had just left Pat’s house.”

“Art!” Your voice is a little louder now, and it snaps him out of his thoughts.

“Sorry. It was just… it was beautiful. Don’t you think?”

You know he’s won at this point, sighing as your face softens. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

His smile grows when he sees your face. She knows she’s won too.

“I miss you so much.”

The words immediately wipe the smile off your face.

“Art…”

“Please.”

Your face softens a touch more, gaze shifting down to the photos in your hands. Shutting your eyes, you take a deep breath, and then look back up at Art.

“Okay.”

And it’s all she needs before the photos are dropped to the floor and she’s wrapped her arms around you, as though you could disappear at any moment, her lips crashing against yours with the desperation of someone who’s lost themselves in months of being alone. Your hands rest on her cheeks, and you kiss her back with that same passion and fervor.

“Art—” you gasp, and it’s all she needs before she’s walking you backwards into the stairwell, setting you down on the staircase and kneeling a few steps below, her hands reaching for your hips.

“Is this okay?” she blurts out, voice low with desperation and desire.

“Yes, god, yes.” you huff, watching as Art makes quick work of the clothes on your lower half.

“Missed you so much. Missed you so fucking much. I love you, god, I love you.” She repeats like a mantra, sitting up as she remembers to kiss at your neck, leave a few hickeys, gently brush against your collarbone.

Her movements are slow and reverent, like you’re something to be worshipped, to be bowed to. In her eyes, you might as well be.

Art slowly kisses down your abdomen over your shirt, until she reaches your inner thigh. Then she kneels once more, and kisses upwards to your cunt, knowing exactly what to do when she hears your moan.

Shut up and work.

So that’s exactly what she does.

His tongue works up through your folds, before circling around your clit and adding just the slightest amount of pressure against it. When you cry out, the sound of your head falling back and softly brushing against the staircase, she knows she’s still got it.

And when one of your hands grab onto her hair for some semblance of support, she moans into your cunt, grinning against it as she looks up to see your currently wrecked state.

Her tongue dives inside you, and she thinks that she could die right here, and this would be heaven. She doesn’t need anything else than to be able to see you fall apart for her. And when your legs shake, ankles locking behind her neck and knees hooking over her shoulders, she only indulges in more, like this is her first meal in years.

You let out a loud moan, and your legs begin shaking even more violently. “Art, Oh! I’m coming, I’m coming!—”

He moans into your pussy, lapping up your release and easing you through your orgasm like letting anything drop anywhere would be a crime punishable by death.

Once it’s all over, you collapse against the staircase, smiling as you see Art lean her cheeks against your thigh, peppering kisses all over.

“I love you. I love you so much.” she whispers, pleading in her voice.

“I love you too, Art.” you reply with a smile, unable to lie anymore. “I do.”

She helps you up from the staircase, taking your discarded clothes with her, and leads you to her bathroom to clean you up. Once you’re all clean, you both make your way to her room, where you fall into bed with her, wrapped around her like a koala, and you’re quick to fall asleep.

You wake up well-rested and disoriented the next morning, unsure of where you are until you feel the warm body beside you, smiling when you see Art’s face, the sun shining through the window leaving an angelic glow on her face.

Yeah. You’re definitely getting back together after this.

tag list: @artstennisracket @glassmermaids @jordiemeow @cha11engers @kaalxpsia @apatheticrater @tacobacoyeet @tigerlilywl @newrochellechallenger2019 @compress1repress @artspats @artaussi

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#blastz writes .ᐟ #achilles' anniversary .ᐟ #lesbian challengers .ᐟ #dividers by me .ᐟ #challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson x you #art donaldson smut #Spotify

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nsuyeula · 19 days ago

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Been reading a lot of posts being like "how could any of them forget the truth of what happened in the wilderness like that?" - so once again I'm gonna offer my two cents as someone with a dissociative disorder ✌️

First off you need to understand there are not one, but two defining traumatic events for the surviving Yellowjackets:

Crashing and Surviving in the Wilderness.

Coming home and the Tabloid Frenzy.

Since we have only seen the wilderness part so far, it's easy to forget that coming home, readjusting while also under scrutiny of the entire world through the tabloids would have been equally as traumatising to their brains.

There is also no real end point to the latter event. It's something that follows them for the entirety of their lives. We see it most evidently with Tai because of her run for senator, but it's still an active, persisting trauma that all the girls are forced to band together to try and get through. Their lives are ruled by keeping up the collective narrative they've created, ruled by the fear of the truth coming out.

In terms of a trauma event perspective, the wilderness has a defined start and end - the moment they crash to the moment they are rescued.

Now onto the dissociation from their trauma.

To understand the fundamental core of dissociation, you need to get your head around the idea that dissociation is a tool the brain uses to protect itself / a person. Dissociation itself is not inherently bad, in fact it is utilised by trained therapist to help with things like PTSD (e.g EMDR Therapy which is used to severe the link between emotions and memories).

What makes someone have a dissociative disorder is the inability to control what they dissociate from.

In the case with all the survivors - minus Tai bc her dissociation is a lot more complex because of other Tai - they are suffering from Selective Amnesia, which is when a person can recall only small parts of events that took place in a defined period of time.

People who develop dissociative amnesia often will not even realise that they have gaps in their memory, and as with most dissociative disorders, it will affect your ability to sense and process emotions attached to those memories.

Personal example - I have no emotional link to anything that happened before the age of 14 due to dissociation. My memories are like a series of photographs that someone else took, I can look at them and see the events but feel nothing.

So with the yellowjackets, not only are they suppressing the worst of the memories but also the worst / complexities of the emotions attached to those memories. So the girls might know they were afraid of Shauna, but not the specifics as to why nor still feel that fear at all for her.

Now, I'm going back to the two traumatic events. Like I said earlier, dissociation is the brains way of protecting its owner. It would have found itself with two things it classified as dangerous, and that their person needed to be protected from. One with a defined start and end and another that is ongoing. It can't suppress or forget the memories related to returning home and the tabloids because that would put their person in more danger because that is a continuous issue, still ongoing. While with the wilderness, that's over. They're not in that situation anymore. It's also impacting their ability to deal with the second trauma. So, of course, the brain would choose to suppress the memories of the wilderness, thinking that was for the best.

Obviously each member of the Yellowjackets would vary in how successful their dissociation would be.

Nat, I would say, is the least affected, her life and being entirely ruled by the horrors of what they had done. Her dissociation wasn't particularly strong, so she was forced to have sex, do drugs etc to cover what the dissociation didn't do.

On the other side of the scale - those with existing mental health illnesses like Lottie, Shauna and Tai seem to have had the most successfully suppressed, which makes sense as dissociation is often a symtom of many mental illnesses along with being it's own disorder.

People who are confused as to how you can get from S3 teen Shauna to S1 adult Shauna, the answer is most likely dissociation amnesia combined with the trauma that came from going home.

By the end of S3, every single surviving member of the team has regained partial to all of the truth of the memories they suppressed, which is very much possible. Shauna has partially uncovered it, but only the version that fits the established narrative of her postpartum psychosis, while Misty and Tai have regained all of their memories and no longer are dealing with altered or fuzzy versions of them.

#once again thank you for comming to my ted talk #ive done so much research into my disorder after being diagnosed 10+ years ago so always cool when I can apply it to stuff #yellowjackets #natalie scatorccio #shauna shipman #taissa turner #misty quigley #shio speaks #van palmer

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foreverisntenough · 19 days ago

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‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read: Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 15- 'Don't' | 'Aperture'

word count - 12.8k

The tension wrapped around you both like a second skin, thick and suffocating, pressing against your ribs with every shallow breath. It was unbearable, and yet, neither of you moved to break it. You were draped over Trent like you belonged there, your body molding to his as though you’d been made for it. But it burned—God, it burned. He wasn’t sure if it was his own skin that felt too hot or if it was the weight of you, of this, of the unspoken things neither of you could bring yourselves to say. He thought he could do this—thought he could pretend it was simple, that it was just comfort, just muscle memory. That you were just a girl. That last night, something close to a fight and even closer to a confession, was simply a blip. But it hurt too much. And yet, his body betrayed him. His hands still skimmed over your bare back in lazy strokes, memorizing the way your skin felt beneath his fingertips. His body still ached for you, still reacted to you, his length too hard, still buzzing, still wanting you in ways he tried to convince himself he didn’t.

“Y/N,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath. You made a soft noise, not quite asleep but not fully awake either, nestled into his warmth like it was the only place you ever wanted to be. “Baby, you gotta tell me what we are doing here?” he asked, and for a moment, he thought maybe—just maybe—you’d answer. That you’d say what he couldn’t. But you only hummed in response, a sound of contentment as you pressed closer, nuzzling into his chest, breathing him in. It wasn’t ignorance, wasn’t avoidance—it was something softer than that, something more fragile. Maybe you heard him, maybe you didn’t, but either way, you weren’t ready to answer. And so, Trent exhaled, long and heavy, his hand still tracing mindless patterns on your back. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this—teetering on the edge of something neither of you were brave enough to name. Did he want you to be his girlfriend? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he was kidding himself. Maybe he loved you more than you liked him. And so, a fine line was drawn, so thin and precarious that neither of you could see it clearly—but you felt it, every time you touched, every time you looked at each other a second too long. And still, you danced upon it, too scared to fall, too scared to let go.

—

“Yo, so what’s the deal with Y/N? Is that fair game?” Michael’s voice cut through the humid afternoon air like the blade of a dull knife—blunt, unrefined, and completely oblivious to the weight of his words. The lazy murmur of conversation around the pool came to a sudden halt, the atmosphere thickening in an instant. It was as if he had spoken a curse aloud, one that turned something already volatile into something dangerous. Inside, you were tucked away in the quiet sanctuary of your room, phone propped up as you FaceTimed Campbell, the glow of the screen casting soft shadows across your face. You were ‘editing,’ or at least pretending to be. In reality, you were doing what you did best—putting distance between yourself and the one person you couldn’t seem to let go of.

Outside, Trent sat motionless in his chair, his body rigid, his fingers tightening around the condensation-slick bottle in his hand. He felt the air leave his lungs, felt something hot coil deep in his gut—anger, possessiveness, maybe even fear. Fair game? The phrase made his blood run cold. Was it a joke? Kieren was the first to react, his tone deliberately neutral as he feigned ignorance.

