Lorelei ☆ 26 ☆❗️ 🔞 this blog has 18+ content!!! DNI if you're a minor!!! 🔞❗️ ☆ this is the blog I reblog fanfic I like to ☆ decided to start writing, we'll see how long this lasts
Hi, I'm Lorelei! This blog is mostly a place to share fanfic that I like and to post the fic I write
The following are my works so far. Have a look around if you wish, and leave a comment if you feel so inclined!
Be advised! This blog contains content not suitable for those under 18!!! DNI if you are a minor!!!!!!!!
Tags/warnings for any of my series might change. Warnings will be put in the tags and will be presented in the notes at the beginning of the fic/chapter so that you can make an informed decision before reading
If you want to be put on a tag list for anything I write, dm me to let me know!
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Links to works under the cut!
Series
Two Body Problem Master list
(Mark Watney x GN!Reader) The reader and Mark are both PhD candidates at Northwestern and both happen to be GTAs for an o-chem/bio-chemistry class. They schedule and meet up on neutral ground(a library) to get some grading done together and some unexpected feelings creep in.
One-Shots
Symbiosis
(Will Hunting x GN!Reader) The Reader has a harrowing encounter with a professor, and it sends them into a spiral. Will is there to help them out of it. CW: this work contains descriptions of sexual harassment and a panic attack.
Late Night Repairs
(Mark Watney, technically Mark Watney x Reader) Mark start's to feel the more intense side effects of isolation. This is an entry for Spooky Season in the Barrens 2024 and contains material that could be disturbing to some readers!!
1. Dennis should find out its Trinitys birthday really randomly cuz she would NEVER tell him and he should surprise her with a really stupid tiny cat Dennis found off the street. Trinity would say that she hated it. But trinity would have a soft spot for it and she would name it something like... Roan after chapel roan of course cuz Trinity would SO LOVE her music
2. Dennis should be a good cook.
3. Trinity should be a vegetarian
4. So Dennis would learn vegetarian meals for her.
5. Dennis would like not understand what being vegetarian was and trinity would SO get a laugh out of this
6. I LOVE the head cannon (cannon?) of Dennis hearing trinity and Garcia I don't know how to put this sex sounds? And whenever he would complain trinity would hit him with the "why were you listening" and Dennis would instantly like blush and be like "ITS LOUD!! I CAN'T HELP IT" or something along those lines and trinity would be like "Ok Pervert"
7. I want Dennis to have a talk with Yolanda over how she has been treating Santos and I want everyone to be shocked over how like protective and aggressive Dennis is about this. Cuz Dennis always was a pushover but not when it came to his sister Best friend.
8.Trinity would be so protective of Dennis with Amy. she would think he would be overworking and she would like never admit this but she would stay up and wait for him when he was out late at Amys.
9.If Trinity got sick she would NEVER admit it. Dennis would only know by feeling how hot she was and then he would baby her which trinity would hate
10. I want trinity to like take him to the mall and buy him clothes cuz "all your clothes are lame huckleberry"
Well that's all for now! I will for sure make more cuz this was fun!
Thanks for reading!
sorry for all spelling and Grammar errors disgrapha kicks my ass
Samira isn’t quite sure what to expect when she arrives at the restaurant on the ground floor of Jack’s hotel.
There’s no question: the two of them are close, enough so that when she hears through the grapevine (read: Parker Ellis) that he’s been incrementally transferring his PTO to the residents, she tells him he should save some and visit her.
Enough so that he books the trip immediately.
—
Samira and Jack reconnect in NYC.
🏷️: friends to lovers, reunited and it feels so good, resolved sexual tension, hotel sex, and more
Summary: When you find yourself in an abusive relationship, you never thought your attending Jack Abbot would become your protector and saving grace.
TW: talk of domestic violence , age gap relationship (reader is in late 20s & Jack is 49), flashback, ptsd, domestic violence, firearms, injuries, anxiety attack, vomiting, medical inaccuracies, mention of alcohol abuse; seizures. Not proofread.
Word Count: 3.3k
Authors Note: me when I take months between chapters only for them to be ass
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The first time you woke up from a seizure and didn’t find Jack, you panicked. The air felt warmer and heavier in his absence. There was no cold rag pressed on the back of your neck, no whispering in your ear, no dimming of the often harsh lights.
Waking up in the hospital room, shoulder throbbing and skin crawling, you began to pull and scratch at yourself; calling out for Jack, for your familiar. As Robby loomed over you, checking your vitals, your fingers pawed at him, forcing his hands off you. The room still spun when you sat up, but you needed to get out. Go home. Find Jack.
