#thread synchronisation

[hamilton-here]

Hi babes, since you did one based on the pap video, I was wondering if you go full angst based on the video at the club? Like imagine supporting him (maybe reader is a famous singer/actress) and you wake up to see a video of him dancing with a girl? No pressure if it’s too much ‘cause either way, I love your writing 💖

𝒲𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒲𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒮𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Here's a one-shot of the recent video of Lewis at the club. I have another one requested coming soon. Lots of love

Summary: She stayed home after a premiere, defending him to the world only to wake up to a video of him dancing with someone else in a club.

Warnings: angst, slight swearing

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You wake up before your alarm.

That’s the first sign something’s wrong.

Not just wrong - off. Wrong can be fixed. Off sinks into your bones, wraps around your ribcage, whispers that something's coming. You lie there for a second, barely breathing, like your body is bracing for an impact you haven't seen yet.

The hotel room is still, dark. Curtains drawn from the night before. But your pulse is already racing. Your chest is tight, like your heart knows what your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

You roll over, reach for your phone, blinking sleep from your eyes.

The screen lights up.

Twitter: 154 new mentions.

Instagram DMs: 70+.

Texts: Poppy (5), Publicist (2), Lewis (0).

No text from him.

No message from him. Not even a “hope you landed safe,” or a half-asleep voice note like he used to send when he missed you too much to type. Not even an emoji. It feels like a small detail, stupid even, but it lands heavy in your chest like a brick.

You were still wearing the hoodie he gave you before you left for your movie premiere. You’d tucked your legs under you in first class, rereading the last message he sent "Proud of you, angel. Wish I could be there to see you shine."

You’d smiled. Soft and full, like your heart had room to breathe.

And now?

Now you feel like your lungs are filled with cement.

You open Poppy’s messages first. She never texts this early. Not unless it’s urgent.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s going on, but this is everywhere.”

TikTok link attached.

You hesitate.

Your body already knows. Something deep inside you has already started unraveling, like a sweater pulled by a single loose thread.

You click the link.

The sound hits first of music, low and pulsing, something bass-heavy and familiar. The video’s dark, lit by neon and strobes. The haze of a private club. The kind you only get into if your name means something. The kind that promises discretion but rarely delivers it.

And then - him.

Lewis.

Laughing. Moving. Eyes low, smile easy. That same silver chain you’d watched slide across his collarbone is still there. His shirt is half-open. His body relaxed. Too relaxed.

Then her.

Blonde. Sharp jaw. That model-off-duty look. She leans into him hand pressed against his chest like she’s done it before. No hesitation. No apology.

And he lets her.

No step back.

No startled laugh.

No hand raised in polite dismissal.

He just lets her.

His arm skims her waist.

She leans in closer.

They fall into rhythm - synchronised.

She turns around, pressing her back against his chest, the curve of her body fitting against him like it belongs there.

And he…

He rests his chin on her shoulder.

The way he does with you.

The way he did in the kitchen last week when you were washing dishes and he came up behind you, arms around your waist, murmuring something soft into your hair.

You watch the video twice. Then again. Like it might change if you blink. Like you’re misinterpreting something. Like maybe this pain is premature.

But it doesn’t change.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t even look guilty.

And that’s what guts you.

The lack of guilt.

Like you don’t exist. Like you weren’t just wrapped in his arms three nights ago whispering promises into his skin. Like he hadn’t held your face in his hands and told you no one made him feel as safe as you did.

Your fingers go numb as you lower the phone.

Your thoughts scatter, spiralling out in different directions:

The premiere. How proud he said he was.

The phone call before the red carpet.

The night in your hotel room when you fell asleep tangled up in each other, whispering half-dreams and future plans.

And now?

Now the entire world knows something you don’t.

The betrayal isn’t even clear-cut. It’s not infidelity you can point to and scream over. It’s something subtler, messier. The kind of thing that destroys trust slowly, insidiously.

The almost.

The maybes.

The not-technically-but-still.

You call him.

You don’t think. Just press his name.

Ring.

Ring.

Voicemail.

You try again.

Nothing.

The third time, you almost say his name out loud when the beep comes but your voice wobbles, and you hang up instead.

He doesn’t get to hear you broken.

Not today.

Your publicist texts next.

“We’re on it. Don’t post. Don’t say anything yet.”

“No official comment…yet.”

Yet.

Because the world is already watching. Your silence isn’t privacy anymore, it’s PR. Your heartbreak is just another headline.

Your name’s trending. You check Twitter because you’re a masochist.

#Y/NDeservesBetter

#LewisHamilton

#ClubVideo

They’re dissecting you. Analysing your worth. Screen capping the video and comparing her face to yours. Some are defending him. Others say, “It’s not cheating if he didn’t kiss her.” Some are laughing.

You want to scream.

Not because he cheated.

But because he didn’t care enough not to put himself in that situation. Because he knew how this works. Knew that you’d see. Knew that his image is curated down to every last detail. And still, he danced with her.

Still, he smiled like nothing mattered.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Not that he touched someone else.

But that he forgot what touching you meant.

You stare at the wall for what feels like hours. The sun begins to slip through the curtains. You haven’t moved. You can still smell his cologne on your skin.

A soft knock at the door.

Room service.

The breakfast you ordered last night. When you thought today would begin with tea, maybe a call from Lewis, a stupid meme from Poppy. When your biggest concern was whether you had another press junket scheduled.

You don’t answer.

The knock fades.

Your body aches from how tightly you’re holding yourself together. Arms wrapped around your knees, trying to keep the pieces from falling too far apart.

And then your phone vibrated again.

Lewis: Can we talk?

Your heart drops.

Two hours too late. Three calls ignored. The internet already made their conclusions. But now, now he wants to talk?

You stare at the message.

Your fingers hover above the screen.

You think about replying. You think about all the things you could say.

But the truth is—

You don’t even know where to begin.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him.

He told you you were safe with him. And now?

Now you’re left wondering if you ever were.

And as you sit in that silence, wrapped in heartbreak and humiliation, one thought anchors itself in your chest:

It wasn’t just the dance.

It’s that for twenty seconds…he looked like he’d forgotten you existed.

You don’t answer his text.

You don’t need to.

Because less than an hour later, there’s a knock on your hotel door.

It’s not room service.

It’s not Poppy.

You don’t even need to check the peephole to know who it is.

You can feel it deep in your chest, in the part of you that still stupidly hopes it isn’t real. That this isn’t your reality now.

You sit motionless on the edge of the bed, curled into yourself, wearing the hoodie he left in your suitcase three weeks ago.

It still smells like him.

Bergamot and wind and something warm underneath.

You hate that your hands won’t let go of the sleeves.

You hate that your heartbeat still reacts to the sound of his voice when it finally filters through the door.

“Y/N...it’s me.”

Low. Cracked. Almost reverent.

You close your eyes.

Tighter. Tighter.

Like maybe if you shut them hard enough, you’ll stop seeing that goddamn video.

That flash of club lighting.

That girl’s hands on his chest like it belonged to her.

His smile.

His hands.

You didn’t imagine it.

And you wish you had.

It takes everything to stand.

Each step toward the door feels like wading through grief.

And when you open it—

There he is.

Lewis.

Not the version the world sees.

Not the polished, post-race, podium-standing one.

Just him.

Wrinkled hoodie. Untrimmed beard. Bloodshot eyes.

Familiar in the way a wound remembers the knife.

For a moment, you just stare.

And then, wordlessly, you step aside.

He walks in like he’s still got a claim.

Like love is a lease and you haven’t revoked it yet.

Mistake.

You shut the door softly behind him, like loud noises might shatter the last thread holding your composure together.

The silence between you is suffocating.

He stands there, unmoving, like he’s trying to remember how to breathe. Like he can’t figure out where to start because every word might set off a mine.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says.

You blink, slow.

“That’s it?”

His jaw tightens. “No. I - fuck, I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Your laugh is short, humourless. It slices through the room like a blade.

“Did she fall on you by accident? Was it gravity that put her hands on your chest and yours on her hips?”

He flinches.

Good.

“It wasn’t like that,” he says.

You stare at him, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ache.

“Then what was it, Lewis?”

His eyes flick to yours.

You keep going.

“Because I flew halfway across the world for you. I crossed time zones, skipped lectures, and ignored my gut instincts because you said I could trust you. You said I didn’t have to worry. And then you let some girl touch you like I don’t exist.”

“I didn’t forget you,” he says quickly. Desperate. “You were the only thing I could think about all week. I was drunk and and I made a stupid, impulsive choice. I wasn’t thinking clearly—”

“Stop,” you say. Sharp. Final.

You take a step back like he burned you.

“Stop trying to cushion it with excuses. You keep saying it meant nothing, but it meant enough to risk everything.”

He runs a hand over his face like he can scrub the guilt out of it.

“It wasn’t serious. It was just a moment—”

“And what were we, Lewis?”

Your voice breaks now, raw and trembling.

“Were we just a moment too?”

He doesn’t answer.

Can’t.

You feel your throat closing, pressure building behind your eyes, but you don’t let it show.

Not yet.

“I gave you everything,” you whisper.

“My trust. My time. My heart. All of it. And you threw it away for what? A dance? Her attention?”

His voice rises now, like he’s on the verge of unraveling too.

“I didn’t mean to throw it away. I didn’t think. I got caught up and—”

“You always think, Lewis!”

The volume cracks the air; more furious than even you expected.

“You think when you pick your tires. You think when you overtake at 300km/h. You think when you smile for the cameras even when your world is falling apart. But you didn’t think when it came to me?”

He steps forward again, helpless. “Please—”

You shake your head so hard your vision blurs.

“No. You don’t get to plead now. You don’t get to want me back just because you realised the girl in your arms didn’t feel like home.”

His voice breaks. “You are home.”

That does it.

Tears burn their way down your face now, full and relentless.

“Then why did you burn it down?”

He says your name like a prayer. Like it might undo everything.

“I’ll do anything. Please, just tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this.”

You look at him then, really look.

Not just the man in front of you.

But the man who held you at 2 a.m. when your nightmares wouldn’t let you sleep.

The one who whispered forever against your skin.

The one who made you believe in something unbreakable.

And now?

You don’t even know who you’re looking at.

“I don’t think you can fix it,” you say softly.

His face falls like he’s been shot in the chest.

“I love you,” he says, eyes wet. “I love you so much it terrifies me. And I know I fucked up, but I can’t lose you.”

You smile. But it’s broken.

“You already did.”

You walk to the door and open it.

He stays there for a long beat.

Frozen.

And then—

He takes one step.

Another.

No words.

Just the sound of the hallway swallowing him.

And he doesn’t look back.

You close the door.

Lock it.

And then let your knees buckle.

You don’t just cry.

You shatter.

And this time, there’s no one there to catch the pieces. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

24 Hours Later

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

You lie in the hotel bed for hours, spine locked straight against the stiff mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the same ceiling you’ve stared at for what feels like an entire lifetime. The hum of the air conditioner grows louder the longer you stay still. Silence rings like feedback in your ears. Your chest aches in that hollow way grief always does like something's been scooped out of you with a dull spoon and left bleeding open.

But at the same time, he was never really gone.

Because you can still smell him on your skin. You can still feel the weight of his arms around you, the warm pressure of his lips against your temple. You can still hear the lie, that I would never do anything to hurt you, echoing like it’s carved into your skull.

Poppy texts.

Poppy calls.

Poppy even knocks once soft, uncertain, like she’s not sure she’s still welcome.

But you can’t face her. Not yet.

You can’t face anyone.

Because if you open your mouth, you know it’ll all come spilling out the scream, the sob, the awful truth that you still love him and it’s destroying you.

The room spins in lazy, nauseating circles until finally, necessity drags you up.

Your phone charger’s dead. Your throat is raw from crying. Your head pounds behind your eyes like it’s trying to crack your skull open. You need water. Air. Distance from the sheets that still remember the shape of both your bodies.

You move mechanically.

Zombie-like.

You don’t bother changing. You just tug on the hoodie not because you want to but because it’s the first thing on the chair. Because it’s easier to pretend you don’t care than to stand there and sift through clean clothes when you’re barely holding it together.

The sunglasses are more armour than accessory. A flimsy, plastic shield between your bruised soul and the world outside.

You step into the elevator.

And the moment the doors open, you wish you hadn’t.

Click. Click. Click.

Light explodes in your face like a bomb.

You blink once. Twice. Disoriented.

Voices. Dozens. Loud. Demanding. Sharp.

“Y/N, is it true Lewis cheated?”

“Are you two officially over?”

“Who was the girl in Monaco?”

“Did you find out from the video like everyone else?”

“Are you heartbroken? Did he lie to you?”

You freeze.

Completely still.

Like an animal trapped in barbed wire.

Like prey.

The kind that gets devoured slowly, piece by piece, while the world watches.

They know.

Of course they do. It only takes one leak.

One blurry video from a nightclub.

One over-eager fan blog connecting the dots.

One shot of you entering the hotel in tears while still wearing his hoodie.

Suddenly you're not a person anymore.

You're a spectacle.

You're content.

LEWIS HAMILTON’S ACTRESS GIRLFRIEND BREAKS DOWN IN HOTEL

F1’S GOLDEN COUPLE CRASHES AND BURNS?

WHY DID ACTRESS Y/N DESERVE THIS?

HAMILTON’S GIRLFRIEND SEEN IN TEARS, STILL WEARING HIS HOODIE

They’re flashing their cameras like it's a red carpet.

But there’s no premiere. No script. Just your pain, raw and leaking all over the polished floor of the lobby.

You push past them.

Heart slamming.

Vision blurring.

Throat burning.

You don’t remember saying anything. You’re not sure if you even could.

The front desk manager his face tight with sympathy tries to intervene.

“Miss, do you want me to call security?”

You shake your head.

Mute.

Panicked.

You run.

Into the corner convenience store like it’s a hiding place. Like it can somehow make this all go away.

The store clerk watches you nervously as you make a beeline for the fridge, grab the first water bottle your fingers close around. You stumble through an aisle, plucking a portable charger from a dusty shelf like you’re on autopilot.

Someone tries to snap a photo near the magazine rack. You flinch so hard your shoulder hits a display.

Your hands shake as you pay. You swipe your card twice before the machine beeps. You can barely hold the bottle steady enough to twist it open once you’re back outside.

You feel like you’re underwater.

Or maybe inside a glass box.

You can see the world moving, but none of it feels real.

The doorman rushes to let you back into the hotel, but you don’t thank him. You can’t. Your mouth won’t work.

By the time you get back to the suite, your limbs feel like concrete.

You collapse just inside the door.

Back against the wall.

Breath ragged.

Tears burning behind your eyes again, fresh and unwanted.

This isn’t just heartbreak.

This is exposure.

Your love, your grief, your trauma it’s not yours anymore.

It belongs to the public.

To gossip accounts and anonymous Twitter profiles and think pieces written by strangers who don’t know you at all.