“Erm… what do you mean?” Kieren already knew where this was going, and from the way his shoulders tensed, he was trying to keep it from unraveling. Michael, evidently oblivious, shrugged.

“Like, get with her, bro.” He attempted to clarify all whilst digging a deeper hole. He didn’t see the emotions swirling anytime you and Trent were in the same room and they way they seemed to permeate through them. Maybe it was because he just wasn’t all that close with Trent but nevertheless it was like he missed it all. Trent’s jaw ticked, the muscles in his face tightening so much it ached. Jude shifted in his chair, sensing the growing tension.

“Maybe let that one lie, lad, yeah?” Jude’s voice was calm but laced with warning. Michael frowned, confused.

“Why? She came to LA, no? She has to be down.” He smirked like this would be a bit of banter with the lads… it was not. Trent felt sick. The words lodged in his throat like splinters, burning, impossible to swallow.

“She’s down… just not for the group. Let it lie, seriously,” Marcel said, his tone measured but firm, a quiet plea for Michael to drop it before things got worse. But Michael still didn’t get it. He tilted his head, his confusion genuine.

“Oh, yeah? That’s your bird? Fuck, bro… I completely missed it, sorry.” His apology was directed toward Marcel, missing the mark entirely again. Was he dumb? Maybe. Or maybe just aloof, either way, Trent didn’t care he was fuming. And then he spoke sitting up from the slouched position he was in before in his chair.

“No, she’s not.” Trent’s words came out sharper than he intended, devoid of his usual lilt, his words carved from stone. He didn’t say nah, didn’t brush it off with that easy, syrupy charm he so often used. No, she’s not. A full stop. The air around them grew impossibly still. Michael finally began to understand that he had walked straight into something far bigger than a casual hookup.

“Shit… Hey, I didn’t know, mate, sorry.” He muttered, the group falling into awkward silence.

“There’s nothing to know,” Kieren added, but his voice carried something heavier—exhaustion, maybe even frustration. Trent’s hands flexed against the bottle in his grip. Kieren knew. He had been the one to leave with you last night, the one who had seen the shine in your eyes when you turned away, the slight hitch in your breath as you fought to keep it together, and then the way you crumbled the second you were outside. Because he knew last night wasn’t the first time Trent had made you cry and it wasn’t the last time you’d be in his bed. Michael exhaled, shifting in his seat, but his curiosity hadn’t faded.

“Bro, I don’t understand. Do you fuck her or not?” Michael asked and Marcel shut his eyes in discomfort. It was crude. Vulgar even. The kind of question that Trent normally would film, wouldn’t dignify with a reaction. Just lads bantering. But this was you. Trent forced a breath out through his nose, measured, controlled.

“Nah, mate it’s not like that.” He just shrugged, getting a response out calmer than anyone had anticipated he would have. Jude casted a side eye to Marcel. It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either. Michael turned to Jude for answers, as if he had them, as if he could piece it all together better than anyone else. Jude rolled his eyes, already exacerbated by the conversation.

“Mike, Trenty links with her. Let it lie. He’s sorting it.” Jude’s words were meant to defuse, to redirect. But instead, they were a trigger, they ignited something combustible in Trent’s chest. Because there was nothing to sort, was there? That’s what he had told himself. That’s what he had told you. What you told him. And that’s what he wanted… wasn’t it?

“Mate, it’s not even that he’s ‘linking’ with her,” Kieren looked at Jude but his words had a different intended recipient, his voice edged with something dangerously close to annoyance. “It’s all the time. Like, it’s not normal what you lot are doing. You gotta sort it now.” Kieren turned solely to Trent and Trent was pissed. Trent exhaled sharply, trying to hold onto whatever semblance of control he had left.

“There’s nothing to sort.” Trent attempted to deflect.

“Bro,” Marcel interjected then, his voice quieter but no less impactful. “You do not sleep with someone this much, and mind you with no one else but her, and then say it’s nothing.” Marcel piled on, things finally coming to a head. Michael leaned forward slightly more as if closing the distance would provide some extra clarity to this mess.

“So, to be clear…” He blinked, still not quite grasping the gravity of the situation. Stupidity or naivety.

“It’s nothing,” Trent bit out. A lie. A bitter, aching, gut-wrenching lie. Kieren ran a hand down his face, visibly frustrated now.

“Jesus Christ, mate.” He shook his head, his patience wearing thin because not only was this just getting old, you were upset by it and Kieren had another couple days of his holiday left with you both, as well as a friend group you’d all be going home to after. “You lot fuck all the time.” Kieren spoke and he watched Trent’s lips part ready to retaliate so he spoke faster, halting an opportunity for Trent to lie because right now he needed to listen. “Bro, you make her cry, you keep her close, sure, but you never fucking keep her. And I’m supposed to sit here and act like this is normal?” Trent felt his pulse hammering against his skull. Because fuck, Kieren wasn’t wrong, and that made it worse.

“Sometimes… I don’t know. Leave her, yeah?” Trent muttered, quieter than before, weaker than he would’ve liked. Michael nodded absently, sensing the shift in Trent’s demeanor but unaware of the lore of you and Trent’s non-relationship. But Marcel wasn’t done, not after that response. He scoffed, leaning back in his chair, his expression unreadable but disappointed all the same.

“Leave her? Bro… stop dragging her. If it’s nothing, then let it be nothing. And if it’s something, fucking step up.” It hit like a punch to the gut. Trent hated the way Marcel was looking at him—like he was better than this, like he expected more. And in that moment, Trent made a choice. If you could pretend this didn’t hurt, if you could lie next to him and not ache the way he did, then so could he. Or at the very least, he could try.

—

Things had been tense. You hide in your computer most days, between editing, planning, working and sending photos to all the boys, avoiding isolated shoots with one. And then the storm came, the first Instagram post, the first dump shared. Jude had posted a slew of photos you’d taken. Finally, he was in the clear to post them; enough days had passed since when you’d actually been at the locations, the time allotting him freedom so no one would know the exact time the boys were there. Safety. Except for you, this was a danger. He tagged you, professionally as agreed per terms but it was the mention of you in the caption– something along the lines of ‘Shout out my G.’ At first it made you smile. It was sweet and made you laugh because even with all the Trent tension aside, you got on with the rest of the boys really well. Besides ultimately this is what you were in LA for. Those photos, this work, that exposure.

But the internet moved at an unforgiving speed, the kind of wildfire that didn’t just spread—it consumed. At first, it was harmless. Just a simple reshare. Footballer Fits had posted about Jude’s latest Instagram dump, highlighting the candid, effortlessly cool shots you had taken of him and all the other boys, Trent too. The caption was cheeky, meant to be playful.

'Bellingham and Alexander-Arnold moving mad in LA! Bringing Burberry’s Spring campaign photographer to shoot their nights out? Gonna be a movie! Stay tuned.'

It would have been fine if it had ended there. But it didn’t. Because then came the questions. Who was Burberry’s spring campaign photographer? A few clicks. A few searches. A rabbit hole. And suddenly, your name was there, circling Twitter like an unearthed secret. Someone found your LinkedIn. Someone else found articles mentioning your work. And then, the avalanche came—threads upon threads analyzing everything from your photography style to your connections. And that’s when ‘they’ saw it. Jude followed you. Not shocking, considering you worked with him. But then—so did Trent. And his follow wasn’t new. Nestled further down in the list. Screenshots. Timelines. Speculation.

How long has Trent been following her?

Wait, why does this feel so personal?

They’ve known each other for time, you can tell. He’s locked in.

This isn’t just a work thing, I swear.

No, because how did she get invited on this hol?

The internet spiraled, as it always did. TikToks popped up within hours, dissecting any trace of you they could find. They analyzed your photography, your past projects, BFA shots of you at an event months ago. But it wasn’t really your work they were interested in. It was you.

Lowkey the photographer is fine as hell.

Ohhhh so that’s why they all are looking at the camera like that…

She’s actually stunning, what the fuck.

Yo, what’s she doing behind the camera?Wait, she’s bad and she’s talented? Lads fumbled before they even got a chance.

So which baller is she shagging lol

And Trent saw it all. He wasn’t the type to get caught up in what people said. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. But this? He read every tweet. Every comment praising your face, your body—the one he had held against him. The one he ached for on nights like these. But did he? Were you even his to hold? Possessiveness curled hot in his chest, an uninvited, unwelcome emotion. He hated it. But he liked it. And that made it worse. Because now, it wasn’t just his admiration. It was everyone’s. And for the first time, he had to ask himself—if he wasn’t willing to step up, how long before someone else did?

–

[Deep In Your Soul - Alan Vuong]

The music throbbed through the villa walls, bass rattling the glass of half-finished drinks and echoing off the marble like a heartbeat that wasn’t yours. LA was too warm, even at night—the kind of heat that stuck to your skin like sweat and smoke, fingers grazing bare shoulders and brushing past as strangers slinked by. The house was alive with american accents, packed wall-to-wall with people you didn’t know, most of them girls, impossibly pretty in their tiny tops and glossy lips, lounging in laps. You weren’t sure who invited who. You weren’t even sure who was staying at this villa anymore. You’d been slipping. Letting your guard down. Falling into old habits, soft moments that blurred the line. The way Trent would grin at you like he forgot every other woman in the room, in the world. The way you’d tease him back, your legs bare, wrapped up in strappy heels [ref index] and barely covered by your shorts occasionally draping across his lap, leaning in too close to his side when no one else was looking. Friends. That’s what you’d said. But there was nothing platonic about the way he touched you, or the way you let him.

“Thought you said they weren’t dating?” Jude asked, voice dripping in irony as he nudged Marcel. Across the room, Trent held your drink high above your head, out of reach and laughing like a cheeky little boy. You had retaliated without thinking, wrapping yourself around him with a shriek, hands on his chest. He caught you. He always caught you.

“They’re not,” Marcel muttered, rolling his eyes, exasperated like he was tired of saying it. But moments like that never lasted long. You blinked—and he was gone. Just like that.