Home.
Jack.
Where was Jack?
“Hey, hey,” Robby put his hands on your one shoulder, “relax for me. You just had a seizure, Jack isn’t here, honey.”
This was the first seizure you had had in months. The stress of the evening weighing so hard that you barely had time to feel it coming.
“What hap— where did he go?” You felt itchy, the skin on your neck turning raw from the scratching.
“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, his hands trying to pull yours away from your throat, but you still fought. “Look at me.”
“Where is he?” Your voice cracks, your fingers still clawing at your neck like you could peel the skin away. “Robby— where is Jack? Please.”
“He’s at home.”
“Home? Why would he go home? Why would he leave me?”
“I brought you here. Jack isn’t coming.”
“No.” You shake your head immediately, your words coming out in broken pieces, the room tilting again. “No, he— he would be here. He’s always here. After— after—”
After every seizure.
After every nightmare.
After every time your body betrayed you.
Jack was always there. For every single moment. That’s probably the very reason he wasn’t here now. His constant presence in your life the past year making it impossible to care for himself. His unconditional love and support only leading to his own self neglect. You were alone now for no reason but your own selfishness.
The room feels too bright now. Too loud. Too empty, yet too crowded. You can feel yourself slipping, Robby sensing it too.
“Hey, stay with me. Take a deep breath.”
“Why isn’t he here?”
Robby sat beside you now, helping you find the memories of the night you wish you could have permanently forgotten. Helping you paint a picture of why you were here.
Then the visions slammed into you fast. The explosion. The hallway. The gun. His voice. His hands. The pain. His eyes. The moment the lights came back. The way his face broke when he saw you. Robby coming to get you. Your breath caught as you replayed it in your head. Over and over and over again. It all came back.
So you cried. You cried and cried. Hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks, and yet you still cried.
You stayed with Robby, him hiring a nurse to stay with you when he or Dana were on shift. It was mortifying. You spent your days locked away alone in Robby’s guest room, Dana offering to paint your nails or do your makeup. Anything that would bring some light back into your life.
“Alright, let’s see those nails.” Dana sat down at the edge of the bed, shaking a jar of polish. “Warmer weather is coming, so I’m thinking something bright. What about this pink, or maybe even orange?”
“My hands shake too much, you won’t be able to paint them.” You tried to smile. “But thank you.” You held out your hand and she watched as it trembled.
Ripping back the blanket she pulled off your socks with zero hesitation.
“Then I’ll pain your toenails. No worries, hun.”
“Oh you don’t— I’m sorry about my legs.” You tried to pull them back under the covers. “Last time I tried to shave I cut myself because of my tremor.”
“Okay, I’ll shave them when I’m done. Have a full spa day and everything.” She winked and went back to painting. She was your rock through this, her presence the only one that didn’t make your body panic.
Still, the seizures came more frequently now, the stress of Jack's absence leaving a hole in your heart and your mind. You felt ridiculous, not knowing how much you had depended on him until he was gone .
Every time you woke up it was someone else.
Robby.
Dana.
A strange nurse.
All kind.
All careful.
But not him. Not your Jack.
And that absence felt louder than anything else. Louder than your own heart beating in your ears when you woke up. Brighter and harsher than the lights that flashed before you slipped under.
Waking up, gasping, drenched in your own sweat, muscles screaming and stiff, you still called for him. You still reached out for him. Expecting him to be there.
“I want Jack.”
“I want him.”
“I need him.”
“Where is he?”
Never there.
“It’s my fault.” You whispered one day, curled up on Robby’s couch, absolutely exhausted from your seizure that morning. Every muscle in your body ached, your tongue bitten raw from your violent convulsions, and your eyelids fluttered shut every so often no matter how hard you fought to stay awake.
“You know that’s not true. You aren’t responsible for what happened.” Robby glanced up through his glasses and he sat in the armchair across from you, charting on his laptop.
“He stopped going to therapy because of me. He stayed up all night with me. He—”
“He made choices,” Robby cuts in. “His recovery is his responsibility. Not yours.”
“If I wasn’t so—” you gesture vaguely at yourself, at everything, “so broken, he wouldn’t have had to carry so much.”
Robby’s jaw tightened for a second before softening again. He set the laptop aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, scratching at his beard.
“He was loving you, and he’d do it all again in a heartbeat. That’s what Jack does. He carries you to the finish line. He carried me over the line a few times too.”