Meanwhile, across the city…

Lewis steps out the side exit of the press building, jaw tight, posture heavy.

He was never supposed to be there for long. Just a quick stop at a Ferrari charity event low-key, off-the-radar. He didn’t want to go. His PR team insisted.

But the second he hits the pavement, he knows it was a mistake.

They're waiting.

Click. Click. Click.

A wave of flashing lights. Reporters. Fans. Curious onlookers with their phones already recording.

“LEWIS, WHAT HAPPENED WITH Y/N?”

“DID YOU CHEAT ON HER?”

“IS IT TRUE YOU WERE SEEN WITH ANOTHER GIRL?”

“DO YOU REGRET IT?”

“IS THIS THE END OF YOUR RELATIONSHIP?”

“WILL YOU MAKE A STATEMENT?”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t even blink.

He walks straight through them like they’re ghosts.

Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. Mechanical. Like he’s operating on fumes and muscle memory.

He doesn’t wear sunglasses. He wants them to see him.

He wants them to see the bags under his eyes, the guilt carved into the lines around his mouth, the way regret sits heavy on his shoulders like a weighted vest.

But they don’t care.

They want blood.

Or a soundbite.

Or a quote they can twist into something click-worthy.

By the time he slips into the waiting car, his name is already trending.

LEWIS HAMILTON BREAKS SILENCE WITH A STARE - BUT NO APOLOGY

F1 STAR’S RELATIONSHIP IMPLODES AFTER ALLEGED INFIDELITY

Y/N SPOTTED IN TEARS; HAMILTON LOOKS DEFEATED

FANS DEMAND ANSWERS AS GOLDEN COUPLE FALLS APART

He closes the car door and leans his head back. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow.

He’s lost her.

And now the whole world knows. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Back in the hotel suite

Your phone won’t stop buzzing.

Text messages. Missed calls. Social media notifications lighting up like a battlefield.

You’re trending.

Not for your career.

Not for your talent.

Not for the woman you are.

But because of him.

Because of the way he broke you.

Because someone caught it on camera. Because people would rather watch a tragedy than ask if you're okay.

Friends from high school text. People you haven’t spoken to in years slide into your DMs.

Some supportive.

Some nosy.

Some pretending they always “had a bad feeling about him.”

You shut the phone off.

Airplane mode.

Silent. Dead. Blessedly numb.

You close the curtains.

And you slide down to the floor beside the bed, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight like a tourniquet against the pain.

This isn’t just heartbreak.

This is grief.

And worst of all?

Despite everything—

Despite the lies, the betrayal, the headlines…

You still find yourself staring at the drawer where his clothes are.

And wondering if he’s hurting like you are.

If there’s anything left to save.

If he’d even, try.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The press conference room was colder than Lewis had expected.

Not just physically, with the air conditioning humming relentlessly and chilling the polished metal and glass surfaces, but emotionally an icy, suffocating chill that settled deep in his chest.

It was a sterile, white-walled box. Clinical. Unforgiving.

An arena designed for scrutiny, not comfort.

The space was flooded with an army of cameras, their lenses flashing like relentless lightning bolts, and microphones that sounded like angry insects swarming in his ears.

Rows upon rows of faces, non-familiar, all waiting hungry for a confession, a scandal, the fall of a hero.

Lewis sat rigid at the long table. The Ferrari logo loomed behind him, a blazing red banner that felt less like a symbol of prestige and more like a merciless spotlight, burning down on him with cruel intensity.

The scarlet backdrop was sharper than the pounding blood in his temples, a constant reminder of how far he’d fallen.

His hands trembled barely noticeable but enough to betray the turmoil roiling beneath his carefully composed exterior.

They hovered over the microphone, uncertain, as if afraid that even touching it might make everything collapse.

The past few days had sucked the energy out of him, leaving behind an empty husk.

Sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling, his mind caught in endless loops of what-ifs and regrets.

The unbearable silence that stretched like a vast, unbridgeable chasm between him and you gnawed at his heart relentlessly.

Every beat was a hammer, pounding out the truth he could no longer deny he had lost you.

His throat felt raw, dry, constricted. He cleared it, willing his voice to be steady, to be strong.

But the first words shattered his own resolve.

“Good afternoon, everyone.”

His eyes flicked across the sea of reporters, searching desperately for some sign of understanding, but finding none.

“I’m here to address recent events that have affected my personal life. I know many of you have questions, and I owe it to my fans and to Y/N to speak honestly.”

His voice caught again, betraying the fragility beneath his usual calm exterior.

The silence in the room seemed to stretch and press in at once, the weight of expectation unbearable.

“I made a terrible mistake.”

The words landed like knives as he said them aloud, each syllable sharper than the last.

“I was unfaithful.”

He saw the cameras flash more intensely, the reporters lean in, sensing a breaking point.

“I deeply regret the pain I’ve caused Y/N. There’s no excuse for what I did. I want to be clear that I take full responsibility.”

He swallowed hard, fighting down the lump rising in his throat, forcing it back into silence.

“I’m committed to making things right if she’s willing to give me that chance.”

His voice cracked under the weight of his own confession.

“I love her. I’m devastated by how my actions have hurt her, and everyone who believed in us.”

The room erupted into a frenzy of flashing lights and shouted questions, the noise crashing over him like a tidal wave.

But Lewis barely registered it.

His eyes scanned the crowd, desperate, pleading searching for a glimpse of you.

For the familiar curve of your smile. The way your eyes catch the light.

For anything to hold onto.

But you weren’t there.

The empty space where you should have been felt like a punch to his gut.

Later that night, the luxury hotel room felt more like a cage than a sanctuary.

Lewis sat hunched over in the dim light, the city’s glow bleeding through the curtains but doing nothing to brighten the darkness inside him.

His phone sat heavy in his hands, screen lighting up with unread messages none from you.

“Y/N, please. I’m so sorry. I was a fool. I’ll do anything to fix this.”

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling with a desperation that was almost painful to witness.

“I know I don’t deserve it, but please just let me talk to you. I’m lost without you.”

He typed and deleted that message more times than he could count, each time his heart breaking a little more with every second that ticked by without a reply.

The silence was suffocating, pressing against his chest like a physical weight.

He called you once. Twice. Every time the phone rang, it went straight to voicemail.

He sent flowers to the suite you’d stayed in together simple bouquet of white lilies, your favourite, carefully wrapped with a note begging for a chance to explain, to make things right.

No reply.

No acknowledgment.

Just the cold, heavy absence of you.

Each unanswered message, each silent call, felt like another brick in the wall growing between them thick, unyielding, impenetrable. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You sat on the edge of your bed, phone heavy in your hand, the screen lighting up again and again with his name.

But your heart was numb, raw from the shock, and beneath it, a fury burned hotter than any pain you’d ever known.

How dare he ask for forgiveness after turning your love into a public spectacle?

After every tear you shed had been picked apart in headlines, every private moment dissected and splattered across social media?

How could you ever trust him again, after everything was ripped away so violently your private life shredded for the world to see?

You swiped through his messages without reading, deleting them all without hesitation.

Blocked his number.

You didn’t want to hear his apologies. Didn’t want to see his regret.

You needed to protect yourself.

Even if it meant breaking both your hearts.

Alone in the hotel room, Lewis finally let his defences fall.

The weight of losing you crushed him harder than any race defeat ever could.

He curled into himself on the bed, the softness of the sheets a weak comfort against the storm raging inside him.

His fingers traced the faint imprint on the pillow where you’d once rested your head, the ghost of your presence both a balm and a torment.

He whispered into the dark, voice barely audible.

“I’m sorry.”

But the words felt meaningless, slipping through his fingers like smoke.

Because some wounds cut too deep.

Some hearts need to shatter completely…

Before they can even begin to heal.

Lewis lay awake until dawn, the minutes stretching into hours, the room growing colder with every passing second.

The emptiness between him and you mirrored by the silence pressing against his chest.

He replayed every moment every careless decision, every stolen moment of weakness as if trapped in a broken record of regret.

How had he been so blind? So stupid?

He wanted to reach out again, to beg, to promise he’d change, but the silence from your side was deafening.

He felt utterly, hopelessly alone.

Meanwhile, you sat wrapped in the same hoodie he had once given you now folded neatly in a drawer, out of sight but never out of mind.

Your eyes were heavy, but sleep eluded you.

Your chest ached, the hurt twisting into something raw and ragged, like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

The media circus had stripped away every scrap of privacy, every ounce of dignity.

Even his apologies now tasted like poison.

You weren’t ready to forgive.

Maybe you never would be.

But deep down beneath the anger, beneath the heartbreak. there was still a small, fragile thread of hope.

A whisper that maybe, someday, things could be different.

If only he could prove he was worth it. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Days passed like a slow, unyielding ache.

Each sunrise brought with it a fresh wave of numbness that settled over you like a fog you couldn’t shake. The world went on around you busy, noisy, oblivious but inside, time crawled through thick molasses.

Lewis’s messages came relentlessly. Each one a desperate lifeline thrown into an ocean of silence, sinking without a trace.

“Please. I know I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I’m begging you to let me explain, to let me make this right.”

“I can’t breathe without you. Please just say something.”

But you never replied. The messages were swallowed whole by the vast emptiness between you, ignored as if they never existed.

He tried everything.

He reached out through people your trusted friends who now looked at him with pity and guarded sympathy. Letters appeared on your doorstep, hand-delivered or slipped under your door in the dead of night, each one painstakingly written, raw with regret.

Once, he even showed up outside the little café where you used to meet eyes red and desperate, voice barely a whisper as he called your name, but you turned and walked away without a glance.

Each attempt met with the same cold indifference, the same unyielding avoidance.

You had built a wall, one so high and so thick it cast a shadow over everything you once shared.

No apology, no matter how genuine or heartfelt, could scale it.

Because some betrayals don’t fade with time.

They don’t dissolve with tears or promise.

They scar deep, raw, permanent.

You weren’t naïve.

You knew the fallibility of people, of love. You’d believed in second chances before, even for Lewis. You had held on to the hope that forgiveness might come, that wounds could heal.

But this wasn’t a simple lapse.

It was a shattering fracture loud, brutal, tearing through everything you had built together like a violent storm.

It wasn’t just the betrayal itself. It was how public it became how your love, your private sanctuary, was ripped open and exposed to the hungry, ravenous world.

Every headline was a fresh wound. Every gossip column dissecting your pain felt like a thousand needles piercing your skin, turning your heart raw and exposed.

The whispers behind your back at events, the judgmental glances, the invasive questions they wrapped around you like chains, suffocating and unrelenting.

And all the while, he had made it public his confession, his regret, splattered across screens and newspapers before you’d even had a chance to process the devastation.

You wanted to scream at the sky. To rage against the injustice of having your most vulnerable moments displayed like trophies for strangers to judge.

But instead, you held your silence like armour, impenetrable and cold.

You blocked him. Deleted his messages without reading. Erased his number like erasing a painful memory.

You pushed him out of your life completely.

No more chances.

No more apologies.

At the same time, Lewis was left hollow and shattered.

The frantic calls stopped. The unanswered texts ceased to ping his screen.

There was only the deafening silence that echoed in his chest like a cavernous void.

He sat alone in countless empty hotel rooms, the sterile walls closing in on him as the weight of his mistakes pressed down harder than any race defeat ever had.

How had he been so blind? So stupid?

How had he thrown away the one thing that mattered most?

He longed to reach out again to beg, to promise, to plead for forgiveness. But the silence from your side was like an impenetrable fortress.

He was utterly, devastatingly alone.

Weeks later, when you finally allowed yourself to glance back at the messages, he sent old, ignored, gathering dust in your phone you didn’t feel a pang of longing.

No stirrings of forgiveness.

Only a cold, hard clarity a finality that settled over your heart like winter frost.

He had lost you.

And you had lost him.

Not because you didn’t love him anymore, but because you loved yourself enough to walk away.

Because sometimes, love isn’t about holding on.

Sometimes, love means knowing when to let go even when it shatters you into pieces.

Lewis never heard from you again.

No messages, no calls, no glimmer of hope that you might look back.

And maybe that was the cruelest punishment of all.

To live with the echo of what once was haunting every quiet moment knowing it was gone forever.

In the months that followed, your world felt hollow and fractured.

There were days you caught yourself reaching for your phone, expecting a message that would never come.

Nights when tears spilled silently onto your pillow, mourning the future that was stolen from you.

But beneath the sorrow, beneath the burning anger and betrayal, there was also a fierce, stubborn strength.

You had survived the wreckage.

You had chosen yourself.

And though the ache lingered like a dull, persistent shadow, you refused to let it consume you.

Somewhere far away, Lewis carried his own shattered pieces fragments of hope and regret mingling in a bitter cocktail of loneliness.

No victory, no podium, no race could fill the void you left behind.

He learned the hardest truth of all: that some mistakes don’t just haunt you they define you.

And some hearts break so completely, they never quite mend.

[barcapix]

✮ Handcuffed.. Gone Wrong? - Marc Bernal

marc bernal x fem!reader

sy: trying the 24hr handcuffed challenge with marc. original request here.

a/n: in honour of this cuties birthday (albeit late) and this is the english version!

warnings: none?

ESPAÑOL VERSION

did you think it was going to be this chaotic? no.

was it still, worth the time of a singular day to rile up your boyfriend in matters where he likes his own personal space? absolutely.

“do i still have time to leave?”

marc lifts up his left wrist, handcuffs loosely tangled but not fully secure. you laugh, clicking them in place. “nope.”

you erupt another small giggle as you pan the camera to his pouty expression. “well, say hi to the camera baby.”

marc squints into the camera, only to sheepishly grin, hiding his hands behind his face, until whispering. “i need a shower really bad now.”

“we can’t shower yet! it’s been like two minutes! i’ve had a whole activity day to plan out for us—”

you thought you would of withstood the control a little longer. apparently not. without an uttered word, he tugs you with him—may you add—disbelievingly strong, all the way to the bathroom.

“marc no!” he closes the door shut, marching towards the showerhead to switch it on. “you can’t be serious. my hair is freshly washed!”

his grin turns wicked. “its a good thing mine isnt.”

that cocky bravado evaporates the second he struggles to peel off his shirt. apparently, having only one usable arm is a bigger obstacle than he anticipated.

marc twists, turns and spins around on the spot, his arms stretching behind his back so far that you hear a pop. “marc, be careful!”

“do you need help?” you say through hesitant laughter. “you really look, like you’re um—” the campers flips from you to him. “..struggling.”

“am not.”

“are you sure?”

instead, you stare at the lens of the camera, watching your boyfriend writhe at the collar of his tee. marc attempts to lift it over his head, finally, but it gets caught on his nose.

your laughter escapes, defying any effort to remain composed. your free hand clasps at your mouth, then seizes your stomach after doubling over in a silent wheeze as he spins like a sad carousel horse.

“okay.. amor. can you help me please?” the brunette admits, sighing softly.