You’d been pulled away to take a few photos for Marcel, your camera strap digging into your collarbone, the weight of it suddenly heavier. When you looked back, the space where you had left Trent was empty. No laugh. No touch. No look across the room only for you. Now, you stood outside under the hazy LA moon, scanning a backyard full of strangers. The loungers once soaked in sunlight were now hidden in shadow, bodies curled into each other, legs tangled, someone’s voice moaning out from the pool’s deep end. Laughter. Kisses. Secrets traded behind palms and pergola pillars. You felt the ache before you even registered it. He wasn’t anywhere. You told yourself not to panic. Maybe he went inside. Maybe he went to the kitchen. Maybe he went upstairs. Maybe he went off with someone else. Your stomach twisted. You’d spent so long convincing yourself it didn’t mean anything—that the way you gravitated toward each other was muscle memory, not emotion. But the crack in your chest said otherwise. Because the truth was: you couldn’t find him.

—

Somewhere in the haze of the party, beyond the beat that shook the villa’s walls and the blur of half-forgotten laughter, Trent had only gone to get a drink. That was all it was supposed to be. He was catching up with Kieren, the bass from speakers making the ground tremble, when it happened. Like the slow, invisible shift of tectonic plates—nothing immediate, nothing loud—but something unspoken cracked beneath the surface. Bianca.

Bianca approached with the kind of confidence only someone completely oblivious to the undercurrent of tension in the air could possess. Her hips swayed, her eyes locked on Trent with the kind of certainty that suggested she’d already decided how the night was going to end. Kieren was beside him, beer in hand, quiet but watching. Always watching. She’d glided toward them like she knew the way already, a picture of golden, beach-born confidence in a dress made of starlight and intention. A California girl through and through. Her voice was sweetened by wine, her interest blatant. Kieren had smirked, nudged Trent with the kind of mocking encouragement that always came too easily from his best friend. That was the moment—the moment Trent could have stepped away. He could have walked back through the crowd, found you. Found the laugh that always pulled him in like a current, the shape of your silhouette always known to him, no matter how far away. But pride was a funny thing. And the boy's comments still rang in his ears. ‘if it’s nothing, then let it be nothing,’ ‘ it’s not normal,’ So Trent didn’t stop her. Or Kieren. Or himself. Instead, he went with Bianca when she asked if he’d show her the view of a city she already lived in. A view tucked hidden away by a fire pit at the edge of the back yard. He didn’t really want to, but his mouth curved into a practiced smile. The one that used to work, before you. Before you made him forget how to pretend. But it was the only life raft remaining as he realized he’d fallen so hard for someone he might not be allowed to love. You weren’t just someone to him. You were the someone. And tonight, he was losing you. And so he supposed maybe he had to look somewhere else for someone else.

—

The air outside felt different—thicker, heavier, laced with something unspoken as you stepped through the glass doors. Laughter crackled over the music, bodies tangled on loungers that had soaked in the sun all day, now wrapped in the kind of darkness that made it easy to forget who you were and what you wanted. You weren’t sure what you were looking for. It felt like a death wish. He was missing. A pit settled in your stomach, deep and twisting. You told yourself you were being dramatic. That he’d eclipsed you, back inside, that he was just grabbing another drink, that he was probably mid-conversation with someone you hadn’t noticed before. But no matter how many ways you tried to reason with yourself, it didn’t ease the sick feeling crawling up your spine. Because moments ago, he had been right there. Holding your drink out of reach, teasing, laughing—giggling like a boy who didn’t have the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. Like he wanted to be wrapped up in you, held like something precious instead of something fleeting. And now he was gone. You hated how easy it was to convince yourself that this was your fault. That you had pushed too hard, leaned too much into the illusion of friendship until maybe, just maybe, he had started believing it. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe you had made him think this was what you wanted—that he should want someone else. That he was allowed to. The pool shimmered under the low glow of the house lights, bodies twisting and tucking into each other, careless and reckless. It made your head spin, searching, scanning, trying to place him in the crowd. Too many girls. Too many threats. And still—no Trent. You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To keep things simple. If only for him. To keep things casual. So why did it feel like the ground was tilting beneath you? Like you had made the worst mistake of all—one you couldn’t take back?

—

Trent shouldn’t have walked away with Bianca. He should have shaken his head, made up an excuse, done anything to make it clear he wasn’t interested. But Kieren was standing right there. And therein lay the problem. He was too stubborn, too proud to turn Bianca down outright, not when it would mean proving Kieren right—that you and him weren’t nothing. That all the tension, all the late nights, all the stolen moments meant something more than just casual, meaningless comfort. That he loved you. So he let her talk. Let her brush her fingers against his wrist like it was casual, let her lean in too close, her breath hot with tequila and false promise. He listened absently as she yapped away, his eyes drifting to the hills ahead instead of her lips. He went along with it, pretending to be entertained, though the weight in his chest only grew heavier with every forced smirk. He knew how this played out. A laugh here, a subtle touch there, the ease of it all. With other girls, it was always so fucking easy. But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t you. And that’s when the tug of war started. A part of him—the part still raw from every time you’d insisted you were just friends—wanted to let Bianca stay, wanted to prove to himself that he could want someone else. But another part of him, the deeper part, the real part, recoiled at the very idea. He didn’t want her

And yet, when she moved closer, her palm pressing into his thigh—too close, too fast— like it meant something, like she could replace you, he let her. His reaction dulled by drinks and doubt. By fear. By the brutal, aching truth that he’d fallen so fucking in love with someone he might not be allowed to have. Maybe it was his pride, maybe it was pure fucking stupidity. But he didn’t stop her. And that was his mistake.

You had been looking for him. Not desperately, not frantically. Just searching, hoping. You’d gotten lost in the crowd, the party spinning around you in a blur of laughter and music, bodies moving together in the dim glow of the house lights. You weren’t sure how long you’d lost him for, only that it felt too quiet without him near. Your heart had been unsteady the entire night, balancing on a precipice of something you couldn’t name but maybe you’d wanted to. So you decided you’d test yourself, teeter the dangerous line to keep looking for him, to check the very edge of the property but it wasn’t the end of the back garden, it was the edge of the universe. A plane of the earth you were about to fall off.

–

When you reached the path leading up to the fire pit, the air shifted. Something was wrong. The fire glowed ahead, casting flickering shadows against the dark. The world behind you—music, voices, the hum of the party—felt like a distant echo. Your footsteps crunched against the gravel, your heels slipping in between the pebbles, the night’s chill biting at your skin as you climbed the small hill. The night had been a delicate balance of tension and restraint, a dance you and Trent were tempting fate with. You had convinced yourself you could handle it, that the sight of him ever entertaining another girl—someone harmless, someone temporary—wouldn’t gut you. And then– when you reached the fire pit, you saw her. Saw them.

Bianca was pressed against Trent’s side, her body angled towards him like she was staking a claim. Her fingers rested on his thigh, her nails grazing the fabric of his shorts like she had every right. And Trent—fucking Trent—was just sitting there, looking at her, not pushing her away. Your breath hitched, a sharp, silent gasp caught in your throat. The blood drained from your face so fast it made you dizzy. The worst part? He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t leaning into it, wasn’t encouraging it. He just wasn’t stopping it. Letting someone who wasn’t you touch him in places you stupidly thought he’d reserved only for your hands. Like all good friends do– right? Bianca was too close, her fingers pressing into his thigh like she belonged there, like she had any right. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was Trent’s stubbornness, maybe it was just easier to let things happen when the alternative was admitting he wanted something else. Someone else. So he stilled, wishing away the heat of unfamiliar hands on him, wanting for yours, waning to the idea that this would be life after you.

But it didn’t matter what he wished for because you had just witnessed this. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your breath vanished, stolen by a force so sharp it made your ribs ache. The bile in your throat rose fast, hot, and acidic, burning the back of your tongue. You turned on instinct, a desperate need to get out, to erase the image from your mind before it burned itself into your memory permanently. You needed to pretend you hadn’t seen it, hadn’t felt the phantom weight of her hands where yours had been a hundred times before. In your haste, your heel slipped against the loose gravel, sending you stumbling. Your stomach lurched as you stumbled, a sharp sting tearing through your palm as you caught yourself against something jagged and this time, the gasp that left your lips wasn’t silent.

“Fuck,” you gasped, voice thin and choked, breaking. Your pain and shifting stones broke through the distant hum of the fire. Loud enough to cut through the firelight and laughter. Loud enough that Trent’s head snapped up, his brows furrowing. His gaze cut through the dark, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out your shape against the flickering light.

“Y/N?” His voice was tentative, laced with concern.

“No, no, stay where you are.” The words ripped from you, strained and raw, laced with a panic you couldn't swallow down, waving him off. Don’t come closer. Don’t see me like this. Don’t see what you’ve done to me. A feeble attempt at control when everything was already spiraling. But then you felt it—warmth pooling in your palm, a cut too deep to ignore. And beneath that, an ache buried so deep in your chest, you knew there was no recovering from it. Trent didn’t hesitate though. He was on his feet in an instant, your plea completely ignored, Bianca already forgotten, already insignificant. He didn’t care if it was rude, if it exposed too much, if it confirmed what his friends all already suspected. Didn’t even care if it made Bianca look stupid, didn’t care if Kieren was watching, if the whole world was watching. He just ran to you.

–

The moment was thick with heartbreak, the kind that left no room for pride or pretense. Trent's hands trembled slightly as he reached for your wrist, panic laced through his voice.

“Baby, you alright? You’re bleeding… fuck, a lot.” His fingers barely grazed your skin before you yanked it back, a sharp intake of breath cutting through the tension.

“Don’t,” you whimpered, your voice fragile, breaking apart like shattered glass. And then she appeared—Bianca, clueless, concerned, blameless but the last person you wanted to see right now.

“Are you okay, babe?” she asked, sincerity in her tone, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about her.

“Fine.” The word was clipped, brittle, barely holding itself together as you turned, desperate to get away as you stood up. But Trent was faster, his grip firm at your waist, grounding, suffocating.