“What do you mean?”
“After Adamson…” he admitted, voice trailing. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t shut my brain off. Started drinking more than I should’ve. Thought I was hiding it.”
Your eyes opened a little wider. You’d never heard him talk about himself like this. Robby never allowed vulnerability to get in his way.
“Jack noticed before anyone else did, that I wasn’t eating, lost some weight,” he said. “Showed up at my apartment one night with groceries, threw out every bottle in the place, and sat on my floor until sunrise while I ranted about how I could have done things differently. How I killed Monty.”
Despite everything, a watery laugh escaped you. “That sounds like him.”
“Yeah.” Robby smiled properly this time. “Infuriatingly heroic.”
The room went quiet except for the ticking kitchen clock and the low hum of the refrigerator.
“He loves hard,” Robby said after a moment. “Sometimes so hard he forgets he’s human too.”
“And now look what happened.”
“ What happened was because he stopped taking care of himself,” Robby corrected. “Not because he loved you.” Across the room, Robby’s phone began to buzz on the side table. Both of you looked at it, Jack’s name lit up bright.
Right on time.
Every day at noon. Every day at six. Every night before bed.
He never missed one.
Robby let it ring twice before grabbing it. He looked at you first, always asking without words. You can only nod.
“Hey.”
“How is she?” Jack’s voice was rough, tired. Like he hadn’t slept.
“She had a seizure this morning.”
The line went silent for a beat too long.
“She okay?”
“She bit her tongue but other than that she’s alright.” Robby glanced at you. “Just wiped out.”
“Is she eating?” Jack asked next. “Still throwing up after?”
“She ate toast, managed to keep it down.”
“Did she sleep last night?”
“Some.”
You felt like a patient, Jack asking for your medical history. Asking about the details of your body. Your symptoms. Your pain. As if loving you now meant settling for your vital signs.
“She taking the Keppra?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, started Dilantin last night too.”
“Any more shoulder swelling?”
“Minimal.” Robby’s eyes softened when he looked at you. “She’s right here, you know.”
The room went very still.
“I know.” Jack’s voice cracked. “I’m not asking to talk to her.”
“I know,” Robby said back.
You hated him for that restraint. For making sure he could trust himself before allowing himself to walk back into your life.
“I uh— been working on adjusting my meds. Meeting with my therapist. Support groups. Feeling good, Robby.”
“Good.” Robby nodded once, even though Jack couldn’t see it.
“I’m doing what I’m supposed to.”
“I know.”
“Tell her I’m doing it.” There was something childlike in the statement. Something desperate.
“You can tell her yourself when you’re both ready.”
“Tell her I’m sorry anyway.”
You stood too quickly, dizziness crashing over you. Your healing shoulder screamed as you shoved the blanket off and stumbled toward the hallway.
“Hey—easy,” Robby started after you, rising from his chair.
“I’m fine, just tired.” Your voice came out sharp, broken. Then you kept walking, disappearing into the guest room and shutting the door with trembling hands.
That was the routine for 4 months. Robby told Jack to stop calling, to focus on his own healing— but Jack still called.
You found yourself living on autopilot, just existing in your own seclusion. You felt nothing anymore. Your brain scrambled into a million pieces. The light from your eyes vanished, or what was left of that light Charlie had extinguished.
So when Robby stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, you hardly acknowledged his presence.
“He’s ready.” He says, only above a whisper. Your eyes flick up to meet him. “Tomorrow, if you’d like to see him.”
“Where?” you ask finally, your voice smaller than you expect.
“Schenley Park, it’s easy. Public. I can be close by but give you two space.”
Robby watched as you nervously picked at the stitching on your quilt, your lips trembling as you fought back your tears. You wanted to go. More than anything you wanted to see Jack, to collapse into his arms and sleep soundly for the first time in months. But your stomach lurched high into your throat, and despite trying to swallow it back, you found your head in a trash can heaving.
Robby was beside you before you could fully drop to your knees, one hand gathered your hair while the other steadied your shoulder carefully, mindful of the injury that still lingered beneath the surface. Your entire body shook with the force of it, stomach empty but still trying to turn itself inside out.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”
You hated that phrase.
Because nothing about this felt okay.
Your ribs ached as you finally pulled back from the trash can, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers. Humiliation burned hot beneath your skin.
In that moment you wanted to die. You wished Charlie had finished what he started. Or you had just stayed. Certainly you’d be dead by now? At his hands? Of course you would.
