[fourlandnorris]

‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎˖ ࣪⭑ forever and ever and ever ˖ ࣪⭑

summary ᰋ your early on-set Alzheimer's steals moments from you and henry.

includes ꕀ henry creel ﾒ fem!reader. established relationship. a very saiyaara typa fic. tbh i really love this. angst / fluff. i genuinely love this fic sm i'll genuinely lowkey be pissed if y'all don't like it 😭😭.

HENRY THINKS OF YOU CONSTANTLY, ENDLESSLY, & RELENTLESSLY. 

                  You met him in the freshly painted corridors of Hawkins high school. At 14, you were already a ghost in your own home — a girl with sharp eyes and calloused hands from chores that never ended. Your mother drifted through the days like a wilted flower, exhausted from endless laundry and meals that no one appreciated, her spirit crushed under the weight of routine. Father stumbled in late from the factory, reeking of cheap whiskey and regret. Left to fend for yourself, you learned to cook a cheese toast, mend your own clothes with clumsy stitches, and navigate the world. Friends came and went, but home was a graveyard of silence and slammed doors.

                  Henry was the shadow in the back row, the boy whose footsteps echoed emptier than most. At home, he was invisible — father still reeling from nightmares of world war, mother who was scared of her own flesh and blood; telling his sister to stay away from him. Leaving him to huddle in his room with dog-eared comics and the hum of a fan. School was no refuge — whispers followed him like smoke, rumors of him hurting kids in Nevada, painting him as the kid to avoid. Lunch trays shuffled past his table, invitations to parties evaporated before reaching him, and group projects left him paired with the teacher’s reluctant pity. He carried the weight of it in slumped shoulders and averted eyes.

                  You collided one rainy afternoon in the library, quite literally. He caught her books mid-fall. No grand gesture, just a shared glance that lingered. “Thanks,” you muttered. His words came haltingly at first — you complaining about a burnt dinner, him admitting the comics were his escape. Laughter cracked through the awkwardness.

                  From there, you became each other's anchor. After school, you'd meet at the edge of the woods behind his house, away from prying eyes. You taught him to laugh at the absurdities of their lives, far from neglectful homes. He listened when you vented about your father's rages or your mother's vacant stares. “You're tougher than anyone here,” he'd say, his voice gaining strength in her presence. He told you about the incident in Nevada, when he was lost in the caves for hours and hours on end.

                  By 17, your bond deepened into something unspoken but electric. Stolen kisses behind the bleachers after football games, your hand in his during late-night walks home. He became your safe harbor, the one who bandaged your scraped knees from bike rides taken to escape, who held you through tears when your parents' fought. You were his light, chasing away the shadows with your unwavering belief in him, whispering that he was worthy of more than avoidance. You both dreamed together — of leaving town, building a life unmarred by the pains that shaped them.

                 Now at twenty three you stood infront of him. The knife creating a distance between you two. The kitchen light flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. Early-onset Alzheimer's, the doctor called it — a thief in the night, stealing pieces of you bit by bit. But tonight, something feels wrong. The days blur together now, names and faces slipping away like sand through your fingers.

                  It's him. A man stands there, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair tousled, eyes wide with concern. He looks familiar in a way that tugs at the edges of your memory, but it's not enough. Who is he? Why is he in your house? Panic surges through you like ice water. "Get out," you whisper at first, your voice trembling. The blade gleams under the light, cold and reassuring in your grip. "I said get out!"

                  He doesn't move. Instead, he steps closer, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Hey, it's me. Henry. You know me. We're... we're us." His voice is soft, laced with a tone that's only reserved for you but your mind doesn't recognize it. The fog thickens, and all you see is a stranger invading your space, his presence a threat. Tears sting your eyes as fear twists into anger. "Get out of here!" You wave the knife in front of him. Sobs choke your words. Why won't he just go? Why is this happening?