“Baby...” The name spilled from Trent’s lips instinctively, like it belonged to you, like it had always belonged to you. Bianca recoiled, realization dawning on her in real-time.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, her eyes darting between you two. “Oh my god.” She repeated blinking in shock and guilt. “Babe.” She tried again, softer, chasing after you. Her fingers curled around your bicep in a weak attempt to soothe, but you shook her off. Not with cruelty, just… despair. “I had no idea, I’m so sorry.” She kept talking, kept trying to make it right, but every word only made the lump in your throat grow thicker. You scurried back down the path towards the house desperate for an escape but you were only met with a bigger audience. Your feet hit the pool deck, and like a perfectly timed Greek tragedy, the usual suspects were all there, watching the unraveling in real time.

“Yo, fuck—Y/N, you alright?” Jude shot up from his seat, shifting a girl off his lap without a second thought when he saw your tear-streaked face, the crimson dripping from your palm. His voice was enough to turn Kieren’s head, and when he saw you—saw Trent—the fury was instant, igniting like a spark catching fuel. Trent caught up to you fast, urgent and aching.

“Have to go to hospital,” Trent murmured close, too close, his breath fanning against your cheek, his scent sinking deep into your lungs, except now it was tainted. Tainted with firewood and regret, a cruel reminder of what just happened. Memories of mere seconds ago when your hand wasn’t bleeding and your heart wasn’t in pieces.

“I’m so sorry, honest. I wouldn’t—if I did, I—” Bianca’s voice wavered, her guilt spilling over in desperate attempts to explain, but it only pushed the dam of your emotions closer to breaking. Tears slipped free, unchecked, uncontainable. Kieren moved first.

“Hey, hey, she’s fine. Don’t worry about it—we got it.” He stepped in, separating you from Bianca with a gentle wave, an unspoken shield between you and them. He reached for you, fingers curling around your good arm, a silent offer of escape. He attempted to pull you from Trent but he wouldn’t budge, no. Not if you were actually hurt.

“Kier, stop, mate. I fucking got her.” The words snapped, edged in something raw and possessive, and the command in his voice made your breath hitch. The energy shifted. Silence fell, thick and suffocating, everyone watching, waiting, as if something irreparable was about to break. And you did. You sank down onto your haunches, the weight of everything—tonight, him, her—pressing you into the stone. Your free hand trembled as you cradled your injured one, the sting of the cut fading under the numbness of something worse. Trent crouched in front of you, close enough that his knees nearly touched yours. “Baby,” his voice dropped, a whisper only meant for you, “listen, I know you don’t like me right now, but let me help you.” Your head shook instinctively, a silent no. And it felt like you had just told him you didn’t love him. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his chest rising and falling like he was struggling to breathe. “Yeah… C’mon. You need to go to hospital, and it’s gonna be fucking millions of dollars here. Let me help you.” You didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Because the truth was, you didn’t know what to do. You wanted to fall into his arms, wanted his warmth to chase away the cold creeping into your bones. But it hurt. He hurt. Trent exhaled sharply, a shudder laced with frustration and something close to desperation. He leaned in, forehead pressing to yours, his voice breaking at the edges. “You can hate me tomorrow. Trust me, I’ll remember you do.” The world shrank, just the two of you in this impossible moment, his breath fanning over your lips, his words a quiet plea. His hand gently slid to wrap around your forearm, holding you, keeping you together, and maybe himself too because as much as you needed him right now, ached for his comfort, Trent needed you. Needed to take care of you. He couldn’t do this. He needed to touch you, hold you. But he knew he caused this so he sighed, frustration and anger at himself rising fast suddenly. “I promise you’ll never have to remind me that I fucked up, because I think about it every day, all day, that I fucked it. Alright?” His voice cracked, his fingers tightening just slightly on your wrist. “I wish I could rewind and show up for that dinner, the way I should’ve” You hiccuped at the reminder. He exhaled hating how things had played out between you two. How different they could’ve been, should’ve been. “Showed up the way I wanted to. But let me show up now. Please.” ‘Wanted.’ Past tense. The weight of his words settled deep inside your chest, pressing against ribs already aching under the strain of heartbreak. You had rebuttals, things to say, sharp-edged words waiting on the tip of your tongue. But your hand was starting to feel numb. So you sniffled, swallowed hard, and nodded. And beneath the steady drip of blood against the stone, something else bled unseen—something neither of you knew how to stop. You and Trent were breaking.

—

The waiting room was far too bright. The kind of light that bleached everything sterile—emotions, wounds, words. But none of it could scrub away the quiet ache that sat heavy between you and Trent. You hadn’t spoken since the house. Not really. Not beyond the brittle, broken things people say when they’re bleeding more on the inside than the outside. But now, your head rested against his shoulder—because even when it hurt, even when he’d left you hanging by threads, he was still the only place you felt tethered. And it was pathetic, maybe. But it was real. The pain in your hand pulsed dully in time with your heartbeat, a constant reminder of your body catching you when your heart couldn’t. You could still feel the sting of the cut, but more than that—you felt the sting of him. Trent hadn’t said much either. Just sat with you in the blue plastic chairs, his leg bouncing with unspent energy. As if he was punishing himself by staying still. Every so often, he’d look down at you like he might say something—but then he didn’t. Like he couldn’t find the words, like maybe he was afraid they’d shatter between you.

When a nurse had told you you’d need a few stitches. Your stomach dropped. You blinked at the woman as if she’d just spoken a foreign language. Stitches. Blood. Needles. You felt the floor tilt slightly beneath you even though you were sitting down. Trent’s arm, which had been stretched behind your chair without making contact, finally moved. His hand came to rest lightly between your shoulder blades, his thumb tracing a path that felt like an apology. You tensed for a second. Something close to betrayal was still there—coiling in your chest, licking at your ribs—but you melted anyway. Because his touch still felt like safety. Because he still felt like home, even when you weren’t sure you should stay. You swallowed hard, your voice a breath against the noise around you.

“Can I say something embarrassing?” It was the first thing you’d said that wasn't logistics after the nurse left. Not pain or panic. Just you. Small and tired and breaking a little more beneath the weight of it all. Trent didn’t speak, just hummed gently—his fingers pausing on your back, the kind of silent permission you’d both gotten used to needing from each other. Not asking for too much. Not pushing too hard. “I’m scared,” you whispered. And you hated it. How vulnerable it made you feel. How silly it sounded when he was—well, him. You were sure it would sound childish to someone like Trent, someone who faced thousands screaming his name, bodies crashing into his every week, injuries that made stitches look like a papercut. A small, exhausted laugh pushed through his chest, barely there, but enough for you to feel it under your cheek where it rested against him. His touch against your back stayed light, just enough to remind you he was there, but not so much that he’d make you pull away. He wouldn’t be able to take it if you did.

“You’re scared?” he murmured, his lips ghosting the crown of your head. You nodded against him, too drained to do much else.

“Yeah.” Your eyes glued downwards, staring at the sight of your heels curled next to his trainers—this mismatched picture of two people from two different galaxies. But they’d collided, hadn’t they? “I’ve never gotten stitches before.” You admitted sheepishly feeling silly. And then, that slow, quiet smile bloomed across his face. Not smug. Not teasing. Soft. Like he’d just seen a version of you no one else got to see. Like he was holding something sacred in his arms. His perfectly pink and pouty lips curled laced with something neither of you wanted to name. Not amusement, not quite adoration—something deeper, something he didn't know how to let himself feel.

Cute, he thought. You were cute. Even now. Even in an A&E wrapped up in hurt and heartbreak, your voice small in the quiet, seeking comfort from the one person who had caused it in the first place. It made his chest ache. Cute. That same word that haunted him in Ibiza—when he tried to write it all off, pretend you weren’t under his skin—had now become something warmer. Deeper. Something he wanted to wrap around you like a blanket.

“You’ll be alright, baby,” he whispered, voice low, like it was a secret meant only for you. “I got you.” The words sent a shiver down your spine, but you weren’t sure if it was from his voice or the way his fingers had started tracing slow, barely-there circles at the nape of your neck. Three words. Not I love you. But still—they felt heavy. They meant something. You weren’t sure what, but it was more than nothing. You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve remembered the firepit, the way your stomach had hollowed out at the sight of him and her. But right now? You were tired. Hurting. And all you wanted was him. So, you let him hold you. Let yourself sink into the warmth of him.

—

Your name was called, crisp and clear through the quiet murmur of the waiting room. You flinched like the sound had sliced straight through the thin veil of calm you'd managed to pull over yourself. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because suddenly it wasn’t just about a hand or a cut or even stitches. It was about stepping into something you couldn’t undo. Letting yourself be taken somewhere vulnerable. Letting someone help. And right now, help looked like sterile white coats and fluorescent lights in another country and questions you didn’t want to answer. But before your panic could bloom fully, Trent was there. Like he always was. Like he never stopped being, even when he should’ve. He stood before you, a quiet force, his presence alone grounding the chaos inside you. And then—just as the doctor approached, clipboard in hand and eyes already flicking to your wound—something shifted. The man blinked. Then blinked again.

“Wait—Sorry, are you…?” he started, eyes going wide in disbelief as recognition dawned. Trent’s posture didn’t change. He gave a polite half-smile, tired, a little sheepish.

“Uh, yeah, man,” he said, voice low and unassuming. “Trent.” He smiled easily, extending a hand to introduce himself, rehearsed like he’d done it a thousand times over… because he had.

“Wow. What are you doing in here? Glad this isn’t an injury of yours.” The doctor laughed—a little stunned but a little humor peeking through. You could’ve cried. Because of course. Of course even now, even here in a cold corner of Los Angeles, someone knew him. And not just knew him—adored him. A fan. The irony curled bitter on your tongue. You were sitting here terrified, unraveling slowly, and the man you loved was still magic to strangers. But not to you. No, to you he was something far more dangerous—he was comfort. Home. He was heartbreak waiting to happen. The doctor cleared his throat, a little flustered now. “Uh… right. Let’s get that looked at, yeah?” You stood slowly. Your body did. But your heart didn’t follow. Your feet felt like they’d anchored to the tile, your mind echoing with silent screams to not move, not yet, not alone. You almost pulled back on instinct—an invisible thread of fear tugging you hard toward flight. But Trent felt it. Felt you.

“Mate, uh—alright if I go with her?” he asked quickly, adamant. There was no question in his tone. Only insistence. The kind that said try and stop me. The doctor hesitated—then nodded.