“yes,” you chuckle, stepping closer. “yes, i can help you baby. all you had to do was ask.”

the camera gets placed atop the sink, as it films you ascent high on your tiptoes to wriggle his head free; his face is overly blotchy and scratched by the fabric.

“i finally feel like i can breathe again,” he exaggerates a sigh of relief. “that’s torture.”

you leave an innocent peck to his cheek. “torture is forcing me into the shower at 8am.”

within a measly time in trying to get into the actual shower, you both promptly realise that your once ‘fun’, idea comes with several layers of logistical hell.

you’d planned ahead, more or less, by slipping on bathing suits underneath your casual clothes before entering (because, duh, youtube guidelines or literally—common sense).

but that still didn’t account for the fact you had to synchronise every single move.

it took you aprox. two seconds to complain. “why do you take up so much room?”

“maybe because i actually need to wash,” he tries to shoot back, instead you pinch your nose. “yeah—you do.”

marc attempts to shampoo his hair, his arm lurching upwards in a messy lather. problem is, your own limb yanks along with his like some forgotten marionette. “ow—ow, marc! i can’t bend that way!”

“you’re fine,” he says, wincing a little too.

barely a minute later, when you begin to balance on one leg to shave, his body sways and leans too far out of the water stream. the momentum pulls your body forward, flinging the razor into your shin.

“cariño—jesus!”

a thin like of blood bubbles from your skin. “did you just cut yourself?”

“no, the spirit of common sense did. yes of course i did.. you did!”

he threads through his hair, the soap falling down his bronzed back. “i did not.”

“did too,” you puff. “can you just pass me that?” you point at the loofah above his head. marc goes to follow your direction, until he underestimates the obscenely amount of shampoo that’s leaked, and slips against the sleek tiles.

if he falls, you fall.

you crash down in a tangle of limbs—your elbow hits the bath lining, and your left knee lands squarely in his crotch.

marc lets out a wheeze so high-pitched it might register to bats. your eyes widen. “dios mío!” he droops back theatrically, both hands guarding the area as if he thought you’d do it again.

“you’ve killed me,” he croaks. “this is how i go. i’m gonna die young.”

what a humiliation ritual.

escaping is just as difficult.

as you attempt to exit the slippery hellscape of a shower, your foot slides across a rogue puddle.

a loud thunk echos and your mouth drops.

“oh my god! are you okay!?” you exclaim, reaching for his face. he’s hunching over the sink, gripping his forehead.

“i think.. my brain’s fallen out,” he groans.

your teeth nip at your bottom lip, smothering a laugh. snatching the camera from the shelf, it zooms into the angry, red mark blooming across his skin.

“ouch,” you whisper, almost reverently.

you lower the camera slightly, though it’s still rolling. “i’m sorry,” you’re genuine this time. “does it hurt bad?”

he emits a second whine. “only when i think.”

your hands crawl up into his wet locks, brushing them aside; your lips mould gently over the cut. “then lucky for you, that’s not often.”

after some squabbling, plastering and disinfecting his wounds, the effort of drying off becomes a one-sided competition.

and surprise surprise, marc is done within like thirty seconds.

how does he only use one towel? one.

“are you not gonna put a shirt on?”

“and get it stuck on my head again? no way.”

MOMENTS LATER… marc takes custody of the camera this time. triumphantly, the boy waltz’s into the bedroom, dragging you along in which the camera catches a few, “stop!” and “that hurts!”

“ah, well that was refreshing,” marc flashes a toothy grin at the screen, looking sure as hell pleased. “babe, do you agree?”

he tilts the camera to his right, and down, showcasing an unenthusiastic-you. your hair was still 90% wet, sticking to the back of your neck and dripping onto your dry clothes.

just because, somehow, men can dry off 100x quicker, like its some inevitable superpower, marc thought it was amusing to speed-run getting ‘ready’.

like.. define ready.

“don’t worry guys, she agrees, really.”

oh, if looks could kill. “can i have the camera back now?” your scowl is conspicuous, and for the first time ever, he actually looks slightly intimidated.

“if you can reach for it, yeah,” he shrugs.

simultaneously, you lunge forward. unluckily for you, marc is an utterly, annoyingly, freakishly tall guy so by lunging, your arms flail up uselessly.

that is, before, rerouting your strategy.

your hand coils around the back of his neck, yanking him down into the mattress with a victorious thump. he barely has time to react before your legs scramble over his, pinning him into a makeshift headlock.

marc lets out a pained muffle. “ouch, okay okay! you can have it back! just let me go.”

“hmmm,” you pretend to consider. “you’re missing a very important word there marc.”

“what? free me now?”

you scoff, wrangling around his neck with a little more pressure. “nuh-uh. use that big head of yours. the same big head that got you stuck in your own shirt.”

“i don’t know!—ow, y/n! i’m serious.”

eventually, his grip weakens on the camera-stick, allowing you to, with ease, reclaim it into your own non-cuffed hand; he doesn’t notice.

“im serious too,” you remark smugly.

he knows what he’s doing. he knows this game. you glare at him, arching your brows in a solemn wait.

marc grumbles, finally caving in though slightly muffled by the mattress. “fine, can you free me.. please?”

“now was that so hard?” you mock, kissing his temple before unravelling him free.

well, not totally free because he’s forced to stay within a ten inch radius from you, but free enough.

almost like admiring and flaunting your artwork, you zoom in close on his annoyed face as he rubs at the reddened spot on his neck. “you left a mark.” he then deadpans, straight towards the lens.

“send help.”

WHEN THE AFTERNOON ARRIVES… you cut straight to the kitchen.

the kitchen looks like a crime scene. flour on the floor, water on the counter, a tragic half-sliced onion sitting abandoned mid-chop. marc’s face is slowly melting with stress.

its evident to know your boyfriend isn’t a morning person, and now he’s not a 10am person either.

“was this really your ‘day full of activities’?”

you subconsciously nod, scrunching your brows as you scroll at the recipe on your phone. it’s balanced awkwardly up against the flour jar, when marc suddenly dips a fingertip into the batter.

“amor, don’t eat that. it has raw egg—”

stupidly, he’s already licking it off clean, eyes squinting. “is it.. supposed to taste like that?”

you slowly lift your head. “like what?”

“like something made of mould.”

you smack his hand away when he reaches for more. “stop touching things with your plague fingers! you said it tastes mouldy.”

“mouldy doesn’t mean it didn’t taste good,” marc shamefully waddles away from it. also, it’s important to note, that you gave him one important task: monitor the pasta.

so, what are your next words?

“marc the pasta!”

“what about it? it’s fine—“ his eyes shoot ample, half-jogging over to the hob. its foaming and bubbling over the pan, spilling its remains over the countertops.

you resist the urge to quite literally, smack him—he’s stirring it. “babe, what are you doing? turn it off!”

the footballer panics, flipping and turning all off the hob controls because he doesn’t know which one was does what.

you grab his wrist mid-spin. “you’re not flying a plane—just pick one!” he randomly slaps a knob and it works.

“phew,” he rubs the back of his hand on his forehead, shortly wincing when he realises his cut still exists. “that could of been a close one.”

as if his words bite him back, he lifts his socked foot to reveal how the water from the oven slid onto the floor, soaking through his socks.

“marc—just, don’t move,” you demand, instructing him to watch over the hob. “well, actually can you shuffle this way just a little?”

you had to reach the fridge somehow.

marc gawks at the camera propped up infront of him, one arm horizontally straightened out of sight—where you were rummaging in the fridge for eggs.

his voice drops low, unmistakably only for the camera to hear. “she’s taken three years off my life today.”

he dusts a miniature patch of flour from his bare chest, stealing a look at you. “she’s amazing though, isn’t she? a little insane, but amazing.”

“a little help here would be nice, by the way!”

what he thought would create a wholesome moment—is interrupted as your voice projects straight through it.

“you haven’t gotten them yet?” he inquires, genuinely surprised. you sulk. “no, they are impossible to reach!”

marc beams at you, on your uppermost tippey-toes, “what silly asshole puts these on the furthest shelf?”

there’s a teasing edge to his tone. “normal people can usually reach it, so i didn’t think it was a problem.”

the brunette pads over, effortlessly grabbing them for you and elbows the fridge shut. when placed down, you nudge him out of the shot—taking full dominance—letting his arm be the victim of strained movement as you twitch your wrists when opening the egg box.

“so, now we just need to crack two of these.”

you’re about to lift one up, until he sneezes directly into the fresh bowl. there’s not a singular logic thought behind those eyes.

“i can get fresh bowl—?” a sigh rattles from your bones. “no, nope. let’s just cut the camera here.”

AS IT FALLS DARK YOU… you lay, sprawling on your shared bed.

“well, you guys, it’s currently 11pm,” you adjust the view to reflect the alarm on your nightstand. then you pan the view to your boyfriend, looking already half-consumed by sleep.

“and also you can see, todays zapped all of his energy,” you can’t help but laugh. bless him.

“but, that is us done for the night. we’ll see you all in the morning!” the recording ends as you rest your head on the pillow.

marc sleeps on the left. the handcuff is on his left hand. of course, it is. meaning his arm is pulled behind his back like he’s doing some kind of weird backstroke in his sleep.

it didn’t make your case any easier, either.

“ugh—can’t you just,” you wriggle out from the duvet, trying to manoeuvre your bound wrists over the edge of your boyfriends stiff, slightly-snoring body. “roll over for five seconds?”

marc huffs, face down in the pillow. “i am rolled over!”

“you’ve rolled not even halfway! you’re hovering like a plank and my shoulder is cramping.”

its almost ticking to 1am; time lingers interminably. if you were to count, you’ve tossed and swivelled about a hundred times, sighed like a thousand and complained maybe like.. a million?

“you know what else is cramping?” he lifts his head to reveal half-lidded eyes. “my dignity. now pass me that, duvet-hogger.”

marc aimlessly reaches for the sheet you have curled between your bare legs, and for that—you decide to throw it over his head like a veil.

one.. two.. three seconds.

“cariño, its hot under here.”

you reply, “you said you wanted the duvet.”

“preferably not over my head,” he playfully retaliates, scrambling it from his face. marc grumbles, shuffling in close to you. “c’mere now.”

you both scuttle around, trying to reposition again. he wants you in his arms, you don’t want your limbs stuck under his weight.

you try to flip to your side; marc’s hand jerks forward, eliciting a shocked yelp. “we are not made for prison.”

“nope,” he breathes, raking you against his body until you have no choice but to flip back over. “we’d probably be the first to die in there.”

you laugh. “you’d go before me though.”

a similar snicker rumbles in his chest, low and sleepy. marc yawns, for like the fiftieth time, until melting back into the billowy pillow.

“hey, marc?” you settle just inches apart from his face. he hums in response. “i know it’s been a little.. crazy today, but thank you for doing this with me.”

abruptly, his eyes flutter open—looking slightly surprised yet tender all at once.

“you’re welcome, preciosa. you know i’d do any dumb challenge if it meant spending the day with you.”

you lean in, gently tugging at his chin toward you and kiss him—mellow, affectionate and longer than you mean to.

the chain between you clinks inaudibly.

marc smiles against your mouth, cradling the back of your head to reel you in for another. “i love you.”

“i love you too, mi vida.” he dots petite pecks across your nose, then across your cheeks. “goodnight.”

you whisper back. “goodnight baby.”

absentmindedly, his lips skim over your temple as he tries to tuck fallen hair back behind your ear with a very-chained hand. although, it just ends up patting your face.

“that was my eyebrow,” you mumble, eyes shut.

“it still counts.”

the room settles into a tranquil silence. your fingers trace the metal chain that links, and marc hums as if he feels it too.

neither of you say it aloud, but today is a memory you’ll both reach for on the kinds on days that need one.

a memory worth cherishing. forever.

MORNING LIGHT SPILLS PAST… the curtains, stirring you awake. “mm,” a satisfied hum escapes your lips, as you find however you’re positioned, is genuinely comfy.

your boyfriends arm is snug around your shoulders, his molten breath fanning your face, in gusts.

the chill steel of the handcuff chain presses bitterly cold against your skin, but the warmth which marc radiates, makes up for it.

when you shift, he shifts.

“well morning, sleepyhead,” you coo, cupping the one side of his face that you can. “rise and shine.”

your boyfriend groans something incoherent into the pillow. “bebé,” you whisper, nudging your foot against his shin. “oye, come on, we need to finish this.”

it’s not like you can rotate much, but you dig around; eventually take ahold of your camera that tried to hide beneath the messes of blankets.

it beeps when you turn it on, and marc suspires—preparing for the finality of what he’d call hell.

“..do we have to?” your boyfriend groans, his voice still drowsy. his breadth arms are still iron-fisted around your frame, refusing to loosen.

“yeah, we do,” you encourage, mirroring his lethargy as you yawn. even apart of yourself didn’t want to record the final ending of the challenge.

because, where you were right now, warm and tethered to the one person who always pulls you in a little closer in his sleep—it felt like if you move, you’d never fall back into this little cocoon again.

following a weighted exhale, you position the camera high enough into the air so it captures you two together.

“morning, everyone,” you blink at the camera, rubbing at your weary eyes. “it’s officially been 24 hours, which means we’ve successfully completed the handcuffed for-a-day challenge.”

marc is trying to avoid the blaring light, eyes still closed but when you shake him up, he briefly rotates his head so you can see all of the sleep marks etched onto his face.

his cheeks are toasty-pink, his hair sticking up in every angle and direction. but he still doesn’t depart from you.

“any words to end the vlog, marc?”

“im never doing this again.”

🔖🏷️: @n0vazsq @hearzdiarx @paucubarsisimp @diarieeeelils @joaosnovia @httpsdana @universefcb @madamsoulette @mariejuli

[distant--shadow]

Imogen stirs

"Honey, did you say somethin'?" she blearily whispers. 

"I'm sorry, were you sleeping?" 

"No, I was just thinkin'."

"With your eyes closed?" 

"With ma eyes closed." Imogen turns over her shoulder and kisses Laudna on the end of her permanently broken nose. "What were you laughin' about?" 

Laudna's focus darts to where her hand had grasped for energy unattainable to her. 

"I was thinking about my arms popping out of their sockets after trying to wrangle Fearne." 

Imogen stifles her laugh, her dimples drawing in shadows. 

"There is a lot of her." 

she quiets as from a few feet away, Fearne gently snores. 

the scoff Imogen's throat gives is affectionate, a reverberation of rumble travelled between them sympathetic and synchronised.

"mm." Laudna shortly hums. She can't disagree. 

She returns her hand to lay ontop of Imogen's upturned, though it is hard for her eyes to ignore the only source of light in the room, despite her dark vision. 

Imogen's fingers thread between her own; squeeze tentatively, questioningly. 

Laudna's head is rested over Imogen's shoulder, sunken into the crook of her neck, her soft lilac hair pillowing her white castle ruin cheek

their line of sight can't be too dissimilar, surely Imogen can't ignore the spectral tightrope illuminating between herself and the faun. 