                  Henry's face crumples, but he doesn't back away. He trusts you — God, he always has. But now, that trust blinds him to the danger. "Please, put it down. I love you. Remember? We promised we'd get through this together." His words mean nothing. They're just noise from a man you don't recognize. The fear boils over, and you lunge forward. The knife slices through his flesh, catching him off guard. It plunges into his arm. Blood rushes instantly, soaking his sleeve, but he doesn't yell. He just gasps, eyes locking onto yours with a mix of pain and heartbreaking sorrow.

                  Tears brim your eyes red as you slowly look up at the man. The moment is too intense — highly emotionally stimulating. The fog doesn't clear, it only deepens the terror. You drop the knife — it clatters to the floor — and bolt for the door, legs pumping in blind panic. You have to get away, have to escape this intruder before he hurts you. Henry catches your wrist before you could run away. Strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a solid chest. You scream, the sound raw and piercing, echoing off the walls. "Let me go!” You thrash against him, nails digging into his forearms, kicking wildly. But he's too strong, holding you tight without hurting you, his breath ragged against your ear.

                  "Shh, it's okay. It's me. You're safe." His voice breaks, warm blood from his wound seeping onto your shirt as he cradles you closer. You scream again, louder, the cries tearing from your soul — cries of confusion, of loss, of a love you can't grasp. He rocks you gently, ignoring the pain in his arm, his own tears mixing with yours as they fall onto your shoulder.

                  In that moment, as your screams fade to whimpers, the weight of it all crashes down. Henry holds you through the storm, just like he always has. The man who mended your broken heart after years of ignorance, who whispered affirmations until you believed you were worthy. And you — the woman who chased away his demons, who loved him fiercely when he thought he was unlovable. This disease is trying to steal that from you both, but he won't let go. Not now, not ever. He holds you on the wooden floor of your shared home till your vision fades to darkness.

                  Midnight finds you stirring in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The house is quiet now, save for the soft murmur of water running somewhere nearby. Your head throbs faintly, as you sit up. You pad barefoot down the hallway toward the bathroom light spilling onto the floorboards. There he is, Henry, perched on the edge of the tub, his shirt discarded, the wound on his arm exposed under the harsh bulb. He's dabbing at it with a cloth soaked in antiseptic. The gash is deep, ragged edges glistening.

                  Your breath catches, a lump rising in your throat as tears well up unbidden. He looks up, surprise softening his features, and you step forward without thinking. “What happened?” you whisper, voice thick with emotion, reaching for the cloth in his hand. “Let me... let me help,” your fingers tremble as you take over, gently pressing the fabric against the cut, wiping away the blood. Seeing him hurt like this twist something inside you? 

                  He watches you, his free hand covering yours for a moment, warm and steady. “It's nothing,” he says softly, though his eyes betray the lie. “Just bumped into something sharp in the kitchen earlier. Clumsy me.” The words are light, you nod, swallowing the sob that threatens to escape. You don't question it. His calm reassures you enough. Tears spill over as you wrap the bandage around his arm, your touch lingering. “I'm sorry,” you murmur, not sure what for. He pulls you into his lap then, arms encircling you despite the pull on his injury, and you bury your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him. “What are you sorry for?” he huffs out a weak laugh. 

                  “I don't know,” you sigh. He strokes your hair, murmuring nonsense comforts until your tears slow. “I love you, Max,” you whispered, looking up at him with unafraid eyes. The first aid kit almost slipped from his hand. His chest hollowed out instantly, breath catching in his throat. Instead he smiled, and leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. 

                  Max was your ex in highschool. The one who made you feel so undeserving of love. The man who tried to drive a fight between you and Henry. The very man who was kissing another girl at a party and told you he was dating “because of some stupid bet.” Henry watched you spiral because of him, he watched you lose yourself for a man who wasn’t even worthy for your affection. You fell asleep against Henry unaware of what you had done. He couldn't blame — never would he even think of it. It was that disease that pulled away from you, stealing memories of you and him.