For a split second you hated Jack. Hated that he saved you from that man. Saving you from what you so desperately wanted, death.
“You don’t have to go,” he said after a moment.
You rinsed your mouth weakly before leaning back against the headboard again. Your chest still spasmed every few breaths, body trying to settle after the panic ripped through you.
“What if I only see the man who I saw in the hallway that night?”
“You might… but you might see the man you knew before.”
Jack asleep on the couch beside you after seizures.
Jack making coffee exactly the way you liked it because your hands shook too badly in the mornings.
Jack tracing the scar along your collarbone absentmindedly while you fell asleep against his chest.
Jack laughing.
Jack humming under his breath.
Jack.
Your Jack.
Not the man in the hallway.
Not that stranger with the gun.
The man you loved.
“Okay,” you whispered shakily. “Tomorrow.”
And when tomorrow came you spent most of your morning in the bathroom throwing up your dinner from as far back as 2004.
When Robby pulls up to the park it feels too open— too exposed. There’s nowhere to hide out here; no walls, no doors, no place to barricade yourself if something goes wrong.
The park seems too bright. Or maybe it just feels that way after months of dim rooms and drawn curtains. The air was too thin, and Robby noticed as you took one deep breath after the other.
“You can still say no.” He stopped you on the path, hand on the small of your back. But in the distance, sitting on the bench, his elbows resting on his thighs, head hung below his shoulders— Jack. Your Jack.
“No,” you whisper. “I need to do this.” And your feet started to move. There was a hesitation in your step, your gate uneven against the gravel that crunched below your shoes. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to turn around but you kept moving.
Jack must’ve heard the gravel shift as you got closer because his head lifted. He stood quickly as if he were back in the Army and you were his Officer, you were almost expecting him to salute. He shifted his weight on and off his prosthetic, moving side to side.
“Hi.” He spoke softly, the way he would after a seizure, when everything was too loud. You had imagined hearing his voice again a thousand different ways.
“H-“ the words barely came out as your throat tightened like a vice grip.
“You look…” His voice cracked.
Tired. You looked completely and utterly exhausted. He noticed the difference in your complexion— the hue more grey and sickly. Your eyes said so much and yet so little, your expression unmoving as you stand before him with lifeless eyes. What had happened to his sweet girl? What had he done?
“You too.” You answered, the tension in his face and shoulders making him look so— so— sad?
Heavy silence settled between you. Jack noticed the slight droop in your shoulder, and the way your fingers twitched and trembled by your sides.
Four months.
Four months without hearing him laugh from another room. Without his hand brushing absentmindedly against your back when he passed you in the kitchen. Without the sound of his prosthetic against hardwood floors at night.
Without home.
Four months
Four months without Jack tracing and memorizing the scars on your back, admiring your strength and beauty. Without Jack watching you relearn something that once came easy, in awe of your resilience. Without hearing you snort when you laugh at something genuinely laugh. Without watching the way your tongue sticks out when you’re trying to focus.
Without you.
You sat at the far end of the bench, far enough to keep your distance, but not far enough that you could still smell the familiar scent of his cologne— pine and cedar. The smell that would often be the first to greet you when you’d wake up from a seizure.
“I rehearsed this you know,” he admitted after a long pause, his voice was rough. “What I’d say if you ever agreed to see me.”
You glanced at him, watching the way his unknowingly rocked himself forwards and back in his attempt to self sooth.
“Can’t remember a damn thing.” He finally chuckled dryly.
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly.
Jack noticed. God, he noticed immediately.
His eyes flickered toward you so fast it almost hurt to see the hope there before he buried it again.
“You cut your hair,” he said softly.
Your fingers instinctively brushed the shorter pieces near your jaw. Dana had done it one night after another seizure left you vomiting and shaking on the bathroom floor. You’d hacked at it yourself first in a moment of weakness. Dana just fixed the damage.
“It was falling out,” you admitted quietly. “Stress.”
Jack’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind.
“I did that too.”
You looked down at your hands.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said carefully. “I’m not here asking for that.”
“Then what are you asking for?”
“A chance to prove that night is not the man I am.”
“I know that’s not the man you are, Jack.” You whispered, not because you were nervous, but because your throat felt like sandpaper.
“I wasn’t taking my meds,” he admitted quietly. “I started thinking I didn’t need them.” His thumb rubbed over his knuckles compulsively. “Therapy got harder after you moved in.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because you started mattering more than anything else in my life.” His voice was barely above a whisper now. “And I think some part of me thought if I focused hard enough on keeping you safe, then maybe I didn’t have to look at what was happening in my own head.”
