it's just witnessless me

I am not the girl I set out to be

[uranium-core]

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— current tagging system —

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↳ fics I reblog may be further tagged by the character(s) present, (eg: #fic: anakin skywalker, #fic: jacaerys velaryon)

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fuck around & find out <3 enjoy your stay!

heart & sword dividers: @astralnymphh & @sisterlucifergraphics . fading red divider: @omi-resources .

[missglaskin]

hi honey 😄

Question how do you think the yandere boys of HOTD would react if their children with a reader wife defended their mother from them / or confronted them about their tendencies and their way of acting with reader?

Note: I changed the request a bit. Hope you don't mind

Your daughter, like any child, asked her father how he met you and when did he realize you’re the one. Aemond smiles as he recalls and recounts your fond memories together. The sweet moment was, however, cut short when she asked him if he forced you to marry him. Aemond hesitates briefly before asking where she heard such a vile rumor.

She confesses hearing it from one of the servants, and Aemond thanks her before sending her off to bed. As he tucks her in, she still asks him the same question. Aemond denies it, saying you married him out of love and that everything he's doing is for the benefit and safety of his family. As he leaves the room, his expression hardens as he searches for the servant who dared to fill lies in his daughter’s head. 

-

As his mother, you were able to notice that your son was more observant than other children, but his father was taken aback. During their discussion of a future betrothal, Daemon noticed your son's hesitation. He’s left confused when his son asks if his betrothal will fear him. 

When the boy's father stands over him, demanding that he explain what he means, the boy is forced to admit what he has been holding back: that he believes you are afraid of Daemon. You love him; you love this family, you couldn't possibly be afraid of him, Daemon assures his son. Although his son nods, Daemon can see uncertainty in his eyes.

-

Jace was a devoted husband, yet your daughter always sensed something was off. One day, she questioned her father why she had never met your side of the family, and Jace assures her she didn't have to, as she already had his. Her eyes catch a glimmer of sadness on your face as he says this. She then asks if you'd like to see your family again, and as you hesitantly turn to face your husband, you respond you don't need to since you already have her and her father.

In spite of this, she keeps pushing the topic until Jace snaps and orders her to stop. Your daughter is stunned; this is the first time her father has spoken to her in such a way. He quickly shifts the conversation once he realizes what he's done, asking her if she wants to ride on Vermax with him.

-

Your son watches as his father confines his mother to the chambers. He could hear you pounding on the door as you beg to be let out. Mustering the courage, He approaches his father and demands that he release you. With a stern look in his eyes, Aegon kneels before his son and asks him if he understands why he has locked you away.

When your son shakes his head, Aegon claims it is because you tried to flee; he then questions his son on whether he wants you to leave them. Once more, your son shakes his head, and Aegon gives him a half-smile, explaining that this is what must be done to make you stay. 

[elordick]

𝐿𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑁𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑠

[lestatdelioncuort]

THE VAMPIRE LESTAT Live at the Beacon Theater

[uranium-core]

I just realized that Oscar Piastri has teeth like Audrey Hepburn

[unholyplumpprincess]

Courtship Rules

For the lovley @beansapalooza for some alien fucking! For Science!

Summary: You are a scientist on a team of four sent to live on a planet where xenomorphs inhabit. You are all to have your studies on them, everyone has their own thing. You? Well. You study their breeding habits. Perhaps getting a little TOO close to that knowledge. But, what better way to study than hands on? Or. In which a xenomorph recognizes you from its past and believes you to be its mate. Who are you to refuse getting stuffed full of eggs? All in the name of science, of course.

Reblogs > Likes. Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked, have your age in your bio to interact!

Fandom: Aliens - Aliens VS Predators

Relationship: Xenomorph/Reader

Warnings: NSFT/R18+, Reader is gn and has a vulva + is chubby, oviposition/ovipositors, knotting, brief brief mentions of mild gore that’s canon typical, breeding, you get stuffed with alien eggs!

Words: 8.7k

_________

The mission relayed to you had been one of great importance. But it came with great dangers, dangers that you were all aware of.  

There were four of you total, almost all scientists in your own regard. A handful of teams had come into contact with the creatures you were now studying. And all those teams had wound up dead.  

One of those teams, years ago who had first come into contact with them, didn’t know what they were up against or what they were bringing back. Another team had been sent to wipe them out, claiming them to be parasites, with only one survivor to return to tell the tale. Another team had been sent out as a means to take one or two back to study in cages on their ships, once again did not go well. Another team sent to explore their home planet, weapons in hand because exterminating the species had been the only thing on their mind. Then another team, and another, and another…  

Other teams were documented, more and more who wanted to quietly try and study or eliminate them. All failed. All dead.  