                  This was the moment he realized, the photo wall you two made, the endless tapes of you and him sharing domestic days, the journals in which you documented your days, his powers through which he could show you dreams of the time you and him already spent together — all of it meant so little. Because the disease was an endless pit, a parasitic bug that was slowly chewing away your memories. And all he could was hold you. After years of neglect from parents, shitty partners, you and him deserved so much more. So much better than him but fate was cruel.

                  Morning came gentle and lazy like it always did. Sunlight filtered through the kitchen curtains, painting the room in soft golds, the aroma of fresh coffee fills the air. You're seated at the table, a mug warming your hands, steam curling lazily upward. Henry moves about with easy grace, pouring his own cup and sliding a plate of toast between you — simple, unhurried, as if the night never happened. He sits across from you, his bandaged arm resting lightly on the wood. 'Sleep okay?' he asks, voice low and warm, reaching to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. 

                  You nod, sipping the coffee, its bitterness grounding you in the moment. “Oh we had a date today right? that fancy place,” you mumble, voice wavering and unsure. Henry lets out a chuckle, “We went on that date yesterday, you enjoyed it so much.” “Oh, yeah, sorry I forgot,” you took another sip of your coffee. Your fingers brush his across the table.

                  “Henry?” You held his wrist when he got up to put his mug in the sink. “Yeah?” “I love you, I really do. Forever and ever and ever,” you whisper, repeating the words he told you when you asked him to desert you when you first found out about your diagnosis. Henry smiled, leaning down to kiss your temple just like he did last night, just like he'll do tomorrow and the day after that, and forever and ever and ever. 

[fourlandnorris]

would any of you guys be interested in an oc x oc f1 fic????? 🧍🏽‍♀️. it's supposed to be a desi f1 driver x desi pop star fic. maybe the fem oc could be the older sister of arvid lindblad.

the face claims could be ahaan and aneet. not super sure about the fem oc being desi but you see, i've published desi reader fics and they barely get any engagement compared to other ones because the desi community is small.

so that's why i was thinking of maybe making both of them ocs because if engagement is going to be small, then fuck it and make it oc instead. because that makes it easier to find photos. lmk pls 😃😃.

[fourlandnorris]

Hello!! I know this is a little random, especially coming from a stranger in your asks 😅, but I wanted to reach out to you about your fic 'Documents of Us'. I'm putting together an online newsletter/magazine thing, specifically for x reader fics, and I was wondering if you would like your fic to be featured in it? It would be a full-length feature, meaning it would appear like a Magazine article would, instead of an external link (like how most people do fic rec lists). Here's a couple of posts I made about this idea with more info if you're curious:

https://www.tumblr.com/dontmentionitseriouslyy/812203476707852288/alri-have-an-idea?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/dontmentionitseriouslyy/814097683253985280/blog-update%E1%90%9F?source=share

Of course, there’s no pressure to say yes, and I would love to hear any ideas, comments, or questions that you might have! Thank you, and I hope you’re having an amazing day! 😊🫶

Also! If you’re interested, we have a discord community for the magazine, too! https://discord.com/invite/bbE3PRKb2v

honestly, I'd love to. Please do, just make sure you credit me 🩷🩷🩷

[fourlandnorris]

do any of y'all have fic/book recommendations where the girl is a spy and the guy is a military official. i have read calling sehmat by sikka and I've been missing smth like that. maybe smth indian or foregin works fine too

[fourlandnorris]

no, no, no but imagine a hollonov law student era. shane being a corporate law student while ilya because a criminal law student for the sole purpose that he heard somewhere that criminal lawyers at times are at danger because criminal law involves, well, criminals. and for the singular reason that ilya likes to fuck with danger, he immediately thought of doing criminal law at 15. while Shane's approach to corp law is more logical ( 💸💸 ).

at library with frnds, ilya off handedly jokes about how corporate law is boring and that corp law people don’t like law js money. shane happens to overhear it. and at this point, these two are strangers, maybe have seen each other in passing and felt the other was attractive but nth more than that.