You stared at him.
“I should’ve noticed,” you said softly.
Jack’s head snapped up immediately.
“No.”
The sharpness in his voice made you flinch instinctively.
Jack froze the second he saw it.
Every ounce of color drained from his face.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, recoiling back against the bench like he’d been burned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” But your body still reacted.
Jack swallowed hard, forcing his voice quieter.
“You don’t ever blame yourself for this.” His eyes locked onto yours with something fierce and broken all at once. “Do you understand me?”
The silence settled between you again, but more comfortable this time.
“I missed your seizures.”
You blinked at him in confusion.
Jack let out a shaky breath through his nose.
“That sounds horrible.” A weak, self-deprecating smile flickered across his mouth. “I mean— I hated seeing you hurt. God, I hated it. But taking care of you… It made me feel useful again.”
Your eyes burned instantly.
“You were more than useful, Jack.”
“I hate that I can’t fix this,” he admitted quietly. “That’s what I do, I fix things.”
He was starting to ramble now, losing a bit of control as he poured his heart out to you.
“I wanted you to hate me. Thought it would make all of this easier, but you kept worrying about me even after what I did to you. You said you loved—“
“I still do, Jack.”
“I asked my therapist the same thing over and over, ‘How do I know I’ll never lose control again?’” He laughed bitterly under his breath. “You know what he told me?”
“What?”
“There are no guarantees. Only accountability. Treatment. Consistency.” His jaw tightened. “Choice. And I choose you. Every time. Every single time, I choose you.”
You were crying now, tears flowing freely as Jack hesitantly cupped your face in his hands. You melted into him, your forehead pressed against his and you both lost control. Your noses touched, your lips brushing against each other softly— but you pulled back.
“I can’t go back there Jack, to your house. I can't go back.”
“Then we don’t. I’ll sell the place. I’ll build you anything you want, with my bare hands if I could. From the ground up. Anything you want. You want a pool? I’ll get you a pool. You want a big bay window in your bedroom? Lots of books? Wrap around porch to watch the rain? I’ll make it all happen for you baby.”
Your lips crashed, a moan escaping your lips as his hands pulled your flush against him. Then his hands roamed, up and down your back, in your hair, along your hips; he had to feel you, make sure this was real, that he wasn’t dreaming.
“Jack—“ you gasped into his mouth, but he just shook his head. He needed to hold you, to feel you, make up for all the time that was spent without you.
“I love you.” He whispered between kisses, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
He pays for her ride shares home if she’s too exhausted to drive
Jack is a skilled bartender and takes pride in mixing Samira fun little cocktails when they’re home or out at some event (she always makes him try a sip too)
Samira can cook, she just doesn’t do it for herself
She bakes cupcakes to bring in for his birthday one year
Jack teaches Samira to drive stick shift and how to drive/park his truck in the hospital parking garage
Jack has a sewing kit and a ziploc bag of buttons and loves to darn her socks and find a close match to the buttons on her sweaters when she looses one
Samira is very good at darts and pool, when she goes out on rare occasion, Shen always tries to nab her for his team
Samira has babysat Langdon’s kids (the only other person he’d have trusted from work was Collins). After they fall asleep, she calls him from the couch.
Jack builds her a vanity out of wood from a fallen tree in the forest behind his house.
Samira is the only one (besides Robby) that knows things about his wife because she cares to ask and always listens to his stories. She doesn’t feed into gossip about him.
He has a massive cd collection and she’s the living room DJ whenever she’s over. Two beers in and she has him dancing too
Early in their relationship, Jack sent her a recording of him playing a song that made him think of her. When the bed is empty, she pulls it up to fall asleep.
When Jack gets home, he sometimes watches her sleep until she wakes up so that he can see her stretch and yawn
They’re long distance very briefly but any stretch off he has he goes to see her, whether it’s for 8 days or 12 hours.
He offers to help her move when he hears her joke with Santos about finding movers on a dating app
She tells him about her dad on the roof, it ends up being more than she’s ever shared before.
After July 4th, he makes it a point to tell her explicitly that she belongs in emergency medicine and offers to help her switch to a spot on the night shift or at another hospital.
The importance of Samira Mohan: My letter to the creative team behind The Pitt
If you, like me, need an avenue to channel your feelings toward Samira’s exit in a productive way, please read my letter and consider writing one yourself. One single letter will likely make little to no impact, but the more people who speak up, the likelier we are of being heard.