“Of course, yeah. Sure. That’s fine.” And just like that, Trent’s hand was on your shoulder, arm curving gently around you. He didn’t say much—just gathered you in close, pulling you into his side like he needed to feel you breathing, like he needed you to know you weren’t alone. His body warm and solid against the cold of the corridor, every step echoing into a space that didn’t feel so scary anymore. He leaned down as you walked, pressing a kiss to your hair. Soft. Assured. No lights, no crowd, no parties, no friends, just him, just the way you liked loved him.

“Gonna be alright.” He whispered, voice brushing your ear like a promise. You looked up at him—eyes glassy, wide. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to reach out and curl yourself into that truth and let it cradle you through everything. But instead, what came out was small. Fragile.

“Sorry,” you whispered. He furrowed his brow, glancing down at you. You didn’t know how to say it. That you were sorry for being difficult. For running. For needing him. For being the reason he was spending a night of his limited holiday in the too-cold, too-white glow of a hospital that smelled like bleach and regret. Sorry that loving him felt like holding your breath. That you’d never told him just how in love with him you were, that you even were at all. He just kissed your hair, no words. The unsaid obvious as his hold on you tightened just slightly, like he was anchoring you to the ground. You breathed slowly, eyes wet again, your throat tightening as you let him walk you toward the door where another nurse held the door for the doctor and yourselves. You were still scared. Of stitches. Of heartbreak. Of all of it. But his hand stayed at your back the whole time. And for a little while, that was all you had and it was painfully obvious it was all you needed.

—

You sat on the examination bench, the crinkle of paper beneath you sharp against the dull hum of the fluorescent lights. The room smelled of antiseptic, of sterility, and yet, with Trent beside you, draped in warmth and unwavering steadiness, it didn’t feel quite so cold. The doctor spoke—explaining something about the stitches, about how it wasn’t as bad as it looked—but you weren’t listening. You couldn’t. Not when the mere thought of looking at your hand made your stomach churn. Trent caught it immediately, the way your jaw tensed, the way your breathing hitched ever so slightly.

“Hey,” he murmured, already moving, already closing the space between you. The bench was small, but he made it smaller, shifting easily beside you, his presence all-encompassing, his arm slipping around your waist, grounding. “You don’t have to look, baby. Just look at me, yeah?” You swallowed thickly, your gaze still fixed on some random spot on the wall. He nudged your side gently, his dimpled smile peeking through. “Aye. Didn’t I just tell you to look at me?” Your lips twitched despite everything, a ghost of a smile, fleeting but there. Finally, you turned, meeting his eyes. Warm. Steady. Familiar. “See?” he breathed, squeezing your waist reassuringly. “You’re alright. Just two stitches, that’s it. Easy.” Easy for him to say. But his voice was low, soothing, the rasp of it settling something inside you. You felt the doctor begin, the tug of the needle, the pull of the thread, and before the panic could rise, Trent’s fingers traced slow, absentminded circles at your hip, his chin resting on your shoulder like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Proud of you,” he whispered only for you, his lips ghosting against your ear like it was the simplest truth he’d ever spoken. Like it didn’t just cut deeper than the wound being sewn up could ever be.

—

The sound of your pen scratching against paper filled the quiet hum of the waiting room, the nurses firing off questions you barely registered. Something about insurance, emergency contacts, whatever the fuck a ‘co-pay’ was—none of it made sense through the exhaustion clouding your brain. You sighed, shifting on your feet, your body aching in a way that had nothing to do with your hand. Trent was adamant that if you did the paperwork, he’d cover the cost. This was his fault after all, he said. But as lines of waivers blurred together, Trent stood a few feet away, caught in conversation but wholly uninterested in it. Not rudely, his focus just never strayed from you—not when he answered the doctor’s questions, not when he made casual small talk about football. Every so often, his fingers flexed at his side, like he had the urge to reach for you, to touch, to ground himself in you somehow. The doctor was sweet, but perceptive too.

“Ex-girlfriend?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Trent’s head snapped toward him, his brows knitting together.

“Uh, nah.” His hand lifted, fingers rubbing at the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. The doctor simply chuckled.

“Ah… so you’re just in love with her then.” Trent froze. The words hung heavy in the space between them, undeniable, unrelenting. He could’ve denied it, should’ve denied it. But there was no point in pretending anymore. His jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath.

“Yeah, but…” The doctor didn’t let him finish.

“You don’t live here. I’m assuming you didn’t know where a hospital was. And yet, here you are at two in the morning, sitting by her side, holding her hand through two stitches like it was a life-or-death situation.” His smirk softened, eyes filled with something almost fatherly. “Look, Trent, I only watch you on the tv, I don’t know you like that, but I don’t have to. Even I can see it. You should tell her.” The doctor smiled warmly, giving advice Trent already knew but it felt more weighted than ever before.Trent exhaled, his gaze flickering back to you. Still standing at the desk, still lost in paperwork, unaware of the weight of the conversation happening behind you. He wanted to tell you. He did. But he couldn’t. Not tonight. Not yet. Because as much as he loved you, it wasn’t about that right now. It was about you, standing there, feeling guilty for something that was never your fault. It was about making sure you were okay. So he swallowed the words that threatened to spill, tucked them away for another time, thanking the doctor before he walked toward you, falling in love all over again in every step.

–

[Listen Before I Go - Billie Eilish]

The sheets still smelled like him. That warm, sun-drenched scent of cedar and spice, something so innately Trent that it clung to your skin even as you slipped out from beneath the weight of it. The room was steeped in stillness, save for the slow, steady rhythm of his breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he stirred slightly, but not enough to wake. His arm twitched where it had been draped over your waist, reaching, even in sleep, but you were already gone. No sleepy murmurs. No drowsy fingers curling around your wrist to pull you back into him. Just silence. You shouldn’t have slept in his bed last night. It felt almost cynical. So you grabbed your shoes, moving swiftly, carefully, like a thief in the night, likely taking his heart with you whether you knew it or not. It felt wrong—leaving like this. Leaving him. Something you’d never done before but had to now.

The walk to your room felt longer than before, like your feet carried the weight of something more than just exhaustion. The door clicked shut behind you, and the second you were alone, the breath you’d been holding finally escaped in a trembling exhale. This wasn’t what this holiday was supposed to be. This week wasn’t meant to be you upsetting Trent at dinner only for him to whisper reassurances in your ear hours later. Not him with another girl at the party only to be the one holding your hand through the pain afterward. It was too much. It wasn’t even fucking and fighting. This was just heartbreak for something that didn’t even have a name. This wasn’t right for him. You felt like he didn’t need this. Your hands were shaking as you reached for the shower knob, twisting it until the water was almost unbearable. Steam curled into the air instantly, swallowing you whole. You stepped inside, and the moment the heat hit you, you broke. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, sharp and ragged, echoing against the tile. You pressed your forehead against the cold wall, chest heaving, and let the tears fall freely, mixing with the scalding stream that cascaded down your skin. You were crying for something that was never even truly yours. For something you’d never defined but had felt with every inch of your being. Something that was tangled up in late-night whispers and stolen touches, in the way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice, in the way his arms instinctively wrapped around you when the world felt too heavy. You wanted him. Wanted him in ways you never should have, in ways that stretched beyond reason or logic. But whatever this was between you—it wasn’t working. It wasn’t whole. And the worst part? He hadn’t fought it. He didn’t say he wanted you. He hadn’t pulled you back, hadn’t said anything. If he wanted more, he would have fought. Would have held on. Would have demanded something, anything. But he hadn’t asked for more. And maybe that was your answer. The water pounded against your back, and you let yourself sink to the shower floor, curling in on yourself as another sob wracked through you. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. You didn’t want to let go, but you had to. You had come to California, captured some photos, cut open your hand, and walked away with a few stitches—but nothing could mend your heart. This holiday in LA was ending. And so were you and Trent.

—

Your top shimmered under the dim lighting, delicate metallic fringe [ref index] swaying with every breath, catching on the hollow of your throat, whispering against your bare stomach. Your mini skirt sat high on your waist, a glimmering façade of confidence wrapped around a body that felt heavier than it should. Like if you weren’t careful, you’d collapse under the weight of everything unsaid. You dragged your hands over the fabric, smoothing out creases that didn’t exist, as if you could do the same to your thoughts—iron them out until they made sense. Until they didn’t ache.

One more night.

That’s all you had to get through. One final evening before the holiday was over, before the sun rose on the aftermath of everything you and Trent could never be. One more night of pretending this holiday had been what it was meant to be. A job. A temporary escape. A place to capture fleeting beauty through your lens. But it wasn’t that. It was a slow, unraveling heartbreak. You had come to California with a purpose, an intention. And yet, all you had to show for it now was a bruised heart and a stitched-up hand. You really weren’t even sure what this trip was supposed to begin with anymore. Work? Play? It didn’t matter, you just knew you wanted it to end and you definitely knew it was something you didn’t like. You didn’t like the way he made you feel like you belonged to him when, in reality, he had never claimed you at all. The truth was cruel in its simplicity. He hadn’t fought for you. Never had. He hadn’t followed you out of the restaurant. Not when you walked away from him. Not when you left his bed this morning without a single word. You weren’t even sure he noticed you were gone. The thought burned. Maybe you had let yourself believe in something that was never really there. Maybe every smirk, every touch, every stolen glance—was just who Trent was.

Maybe it wasn’t just for you. And maybe you were a fool for thinking it had been. You swallowed the lump in your throat, fixing the delicate rings on your fingers, watching how they glinted under the soft glow of the light. A cruel reminder of everything that looked beautiful but wasn’t meant to last. Just get through the night. One last night of faking a smile. One last night of pretending your heart wasn’t bleeding out beneath designer fabric. And then, it would all be over.