(Laudna hadn't done a good job of making it across the one over the river.)

Imogen can most likely feel it, even if her eyes are closed. 

Thinking. 

How much of that is her own? 

The gold of her circlet a juxtaposition of hot flesh meeting cold, a flux permanently balanced between their two body tempratures. 

"You have said before, that we're a lot..." 

"We are, but we wouldn't be us if we weren't. It's what makes us right, it's why we work." the hush to Imogen's voice doesn't dampen its affection. 

Laudna props herself up on her left elbow, right arm still draped over Imogen but now her head hovering over the other woman's, their hair a mass of wiry blacks and wavy lilacs covering the pillow

Laudna wonders how the two would look braided, 

of seafoam green-

"And Fearne?" 

Imogen's brow furrows.

Fearne? 

Imogen opens their mental connection to excuse the third woman from their conversation. 

The two of you…

Imogen's cheeks flush, imperceptible to anyone else within their nook or the neighbouring-nook ‘rooms’ (Laudna would know easily how to make a room of them), despite their sleeping, despite Orym’s perception. He can't see in the dark. He can't get to know everything. And Chet-

well, he'd probably argue he could smell the blood anyhow.

I am not jealous. I do not envy your posistion. I am glad you have someone-

Laudna, what you talkin’ about? I have you. 

You have both of us, and I really am thankful for that.

both- Imogen mirrors, a slightly confused crinkle still on her brow and a rosy flush under the peach fuzz. Laudna is inherently enamoured by it. 

I will always stand by the belief - my belief - that you should do what you want and you alone, but I am thankful-

Laudna leans down and kisses Imogen on her forehead just to right of the jewel embellishing her circlet; her lips feel the skin rise, in relief or surprise, maybe both, maybe something else. 

I am thankful that you are not alone in this, I am thankful that you have someone to share it with-

her grip tightens around Imogen’s, and she extends their arms by the hand from out of the confines of their bed roll, running just parralel to the tether between Imogen and Fearne. 

-and the ‘thing’ I should be directing that thanks towards is Fearne; because I certainly don't like the idea of directing it towards anyone or anything else that's involved. 

Imogen's lips part as if they mean to form words, but only a long and slightly shaken exhale departs from between them. 

No, certainly no thanks to her mother, nor Fearne’s father, not the gods, or their predator. 

Don't stunt yourself, don't close yourself off. What connects us is what gives us power. 

[soulofapatrick]

Behind Closed Doors - Henry Fox x Male Reader

Summary: Henry is in your bed having sneaked into the Whitehouse with the help of Amy and it's been nearly six months since you've seen each other

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: Smut; very gay smut; anal fingering; anal sex; blowjobs; fluff

Y/N’s POV

The laptop screen flickers to life, casting a cold, bluish hue across the dimly lit room. On the screen, Prince Henry is the epitome of regal composure, his posture immaculate, his expression stoic and controlled. The tension in his shoulders is palpable, the lines etched on his forehead telling tales of the countless responsibilities that rest on his shoulders. His azure eyes, although mesmerising, appear guarded, a perpetual veil of restraint concealing the depths of his emotions. The smile that graced his lips is a well practiced one, polite and diplomatic, but it never truly reaches his eyes, leaving them to shimmer with a distant glint. 

I glance away from the screen to the very same Prince fast asleep beside me. The contrast striking. 

Here, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, Prince Henry is just Henry. He’s a world away from the formalities of his public and royal life. He lies on his side, his body sprawled in a relaxed, unguarded manner that defies the rigid protocols of royalty. His chest rises and falls in a gentle, even rhythm, his breaths syncing with the tranquility of the moment. The meticulously coiffed hair that graced my screen is now a disheveled mess, each strand of his golden locks framing his face in wild abandon. His cheeks are tinged with a natural, healthy flush, a stark contrast to the pale veneer he often wears in public. 

As I observe him, I can’t help but notice the subtle shifts in his expression as he dreams. The stoic mask he wears for the world has slipped away, revealing the true Prince Henry beneath. A small, contented smile plays on his lips, and it’s genuine - unburdened by the expectations of diplomacy. It’s a smile that comes from the heart. In his slumber, he’s just a man, stripped of titles and obligations, free to express his emotions without restraint. 

I can’t help myself, reaching out and gently brushing my fingers against his cheek, marvelling at the softness of his skin and the warmth beneath. He stirs slightly, nuzzling his face into the pillow, seeking comfort and letting out a small snuffle before those beautiful eyes flutter open sleepily.

The cool, distant glint in his azure eyes has been replaced with a sense of serenity and vulnerability. He blinks a few times, adjusting to the soft lighting in the room, and then he turns his gaze towards me. It’s a moment of unspoken connection, as if we share a secret, a world of our own. 

With a lazy, contented smile, Henry reaches out to gently take my laptop from my hands, placing it on the bedside table. Then, in a slow and deliberate move, he grips the front of my pyjama shirt and tugs until I find myself hovering over him. 

Our lips meet in a tired, yet passionate kiss. It’s a kiss that speaks of comfort and love. Our mouths move together, synchronised in a dance of affection, and I can taste the lingering sweetness of sleep on his lips. It’s a gentle, unhurried kiss, having all the time in the world as no one knows he’s here in America or the Whitehouse let alone half naked in my bed.

Henry’s hands, warm and exploring, roam over my back, causing a shiver to run down my spine. His blunt nails trail sensually, raking down my skin in a way that elicits a gasp from me. It’s a delightful mix of pleasure and surprise, encouraging him further. He seizes the opportunity, slipping his tongue past my parted lips, deepening the kiss. Our tongues dance together, an intricate and passionate tango, conveying desire and longing. The taste of him, mingled with the faintest hint of mint from his toothpaste, is intoxicating. 

My hands, guiding by instinct and desire, find their way to his tousled hair, My fingers thread through the golden strands, and I revel in the sensation of the soft, silken locks between my fingertips. Our bodies press closer together, the heat and desire building between us like an irresistible force. 

Suddenly, in a move that leaves me breathless, Henry flips us over, his body now hovering above mine. His lips trail down from my mouth to my neck, and I’m arching into his touch, granting him better access, a soft man escaping my lips. His hands find my hips, pressing them into the mattress to keep them still, a silent declaration of his intentions. His warm breath against my skin as he places tender kisses along the sensitive curve of my neck. Each kiss sends waves of pleasure radiating through my body, and I clutch the sheets beneath us, my heart pounding with anticipation and my dick jumps in my boxers. 

Henry’s movements are deliberate, and his plump lips leave a trail of fire in their wake as they journey downward from my neck. Each kiss, every brush of his mouth against my skin, sends a surge of pleasure radiating through my body. As his lips continue their descent, I arch my back, offering more of my chest, and a soft sigh escapes my lips. His hands, still on my hips, hold me firmly in place when his thumbs dip under the waistband of my boxers. I can’t stop the whimper or the way my hips jerk when he grazes his teeth down my lower stomach. 

“Now, now Darling,” Henry murmurs, voice a velvet whisper that washes over me like a soothing balm. It’s gentle and loving, a stark contrast to the passionate urgency of our actions. His words are tender, carrying an undertone of teasing and deep affection, “Be a good boy for me.”

“Fuuuckkkk,” I’m throwing my head back when he mouths over my almost painful erection, the thin layer of my boxers making me want to scream, “Hen, please.” I’m whining and he’s grinning up at me through those pretty eyelashes, eyes dark and wanting. He’s tugging my boxers down my thighs and discarding them somewhere to my left before he’s mouthing at my hips and inner thighs. Lips trailing across every bit of skin except where I want him… where I need him. 

Then suddenly, his tongue is on my lower stomach, lapping at the precum leaking onto my bare skin from the teasing and it takes everything in me not to grab his hair and stop this teasing or he will just drag it out even more. I think I let out a strangled sound, too loud for these walls when Henry finally wraps those fantasy inducing lips around the head of my aching dick as he also shoves three fingers in my mouth to muffle the sounds. Obediently, I begin to suck on them, lathering them up with saliva while he teases his tongue over the frenulum and hollowing out his cheeks. 

Before long his fingers are slipping from my lips and are circling my entrance, my whole body tensing in anticipation which has Henry pulling away, “Darling, you need to relax.”

He pushes a finger pass the tight ring of muscles at the same time swallowing me down whole, my body jerking with pain and pleasure. His free hand is rubbing soothing circles against my hip, trying to relax me enough for him to add another finger and loosen me up enough. His throat constricts, trying to gag around me and I have to throw a hand over my mouth as my older brother’s room is just next door. 

Almost too soon he’s pulling away, drawing himself up and his azure eyes meet mine, a silent question there. I don’t reply, wrapping my legs around his waist and finally tangling my hands in his soft locks to drag him into an almost bruising kiss. Somewhere between him stripping me and now he’s rid himself of his boxers. His right hand caresses my cheek while his other moves to help guide himself in place, the tip pushing past the ring of muscles. I can’t help but tense up at the intrusion but then his lips are on mine, sweet and delicate, coaxing whimpers from me as he slowly pushes into me. 

“It’s okay Darling,” He cooes against my lips, “That’s it Sweetheart, just breathe.” He finds my hands, intertwining our fingers as he begin to rock his hips, watching my face for my reaction. I can’t stop the wince, hips twitching as Henry tries to find a steady rhythm, his lips parted and eyes fluttering shut for a second, breath coming out in gasps as he seems to be holding himself back to not hurt me. The sight of him like this and stretch of him filling me oh so full has my dick twitching between us and his eyes fly open again. It’s a prickling sensation, somewhere between pain and pleasure and has me needing something more. 

“Henry, please.” I don’t know what I’m asking for, clenching around his thick length and rocking my hips down to meet his, drawing out a low sound from him and his head falls against my shoulder. 

“Darling,” He moans out, pushing back in quickly, hitting that bundle of nerves that has my hips jerking and him grinning into the crook of my neck. My hands scrabble for purchase when his grip my hips again, settling in his hair and raking down his back. It’s not just the physical connection with Henry as our bodies intertwine, it’s as if time itself slows down and we exist in a world of our own making. Every touch, every caress, carries the weight of emotions that can’t be expressed in words. 

Every rock of his hips hits that bundle of nerves, and I can’t help rocking my hips up to meet his, my back arching into every movement. I’m sure I’m speaking, sounds leaving my throat as Henry picks up his pace, making me see stars. 

“Kiss me.” I hear myself whine and Henry’s chest rumbles with  a broken chuckle before his lips brush teasingly against mine. His hands grip my hips almost bruisingly, pulling my hips down to meet his harsh thrusts as that knot in my stomach begins to tighten. Low and guttural sounds rumble in his chest as out bodies shine with a thin layer of sweat, his blond locks sticking to his forehead, pale skin flushing as he makes love to me. Henry and I have had sex and made love before but this feels different, more intimate somehow as he whispers sweet nothings against my neck, nose nuzzling my jaw and lips soft and breath hot. The coil in my stomach tightening as he lets my hands go to wrap around me and pull me closer to him, my hands finding his hair and tugging his lips back to mine as a sound leaves his kiss swollen lips again. It’s all hot and heavy and sensual, full of love and passion and a promise of forever. 

“Almost there Baby,” he’s murmuring and I think I’ve lost the ability to speak as all I can do is nod so fast I think I’m going to break my neck. I’m whimpering, my hands trying to fins purchase on his back, nails raking almost painfully down his smooth and muscular skin. One of his hands ghost down my chest and stomach to wrap around my throbbing erection, barely making one full jerk before that coil snaps and I’m crying his name with no care for how loud we are. My whole body convulses and shakes as my vision whites out and I’m clamping around him. He bites down on my bottom lip almost painfully as he comes, his seed filling me up. The aching pain of him pulsating inside me makes me almost come again, a new feeling that adds to the pleasure and I think I might pass out from the bliss of it all. 

“Baby, hey, Y/N.” Henry’s murmurs to me and his thumbs soothing my cheeks gently, “There you ar pretty boy.” He peppers kisses all over my face, and I can't help but let out an almost embarrassing giggle, despite our passionate activities just moments ago. His hips are still moving in gentle circles of overstimulation against mine, but his focus now is solely on me, his affectionate touches like a soothing balm.

"BREAKFAST WHEN YOU TWO ARE DONE!" Alex pounds his fists on my door, making me jump, and I instinctively tense up, causing us both to wince. Henry carefully pulls out, his gaze never leaving mine. 

”BE QUIETER NEXT TIME!" June’s voice rings through the door as well, and we exchange amused glances before bursting into quiet laughter.

"Breakfast?" Henry asks softly, his arms wrapping around me as he pulls me close, his warmth enveloping me in a cocoon of love.

I shake my head, my heart full of contentment. "Hell no."

With a loving smile, Henry leans in and captures my lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. It's a kiss that speaks of all the emotions we've shared, the love that binds us, and the intimacy that's brought us even closer.

As our lips part, Henry murmurs, "I love you, Y/N."

I smile back at him, my heart swelling with affection. "I love you too, Henry."

In each other's arms, we drift off to sleep, the world outside forgotten, and our love the only thing that matters. Wrapped in the warmth of our embrace, we know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, we have each other—a love that's deep, passionate, and unbreakable.I’ll deal with the outcome of Alex and June later but for now, it’s just me and Henry and that’s all I need. 

-------------

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[yuzukahibiscus]

Yuzuka Ray for CLARA

"BALLET IS THE FOUNDATION FOR EVERYTHING I DO"

As the former Flower Troupe Top Star of Takarazuka Revue who graduated in May this year, Yuzuka Ray has been recognized for her glamorous visual and outstanding dancing, showcasing an elegant dance even from her fingertips that captivates many fans. In view of her performing with Mathieu Ganio, the etoile of the Paris Opera Ballet in January 2025, she shared her aspirations for the performance and memories of ballet.

(Source from Clara Magazine; photo archive → redirected to twitter thread)

Q. You will be performing in the “Mathieu Gala Special Gala New Year Concert” with Mathieu Ganio, the etoile of the Paris Opera Ballet in January, and you will perform a new duet with Mathieu.

YUZUKA RAY. I’ve never imagined that there’d be a day when I could dance with Mathieu Ganio, and I was surprised. I watched Mathieu’s performances before I entered Takarazuka, and I could say that he was the top class prince charming I imagined in my head, and truly “the prince of ballet”. I am so honoured but also nervous about this performance. I learnt ballet when I was young, and I performed mostly jazz dances and theatre dances in Takarazuka Revue. I’d love to see how my show dances and Mathieu’s beautiful classic ballet could synchronise as one. I, myself am also excited and thrilled as to what performance we will show to you all.

Q. You first danced ballet when you were 3 years old, and you describe that you were so concentrated from the very beginning.