~Rest under the cut~

Keep reading

[theredbetterbeamirrorballforme]

Alex Turner and Louise Verneuil at the Dior after party at Château Marmont in Los Angeles (May 2026)

[uranium-core]

when will it happen 2 me

[slayyyter]

Behind the scenes of "Beat Up Chanel$"

[dontforgetwhoselegsyoureon]

yours to break - part four

warnings : mentions of depression, mentions of blood, mentions of kissing and cheating

word count : 2.2k

masterlist

the next few years may frustrate you, but that’s how they happened.

late 2004 ᯓ★ 

you were completely burnt out for the rest of the year. and maybe even the ones after. the doctor said it was just a “depressive episode”. that it would pass with time. but it wasn’t as they say in books. you wouldn’t sit in bed all day, no. 

you had found a shitty temporary job as an order packer. but you would wake up and go to bed everyday, feeling empty. your parents didn’t understand, matt said he did, but you could see in his eyes that he didn’t fully. hell, you didn’t even understand yourself most of the time.

and of course, in september, matt and alex were eighteen, and supposed to go to college. well they didn’t, obviously, because they were working on their music everyday, but they still left. and because life is tragic, they went to london. saying it would give them “better opportunities” to get recognized.

you only talked briefly with alex after the last argument. he knew you were not okay, but every time he spoke to you, he could feel himself get so angry, that he had chosen to just stop, not wanting to make you feel even worse. 

but you, you almost wanted him to yell at you, if that meant he would just talk to you. you hated this forced silence, hated to see him leave the room as soon as you entered it, hated the fact that he was looking at johanna the same way he had looked at you his whole life. maybe you had changed - like you loved to say - but alex had definitely changed, too. and london was about to change him even more. 

2006 ᯓ★

the album was published. after two years of intense work for it, the arctic monkeys had finally released their first album. the music was a huge success right away, because they already had a reputation. 

and you, were doing better. you had a real job now, something in a music shop, because let’s not forget that all this was thanks to you and your guitar. you couldn’t shake off the feeling that you had wasted years in college for nothing, but you liked what you did now, so it didn’t really matter. 

matt and you called every week during 2005. he was telling you about the progress of the band, about jamie’s funny hangovers, about andy’s family in london. but he never told you about alex. every time you asked, he answered, “he’s fine. busy like always”, almost just to brush it off. 

after the album was released, they came back to sheffield to celebrate. you didn’t live at your parents anymore, but you went to the big party they had organized. it was almost ridiculous. they had invited over all sheffield, even people that used to not like alex and matt. the older guys from the purple shirt were here too, right next to the owner of the bakery down the street. 

you talked with a few people and had to explain your schooling at least five times - to five different persons. your parents patted your back gently when they passed behind you, people were laughing, drinking and chatting heartfully. 

the four boys were busy, of course, everyone wanted a word with the new stars of sheffield. matt still made time to hug and tell you funny story times that had happened in the last weeks. alex was with johanna all night long. which was logical, since she stayed here when he left, they had time to make up for.

she was holding him the whole time, her arms around his arm, his waist, even staying glued to him when he was with his family. the only thing you got so far was a tiny wave by way of hello. 

when you got outside to smoke a few hours later, they were already here. he was sitting down and she was sideways on his lap. alex was holding a cigarette, but his concentration was on her. they were full on making out. there, on your patio. you almost threw up at the sight, and your glass slipped out of your hand because of the shock. 

the glass shattering on the floor made them part quickly, johanna gasped, and you were already crouched down, trying to pick up the broken pieces. 

laughing like you two were best friends, she said, “oh my god, you scared me!”. 

and you hate the fact that you hate her voice, her tone, and that you just hate her fully. because it is rubbish to hate on another girl for nothing, but you just can’t appreciate her. 

alex, him, isn’t laughing. he watches you for a second before kissing jo on the cheek and removing her from his lap gently. he says, “leave it, i’ll do it”. 

“nah, it’s fine. it’s my mistake”, you answer, scoffing. 

“i’m going to grab the broom. just wait a second, you’re going to-”.

your hissing cut his sentence short, “ouch!”.

“jesus, just what i said!”, he complains when he sees your hand start to bleed. you pull out the piece of glass that had cut you slowly, and more blood comes out. 

“come on. bathroom”, alex tell you, and then adds, “i’ll be right back, baby”, to his girlfriend. 

“i can take care of it myself. i’m not a kid”, you contests, yet already making your way to the bathroom upstairs. 

alex doesn’t even answer, he just rolls his eyes and follows you up. once in here, you put your hurt hand under the cold tap, watching as the water slowly turns red in the sink. 

when you raise your head, you see alex in the mirror, leaning against the closed door, looking at you through the glass, too. he notices your little frown, surely because your wound is stingy under the water. 