In a previous post I offered to tag those interested in receiving contact info on where to send letters. I am still waiting to hear from one or two people and will let you know asap, but we will likely just have to use info found on hbo’s website. I’m going to still tag you to encourage you to begin writing your letters now! I believe the best time to send will be within the week or two following the season finale, so now is the time to begin drafting. Additionally, those who want to be added to the tag list for a future post on contact info, please let me know!
I hope this message finds you well. I’m writing as a deeply engaged viewer of The Pitt to share both a personal perspective and a broader reflection on the significance of Dr. Samira Mohan in the series.
Over nearly two years of ongoing health issues, I consulted with multiple physicians before ultimately being forced to travel cross-country for life-saving brain surgery. One of the most lasting impressions from that experience was how often my concerns were minimized or not fully pursued. Because of that, Dr. Mohan resonates deeply with me. She represents the kind of physician many patients search for—the one who listens carefully, takes concerns seriously, and looks beyond the obvious. Watching her, I cannot help but feel that if someone like her had been in my corner earlier, my path might have been very different.
In that sense, Dr. Mohan reflects a broader gap in patient care, particularly for women, where symptoms are too often dismissed or minimized. Her character is not only compelling dramatically, but also culturally meaningful in what she represents: a standard of care that feels both aspirational and necessary.
From a narrative standpoint, her departure also leaves a distinct structural absence. She occupies a specific emotional and professional space within the ensemble—defined by attentiveness, intuition, and advocacy—that no other doctor quite matches. Importantly, she also reflects the many real-life physicians who practice this way every day—those who remain steady under pressure, advocate fiercely for their patients, and deserve to see that strength fully realized on screen. Additionally, her arc with Dr. Robby still feels actively in progress, particularly in exploring the full scope of his influence on her during his period of emotional and professional instability. It feels as though her story is still building toward something meaningful, with important growth and resolution yet to be explored.
I completely understand that stories evolve and that not every character remains indefinitely. However, I hope Dr. Mohan might be reconsidered for a return in Season 4 or in another form. It truly feels as though there is more of her story left to tell.
Thank you for the care and realism you bring to your work. It truly resonates.
Not all of the people reading your x reader fics have white skin
Just a gentle reminder before you write characteristics that assume whiteness and exclude your black/indigenous/poc supporters-specifically in 'x reader' works.
I love and appreciate writers, but this is a recurring avoidable issue (going on for decades now).
"your dusky pink nipples" "your face turned just as red as his" "he could see the blush on your face" “your cheeks furiously blushed” “your ears burn bright red” “The look in your reddened face” “your knuckles white with effort” “bruised purple against your light skin”
Describing the physical feeling instead of the visual change helps include your readers while also elevating your writing IMO.
Anyone can say "Your cheeks turned red with embarrassment" or "Your face flushed" but wouldn't you rather say "A burning heat rushed across your face, from your neck to the tip of your nose, prickling right underneath the surface. You look anywhere but him, hoping your newfound interest in the buildings ceiling tiles will ease the fire tightening beneath your skin" And instead of the other character pointing out that the readers face is red, they can point out the obvious flustered facial expression/body language.
If you want your reader insert to have white/fairskin, then just label them white!reader or put the mention in the warnings/summary.
↪I have reached out to writers I favored/supported before and sometimes I have been met with severe hostility and defensiveness. I often wonder if people are doing this purposefully or for some reason think only white people read their fanfics (?)-if that's the case then be upfront and label your reader inserts as white!reader or something PLEASE. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like black women and other POC aren’t wanted or considered in these fandoms because it comes off like that in your writing. If you need a different motivation, just know you're missing out on more interactions, reblogs, and a bigger reader base. I don’t know why white is the default for so many writers in unspecified x reader/reader insert fics-the people on your blog following, reading, and supporting you aren’t all white and fair-skinned.
I am not talking about OC fics or fics where race/skintone is x specified in summary or warnings. This is specifically about unspecified "x reader" where whiteness is assumed as the default
Put in the comments good replacements for writers to use!
I'm multifandom who stays away/ignores fanbase drama. So, when I am inactive and not making fanart, it's just means I'm hibernating in the fandom while drawing in another. This is how I last long in my chosen fandoms and not get sick of it by getting overwhelmed from consuming just a single thing. I will go back whenever I want with fresh memories and not die from very angry heart haha 😅
I wonder what the ISS smells like @loreleismusings99 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