Y. I love moving my body to the music. When I entered middle school, I had attended the same class as the current etoile of the Paris Opera Ballet, Hannah O’Neill and I also competed before. As every lesson passed, I discovered more challenges to overcome and there were more ideals that I wanted to achieve, so those lessons were nothing but fun! And I was truly concentrated in them.

Q. What is your strength in ballet?

Y. I love dances that have a strong acting element, or we call those ‘character dances’. My teacher had also noticed that, and therefore arranged more of such roles to me. I also love dancing rhythmic waltz steps.

Whether it was playing as a child role in “The Nutcracker” during my time in the Maki Asami Ballet Academy, or when I was granted the opportunity to perform in an operetta in my middle school days, perhaps my teacher had realized that I enjoyed being on stage, so they introduced Takarazuka Revue to me, another alternative to performing on stage as opposed to dancing ballet. With such turning point, I decided to attempt the admission exam for the Takarazuka Music School in Year 9.

Q. How was life in the Music School?

Y. Apart from ballet, we were learning jazz danze and tap dance, modern dance and also Japanese dance, and beyond many such genres of dance, we also took lessons in acting, vocal practice and tea ceremony. Since this was my first time experiencing all of these classes, I was very much focused. Every day, I desperately worked hard with what was ahead, and those were such fulfilling days.

Q. When you entered Takarazuka Revue, you were quickly promoted and was appointed the Top Star in 2019. You captivated many fans by showing such graceful beauty and otokoyaku sharpness in your dance. How is dancing as otokoyaku different from dancing ballet?

Y. When I danced as otokoyaku, I stayed aware about maintaining the square formed by the left and right shoulder lines and the pelvis; when I danced, I made sure that the body looks linear and flat. The center of gravity position was also different from ballet, which didn’t require elevating my body; instead I’d feel the sense of gravity, and maintaining the center of gravity was a fundamental consideration for otokoyaku. The base was to stand firmly with the weight of the waist so that the body did not seem wobbly and unstable. Since there were cases of lifting musumeyaku, the use of the muscles on the front and outside was completely different. However, as much as I have experienced, no matter what genre of dance it was, I realized that classical ballet is the foundation for everything I do. Since I have foundational knowledge of ballet, I could adjust or improve the center of gravity position and showing a beautiful line for each dance.

Q. When you dance, what do you pay attention to the most?

Y. First, I listen to a lot of music. From the song and from its tonality, I try to envision the world view it conveys, and the emotions or warmth of a character I’d be playing. Let’s say that the tempo also affects the heartbeats of a role. I’m also interested as to how a choreographer picks up certain notes and gains inspiration from the song to create a choreography. As a dancer, I’d like to firmly graps such hints when I dance.

Q. Please leave a message for the ‘CLARA’ readers who are also practicing ballet diligently!

Y. I am also a reader of ‘CLARA’, and because I am truly in love with dancing ballet, so when I do see ballet dancers on the streets, I’d also react mentally hoping to send a wish of ‘Good luck’! (LOL) Ballet is about facing the mirror as you practice on the dance bars, do stretching and other forms of training – it is an art of resilience. But I believe that when you accumulate experiences from the long years of hard work you’ve devoted in ballet, then this won’t only raise your level in ballet, but can also become your greatest weapon. For those who endeavour fully into something, it won’t be just the world of ballet, but rather many roads will open up to them. Ballet is truly amazing! The more I get in contact with more genres of dance, the more I realise that classical ballet has a beautiful world unique to its own. I hope that you will be proud for practicing ballet so diligently, that you never forget why you like ballet, and enjoy the most of the process!

Q. What is the charm of ballet to you?

Y. The beauty of movement! Apart from performances, I would even just watch bar lessons, because seeing proper and correct ballet positions refresh my heart and cleanse my mind.

Q. Do you have a favourite ballet dancer?

Y. Recently I rewatched a documentary of Sylvie Guillem and was once again impressed for her profound understanding on dance. I also love watching my friend, Hannah O’Neill’s cute and elegant dance!

[iheartjohnlennon]

'Synchronised'

London, '64

Summary: Paul wants to try something new-ish.

Word count: 1,041

Tags: Smut, Light Angst, 69 (Sex Position)

Paul glanced over at your half-naked figure every so often, your feminine silhouette under the duvet made him unbearably stiff.

He veered around to become the big spoon, you could feel his warm flesh flush against your arse, you suspired.

It'd been a relatively long and excruciating day for him, there was no better way to satiate it other than being inside of you of course. It was a principle of life for him, something that always made sense to do, even if it wasn't with you particularly.

But Paul lay in shallow thought beside you on the bed. Despite having such a monumental libido, he had no idea how to go about asking you this, it was rare, even impossible that he felt nervous during pre-shag times.

He sighed in your ear suddenly, you could feel his little mouth kissing your neck. Each smooch sent tingles of pleasure coursing through you. Paul grew more and more desperate for the taste of you and started nibbling. His bid to try to get you to make a noise was successful, your incoherent little whimpers really did it for him.

You turned to finally face him, you were nose close, your breaths mingled.

He had a rat-esque grin on his face, and the creases in his eyes were visible.

You knew exactly what that meant.

"How's about we try somethin' tonigh'?" He asked huskily.

"Like what?" You mused.

Paul was stumped on how to explain it articulately. Him using his mouth on you was a common occurrence, but he hadn't explored any other position than having you on your back, maybe he had you on your hands and knees a few times at that.

He began cautiously, "Well, s'like a position...y'know, sex?"

"Yes Paul, I know what sex is." You snickered.

"Don't get cheeky, y'know wha' I mean love."

You smiled at him, your curiosity piqued. "What is it, Paul?"

A flush graced his cheeks as he went to respond, "I'll show ya, only if yer willin' of course."

Paul's hand reached out, he moved his hand beneath your bra, his fingers grazed your bare nipple. A shiver ran through all your erogenous areas as he did so.

In another fluid motion, he slid the duvet off the bed, it made you feel vulnerable and aroused. A sly smile curved his lips as he took in an eye full, appreciating it.

With a firm grip, his hand settled on your hips, he was repositioning and twisting you in an unfamiliar way.

You felt a rush of excitement and anticipation as his movements seemed to match yours, melding your bodies into a perfect configuration.

His intent became palpable as he adjusted you further, his hands swiftly guided your hips so your heat could meet his mouth. You lightly sat on his face but backwards, it was a nice feeling.

Paul made you mirror him as he lowered your back down. He lowered your head down to his eager hardness, your body settled in his chosen and aligned position. It was a bit odd to you but felt right also.

He shifted your knickers, delicately parting the fabric that separated his tongue from your heat. As he did so, your tongue caressed his cock ever so slowly. He responded with muffled groans, "Mm, mmph," they sent soft vibrations through you.

You moved against his face, he relished in the raw wetness of your heat all over his face, he couldn't get enough of it.

You couldn't look him in the eyes while you were like this but he showed a deep intimacy with his touches.

Paul's hands found their way into your hair, his grasp gentle yet possessive. He wasn't happy with your teasing pace so his fingers threaded through the roots of your hair as he bobbed you up and down in a feral manner. Paul couldn't contain himself, his hips jerked upward as he held your head down, making you gag as you rushed to breathe through your nose.

You moved your head up slightly and his grip stopped as he moved his hands to your hips. You reverted to sucking the tip, reminding him that this was supposed to be a mutual suffocation.

Paul tugged your hips down, the sensation of his full face drove you mad. It was a mismatch of pleasure; his nose was partially in your hole, and his tongue felt velvety against your clit. He gave you tiny flicks, they tickled you; made you twitch. It must've been a bizarre and vulgar view.

Paul was simply devouring you with his mouth, he skillfully alternated between his fervent sucks and long licks. You endeavoured to lift yourself when it became too much, but he held you in place, knowingly overstimulating you.

His hands found solace in holding your head down, he gave rough cues, adjusting the pace at his own accord.

He said, or rather mumbled cheeky things against you, they were somewhat intelligible even though your gagging made it tricky to hear.

'Yer drivin' me mad......Do ya like this?......Don't stop Y/N, please jus' don't stop......I carn't hear ya......'

Paul continued his nips and sucks, he edged you nearer to an inevitable release, and you found yourself clenching. The air around you was thick with an intoxicating scent and tepidity. 

You both revelled in the taste and texture of skin, you both knew to take each other rougher as you felt the climaxes coming on.

You could feel his receiving and giving movements becoming more urgent, driven by a sharp instinct to cum.

And then, in a final surge of passion, you tasted his thick secretion. In this position all you could do was swallow, although it was messy as it dripped down. A low groan escaped him, he seemed to be trembling.

Whilst you simultaneously finished with him you felt a profound sense of satisfaction.

It'd finally reached its peak.

Paul, his own body slick with perspiration, tenderly moved you off of him, you could finally look at him. God was it good to finally look at him.

You were both in an utterly disgusting state, with tousled hair, a coat of sweat, and smug expressions.

"You've made a righ' mess." He whispered.

[canmom]

one thing I've been ruminating on with regard to the notion of subjective experience emerging from a complex system like a brain (whatever the exact prerequisites might turn out to be) is a thought about location. partly inspired by questions around plurality and such.

in relativity, effects must be local (propagating at max light speed), and any distributed system will have different hyperplanes of simultaneity depending on reference frame. presumably, subjective experience at a given moment corresponds to the state of the brain at that moment - the state of all the particles inside the brain. but 'at that moment' is relative. so i kind of wonder about like... if there is a specific point that the subjective experience could be localised to in the brain, which seems extremely unlikely given everything we know about how the brain works, but if not, if there is somehow a continuous field of subjective experience arising in parallel from all across the brain. and that different points in this 'subjective experience' field are all largely maintained in a state of synchronisation by the way activity propagates through the brain. so if i self report on internal state (and my subjective experience has a causal impact on the world), it will 'feel accurate' to every part of the subjective experience field.

which would mean that alongside me as I write this are infinite other subjective experiences - all more or less the same, depending on how the information is flowing in that specific part of the brain? or like perhaps different parts of the brain are experiencing different things, e.g. the visual processing system experiences one thing, the cortex retrieving memories experiences another, etc. etc.

i don't really think i believe this model - it doesn't really accord with my introspective perception of what consciousness 'feels like'. my actual subjective experience is that i can 'focus on' and bring to attention various different things (sensory inputs, memories, etc.), and equally 'tune them out' and concentrate on something else, which fits much more some kind of central 'single-threaded' view.

i wish there was some way to observe this thing besides introspection, because it's so hard to do anything but wildly speculate with metaphor lego. it's not obvious to me why a brain (or part of a brain) should be able to have a 'like to be'-ness and a cup of water, which also involves the intricate motion of similar numbers of atoms, shouldn't. but my experience is so specifically tied to the various concrete aspects of embodiment and information flow in this biological system that it seems hard to believe that there isn't some important prerequisite here that's missing from the cup of water. i just really couldn't tell you what it is.

[inmiasmarchive]

(Why I care meme!) 2019!Bingbing ➡️ 2019!Nezha: "You've given me the opportunity to experience a kind of joy that I've never felt before. The joy of... fun - of excitement and play. A taste of the childhood I never got to have. Thank you for showing me that there is so much more to life - by changing mine forever."

The boy handled Bing's embroidered sleeve with a lot more care than he would his own possessions (strewn about the floor of his room in various states of disrepair). Turned it inside out, flipped the seams, picked at the threads, folded it back overー　all distractions from having to directly address what he could have gloated over. Or made a joke of. But nothing about Ao Bing's oppressive upbringing deserved laughter. He'd spent other nights being angry about it. Other nights fighting with Bing over things that were out of their control. Venting for both sides on ways they agreed that the world should be different.

"You sounds like you're going away or something when you talk like that." He tried sounding light-hearted, but how soggy he felt created a ripple effect in his voice. "We still have our whole lives to do whatever we want. You'll see. In ten years, we'll still be playing jianzi and chasing Simang around the courtyard."

Nezha dropped the sleeve and started playing with his fabric of his pants instead. Then mashed his hands together and pushed his fingers back until he could feel the stretch.

"I never got to play with other kids in the village. Or, well I did, but they didn't like me. Or wanted anything to do with me." What he considered as playー never quite synchronised with the other boys. Or adults.

"I meant it when I said you were my first friend. It's not so bad anymore, but you're still the only one who gets me. You make everything fun. And I'm aliveー... I feel alive because of you. I'm happy, cause you're here and you make me happy... So thanks."

He wiped his eyes of forming tears with both forearms.

"Your hair got in my eye... It's so long..."

[agentlizardofowca]

^ "did you sleep well?" "mhm.." [tracing the mark with their hand] "i can tell." // GO GO GO!!!

[I sometimes have trouble sleeping, and something that helps me fall asleep is to imagine my favourite characters falling asleep after an exhausting day. I've imagined the following scenario maybe 500 times.]

NOW ALSO ON AO3

zzzzz

Perry knew with certainty that it was wednesday when he left. He was about to take his coffee break when he was rushed to the airship bay and shipped off for an emergancy. As he was flown off to [counrty] he was informed of the world's newest thread, a nuclear physicist with some interesting ideas about justice. 

Sleep isnt really an option if all life on earth is in mortal peril, so the agent stayed awake for as long as it took to nuetralize the threat. It worked out okay, perry thought to himself as he sat through debriefing with his head cradled in his arms. The world still had its biodiversity, and he still had all 10 fingers. 

When he returned to Danville it was dark, past midnight. The streets were deserted except for a few stragglers who were finding their way home after a long night of partying. Perry assumed he looked at bad as they did.

He showered at headquarters because he could smell himself, and he was self-conscious about that, before letting himself be dropped off at his- their place. They shared it nowadays. And despite the fatigue, Perry couldn't help but smile giddily at that thought.

When he unlocked the front door he was met with a dark and still apartment, which was both a blessing and a curse. Heinz had the habit of working long into the early hours, so for the lab to be deserted now meant that it must be early. Really early.

He yawned and trudged towards the bedroom taking off items of clothing as he went so that when he softly opened the door, all he had to do was plop down his clothes on an empty chair.

Dead-center in the middle of the bed was his (former) nemesis, sleeping soundly. Both his arms and legs were spread luxuriously as if he was attempting to claim the whole bed for himself; Heinz never was very good at sharing. Luckily for Perry, he had no need of the comforter tonight, it was the middle of summer, and sleeping in just his boxer would do.

He resisted the urge to fall face down into the bed- that would surely jostle the other man awake, and though Perry was so, SO happy to see him, he was far too tired to be interrogated about his mission. So instead he slid onto the mattress soundlessly.

This close, he could hear the other man's rhythmic breathing. Even without touching, he could tell the other man was warm and relaxed. 

Perry's eyelids were as heavy as Heinz's titanium arms, but still, he had to take a moment to admire the careful stillness of his usually energetic partner. 

He hadn't taken the time to turn on any of the lights, just because he didn't want to bother having to turn them off again. But even in the low light, Perry knew where Heinz's features were, after this many years he could conjure his face in an instant. He would kiss him, right now. But he could not. Instead, Perry adjusted one lanky arm carefully to the side to make space for himself and laid himself down. His forehead settled nicely against Heinz's shoulder and closed his eyes.