–

You adjusted your tits, making sure they were covered enough in your top but still taunting. Maybe it was mean, maybe you didn’t care. No, you cared a lot in fact because as you fixed the fringed fabric, letting the delicate strands drape over you, the weight grounding you staring at your reflection. This was it and you cared a lot about that. It wasn’t just about the heels you chose for the night, the final outfit carefully pieced together. You had made another decision—one far heavier than any fabric, more suffocating than the knot you just tied cinching your waist in You were letting Trent go. Not because you wanted to, but because you had to. It was clear now, in a way you couldn’t ignore any longer. He liked you—sure. There were moments, flickers of something deeper, something real. But he wasn’t reaching for it. Wasn’t reaching for you. Yes, he had held your hand at the hospital, whispering soft reassurances in your ear, but only hours before, those same hands had been tangled with another girl’s. Bianca then, Cassie before that. Different names, same feeling. It was him and you couldn’t fault him. It just wasn’t right. He’d played games and you knew that walking into it. You remembered meeting him in Ibiza. And in a way… you wished you hadn’t. You thought you’d been something different to him. That maybe, when he kissed you, when his fingers traced constellations into your skin, when he looked at you like you were his to keep—that it meant something. Meant everything. But he never really stepped up. Maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he never did. Maybe you were naive waiting for the day he would. But he hadn’t so it was time. Time to stop fooling yourself. Because all Trent had done was wait. Easy, like the traps he set for every girl. Waiting for you to come back, to fold yourself into his arms, to let him press apologies into your skin without ever needing to say them. Because he knew—you always did. But not tonight. Not anymore. Because maybe you weren’t special. Maybe the way he spoke, the way he teased, the way he made you feel like the only girl in the world—maybe it wasn’t unique to you. Maybe it was just him. And maybe you had been foolish to think otherwise. Your fingers trembled as you slid a glittering bangle onto your wrist, the soft clink of metal a cruel reminder of the weight you’d been carrying all this time. You were done crying. If he wasn’t asking for more, you weren’t going to burden him by begging for it. He needed to move on. It felt like he had always been ready to. And so did you. You had come to LA for work, and that’s what this would be. Strictly professional. No more stolen moments. No more blurred lines. No more Trent. You exhaled, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your skirt, ignoring the way your chest ached at the thought. One last night. And then, you’d let him go.

—

[Innerbloom - Rüfüs Du Sol]

The last night of the holiday, thank God it was. One final shoot, one last checklist of boys dressed in Amiri trainers and Rhude shirts, Prada sunglasses shielding their eyes even in the dim glow of a club. The work was done, the holiday almost over, and yet the hardest part still loomed ahead of you. The night was destined for drama. You could feel an ominous intuition the moment you left the house. You had tried—tried so hard—to keep your distance, to resist the gravitational pull of Trent Alexander-Arnold. But it wasn’t fair. He wasn’t fair. He wasn’t supposed to be both—both the most adorable, boba-eyed boy you’d ever seen and the sexiest golden-skinned man who had ever touched you. He wasn’t supposed to be both. It should have made it easier. But it didn’t. And so, somewhere between the neon-lit skyline and the thick, humid air of the club, you’d decided. Whatever this was, whatever thread of longing still held you to him—it needed to be buried. Six feet under.

The club was packed. The kind of packed where the air felt electric, where bodies swayed together in a blur of sweat and designer perfume, where champagne flowed like water, and sparklers burned bright against the dark. A playground for the famous and the reckless. You should’ve been drunk enough to drown in it. Should’ve let the tequila lace itself through your bloodstream and numb the ache in your chest. But the bass wasn’t deep enough to mask the thudding pain in your ribs, wasn’t loud enough to silence the truth screaming at you— Why could you not shake him? You knew why. You knew three words that was the clearest cut answer but you didn’t like them, didn’t like the way he winked at you as he sat atop a booth, perched above everyone else like he was taunting you with how it’d always be him, illuminated, golden, glowing, perched above every other man for the rest of your life. Brown eyes with enviable long lashes that batted at you and would never leave the deepest folds of your brain. So you had to leave them.

You had pushed your way to the bathroom, fingers gripping the cold porcelain sink as you stared at yourself in the mirror, trying to see beyond the shimmer of your makeup, the fringe of your top, the polished image you had perfected over years. But your heart still hurt. It felt raw and exposed, as if Trent had left his fingerprints all over it and forgotten to claim it as his. A splash of cold water. A deep breath. A text to Campbell. A tug of your top. You could get through one more night. When you stepped back into the crush of the club, bottle girls weaved through the room, holding up sparklers, carrying magnum bottles of champagne, their presence announced by a flashing marquee:

"SAFE FLIGHT TOMORROW, TAKE OFF TONIGHT!"

The message sent a shiver down your spine. Tomorrow, this would be over. The holiday would be done. And whatever was left of you and Trent would be left behind in LA, tucked away between the beats of the music and the words you could no longer take back. As you reached the private section, something felt off. More people than before. A new crowd. A group of girls had joined, seamlessly slotted into the space you had left behind when you stepped away. You slowed, watching as two of them leaned in, laughing, their arms draped lazily over the plush couch… to close to him. You stopped. The security at the front barely spared you a glance before stepping forward.

“Sorry, sweetheart, private area,” one of them said, voice indifferent, like you were just another girl trying to force her way in.

“I know,” you said quickly. “I’m with—” You caught yourself, bit your tongue. Trent. The truth felt too raw to say, and the hesitation was all they needed. “Them,” you corrected, but the falter had already given you away.

“Really?” The guard arched a brow, unimpressed. You tried not to roll your eyes. You didn’t need this. You didn’t even want to be in this damn ‘private area.’ You leaned slightly, just enough to peek past them into the section. And there he was. Trent, sitting exactly where you had left him—only now, he wasn’t alone. Looks could be deceiving but in the haze of the night, in the thick of exhaustion, it looked like the moment you stepped away there were girls flocking and he didn’t turn them away. He needed someone and that someone wasn’t you. Your lips parted. Your chest caved. You were done. Tears burned the edges of your vision as you stared, the sinking, suffocating realization crashing down over you like a tidal wave. It was happening again. Like at the party. Like when you turned away, even for a moment. You stepped away from the bouncer, murmuring an apology, already turning, already leaving because this was it. This was the end. It had to be. You were done feeling like a place he returned to only when there was no one else. Done being the thing he kept tucked away, hidden in sheets and shadows. But before you could vanish, just as you turned, he saw you. Through the sliver of space between security, his eyes found yours.

Hurt. That’s all Trent saw. He didn’t know how to do this. How to love you in his world. But he’d try, if only fueled by liquid courage, he’d fucking try. His body moved instantly. He shot up from his seat, urgency dripping from every inch of him as he pushed forward, voice firm.

“Hey—c’mere, where you going?” he yelled over the bass pounding in the club. You shook your head. Don’t. But Trent was already leaning over the rope, already telling security you were fine to enter, already reaching— And you couldn’t do it. Not this time. Tears blurred your vision as you spun on your heel entirely, stepping into the chaos of the club, the crowd swallowing you whole. “Y/N!” Trent’s voice tore through the music, raw and frantic, as he ducked under the rope, chasing after you, pushing through people like nothing else in the world mattered— And for once, you didn’t stop. For once, you kept going. But this time, for once, he fought.

—-

The lights strobed violently, neon blues and reds cutting through the smoke-choked air as you pushed through the bodies, desperate to disappear before he could reach you. The music pulsed like a second heartbeat, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the sound of his voice—sharp, urgent, cutting through the cacophony.

“Y/N!” That stupid scouse accent. No. No, no, no. Your hands trembled as you wiped at the tears threatening to spill, heat flushing through your chest, crawling up your throat. The tequila in your veins wasn’t enough to dull the sting of it—of him, lounging there with girls on either side of him, looking unbothered, as if his hands hadn’t been on you just nights ago. As if his mouth hadn’t mapped out every inch of you. As if you weren’t anything more than one of them. He caught up to you at last, his fingers wrapping around your arm—not rough, not forceful, just enough to stop you from slipping away. A tether in the storm, though you weren’t sure which of you was the wind and which was the wreckage.

“Beautiful, c’mere,” Trent slurred, his voice thick with liquor and longing. “What’s going on? Haven’t been with my baby all night…” East like it was business as usual. Your stomach twisted at the pet name, at the way it felt like a blade disguised as silk. His words dripped with something dangerous—sweetness, possession, unspoken truths. And yet, he spoke them like nothing between you was unraveling, like this holiday hadn’t been a slow-motion car crash neither of you knew how to prevent. The word ‘my’ almost made you scoff but you were too wounded to be angry. You couldn’t do this. Not here, not with the lights flashing like sirens, illuminating the wreckage of whatever this was supposed to be.

“I’m not yours, okay?!” You wrenched your arm from his grasp, voice cracking under the weight of too many swallowed feelings. The words barely left your lips before he was throwing them back, raw and desperate.

“You are!” The conviction in his voice stole the breath from your lungs. The way he said it—like it was something written in the stars, something no amount of denial could undo—made your bottom lip tremble. His eyes, glossy from drink and emotion, searched yours, and for a second, the world blurred to just the two of you, drowning in something neither of you could name. Liquor and unsaid love—what a dangerous combination. You exhaled sharply, blinking up at him, forcing yourself to look—really look. And God, he was beautiful. Even now, even after everything. But this was not beautiful. This was breaking. The tears tipped over before you could stop them. You turned away, shoving through the crowd again, through the music that felt like it was pulsing through your bones. The corridor toward the exit was dimly lit, your steps uneven, your chest tight as you struggled to breathe past the ache lodged in your throat. The air was thick, heavy with sweat and liquor and perfume, but Trent’s presence behind you was suffocating. You felt him before he even had a chance to say anything again, moving through the crowd like a current, disrupting everything in his path.

“Trent, just stop!” you snapped, spinning on your heel once you were finally alone in the hallway. The words burst out of you, sharp and raw, as fresh tears carved hot paths down your cheeks. He stood in front of you, shoulders tense, expression unreadable beneath the neon light bleeding through from the club. “I came here for work, not for you,” you lied, voice so weak it almost cracked. Trent recoiled like you’d struck him. Like you’d taken a blade to his ribs and twisted it in deep.

“That’s not true,” he murmured, voice hoarse with hurt, but still edged with that stubborn certainty. “And you know it.” Your laugh was bitter, humorless. This was just so fucked up. How did it get this far?

“What, so you just paid for me to come to LA to fuck me?” You quipped. It was cruel. It was unfair. And the second it left your mouth, you knew it. Trent flinched, taking half a step back, his features twisting in something between confusion and devastation. His tongue darted out over his bottom lip like he was searching for words that wouldn’t come. His brows furrowed, jaw tightening like he could feel it slipping, like he knew—knew—this– whatever this was— was about to crack open.