cut to moot court, where the case is in requirement of both corporate and criminal lawyers ( does that happen? idk i am still doing my pre law but for the sake of the story it does, anyway ). and you js know shane scrapped to the bottom of the topic, there is no point or argument left that he's unprepared for

everytime ilya speaks up, Shane's immediately like "objection, irrelevant". ilya tries to speak 4 times, all four times his arguments are quashed as irrelevant, because they are.

after the hearing ends, shane walks up the opposing counsel and is like "good arguments everybody, it was really amazing to see things from a perspective i missed, real good work". then he turns to ilya, "oh an rozanov, you might want to start befriending smn in corporate, maybe they could teach you how to bring up arguments that are actually relevant to the case" and then he js walks away.

everyone, including shane, is sooo flabbergasted. because shane is the kind and patient guy, the one who helps others, who once said "there are no hierarchies in my head, i think we all put in a lot of effort to get into this school so it doesn't make me feel superior to another js because i'm a corporate law student while someone else is a human rights law student". so everyone's basically pointing fingers at ilya like what did you do to piss off shane????

and obviously ilya is like i didn't even do anything! and he didn't but they don't believe him because he does have a tendency to be brash, and a bit of asshole like 😭😭.

shane on the other hand, he didn't intended to say it. yeah sure he thought of those words when he saw ilya's arguments being quashed but he really didn't intended to say that! he js went there to actually tell ppl that their arguments were actually amazing because he didn't want them to feel shit about losing as speaking in public is quite hard and he knows that himself. so he went there with good intentions. he js though he'd ignore ilya but smth came over him.

ilya, surely was momentarily distracted by shane freckles when he came over but goddammit that wasn't what he expected for "the polite wasian kid" to say to him! and god he knew that was not going to be the last conversation he'd have with hollander. plus wasn't it shane's wish that ilya befriended smn from corporate law, smn who can teach him how to bring up arguments that actually relevant to the case, yeah ilya was going to make sure that the certain smn from corporate law would be shane hollander.

[fourlandnorris]

i swear every time shane was hurt or seeing demons, ilya looked the hottest.

exhibit a

exhibit b, IN GIFS!!!

[fourlandnorris]

yall quick i need ideas for my playlist. so basically i have couple of playlists and i keep my songs segregated like love songs, classical music, amd growth songs — all of it in diff playlists. so give some song recs!!!! doesn't really matter what type it is!!!

[fourlandnorris]

the highlighted part is for every writer on this app, or any another app, whether you use ai to write your fics or not, specially for those who use ai to "write" their fics:

[fourlandnorris]

‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎˖ ࣪⭑ I'm not a Vampire ˖ ࣪⭑

summary ᰋ ilia watches you try on his costume.

includes ꕀ fluff. childhood bestfriend to lovers. i literally don't care what anyone says, the version one costume was superior to the version two. also the mirroring scenarios like reader waiting for ilia to show his costume and vice versa is on purpose. because you know, when you spend sm time with smn you start mirroring their actions or adopting their vocab, yeah that's what i was going for there.

You sat cross-legged in the middle of Ilia's bed, hands busy scrolling through tiktok. You often joked that his room felt more like a his fan's room rather than his own. The medals, figurines — heck he had a huge poster of his '24 world championship in his own room.

"Bloody narcissist," you joked as he stood up to put up the poster. "You'd be too if you were as amazing as me," he retorted back making you roll your eyes.

You squint your eyes at weird tiktok, comparing you and Ilia and calling him shit. You sighed before hitting the not interested button as you threw your phone onto his bed. Flopping backward onto his pillows, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to his ceiling from when you two were twelve. You'd put them up after late practice one night, too tired to do homework, still smelling like ice and cold air. Somehow, he's never taken them down.

You didn’t even remember meeting him. He was always in your memories, always next to you. First competition. First fall that knocked the wind out of you. First time you landed that stupidly difficult jump clean and just looked at each other in disbelief.

Your parents were friends with his. You could only assume you two became friends from extension for a young age, a age you couldn't recollect. Though you do remeber hours and hours and hours of gliding across the ice until the edges feel like the same line carved into the rink.