He carefully breathed in, and when Heinz exhaled, so did he. Within a moment their breathing was synchronised. The wooly fog that Perry'd been carrying around in his head faded with each breath. With his last vestiges of consciousness, he reached out one arm and placed it over Heinz's heart. The steady drum lulled him to sleep quickly.

***

The sun was up. Through the insufficient barrier of his eyelids, Perry was aware that the sun was bright and waking him from maybe the deepest sleep he'd experienced all year. With tremendous effort, he shifted his head on the pillow. A sleepy squeak escaped him.

For a while, he just existed. A man sleeping on his tummy with one leg pulled up and one leg dangling just barely off the edge of the bed. 

The sounds of birdsong didn't reach this high up, and even the noises of cars and trucks passing below were like a distant hum. 

The door creaked a little as it opened. Something was put down, and then the mattress dipped beside him.

"I know you're awake, Perry the Platypus," Heinz said kindly.

Perry exhaled in reply.

"I can tell because you stopped snoring." The little smile that stretched his lips was audible in his voice.

Perry rolled over again, his side now pressed up against the other man. He opened his eyes slowly and blinked as he adjusted to the brightness of the room. He wasn't going to apologize to Heinz for snoring, he'd known about that particular flaw long before their nemesis-ship ended.

"I think you slept for thirteen hours," Heinz calculated, and he smiled down at Perry. His slowly graying hair was attempting to block Perry's view of those midsummer sky eyes. "Did you sleep at all since I last saw you?"

The horizontal man shook his head.

Heinz whistled. "Did you sleep well?" And one finger carefully trailed a line across Perry's cheek that was left by the bedding.

Perry stretched until his back popped and nodded lazily. Heinz's hand was still on his cheek.

"I can tell," He said as if it was a secret they shared.

Long fingers slid away, and the mattress wobbled as Heinz left it. "I made lunch Perry the Platypus. Come and eat with us before Vanessa has to leave for her mother's house. She's missed you too." Gone was the softness in Heinz's voice as he forced Perry back into the reality of the conscious world. The man left the room, not bothering to stop speaking to him, even as he got too far away to be heard clearly. 

A T-shirt landed on Perry's face. He debated rolling over and sleeping another 13 hours, but the siren call of lunch and his husband's enthused conversation won.

[dozing-marshmallow]

A BURNING STAR- Chris McLean x Reader

The beginning

Success was a funny thing. Are people born to it or do they make it themselves? Do they burn from the pressure to blow up when least expected or are they sealed under the skin, like of a woman, who walks down the pavement like the normal?

Lightning bolt earrings and pink silk scarf, it had been another wonderful day for (Y/N) at the studio. Though it did cut into some of her studying time as a nineteen year old, nothing threaded life in her veins faster than tying her salmon shoelaces to head out for a morning of singing. Summer was especially motivating, every step surfing like a symphony, where she’d hoped that year she’d find a bigger reason to separate her curtains further.

Passing by the usual shops and crossing the correct roads, a ringing noise builds its way into (Y/N)’s ears, which was not part of everyday. She pauses, not sensing pain, merely strangeness. A make belief she first had was that it came from her place of work, however discovered it to be way up ahead. Naturally, she skipped towards it and clocked what it was- a guitar and...singing. Where was it coming from though? The by passers around her weren’t fazed at all, was she the only one that could hear it? Distant, but longing...

It wouldn’t hurt to get a closer listen, right? Aw what the heck, she had nothing better to do anyway.

So she went, crossing the unusual roads and passing by uncertain shops, finding herself in an alley where the ringing had diverted absolutely into a higher volume of outside music and synchronised voices. She was very close. One more turn and she would practically find the source. 

But she didn’t want that. It sounds like...a boy band, in the middle of a song. Their young baritones enhanced melodiously by a bass and a hitting drum set. Bar lines meant for a rhythmic dream girl, she’d feel not only flustered, but guilty if they found a stranger getting nosey and messed up their performance because of it. Oh, the awkwardness.

Hence why, she peered around the grimy wall as discreetly as she could, and what does she know, it’s exactly as she thought.

I stand against the wall, waiting for you to ask me to dance, my heart is in your hands!

It was quite a thing to come across on a typical day of travelling home. There were four of them, one that proved her attention to bass and another proving the presence of a set of drums true, with the other two being the core singers. Whether it was an instrument, a microphone or a drumstick they held in their hand, all of them had stage presence in a place that lacked quite technically that, with a choreography that flowed very smoothly with the tempo. Even the sun was amazed that the quartet was pulling off a song in a dodgy passageway where anything of nature could happen, through its selected support to fall its gold upon them, ethereal, magical. And while the judgement of the golden yolk that hanged above them was justified, (Y/N) couldn’t help but center her attention around one of the singers, the one with black hair and a clean face...only because he...was also wearing something plaid, a flannel, red too, alike her dress, her nice cozy dress. As he finishes his note, he brings his view down from the sky and presumably reopens his eyes where he freestyles around for this segment, the very man she had been gazing at catches sight of her hem that naturally pulls him into making eye contact with her. 

Oh, uh...! Dang it! Just what I...! Before the warmth of exposure took full effect, she snapped the trance and quickly walked off as though she hadn’t come the particular way to feed her curiosity. She didn’t remember the route being this long...

That vaporised to the least of her concerns when a moving silhouette of a tower dashed towards her from the side. Needless to say, when the light spontaneously disappeared, her mind flashed the worst possible thing to sight, may have jumped or ga-

“My bad,” The thing had spoken.

Huh? She turned around and visibly gasped:

It was that singer?,“Didn’t mean to scare ya, my fault for not making myself known earlier.” He advanced, ironically owning a speaking voice shyer than his consuming shadow sprawling on the ground.

(Y/N) remains silent to take in his figure, now that she was watching from a closer distance. His messy black hair mahogany in the sunlight, ripped grey jeans that were a bit too big for his ankles, right arm used to bear a transducer behind his head, stumbling in continuation,“I...noticed you watching our performance...and I wanted to hear what you thought about it. (This is also my first time meeting a fan!). Sorry, if this was sudden.” The second to last part was mainly for himself, but she’s glad it was external.

Makes it easier to clear up the misunderstanding,“Oh, no... I’m the one that should be sorry. I could have distracted you. I...was just curious.” She had never been more thankful for sunshine,”The music was really nice, so I wanted to check out where it was coming from. I didn’t mean to look for that long.”

But the male wasn’t insulted,”Ohh, I know where you’re coming from. Don’t worry, I wasn’t distracted,” He stops to look at her,“...I know it’s not conventional, having a guy talk to you in a place like this, but if you don’t have anything else to do... Want to talk for a little bit?”

Though he was well built and looked marginally older than her, (Y/N) didn’t have any alarms swirling in her stomach; the sun did flow well on his red, a shade of rose rather than blood.

“Uh...” she hastily looks to the side, not realising that alternative shortcut from whence he came upon her first arrival,“Sure!” 

“Really? Alright then!” He was acceptive of both choices?,“And don’t worry about the others coming in on us, they all go home the other way.”

“G-Gotcha!” Isn’t it wonderful that he who she laid eyes on was he who came for her?

Nothing like a sunny afternoon with a singing stranger surrounded by brick walls dried with graffiti.

“So, do you always come here for rehearsals?” She asked, sitting up next to him on the recycling bin, closing the lid beforehand.

“Nah. We kinda did just start, so we haven’t done this kind of practice in a public setting like this before. Normally, we’d go to one of our garages.” His silver ear piercing aligned similarly to his teeth.

“Makes sense. What’s the name of this band?” 

“We’re Fametown!” His response great with energy.

“Okay Fametown. What kind of genre do you make? Love songs?” She teasingly presumed.

His hand immediately slaps onto the side of his neck, sheepishly confirming it. Aw, who knew! “It may sound cliche, but with the talent of all the other guys in the band, we’ll get a record deal sooner or later!”

That’s the spirit of a fellow singer she likes to hear! The more belief you have in yourself, the sooner you’ll reach your goal!... Albeit, to (Y/N)’s disappointment, the other supposed singer in the alley didn’t reciprocate her enthusiasm,“Actually about that...” he begins, shifting closer to her in means to whisper as though he wanted nobody else to hear,”Don’t tell my other bandmates about this...but I’m actually not all that big about singing.”

“Really?” She blinks. With a voice like that, it was hard to believe he lacked passion.

He nods,”It sounds deceiving, but... I just... I really want to be famous. And singing to me is one way where I can be guaranteed fame, even if, I’m not sure if it’s what I like.”

I see. She had to hold in her sigh. Just when she thought she found an opportunity to connect and befriend another musically inclined soul. At least he was honest with himself,“Then...maybe, if it’s not what you like, you should quit. You can get famous by doing anything nowadays, especially if you love it.”

“Quit?” He repeated, as though it was a bleak suggestion. Man, he wasn’t giving (Y/N) a lot to work with,”But... I want to give it more time to see if it’ll grow onto me. If not, then I totally will.”

What does this man like otherwise?

He looks away with sparkles in his dark eyes,“I’d love to get into acting again...maybe even start my own show!”

“You acted before?” She smiles, interested. Had she accidentally stumbled upon a hidden celebrity?

With that asked, he blew up with excitement,“Uh huh!” He rapidly nods at the same speed as his enjoyment in the conversation,”You know that talking cats movie from about a year ago? I played a huge role in that one!” Almost as though it wasn’t often.

Maybe (Y/N) knew why after hearing his description,“Really?” He wasn’t talking about that movie, was he-

“Yeah, one of many! You know CATostrophes?”

...Yep. He was talking about that movie. The one everyone kept making fun of back in tenth grade... She decided to keep that part to herself.

“Ohhhh! It was you who made that! Wow!” Her false smile slowly returning sincere. Sure, it was terrible- so terrible, it’s funny,“Who knew I’d get to meet the...star of that movie?” Hidden was a lot more appropriate.

“And who knew I’d get to meet such a beauty after my rehearsal?“ He winked, causing her to playfully roll her eyes,“I plan on getting into another, maybe a sports movie!”

“A sports movie?” She repeated in puzzlement, not realising how much correlation there was,”I guess boys like their sports... Are you in any clubs?”

“Back when I was in high school. Are you?” He rapidly redirects the question as though it was a topic he wanted to avoid.

“Just coaching for singing.” She hummed dully. It was only fair.

“Oh, right... How long you been singing for?”

For some reason, she wasn’t expecting him to ask an organic question, so it was relieving that the instinct was false,“Since I was younger, like thirteen.”

“Oh wow... Yeah, you for sure are more passionate than I am...” he sways his feet back and forth,“Did you need to pay for coaching?”

What kind of question is that? Still, she answered calmly,“Normally, you’d need to pay about two hundred dollars monthly, but because my high school provided it as an option, it was free until I left, where my teacher was kind enough to reduce it to fifty dollars.”

“Impressive...” he commented, genuinely intrigued.

How come? Didn’t he go to at least one voice coaching lesson before joining this band?

He was reeled from his admiration,“Not really... Unless bandmates count.”

“Mm,” She’d give the benefit of the doubt,“Relying on the feedback of your bandmates isn’t necessarily advisable for constructive criticism. But you know what, there are lots of singers from around the world that are self taught, like uh...Elvis Presley.”

“Elvis Presley is a generous comparison...” he added, in a way that spoke incomplete attention, not long after he checks his watch,“I better get going now.” he leaps off the bin,“Does the lady want to exchange landline numbers? No pressure, I enjoyed the conversation.”

“Sure! You seem like a pretty good guuuy...”  she dragged out as though trying to recall what his name was. When connected the dots, the man face palms.

“Oh, how forgetful am I! I’m Chris. Chris McLean.”

Has a nice ring to it,“(Y/N) (L/N),” she smiled.

“(Y/N) (L/N)?!” He suddenly jumped back in disbelief,“You’re...that singer (Y/N) (L/N)?”

“Surprised?” She didn’t think it was a big deal.

“O-Of course... I lis- Would it really be okay to get your number...?” Aww!

She isn’t that light!,“Why wouldn’t it!” She fishes out a paper from her handbag to give him, seeming that the contact of it cured him of his shock.

Now over the plot twist, he quickly scans over it and grins at her as a result,“You...just had it on your person?”

She vertically waves her hand,“Oh please! I always carry my landline number on me in case I happen to find a groovy man with a voice as hot as the sun! Nah, I wrote it beforehand.”

“Soooo you were planning on giving it to me way before I asked?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Don’t get the wrong idea.” She firmly averred.

He gives a light chuckle, then extracted a receipt and a pen from his interior pocket. He looks around for a surface to write it on and ended up leaning over the bin. Two steps ahead in memory.

“Have you given your landline number to a girl before, by any chance?” She smirked as he scribbled it down. From this angle, his attire suited the bricks perfectly.

“Sure I have! To chicks from high school, chicks from the streets...” Straightening his posture, he gives the crimped complete paper to her in exchange,”Call me soon alright?”

“Desperate?” Her smirk not fading. Did he say that to all the others?

“No! Not at all. Just...let me know when you get back home.”

“Sure will.” She made sure he watched her slip it into her purse.

And she did and had herself, twirling the wire and kicking feet in the air, marking meet ups with him on her neglected calendar and lyrics in their flesh. Her house had never felt so empty while her hand was the furthest thing from that. She never would’ve guessed that this relationship she composed with a dreaming guy from an alley would get serious, but despite all these dates and growing intimacy, she never let the case of being another simple chick from the street in his eyes fade from her mind. But their frequent visits and very little mention of other girl names, soon morphed into a question of What made her so special?

“Double doubles are my favourite!” The musician exclaimed, having a jolly sip. Here, they were much more civilised, with napkins on their laps and paying lunch. (Y/N) wasn’t wearing a dress this time around, rather baggy jeans, similar to what Chris had on.

“Meh, soy lattes are way better.” The former one claimed with less spirit, drinking from said preference while sitting in front of her.

“So! You left your band?” She put out in reminder, twirling her fork around her spaghetti.

“Yep, and it was for the best. You should’ve seen how ticked off they were! I mean, I gave it my best shot and that’s how they react? Unbelievable!” He scoffed, gesticulating with knife in hand,“Whatever, I don’t care about them anymore. I’ll find new people, way more awesome than them. And that starts off with a new dream.”

By this time, he had hair prickling all over the lower half of his face and took sensible measures with the hair on his head; gel was never let out of his cabinets again.

“Yeah! Like the badminton movie you landed! And you got the lead role? Doooope!”

“I hope you can be the first one to see it!” He points excitedly.

“Aw, I absolutely will!” Red coloured her cheeks,“You should come around soon you know.”

“Heck yeah I will!” He chimed, slipping a forkful of food into his mouth,”After I’m done filming, there’ll be plenty of time for us to hang out... I still can’t believe I’m talking to someone as cool as you.”