“No, but I—” He stuttered, panicked.

“What?” you pressed, voice laced with something sharp and self-destructive. Like something you hadn’t known you’d long planned before tonight. “You would, though, right? That’s what you all do. Play games with girls’ hearts, pay for them to get into your beds anyways knowing they mean nothing to you?” His jaw clenched, and for a moment, his pain turned to anger.

“Aye, Y/N. That’s not fair.” His expression sharpened. He was pissed. It was below the belt. But it resonated because that’s how this all started hadn’t it?

“Oh, it’s not fair?” You let out a breathless, broken laugh, shaking your head. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. It is you. Why did you invite me here, Trent? Why did you send those bottles to my friends and I all the way back in Ibiza?” Your voice cracked, every word laced with something dangerously close to heartbreak. “You play games with people’s hearts.”

“Don’t do this,” he said, shaking his head, stepping closer, drowning you in his scent, his warmth, everything you wanted but couldn’t have. He knew it was in part true but he also knew you in part also didn’t believe any of it.

“You already did.” You swallowed the sob clawing at your throat. Trent's lips parted stunned. You felt like you were drowning. You were surrounded by noise, but none of it reached you. Your head was underwater. Any thought you tried to speak felt like liquid filling your throat, thick with truth you couldn’t say aloud. I love you. But the syllables were too heavy. Like the tide had turned on you, pulling you under with no warning. He looked at you—those warm brown eyes flickering into something dark—and it hurt. God, it hurt. Because you knew you were slipping, sinking. Letting yourself be swallowed whole by feelings you didn’t think you deserved to say out loud. It was easier this way, wasn’t it? To let yourself float toward the bottom, limp and silent, than to thrash toward the surface only to find him already gone. But he was there and he wasn't letting you go.

“Then what do you want from me!?” Trent’s voice lifted, no longer just anger, but something frantic, something bordering on helpless. His hands lifting to thread and grip in his hair flustered beyond recognition, his eyes burning into yours. “It’s not who I am! You know that. So, what do you want, Y/N?!” A plea, begging. Please, meet me halfway here. This was it. The opening. The aperture. A space to let the light in, let love in. But why did it have to be you? Why could he never say he wanted you? You sucked in a ragged breath, chest rising and falling unevenly.

“I want you to just be who you are,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I know your life. I know you’re fucking famous.” You spat the word like it was venom in your mouth. Like you’d kept it in your pocket since he said it to you the other night. “This isn’t you. I am not what you want. Just stop.” Your voice shook, losing your breath. You didn’t want to believe it. And maybe a part of you didn’t but a harsher critical side of yourself just couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see him ever showing up in the way you needed him. His face crumbled. You hiccuped, swallowing back a sob as your hands trembled at your sides. “Please.” You whispered before more tears crashed. Begging him to just leave it. Just let this heartbreak play out because you felt like any more back and forth might kill you. And then you did the only thing you could do– you turned, walking out the door into the open air, but even as the cool night hit your skin, you couldn’t breathe. It was supposed to feel like relief, like escape. Instead, it felt suffocating. Behind you, Trent barreled through the door, his own desperation drowning out reason.

“Y/N—” But you didn’t stop. And neither did he. “Y/N!” His voice chased after you, rough and frantic, cutting through the thick LA night like a blade. You didn’t wait. You couldn’t. Your heels scraped against the pavement as you stumbled forward, breath shuddering, hands trembling, tears streaking hot down your face, tears blurring your vision. You didn’t even know where you were going—just away. Away from him, from the way his presence made your chest ache like a bruise, from the unbearable weight of wanting something you were convinced you could never have.

“What!” The word ripped out of you as you spun on your heel, nearly losing your balance, your breath coming in heaving, uneven gasps. The night spun around you, blurred by unshed tears and neon streetlights casting fractured shadows along the pavement. This needed to be done. End it all. Some stupid summer fling that existed long past its expiration date. He couldn’t give you what you wanted. Trent stood a few feet away, chest rising and falling, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to. If you wanted him to. His lips were parted, damp with liquor and desperation, his jaw tight, his eyes—God, his eyes—glossy, burning, pleading. He looked as wrecked as you felt. The world moved around you both, the muffled bass of the club thrumming behind the walls, distant laughter trailing from the entrance, stilettos clicking against concrete as groups of partygoers passed. But it all faded into nothing, because here, under the flickering glow of a streetlamp, you and Trent existed in a different world—one that was collapsing in on itself, crumbling beneath your feet with every second that passed. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, exhaling sharply, stepping closer—careful, cautious, like you were something fragile, something he was afraid would shatter if he moved too fast. But you were already breaking. It felt like you were choosing to break. Like you were reaching into your own chest and tearing your heart out before he could. Like it’d dropped at your feet on the pavement of Los Angeles, shattered, with remnants of yourself spilling everywhere. Splashes of someone you barely recognized because every piece of you was now drenched in him. And your heart was completely saturated. You felt your chest ache in a way you didn’t know was possible. And then—

“Y/N, I love you.” The words hung in the air between you, unraveling everything, peeling you open, exposing every wound, every fear, every moment of silent yearning that neither of you had dared to voice before now. Your entire body locked up. Your breath hitched. The world blurred, sharpened, blurred again. No. No, no, no. Not now. Not like this.

“Don’t.” You choked out, shaking your head so hard it made you dizzy. Your voice was raw, teetering on the edge of hysteria. “Don’t you fucking dare say that you love me.” Because it wasn’t fair. Not when you had spent so long convincing yourself that he didn’t, that he couldn’t. Not when you had finally decided to cut yourself free before he could destroy you completely. Trent didn’t listen. He closed the distance between you in two long strides, his warmth swallowing you whole, his arms locking around you before you could push him away. Because even if you hated him, he’d always love you, he’d still hold you. You thrashed weakly against his chest, your fists pressing into his shirt before curling into the fabric, fingers clutching so tight your knuckles burned. And then you broke. A sob ripped through you, violent and gut-wrenching, your entire body trembling in his grasp. It hurt. It hurt to know he loved you. It hurt to know it was real. Because what the hell were you supposed to do with that? “Don’t,” you whimpered, the word barely audible over the rush of LA traffic. Trent stilled. He didn’t know if you meant don’t leave or don’t stay. But the way you buried yourself against him, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth, told him everything he needed to know. He exhaled, long and unsteady, his fingers threading into your hair, his other arm curling tighter around your waist. His grip on you was absolute, solid, unshakable—an anchor in the middle of the storm.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion, lips pressing into the crown of your head. “I’m not going anywhere.” His touch wasn’t a kiss, but it was something deeper, something more—a silent promise, an unspoken plea. He swallowed a thick lump of vulnerability. His waterline filling before he had to shut his eyes before he let anything tip over. And despite everything, despite the wreckage of your heart, despite the war raging inside you— You let him hold you. Because love had never felt safe. But in Trent’s arms, it felt like the closest thing to home.

•

Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

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Next part - Chapter 16 - Reprieve and Relief

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#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #aperture fic

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sideprince · 1 year ago

Text

Eileen Prince

I'm relentlessly curious about how a witch from Slytherin, a house that values cunning and ambition on paper, and bloodlines/nobility in its culture, ended up living in a muggle slum.

Unfortunately for me, she's a barely mentioned character written by an author who consistently fails to portray female characters with depth or dimension. The women in Harry Potter are portrayed as either maternal or villains, or, in Ginny Weasley's case, as redeemed by their masculine traits (because Rowling's Thatcher era feminism dictates that equality for women = emulating patriarchal ideas of manhood). About as much as you can expect from an author who's as unable to acknowledge the personhood of trans women as she is to write women as actual people. This leaves a lot of room for interpreting or delving into what Eileen Prince's life may have looked like, and how that would have affected her son's development.

There are three direct mentions of Eileen in the text :

“The picture showed a skinny girl of around fifteen. She was not pretty; she looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy brows and a long, pallid face. Underneath the photograph was the caption: Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team.”

HBP Ch. 25

“I was going through the rest of the old Prophets and there was a tiny announcement about Eileen Prince marrying a man called Tobias Snape, and then later an announcement saying that she’d given birth to a" “ — murderer,” spat Harry.

HBP ch. 30

“Harry looked around: he was on platform nine and three-quarters, and Snape stood beside him, slightly hunched, next to a thin, sallow-faced, sour-looking woman who greatly resembled him.”

DH Ch. 33

(Shoutout to Harry James Potter, who didn't recognize Eileen's fifth year photo despite her resemblance to Snape, the teacher whose classroom he got his used Potions book from. Shoutout also to Harry James Potter who didn't connect the dots between the Prince's handwriting and Snape's, a teacher who regularly wrote instructions on the board. "I needed to make the plot work, ok?" - JK Rowling, probably.)

Other relevant excerpts:

“Snape staggered - his wand flew upwards, away from Harry - and suddenly Harry’s mind was teeming with memories that were not his: a hook-nosed man was shouting at a cowering woman, while a small dark-haired boy cried in a corner ”

OoTP Ch. 26

“Harry delved into his trunk and pulled out his copy of Advanced Potion-Making before getting into bed. There he turned its pages, searching, until he finally found, at the front of the book, the date that it had been published. It was nearly fifty years old.”

HBP Ch. 16

Supplemental material re: Gobstones from JK Rowling:

"...it remains a minority sport within the wizarding world, and does not enjoy a very ‘cool’ reputation, something its devotees tend to resent. Gobstones is most popular among very young wizards and witches, but they generally ‘grow out’ of the game, becoming more interested in Quidditch as they grow older. ... Gobstones enjoys limited popularity at Hogwarts, ranking low among recreational activities, way behind Quidditch and even Wizarding Chess." [There's an additional sentence on the Harry Potter wiki's Gobstones page: "...it is also known as 'the thinking wizard's Quidditch.'"]

A few conclusions can be drawn from what little information we're given about Eileen:

She's described as "cross and sullen" around the age of 15, and as "sallow-faced, sour-looking" when she's older.

She's captain of the Gobstones club around her fifth year, so she likely marched to the beat of her own drum - given that Gobstones isn't particularly popular - and owns it proudly enough to take, or even seek out, a leadership role.