The door handle clicks. You shoot upright so fast. "Okay," he says from behind the door. "No laughing." "I would never," you lie instantly. Ofcourse he knew it, he always did because you often made fun of his costumes. Calling it "Even a donkey can do digitial printing better" once. Unfortunately for him, his sister sneezed after you called him out on it. "Aha, she sneezed!" you pointed out, the old russian tale that if someone sneezes between in argument, it automatically means that the statement is correct.

Ilia mentally cursed his mother for telling you that. But he couldn’t help the soft smile that stretched on his face when Liza and you teamed up against him.

"How is it?" Ilia asks. He was wearing a crisp white, high-collared shirt with slightly billowy sleeves that gather at the wrists. Over it is a fitted black vest, cut sharp at the waist. The vest is detailed with intricate gold embellishments that branch upward like delicate vines and tiny crystals are scattered throughout, catching the arena lights.

The most striking detail was at the collar.

There’s a deep red stain concentrated at the side of his neck and upper chest, spreading outward across the white fabric. The red extends beyond the collar area, trailing down and slightly onto the upper sleeve. He paired the beautiful top with a simple pair of plain black pants.

"Holy shit," you mumble. A smile takes over your face before you let out a giggle, getting down from his bed. Ilia feels hot under your gaze, your eyes roam around his vest — shamelessly — checking out the blonde. "Did you get kidnapped?" You tilt your head to look up at him.

"My bestfriend does not have this good taste in costume!" you added watching him roll his eyes. "Haha, very funny. But is this good?" He said. You nod at him, "Ilia this is really good. Breaking out from the Nathan Chen brand, I see."

That was even before the season had started. Currently, it was the final competition of the season, the world's. You were in his hotel's lavatory.

You wanted to try the first version of his I'm not a Vampire's costume. Ilia waited for you on his bed, knee bouncing too much for his liking.

"Hey," you close the door behind you, "What do we think?" Ilia looked you. He felt as though his breath has been stolen from his lungs. You looked . . . ethereal. He felt his heart beating so fast, he feared he may succumb to a heart attack in the moment.

"Jesus," he mumbled under his breath, getting off that damn bed and stepping closer to you. Instead of pants, you paired it with a black skirt. "Gimme a spin." Ofcourse you obliged, though not oblivious to the change in his tone.

"Do I look pretty?" You asked. It wasn’t uncommon for you and Ilia to share clothes. You two often shared jackets, shirts, and tshirts. You raided his closet more often than he did yours ( "As if your halter neck top would fit me!" he once complained after finding out you went on a date wearing his leather jacket. He stole your ralph lauren sweater in revenge. )

Ilia's eyes traced the lines of the costume on you, starting from the high-collared white shirt that fell lose on your frame, the billowy sleeves fluttering slightly as you moved. The black vest loosened at your waist, those gold vines and crystals shimmering under the soft hotel room light, drawing his gaze downward to the way the black skirt swayed against your legs.

The deep red stain at the collar peeked out, bold and dramatic, making your skin look even softer in contrast. He swallowed hard, his usual confident smirk faltering into something more vulnerable, his cheeks warming as he took you all in.

"You look... incredible," he finally managed, his voice low and a little breathless. He stepped even closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the crisp fabric of the outfit. His hand reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing the edge of the vest near your shoulder, adjusting a crystal that didn't really need fixing. "Like, seriously. I don't think I've ever seen anything better."

You felt a flutter in your chest at the intensity in his eyes, the way they lingered not just on the costume but on you—your smile, the curve of your neck, the way your hair fell just so. It wasn't the teasing glances you were used to from him. This was different, charged with something unspoken that had been building between you for seasons now.

You'd caught yourself staring at him during practices, heart skipping when he'd laugh at one of your dumb jokes or drape his arm over your shoulders after a long day on the ice. For years, you'd buried those feelings under layers of friendship, convinced he saw you as just his best friend, the one who'd glued glow-in-the-dark stars to his ceiling and stolen his jackets for dates.