“Aw, give yourself more credit, Chris! You were the one that took the chance to start talking to me.” Her eyes gleamed in its beautiful (E/C),“Could we go to the ice cream palor first? It’ll be so fun!”

“Who am I to reject that? Unless I don’t feel like it that day.”

Only makes sense! It’s his movie they’ll be celebrating after all. He lets her know she has a coffee stain on the corner of her lip, and she’s warm, not from humiliation, but from the enrapture. The pink, purple aura of this diner really did fit with what was starting to sweeten the air- their desserts, of course!

Not only that, (Y/N) would realise, finding herself cooing, a year or so later, to the same ambitious man, tugging onto his collars one day,“You’re as handsome as ever... That stubble looks great on you.”

“What doesn’t!” He twitted, before kissing the tip of her nose.

Chris was now investing time in his show, alongside the adoption of a signature necklace tied around his flawless neck- meanwhile, (Y/N) had finished college and debated on whether university had her best interest or not; she was already doing well with music, and whatever money she would have had was mostly reserved for the apartment they rented together anyhow. Call it a wild decision, to move in with a guy she met in an alley and hasn’t known him for the same amount of time it takes one to be a sixth grader to graduating as a senior, but who cares! It was bound to happen, finding their primary strength relying on that neither of them had ever met one like the other before. It was only a matter of time before her honeysuckle chorus was made real.

“Alright!” He cleared his throat, finger pointing upwards,”Today marks the day of the pilot episode of my cooking show, Keep it Plain with Chris McLean!” 

“What dish did you make for it?” She had faith it would be mind blowing, something she hadn���t heard bef-

“White rice!”

“Just that?” ...She didn’t think he meant it literally.

“Before you go all judge-y, hear me out!” Now that he stopped singing, his voice was at liberty all the more,“I have to start off basic and simple, then I can make my way towards more complicated dishes, like lasagna and poutine!”

She’s a bit doubtful of his way of thinking, but didn’t want it to get in the way of her ability to support him,”Alright! Just...please be careful. I did have to pull strings with the company to make this possible, so if this fails, it also looks bad on me.”

“You worry too much, baby! Just leave it to me, I know what I’m doing!”

...

“A show about watching paint dry would be more entertaining than this.”

“Worst twenty minutes of my life!”

“Did he already run out of ideas to make WHITE RICE?”

“Desperation at its finest.”

“If that’s what he chose to make for the first episode, I don’t even want to know what he’ll make next. Hot water? Peeled potatoes?”

“It was okay, nothing too particularly exciting, but something my grandpa liked.”

“Even my mom with dementia knows how to cook better rice than this weirdo.” 

“I just know someone got food poisoning listening to this.”

“He didn’t even mention seasoning... Yeah, I wouldn’t ever let this guy come into my kitchen, eh?”

“You know the show is doomed when your sister that wants to be a chef turns the tv off whenever this comes on.”

“Sorry man, but this really wasn’t a good way to introduce your show.”

“Honestly, reading all of these reviews on one hand makes me relieved that I’m not the only one who thought this show was embarrassing for McLean, but on the other hand, I feel bad for him.”

“He’d be better off as a commentator because what was this recipe?”

“Just stay an actor, no one wants to see you cook.”

“Man makes dish everyone and their babies know how to make! Yay!”

It hadn’t even been a month since his first episode aired. Shame graced on one harder than a swinging bat. Switching her sight back and forth between the letter and Chris’ reaction, (Y/N) saw the love he had for his show burn. The paper gradually twitched in his hands as more time passed where they should’ve by now reached the final nail in the coffin on how the show would permanently be removed from the network’s listing. He had never seemed so close to tears.

People can be so horrible.

“Chris...don’t listen-“

“It’s fine.” He bitterly interrupts, scrunching the acidic letter up into a sphere,”They just don’t know true art. None of them do. An artist is never understood in their era.”

“Hey... You’re not okay. Let’s go outside, to the park, okay? I’ll grab a few things we’ll need.”

“Whatever!” Without warning, he yelled, hurling the ball of humiliation to the floor with (Y/N) watching from a frightened frame,”It’s just like how people reacted to my first film! Nothing was ever good enough! I am so done with them! What in the name of television standards do they want? I’ve tried everything! Everything!” He was dangerously close to ripping his hair out.

Lord! She didn’t expect him to suddenly lash out! She needed a minute to recollect her senses. 

Once regained, (Y/N) carefully rubbed his back,“That’s why, we’re going to take a break from people.”

A sulking man and a thoughtful woman. For a sunshine day like this, (Y/N) was surprised there wasn’t a lot of families outside especially from the area they lived in. Though, it was probably because it was a working weekday, so she didn’t really pay mind to how empty it was, aside from the ordinary dog walkers.

“You think I’m some sort of kid?” Chris murmured, trailing behind.

That got her attention,“What makes you say that?” he gestured gloomily behind her- the unused climbing frame, set of swings and roundabout that had lived there longer than they had was all the answer she needed,”Huh? You think I chose this park so you can go on the monkey swings? I mean, we can if you want to. Though we’ll have to do it before we eat.” She wiggles her finger,”Can’t have you feeling sick!”

“I’m good... Let’s just find a spot already.” He proposed morose, hands still stuffed in his pockets, obvious that the sunshine hadn’t brightened his mood yet.

“Hm... How about you pick it, dear?”

He seemed taken aback, but soon accepted the idea by taking a hand out to pinpoint one, near a hill, absent of sheltering trees. Not a typical spot, you could remark, but it was the spot he chose in the land of countless spaces and that was enough for her to beam and approach while watching him slowly come out from under the raincloud. 

She set the blanket down and followed him to the ground.

“How did you have all this ready?” He asks, watching her take out a different variety from her basket to the blanket.

“I went shopping yesterday. I was hoping this could’ve been a celebration of your new show... But you know what, let’s still make that happen, while add it on as a way to cheer you up.” She takes out a bottle filled with red liquid,”I noticed you’ve been drinking tomato juice a lot more recently. So I made special note to buy that. Don’t drink anything right from the bottle, I brought cups.”

“Thank you, (Y/N)...” he lets out, watching his finger stroke the body of the bottle,”Y’know, I feel like I barely pay attention to you anymore.”

“Don’t feel that way.” She didn’t want him to be in an even worse state,“Sure, it’s...true. But you’re not doing it on purpose. You had a script to memorise, and you were the host.”

“I know that...but seeing how people are reacting to it, maybe I’m not fit to be on TV, so I feel like I wasted time even bothering when I coulda just been with you.”

A frown collapsed on her lips,“If you really don’t feel like hosting again because you don’t think it’s what you’re made for, I’m in full support of that, not because of a few negative comments. You’ll get those no matter what you do, in any business. Don’t let other people decide what you can and can’t do.”

“But that’s the thing, I need other people’s opinions, don’t I, (Y/N)?” Whether he intended it or not, his interpretation addressed like ice,”I need people to watch me, to have their eyes on me, to give me the worthy name. I need people to praise my work, to praise me. I need the world to go to the stars.”

“Oh Chris...” she responds, rocking her head to him. Besides from occasional pauses of tomato juice, Chris hadn’t touched any of the food,”You can’t make everyone happy. And maybe there were more people that liked your show than you think, but the radio station only decided to include the negative parts in the letter. Besides, you did achieve some of that reputation, didn’t you? Like from your badminton movie you did?”

“A big mediocrity that could’ve gone a lot better...” he was quick to counteract,“The storyline, the setting, the other themes... No wonder why you don’t hear people begging for a sequel like Child’s Play…” he grouches, relying the weight of his ponderous face on his knees,“I’m hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. Is there any point bothering anymore, (Y/N)? Maybe I’m not meant to be famous...”

“My love…don’t say that.” She couldn’t eat after hearing that. Was that really how he thought? The clouds won’t go away easily, will they?,“I think you might just need to breathe…and accept the outcome of your cooking show. All the successful people you admire was in your position once...even I was. They pour their time and heart into something, but still witness it not getting as popular as they wanted.” She scooted closer to him,“Tell me, do you have a passion for cooking?”

He gives a thoughtful glance,“Well... I guess I’m okay at it, but it’s not something I can imagine doing for the rest of my life.”

Figures! She knew from that pace he didn’t,“Now, let me ask you. If it’s not what you’re passionate about, why did you start a show on it?”

“I guess... It just seemed easy. Truth is, I still don’t know what it is I exactly want to do, so I figured if singing or acting wasn’t my feel, I could try hosting. And cooking shows seemed good enough to suck up for... I didn’t think people would see through the pretend if I had thought more about the joy of being famous rather than...” He trailed off, appearing to ingest the messy thought process behind it...

There. She sits up, after leaving a gentle kiss on his cheek,“See? That was the root of your failure. There was nothing wrong with your charisma nor you in general, Chris, but don’t undermine your audience- they can tell if you’re doing something that doesn’t come natural to you. There’s the bigger absence of soul, and we all know what atmosphere a dead body sets. Hearing that you didn’t like it to begin with, I’m honestly happy that it failed. Imagine if it blew up and you were stuck doing it for months, years, just for reputation sake? Why make a misery out of your life when you can be famous for something you love instead?” She takes a munch of her sandwich,”In other words, yes, there is a point bothering. Remember what I said? You can be famous by doing anything. There’s no point wasting it on something that just happened to be convenient. You just have to reflect, hosting, what kind of show do you want to host? Acting, what genre do you want to star in?”

Chris doesn’t respond right away. For a second, (Y/N)’s stomach drops as though she had said the wrong thing- taking sight of the expression knitted on his face, however, she found that it wasn’t the case of searching for a verbal answer to give her- but an answer to himself. In spite of his eyes already being the darkest colour possible, a wide range of heavy thoughts had glimmered from his strange brain in them, taking her word of reflection to the next level extremely.

For what felt like an hour of listening to the wind whistling and strands of hair dancing, the epiphany (Y/N) casted on him was alas put to rest as Chris drops his body onto her lap, groaning,“I’ll think more about it later... Right now, I...think I really just need to take my mind of it.” Guess he realised he had tried exploring so many methods at once, he had forgotten to use himself as the starting point.

Warmly, she locates her accepting arms around him,“Hang in there, baby. Your time will come along.”

After that, Chris got a lot more attention. Better attention, from other actors, singers, producers. He never told her what he did that led to it. Whether he used (Y/N)’s connections or found some of his own, it worked, and now, smiling had never been more permanent on his face.

A pink balloon to her wrist, (Y/N) hopped in circles on their carpet. Even their Venus flytrap was greener for happiness was alive and well, evident by Chris’ current calls for his sweetheart one day, the ecstatic voice followed by rushing footsteps, the more it repeated, the closer it would seem he’s gotten to her, racing with a grand smile carved in his face. Before the woman at urgent request could verbalise, he gripped onto her waist to swing her off her feet out of this pure excitement,”I got it, I got it, I got it! I got the job!”

Who could not have smiled at such an act?! This along with what he said was definitely a time of good news! 

“Woooo! Where, Chris, where?!” She laughed with him as he put her back down.

“Hosting! I’m going to be hosting a brand new reality tv show!” He announced, hand to chest, the words flying out faster than he can think them.

Oh my God.

Her eyes widened.

This really was a miracle.

“Oh my God!” she squealed recklessly loud, her go to tighten her arms around him,”That’s incredible Chris! Oh I’m so proud of you!” No wonder why he was so happy! He was going to have a second chance at one of the best positions in the industry!

“Thank you, (Y/N)! This is totally going to be my breakthrough! No way I’ll get fired now! And...” his voice tones down for a crucial confession,“I want you to be part of it.”

“Huh, me? Meeee? Lil old me?” she had caught her own wide smile, letting go of him. 

“Uh, yes! I can’t have you in the shadows when there’s the whole world to shine for!” He explained as though it was obvious.

“Ohhh I don’t know...” the beloved lady puts a considering finger on the side of her face,“I won’t be as good as you with being on live television, and... Well, I want you to be the centre of it all, not me by accident.”

“Ohohoho...” he laughs, lightly squeezing her face,“Don’t worry, you for sure won’t be stealing my spotlight. Come on... It’ll mean the world to me! And it’ll be my way of saying thank you for believing in me. Pleaaaaaaaaase?” He grasped his hands together in front of his face.

“Hmm...” What was really stopping her? She had the confidence for it and she’d get to really celebrate Chris’ success on landing such a good job by being a part of it,”Alright! If it’s for you, then absolutely! How should I apply?”

“Apply?” The soon to be host with the most repeated, confusion narrowing his beautiful features, before cracking up at such inquiry,”I already signed you up! It was actually the producers’ idea to get someone like you on the show!” He puts his hands forwards, cracking knuckles, no going back,”Prepare for showbiz Y/N, cuz we’re in for the ride of fame!”

[blackmarket-playlists]

BEST PUNK DEBUTS FROM APRIL! Check out the best, freshest first tunes from some great new bands that you really need to discover. Everything on this playlist, get stuck in, these are absolute killer tracks from:

• Artist: Goldstate • Release: Love Bomb (single) • Country: UK

• Artist: Drama • Release: Demo (ep) • Country: Kaufbeuren, Germany

• Artist: RUDE • Release: About Youth (album) • Country: Milan, Italy

• Artist: Wooden Crates • Release: Wooden Crates EP (ep) • Country: Anchorage (Alaska), US

• Artist: Hattefök • Release: Alcoholic POS (single) • Country: Åndalsnes, Norway

• Artist: ONE-TIMER • Release: Greatest Hits (ep) • Country: Montreal, Canada

• Artist: Peach Pact • Release: A.ajax (single) • Country: North Bay (Ontario), Canada

• Artist: Rood End • Release: What Do You Take Me For? (single) • Country: Birmingham, England

• Artist: CANT KEEP WAITING • Release: House of Glass (single) • Country: Alexandria (Virginia), US

• Artist: Goldwaite • Release: Outlive This (single) • Country: Chicago (Illinois), US

• Artist: Static Friction • Release: Static Friction (ep) • Country: Boston (Massachusetts), US

• Artist: The Institutionalist • Release: Adjustment Discorder (album) • Country: The Basin (Melbourne), Australia

And all that’s in addition to March fresh sonic injections, including King Ludd, Suplex and BIRDHAND (all Ontario, Cn), In Inkra (Denmark), PDA, Sikmetra (both Chicago), Hiss (Brisbane, Aus), Jackie and the Idiots (Rhode Island), thread in (New York) and the oidz (Leeds, UK)

All playlists now also on Deezer, YouTube and YouTube Music, Amazon Music, Soundcloud (if the songs are available there). Daily synchronisations.

[rebeccalouisaferguson]

Interview with narrator Rebecca Ferguson

Q. What made you want to be part of this series?

I was brought up having a magical connection to nature.  When later introduced to the world of BBC wildlife programmes it brought back so much nostalgia.  Being asked to be part of this series therefore was a huge honour for me.