The sport is described as "the thinking wizard's Quidditch" which would imply Eileen was more interested in intellectual challenges and was clever (and can be paralleled with a young Severus' comment about "if you'd rather be brawny than brainy" to James Potter when they first meet on the Hogwarts Express).

Her marriage and the birth of her son are both announced in the paper, which might mean the family she came from was of some importance or note, or perhaps something else... but we'll get to that.

If we assume that Severus' secondhand copy of Advanced Potion Making was originally Eileen's (reasonable, though there is no textual evidence) then its publication date is likely around the time she was a sixth year, given that this particular text was specific to students beginning to prep for N.E.W.T. exams. Harry begins his sixth year in 1996 when the book is "nearly fifty years old," so we can assume Eileen was 16 years old sometime not long after 1946. Severus was born in 1960, which would mean Eileen was in her mid-late 20s at the time.

Her marriage was dysfunctional at best, abusive at worst. As per a Pottermore post that is still up on WizardingWorld.com: "...the desperately lonely and unhappy childhood [Severus] had with a harsh father who didn’t hold back when it came to the whip." Based on this, we can assume Tobias was abusive, and given Eileen's cowering as he shouted at her, she presumably feared him.

From these bits of information emerges the image of a woman who either had a surly personality, or at the very least was guarded, though perhaps just formal. There isn't really any difference in how her face is set when she's in an everyday setting like King's Cross, or when she's having her picture taken for the Gobstones Club. It's possible she was a stern, unsmiling person, but it's also possible - given that her wedding and child were announced in the paper - that she came from a family of some standing and was raised to conduct herself with hallmarks of British class, such as dignity and unaffectedness. After all, there are several wizarding families - such as the Potters - who are wealthy purebloods with social standing but are not part of the Sacred 28. Additionally, the Gobstones Club portrait would have been taken around the mid-1940s, when portraits were formal and their subjects did not often smile, and given that we see only a snippet of Eileen, we don't have enough information that she was unhappy or sour. It's also important to remember that we see her portrait and Snape's memory of her through Harry's perspective and, like his perception of Snape himself, this may convey Harry's biases.

We also know from the text that Snape had a house in a deserted part of Cokeworth, a fictional Midlands town that presumably had a collapsed milling industry, at the end of a street called Spinner's End. There's a great thread that goes into details about the kind of 2 up 2 down house it would have been, and we can assume that this is Snape's family home given that we know he and Lily grew up in Cokeworth. For all intents and purposes, the conclusion we can draw from this being the Snape family's home in the 60s is that they were working class and cripplingly poor. Most estates like this had been cleared by the 60s, and no longer exist today.

This begs the question: how did a witch from a possibly well-off family end up in an abusive marriage in an irrelevant slum?

Buckle up kids, we're leaving the world of textual references and veering into deep meta territory now. I won't label any of this as head canon because I'm not set on these interpretations, and am just drawing conclusions from the text, but some of it may be a bit loose even for meta.

If Eileen was 16 years old not long after 1946, then she would have finished school in the late 40s, possibly even 1950. While some people (including past me) posit the theory that Tobias may have been injured in WWII and his injuries debilitated him, forcing him to go on the dole and affecting his mental health, I'm increasingly skeptical of this theory. It would make more sense if Eileen had known him before he was drafted/enlisted and had committed to a relationship with him, which would then have changed when he came back from the war and was altered. If we assume Eileen's age based on the idea that it was her own copy of Advanced Potion Making Severus used, then she would still have been at school during WWII (which makes an interesting parallel with Severus' own experience of spending the bulk of the first wizarding war against Voldemort as a student at school).

I do think, however, that there's merit in the theory that Tobias suffered some kind of altering injury and that he wasn't necessarily abusive before Eileen committed herself to him. It makes little sense for a Slytherin graduate who was confident and self-posessed enough to be the face of an unpopular club to be drawn to a partner so abusive his shouts caused her to cower and who whipped his child freely. If, however, he was a charming, happy man when they met who suffered a life-altering injury, the trauma of which left him a shell of his former self, then someone like Eileen might stick around for the sake of the parts of his old self she can still see in him.

It's interesting that she didn't seem to use her magic to protect herself or her son, or even to dress her son in clothing that fit, but we know from the text that depression can cause a wizard's powers to wane:

“...it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen”

HBP Ch. 13 (Dumbledore talking about Merope Gaunt)

The fact that the Snapes retained the house in Spinner's End seems to indicate that they continued to live there even when the local industry dried up and the slum was cleared as workers were moved to other parts of the country where they were needed (presumably what happened given *gestures at British history*). The most likely explanation for this would be that Tobias wasn't able to work, and perhaps did suffer an injury, only it was at work, and not during the war. This would mean the family lived on the dole (ie. welfare) and also that he would have spent a lot more time at home. It would also explain his anger and frustration that led to abusive behavior (which isn't to say that disabled people are abusive by any means, but it would have been emasculating for a man who considered himself the breadwinner in the 60s, and chronic pain coupled with limited abilities would give anyone a short fuse).

Moreover, this living situation seems to indicate that there is no additional support coming from anywhere. Where is Eileen's family? Why were they not helping? There's no indication in the text that there is any connection with them at all. We can infer from Snape's memories that, as a child, he learned what he knew about the magical world from his mother. This implies that she talked to him about it a fair amount, and his conviction that he and Lily were going to Hogwarts well before they got their letters also implies that Eileen expected him to go there and was set on her son having a magical education, despite how little she seemed to use her own powers.

Severus knows a lot about the wizarding world as a child, including that prisoners are sent to Azkaban and that it's guarded by Dementors, Hogwarts' house structure and what to expect when he and Lily get there, and about the Statute of Secrecy and the laws around it. When Lily asks him if it makes a difference being Muggleborn, Severus hesitates before replying no, presumably because he's aware of pureblood bias being a part of wizarding culture.

Perhaps that's the reason Eileen's family doesn't seem to be in the picture. My own theory is that Eileen hadn't planned to commit herself to Tobias long-term, and Severus was an accidental outcome of an innocent tryst in which a young Eileen, an educated witch from a well to do pureblood family, was having fun slumming it with a working class muggle and ended up pregnant. While we don't know the wizarding world's attitude around pregnancy and abortion, we do know it's a conservative and classist society that parallels muggle British culture fairly closely, and that the late 50s/early 60s were a time when an out of wedlock baby would have been considered a disgrace.

Add to that the anti-muggle bias of a pureblood family and it sounds like Eileen was disowned her for her mistake (and don't @ me, but even though I know that not all Slytherins are purebloods, it does seem to be a persistent cultural value of the house reaching back to Salazar Slytherin himself, so Eileen's being sorted into it can reasonably be taken as an indication of her blood status). Perhaps the marriage and birth announcements in the Daily Prophet were put in by Eileen herself, if she was a woman from a family where this was customary. It may have been her way of letting her family know of the events, or even of asserting herself and even deliberately defying them, announcing to the whole wizarding world that a Prince married and had a child with a muggle. It makes sense that the girl who wasn't just in the Gobstones club, but became captain, would also say to herself, why shouldn't I have my marriage announced in the paper like everyone else in the family?

It's worth noting that mid-late 20s is pretty young to have a baby in the wizarding world, where the life expectancy and child bearing years are much longer than they are for a muggle. According to the Harry Potter wiki:

"Wizard life expectancy in Britain reached an average 137¾ years in the mid-1990s, according to the Ministry of Divine Health ... Wizards in general have a much longer life expectancy than Muggles, usually living two or three times as long as their non magical counterparts, some living even longer than that depending on circumstances. In addition, seeing as James Potter's parents had him "late in life,” witches likely have significantly longer childbearing years than Muggle women."

Although we see several characters in Severus' generation getting married and having kids not long after leaving school, there's a mention in the text that a lot of people were doing this during Voldemort's reign, as the fear he inspired made people more eager to get a move on with life since they thought they might die any day (I think Mrs. Weasley says this but I can't find the quote, @ me if you do). It's clear this wasn't the norm in the wizarding world. Eileen was a Slytherin, a house that values cunning, ambition, and strong wizarding heritage. Something must have gone very wrong in Eileen's life for her to end up having a child so young and living in a muggle slum.

And so it's possible Eileen Prince found herself pregnant and alone, having been disowned by her family to save face in light of her disgrace, and dependent on the only person she was still close to, the father of her child. It's the kind of storyline that Rowling would write, and it would parallel fairly closely the story of Voldemort's mother, thus adding another to the long list of similarities between Voldemort and Snape.

Lorrie Kim makes an interesting point when she talks about how Snape has a strong reaction to other people having a love life or romantic experiences (the context being Rowling's intention of his love for Lily being romantic and unrequited), but doesn't react particularly strongly to mothers sacrificing themselves for their children, whereas Voldemort does. Her insight, and I think it's a reasonable one, is that Severus accepts the idea of mothers making sacrifices for their children, whether it's Lily giving her life for Harry or Narcissa risking all she did to ask for his help in protecting Draco, because his own mother protected him from his father as much as she could.

There's a lot of room for interpretation on what Eileen's relationship with her son looked like, and what it says about her own state. She may have prioritized not angering Tobias to protect Severus, who as a child might have perceived her actions as a form of rejection. At the same time, she seems to have prepared him thoroughly for life in the magical world, perhaps in the hope that he would find his place in it and escape home. Perhaps she missed it and told him so much about it so she could live through her own memories.

The only time we see her argue with Tobias, in Severus' memory, she's cowering as he shouts. We know from JK Rowling that Tobias used corporal punishment liberally, which implies Eileen didn't stop him despite her magical abilities. We also see in the text, however, that while at school Severus stood up for himself against bullies and fought back, and that he was an exceptionally clever and powerful wizard. As an adult he was brave enough to face Dumbledore when he betrayed Voldemort, and later fought against Voldemort right under his nose (or lack thereof). So it stands to reason that at some point Severus began to stand up against Tobias too.

How much of that was Eileen's influence, or the result of Severus seeing her acceptance of her fate and rejecting it for himself, is hard to say. As for what happened to Tobias and Eileen that their house was Severus' by the mid-90s and they were nowhere in sight, I don't think there's enough information in the text to infer.

#meta #long post #eileen prince

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