But here, in this hotel room on the eve of Worlds, with the weight of the season pressing in, it all felt too real. Too close.

Ilia’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, and before he could second-guess it, he leaned in. His hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck, gentle but sure, pulling you toward him. His lips pressed against yours softly, tentative at first. It was warm and sweet, tasting faintly of the mint gum he'd been chewing earlier, his breath hitching as he poured years of quiet longing into that single moment.

You froze, eyes widening in surprise. Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it, a rush of shock mixing with the spark that ignited deep in your belly. He was kissing you—Ilia, your Ilia, the boy who'd been your constant since forever. Part of you wanted to melt into it immediately, but the suddenness caught you off guard, your mind reeling. Was this a joke? A heat-of-the-moment thing because of the costume, the stress of competition?

He pulled back almost as quickly as he'd started, his eyes snapping open, wide with panic. His hand dropped from your neck like he'd been burned, and he took a stumbling step back, running a hand through his blond hair in agitation. "Oh god, I'm sorry," he blurted, his voice cracking slightly, cheeks flushing a deep red that matched the stain on the costume. "I didn't—I mean, that was stupid. We're friends, best friends, and I just... I ruined everything, didn't I? You probably think I'm an idiot. Or worse."

He exahled in an attempt to calm him down, knee bouncing like it had been earlier while he waited for you, his mind racing. What if you hated him now? What if this shattered the easy rhythm you'd built over years? He'd always wondered, hoped maybe you felt the same pull he did—the way your laughs made his chest ache, how he'd catch himself watching you more than the ice during joint practices. But now, seeing your stunned expression, he was convinced he'd misread it all. "Forget it happened," he muttered, avoiding your eyes, his shoulders slumping. "Just... pretend I didn't do that. We're good, right? Still us?"

Your surprise ebbed as quickly as it had come, replaced by a rush of warmth that spread through you. He looked so adorably flustered, brows furrowed in worry, that soft smile he usually wore twisted into something uncertain. And suddenly, it all clicked—the stolen glances, the way he'd linger when handing you his jacket, the quiet protectiveness during competitions. You'd liked him for years, tucked it away because you were scared of losing what you had. But this? This was him reaching out, and your heart swelled at the thought.

You stepped forward before he could spiral further, you cupped his face gently. "Ilia," you said softly, your voice steady despite the butterflies dancing in your stomach. He looked at you, eyes searching yours with a mix of hope and fear, and you smiled, that familiar, teasing one that always made him relax. "Hey, stop. You didn't ruin anything."

His breath caught, but he didn't pull away. "But I—"

"I like you too," you whispered, the words tumbling out easier than you'd imagined. "Have for a while now. Like, really like you. Not just as my best friend who hogs the pillows and steals my sweaters." Your fingers traced lightly up his arm, feeling the tension ease under your touch. Relief washed over his face.

You didn't say anything further but simply pulled yourself on your tip toes and kissed his lips. Ilia melted into the kiss, pulling you closer by wrapping his arms around your waist. This, this feeling felt better than winning any medal. This kiss was slower, sweeter, his arms wrapping around you like he'd never let go. He sighed into it, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splaying across your waist, holding you close as if afraid you'd vanish.

When you finally parted, breaths mingling, he grinned—that boyish, full smile that crinkled his eyes and made your knees weak. "So... we've been idiots, huh? All this time." He nuzzled your nose with his, stealing a quick peck that made you giggle. "That was all you not me," you teased, leaning into him, the world outside the hotel room fading away.

[fourlandnorris]

no, no, no, hear me out, hear me out. ilya rozanov's niece who's a figure skater, who is also the only living member of his family who accepted him and have almost a father-daughter type of relation with him and shane, x kimi antonelli. no because you js know ilya would hate kimi because a) he raised his niece pretty much, and b) because he was away pretty much the entire year and then didn't not have connection with andrei/alexie after him and shane came out till his niece reached out, he missed out on alot of her growing up phase so to him, she's still his lil niece, the kid.