Q. Tell us a bit about growing up in Scandinavia.

When I was growing up, I always wanted to go exploring in the woods and become one of my favourite childhoods characters Ronja from stories by Astrid Lindgren. She was a true representation of Swedish and Scandinavian nature. I also loved to do another tradition of picking wild strawberries and threading them through strains of straw.

Q. Tell us about your personal passion for Scandinavia

It’s Raw and wild. It’s Pinecones, mushroom picking, cold, mythical mysterious.  So many tales and stories come from the world of Scandinavia. 

Q. Describe any personal experiences you’ve had with wildlife in Scandinavia

It’s hard not to have connections with nature.  For me it’s about feeling connected to it and being a part of it daily.  I was brought up in Stockholm then moved to the south of Sweden to a remote fishing village, meaning I got to explore such drastic difference in environments and temperatures.

Q. Were there any standout or memorable sequences in the series for you?

Being a part of the whole story and seeing things that I would have never got the opportunity to see was such a treat. It brings me as close to it as possible.  It’s so unusual to see it all first-hand and I got to be part of it adding my narrative which was magical. As an ocean lover, I particularly enjoyed the reproductive process of the synchronised star fish and watching the sea cucumbers feed on the algae and plankton from the seabeds. 

Q. Did you learn anything new about Scandinavia that you didn’t know before narrating the series? 

Yes! I couldn’t believe that they are still preserving fish the same way we did in the Viking times! It was fascinating to see that process. 

Q. What do you believe is so captivating about this region?

The Landscape is the main characteristic, it’s sharp and harsh and the animals have had to learn to shape to their environment.  The extreme difference between the North of Sweden with its angular landscapes to the south of Sweden with its rolling hillsides, orchards and apple trees.

Q. Do you have a favourite species from the series and why?

Yes! The White-Tailed Sea Eagle is my favourite species from the series. They are so majestic flying through the air.  Their hunting skills of catching the fish is like watching a thrilling chase scene from a movie! It’s so highly skilled and chaotic at the same time.

Q. What do you hope viewers will take away from watching Wild Scandinavia?

I hope that they it will Learn about new environments and that it opens up their eyes to the beauty of this region.  How different it is. Why it’s so different. How the people have had to adapt to the environment.  The extremes of the seasonal weather and landscapes.  I hope it makes people want to visit and to nurture and to care for our world even more.

Interview with Series Producer, Tuppence Stone

Q. What do you think Rebecca Ferguson brings to the series, as the narrator?

We were very keen to have such a strong female role model to voice Wild Scandinavia. With her roles in Mission Impossible and Dune, it is great to collaborate with such an international star. Rebecca is Anglo Swedish, so was a perfect choice – with her intimate knowledge of Scandinavia and fluent Swedish the mythology and names included in the script felt so natural when she delivered them. She added an important authenticity to the series, building on our decision to work with the brilliant Icelandic composer – Biggi Hilmars, so that our views feel totally immersed in the Scandinavia wilderness.

[uncertainwallflower]

FIC STATS GAME

Thanks for the tag @charmsandtealeaves! This was very fun and has honestly reignited my interest in some fics I’ve been ignoring… 👀

Rules: Give us links to your fics with the most hits, second most kudos, third most bookmarks, fourth most comments, fifth most words, and fic with the least amount of words.

Most hits?

Between the Desire and the Spasm. 1,538.

Summary: Trains are arguably the centre of everything. The sinew of civilisation for muggles and wizards alike. They are where all walks of life converge. Congregate. In synchronised traversal. Shared agony inflicted by the piercing screech of metal on metal, bonding all patrons aboard a carriage. And outside. A passing glimpse of someone you thought you’d never see again. Trains. They change everything.

Second most kudos?

The Virtue of Sharing. 55.

Summary: James prefers the Gryffindor common room armchairs over the loveseat. That is until he finds himself sharing one with Lily Evans and his whole perspective changes: a ficlet.

Third most bookmarks?

I Can’t Love Him. 7.

Summary: James Potter was an intolerable prick. A dim-witted, egotistical toerag who wasn't worth Lily's time. Well, unless, in the case of a good telling-off, that was very much worth it. This was true right up until the last few weeks of fifth year when Lily's whole life was flipped on her head, and she was left to work out what in Merlin's name to do with it.

Fourth most comments?

To Live Without a Heart. 8 threads.

Summary: James wasn’t home that night. It was the one decent thing Peter did, and James hated him for it.

Fifth most words?

Expectation’s Encumbrance. 3,517.

Summary: Miss Lillian Evans is entirely uninterested in marriage, thank you very much. James Potter, Viscount Godric, could not agree more. After an introduction from a mutual friend—one Mr Lupin—the pair form a friendship in which they laugh at the ridiculousness of their marriage-minded society together and pass away endless tiring fetes in each other's company.

Least words?

Nettle Wine & Commiseratory Snogging. 37.

Summary: Following a harrowing loss on the Quidditch Pitch, James is commiserated in the comforting confines of the Gryffindor common room: a ficlet.

Tagging: @merlinsbbeard, @kay-elle-cee, @liiilyevans and @quotidian-oblivion.

[distant--shadow]

Laudna shrouds herself over Imogen's back, their legs intertwined under their shared blanket. 

When they lie so close Laudna can easily believe the warmth she syphons is her own; that the regular, slow and deep breaths that caus her own body to rise along with Imogen are shared and just as beneficial between the two of them. 

If she believes it then it can be magic. 

Magic, she delicately draws the tip of her ichored nail down Imogen's forearm, following a path carved by a lightning strike scar before tangling in the welcoming snare of a knot of green ribbon and red thread. 

She thumbs over the bracelet, aware of how her own is pressed between their arms in one of the many places that their bodies currently meet, aware of how it would leave an imprint on her flesh if it had more fat and elasticity, aware of the feeling of the further fray on Imogen's bracelet verses her own, the worries she has worn into its fabric with her anxious habitual movements. 

(aware that it seems wrong to cast mending without asking.) 

The green of the ribbon is silken, especially in comparison to the unravelling nature of the red twine, a blood-dyed sturdier fiber like threads of muscles tweezered apart, for it must be robust enough to tie skulls to taxidermy, to hang her utilities from her belts, and so it seems fitting, that the ribbon should be silk, be bows of green accentuating softness in all curves and fur. 

Imogen's positioned like one of the things on Laudna's belt; not noosed at giant knuckle but a Ruidian specimen all the same, curled in and alien-in-a-glass-jar fetal - her subconscious laying her prone on their bed roll, her mother's voice in her nightmares, in her dreams

Laudna wonders how far the bracelet frays when she stands in the red storm

how often Imogen counts each braid of it between the pads of her fingertips like a bead for a prayer

if it ever unravels and lays itself out as rope, ties around rock and helps her escape

good thing then, that Laudna’s twine is supportive, that Fearne’s is soft to her touch

if it could tether them there, to her dreams

to where there is the moon

and so is here-

Laudna acknowledges one of the many things she often has to, but would rather she didn't. Subtle as the purple glow from inside of her chest. 

(if everyone didn't know otherwise she could say that the glow was Imogen’s.) 

but they know otherwise. they were there when she woke up, they stood around the experiment-cum-operating table. 

and all of the Hells can see this too

the string of glowing red energy that stretches across the dark natural stone cavern that lends itself as a bedroom. 

ties Imogen to Fearne. 

Laudna parts her hand from Imogen's wrist, reaches out, her bony elbow cushioned by the swell of Imogen's hip. 

Her index finger unfurls, beckons at the god-eating tether as if she could pluck it like a lute string, wonders if the note would change with their distance, grabs at it as if it were a lasso Imogen had cast and that Laudna could grasp and reel Fearne towards them

the mental image of it makes Laudna chortle, her brittle bones surely sooner snapping as a dissonant chord plays-

Imogen stirs

"Honey, did you say somethin'?"  she blearily whispers

"I'm sorry, were you sleeping?" 

"No, I was just thinkin'."

"With your eyes closed?" 

"With ma eyes closed." Imogen turns over her shoulder and kisses Laudna on the end of her permanently broken nose. "What were you laughin' about?"

Laudna's focus darts to where her hand had grasped for unattainable energy. 

"I was thinking about my arms popping out of their sockets after trying to wrangle Fearne." 

Imogen stifles her laugh, her dimples drawing in shadows. 

"There is a lot of her." 

she quiets as from a few feet away, Fearne gently snores.

the scoff Imogen's throat gives is affectionate, a reverberation of rumble travelled between them sympathetic and synchronised.

"mm." Laudna shortly hums. She can't disagree. 

She returns her hand to lay ontop of Imogen's upturned, though it is hard for her eyes to ignore the only source of light in the room, despite her dark vision. 

Imogen's fingers thread between her own, squeeze tentatively. 

Laudna's head is rested over Imogen's shoulder, sunken into the crook of her neck, her soft lilac hair pillowing her castle ruin cheek

their line of sight can't be too dissimilar, surely Imogen can't ignore the spectral tightrope illuminating between them. 

Laudna hadn't done a good job of making it across the one over the river. 

Imogen can most likely feel it even if her eyes are closed. 

The gold of her circlet a juxtaposition of hot flesh meeting cold, a flux permanently balanced between their two body tempratures. 

"You have said before that we're a lot..." 

"We are, but we wouldn't be us if we weren't. It's what makes us right, it's why we work." the hush to Imogen's voice doesn't dampen its affection. 

Laudna props herself up on her left elbow, right arm still draped over Imogen but now her head hovering over the other woman's, their hair a mass of wiry blacks and wavy lilacs covering the pillow

Laudna wonders how the two would look braided, 

of seafoam green-

"And Fearne?" 

Imogen's brow furrows.

Fearne? 

Imogen opens their mental connection to excuse the third woman from their conversation. 

The two of you…

Imogen's cheeks flush, imperceptible to anyone else within their nook or the neighbouring-nook ‘rooms’ (Laudna would know easily how to make a room of them), despite their sleeping, despite Orym’s perception. He can't see in the dark. He can't get to know everything. And Chet-

well he'd probably argue he could smell the blood anyhow.

I am not jealous. I do not envy your posistion. I am glad you have someone-

Laudna, what you talkin’ about? I have you. 

You have both of us, and I really am thankful for that.

[benevolentgodloki]

Verses - Part 2

V103. Partner: therebetterbepie (Dean Winchester) Loki: Trickster Theme: Supernatural

Details: The 'true' Loki shows up in America to see what all the fuss was about and have a bit of fun.

Thread: Trickster and Hunter

V104. Partner: the-mjolnir-owner (Thor) Loki: God of Stories Theme: God of Stories

Details: Thor finds out what Loki has become

Thread: Little Lies

V105. Partner: ironifiicd (Tony Stark) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: Avengers Tower?

Details: Two lonely divas find comfort in one another in a quiet room at an Avengers party.

Thread: Kiss Me

V106. Partner: dashing-fandral (Fandral) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: Sakaar/Infinity War

Details: Fandral and Loki both survive Ragnarok and Thanos, only to be abducted back to Sakaar.

Thread: Scrapped

V107. Partner: ironifiicd (Tony Stark) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: TBC

Details: Tony captures Loki after he's been up to some mischief.

Thread: Picked Up

V108. Partner: what-the-stark (Tony Stark) Loki: God of Stories Theme: God of Stories

Details: Tony survived the War. The God of Stories wants to find a reality to belong. He starts by contacting a favoured Avenger.

Thread: Synchronisation

V109. Partner: what-the-stark (Tony Stark) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: God of Mischief

Details: A frustrated Loki seeks out Tony to let off steam after escaping Asgard and surviving the dark elves.

Thread: Pain

V110. Partner: what-the-stark (Tony Stark) Loki: President Loki Theme: President Loki

Details: President Loki escapes the Void and seeks assistance.

Thread: Games

V111. Partner: what-the-stark (Tony Stark) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: God of Mischief

Details: Similar to V109 in background. An exiled Loki occasionally shows up to bother Stark.

Thread: Avalon

V112. Partner: what-the-stark (Tony Stark) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: Like The Old Days

Details: Befriending Tony before the events of Thor, Loki shows him around Asgard.

Thread: Secrets

V113. Partner: mischieftomake (Loki) Loki: God of Stories Theme: God of Stories

Details: Loki has his memories of being God of Stories hidden and goes to have some intimate fun with another Loki. Now his responsibilities are catching up with him.

Thread: Shenanigans

V114. Partner: normaltothemax (Moon Knight) Loki: God of Stories Theme: God of Stories

Details: After an MCU twist on the Age of Khonshu, Loki is quite taken with the idea of offering his services as Moon Knight's temporary deity.

Thread: Mischief Knight

V115. Partner: notdeadyetpool (Deadpool) Loki: God of Stories Theme: ???

Details: Two fourth-wall breakers meet. Go.

Thread: Exceptions To The Rule

V116. Partner: 1batch2batch (Frank Castle) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: God of Mischief

Details: Having returned from the dead and to Earth, Loki holes up with a gang and crosses paths with the Punisher.

Thread: Walking Wounded

V117. Partner: 1batch2batch (Frank Castle) Loki: God of Stories Theme: God of Stories

Details: A lonely, curious God of Stories puts herself in Frank's way.

Thread: This Is Your Life

V118. Partner: celestialmantdonna (Mantis) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: Pre-GotG 3

Thread: Middle of Knowhere

V119. Partner: divinityrisen (Steve Rogers) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: Banished

Thread: Saviour Steve

ARCHIVED VERSES (ones I'm open to bringing back if requested)

V101. Partner: icecoldreactor (Tony Stark) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: God of Mischief

Details: Loki and Tony get stranded alone on an alien spaceship.

Thread: Stuck

V102. Partner: the-mjolnir-owner (Thor) Loki: God of Mischief Theme: God of Mischief

Details: Thor discusses his breakup with Jane with Loki while on the Statesman.

Thread: Breakup

[kailondo]

Blogg Post #3 - Spatial Sound Festival

With the Spatial Sound Festival - From all Sides just around the corner, anticipation is building. Initially, I was drawn by the idea of synchronising lights to the patterns of sound within the spatial sound system. Armed with a new DMX light controller earlier this year, I set out to bring this vision to life. However, creating a functioning patch proved to be difficult.

As I sat down to write this blog post, a simple coding idea turned into a intense hours of experimentation and mainly troubleshooting. Along the way, I encountered a annoying issue with my DMX controller, causing the lights to flicker erratically. But perseverance paid off as I stumbled upon a forum thread addressing a similar problem.

Finally, after overcoming numerous hurdles, and doing adjustments on the patch, last minuit before the performance. I had developed a patch that utilised the spatial transient tracker to send signals to the DMX controller, effectively triggering lights in sync with the spatial audio.

The performance went well, for being a prototype of the project and with no time to rehers/plan out how the light was activated with the different sound, it gave a insight the potential using a Audio Reactive Patch within a spatial sound system.