AHHHHHHHHHH IMAGINE LIKE ILYA HEARING ABOUT KIMI'S CRASH in san marino and then immediately calling her to check if she's fine and then getting nagged at by shane "no matter what you think of him, he's a kid too ilya!"

AHHHHH this would EATTTT

[fourlandnorris]

how it feels reading about your niche interest but the fanfic is sooo chatgpt generated to the point the writer didn't even care to form paragraphs and js copy pasted it from gpt.

p.s if you didn't know whenever you ask chatgpt to write a story a story or fic for you, most of the fic would be singular lines and barely few paras. like this

[fourlandnorris]

‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎˖ ࣪⭑ you're everything i ever want ˖ ࣪⭑

summary ᰋ ilia places at a position no one expects him to.

includes ꕀ angst lol. miscommunication ig?? pls i whipped this up at 1 am with 7% charge so spare me if this has any errors.

You stood frozen in your spot. A hand placed over your mouth, tears welling up in your eyes — clearly in a petrified state.

It felt like watching your worst fears come alive.

Ilia was consistent. Ilia didn't lose any competition in the last two years. Ilia fucking Malinin was the quadgod, the epitome of stable and consistent jumps — atleast in your books. You turned a blind eye to the cracks forming in his armour during the team. You feared he would crumble under the pressure, under the scrutiny, under the headlines he wrote for himself for the last two years.

And he did.

The quadgod became human in the worst possible ways, at the worst possible stage; at the highest stage of the sport.

Sure, some may call you dramatic for the way your brain was working currently but were you really to blame? You watched the man you've loved ( albeit for the last five months ) crumble at the Olympics.

You watched him skate to the barriers. Shaking his head in a no; presuming his father asked him if he was okay. Your heart broke for him. This was the last thing anybody expected from or for him. To rub salt on the wound, the camera focused on the young man.

Kiss and Cry was another disaster. He placed fifteenth after the free program and eight overall. Roman had his head in his hands. A part of you wanted to criticize him for having the gall to express his disappointment infront of his son who was already struggling. But then you remembered, it was the Olympics and emotions run high.

Afterall, Roman was a skater too, placing the weight of his own unfulfilled ambition on his son. Ilia and Roman would talk but the damage may or may not be undone.

You held out your arms when Ilia trotted over to you after Kiss and Cry, after hugging Mikhail. He melted in your arms. Wrapping his arms around your waist and hiding his head in your neck. His left ear pressed against your skin, trying to muffle the sound.

You wrapped an arm around this shoulder, trying to cover his other ear, as the other went around his waist. You could hear the crowd awwing at the moment. You wanted to comfort him, tell him what happened was understandable, tell him it was okay to be a human. But no words came out.

It's barely been five months since your relationship started. If Ilia learned something about you in those five months then it was that you struggled with words of affirmation. He doesn’t know the origins of the struggle. All he knows is that he desperately wants to hear you tell him that you love him.

He was already a goner for you. He loved you with reverence so much that he was the first one to say ‘I love you’ when your relationship hit the three month mark. His sudden confession had taken you aback and Ilia told you to take your sweet time with saying it back.

But god he desperately needed to hear it, right now, in this instant.

You moved your hand to pat his head. Ilia let out a disgruntled sound when you removed your hands from his ear. The loud and disappointed stadium suddenly blaring in his ears reminding him that he still needed to talk to the reporters.

Ilia watched your eyes when he pulled away. He could they were abit watered. As if you fought tears for far too long. He could see the concern in your eyes. He thought he would hate it. But it felt different with you. You weren’t pitying him, you had so much genuine concern in your eyes for the man who now felt as though he lost everything.

You wanted to tell him that you loved him. You wanted to utter those three words. But the fear of overwhelming the already overwhelmed person chewed your words.

Ilia waited and waited until he couldn’t. He stood in the media pen answering questions after questions but a single question burning in his mind. Did you even love him?

Over the course of last year people drew parallels between you and him for being Olympic favourites. The crowd always flocked towards you, favouring you over him. You possessed everything he craved for.

Artistry so soulful it brought people to tears. You didn’t perform as a skater but as if you were a storyteller dancing through a memory. As if portraying in such a way, others lived it viscerally through you. You somehow managed to combine it with such vigorous technical elements.

Ilia often joked you had a superpower. But deep down, the ability to move like you was something he craved. It often made him wonder if he was enough for you.

Did you really love him? Did you, of all people you could have, really chose him? The questions burned in his mind again as he smiled, watching you clap for your competitors from the top step of the olympic podium. Shaking your hands with the man in suit as you wore the gold medal proudly with a smile.

[fourlandnorris]

The way I literally had the SAME Ilia fic idea. I love your mind queen!

.... so what i'm hearing is that i should write it??

[fourlandnorris]

and if i say ilia malinin x reader who's also a figure skater at the olympics watching him lose but doesn't know how to comfort him with words. oh and their relationship started like few months ago and doesn't know if this is the correct moment to say ily because he's alr having the worst time of his life and doesn't wanna burden him more. oh and ilia watching the reader win.

wrote this fic here

[fourlandnorris]

the desi girlies yearn for fic where the driver — lando or arvid — helps reader, who doesn't know how to, drape a saree. very much like this.

[fourlandnorris]

hey so yk i'm all for nerdy shit okay, i mean i write fanfics about st ffs. but some ppl in this fandom really need to get themselves checked because will x henry or el x henry SHOULDN'T HAPPEN. all of the interactions happened btwn henry and will — will was not only a fucking child but henry was almost as old as JOYCE! JOYCE AND HENRY WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL TGT FFS. what is wrong with you ppl. "oh here comes the fun police, we're js having fun. it's a show, we write fanfics like you do 🙄🙄," get it fucking tgt glinda it is not a ship, it’s a fucking grooming fantasy. and no i will not be sugarcoating my words. there exists no relationship btwn will and henry other henry — a vessel of mindflayer, who is manipulated by the mf for 32 years out of his 40 years lifespan — using will — a child of henry's highschool school mate — as a spy. nothing else — no romantic, friendly, OR EVEN SEXUAL, relations. js because parallels run btwn 2 characters because they are put in similar positions decades apart doesn't give you the right to ship them romantically, even if it's js a show. and yes is that deep.

oh and the el x henry is js straight up disgusting. he's literally her father ffs! "b-but i didn't watch the first shadow and it's aged up 🥺🥺" oh so you know about the existence of first shadow and despite there being countless of videos, photos, discussions, and the entire damn plot layed out to you on this very app — not to mention creelby exists on other apps too — you still decided to make a fic like that? let me spill it for you if you're that dumb. brenner wanted more children like henry because he realized he couldn’t control henry and instead sorteria in henry. to make more children like henry, he abducted children and put Henry's blood in them — some worked, some didn't — but it wasn't enough. now although it isn’t what exactly happens but is implied in both the play and the show, dr. motherfucking brenner most likely took Henry's blood and injected pregnant women with it. js like dr. kay did with kali.

there's a reason kay did that, she wanted powerful children — ppl like kali, el. but since kali was abducted as seen in s2, she js carried Henry's blood. unlike el who was born with it, making her Henry's child. even motherfucking brenner says "henry you're js as much as father to these children as much i am" and that's another reason why kali's blood wasn’t working and kay needed el. not only that, el and will are twins — same blood or not — they're twins regardless so it's js making it worse that you're shipping henry x will.

grown some spine, get yourself checked, and learn media literacy.

[fourlandnorris]

do u have any ao3 henry recs?😊 i need a good long(er) read😛😛😛

hey lovie sorry to disappoint but i don't read on ao3 😭. ik of the website and have been there couple of times few years back but i never really read read anything on that site. so sorry for i don't have any recs 😭😭.