“you could’ve seriously injured yourself. this was reckless”. 

you laugh bitterly, and answer, “please, alex. it’s just a cut”. 

he walks to you and grabs your wrist, just to see your hand from closer. but you feel your skin prickle everywhere. from where his fingers are touching you down to your feet. 

“congratulations for the album, by the way”, you say, and you feel relieved, because this had been stuck in your throat the whole night. “thanks. you’ve listened to it then?”. 

“a few songs, not all of ‘em”, he looks at you from under his hair, smiling impishly, “not all of ‘em, huh?”, to which you confess, “guilty”, with a snigger. 

“what’s your favourite?”. 

teasingly, you say, “hmm, probably chun li’s spinning bird kick”. 

“what?”, he cries out, hilarious, “i’m not even on that one!”.

“yeah? oh, shit, maybe that’s why it’s my favourite one then”.

there was silence for two seconds, and then you both burst into laughter. it warms your heart to feel that way with him once again. feels familiar, like coming home and getting back to your bed from a trip. like the universe is settling back into place - as dramatic as that may sound. 

after a few more laughs, when your chests are still heaving from the giggles, you admit, “i really love mardy bum”. 

“yeah? thanks. i like it too”.

turning around to dry your hand in a white towel - that is definitely going to need some deep clean after that - you murmur, “was it inspired?”. 

“sorry?”.

“by johanna, i mean. you guys argue or something?”, you continue, turning around once again.

“uh, well, yeah, sometimes. but that was not… i mean i get inspired by everything. it doesn’t need to really happen to me or anything, y’know?”.

“yeah, i get that. al, can you grab a plaster for me, please?”.

you had not called him al since that one night for his sixteenth birthday, four years ago. the nickname makes his heart beat faster, but he tries to hide it, and simply nods, already reaching to grab the plaster’s box from the cabinet. he hands it to you without a word, and you try to stick it on your cut, but he can see you struggle with only one hand. 

“here, let me help you”, he says, grabbing the band-aid from you. 

and just because you can’t help it, “you happy with her?”.

he takes your hand between his and puts the plaster on softly, applying enough pressure for it to stay, but just enough to not hurt you. 

then, he looks up at you, still holding your hands, “yeah. i am”.

“okay. that’s great then”, you answer, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“i missed you. it’s been hard without you”.

you take a deep breath, and say, “i missed you too, alex”.

and he looks at you, and he is still holding your hands. then, he looks down, and cards his fingers through yours. just like that one time. except now, it’s different. because he is not in love with you anymore, because johanna is looking for him downstairs, wondering what can possibly be taking him so long. 

“it’s not the same, you know”.

“hm?”, you ask.

“it’s just… i don’t- ah, i don’t fucking know how to say this”.

“it’s fine. it’s just me”.

“yeah, that’s the fucking problem”, he confess, laughing bitterly. and then, after a few more seconds, he adds, “i don’t feel the same thing for her, as i… felt, for you”.

you feel your heart falling to your feet, just like the glass earlier. 

“alex”, you whisper, and it almost sounds like a plea to his ears. 

“i’m sorry. i know i shouldn’t… i shouldn’t be fucking saying this but i can’t help it. i just- i don’t know why it’s not the same”.

“when you… like someone, it’s never the same. feelings are always a little bit different”.

“but i should love her more, shouldn’t i?”.

his thumb absentmindedly traces little circles on your palm. at first, you think it’s to soothe you, but then you understand it’s to comfort himself. 

“i still think about you. all the time”.

one of his hands stays entwined with yours, but the other starts travelling up your arm slowly. caressing your elbow, skimming over your collarbone, and settling right on your shoulder, just next to your neck. 

“i think about what you’d say about my songs while i write them. about what jokes you’d make, what type of coffee you’d drink. i think about your hand in mine, about your hair under the london rain”.

the night is taking a turn you would have never expected. both your hearts are beating so fast, you each think the other is going to hear it. his eyes are stuck watching yours, taking in every single one of your little reactions. 

“i think about where we’d be today if i had told you earlier”.

“i always knew, alex”, you murmur. 

“i know. that’s why i never said a thing. i knew you didn’t like me back”.

“i never said that. it was just… it’s not possible, and you know it”.

his fingers touch your neck softly, caressing it. 

“i know, i know”, his voice sounds hurt, saddened. and even if he claims he knows, he softly confesses, “i want to kiss you so bad right now”.

your heart stops, you think you have gone crazy. still, your face tilts up, almost against your will - even if not really. his lowers, and when your breath mingle, his hitches. your respiration feels hot against his mouth. he just has to close the last inch between you, and all his dreams will come true. he just has to-

the loud knock startles you both. and the voice coming from the other side of the door kills the last shimmer of hope.

“aly? are you in here? is everything okay?”, johanna screams, just to be heard over the loud music. 

this intimate bubble instantly pops, and you realize the fucking enormous mistake you were about to make. alex is taken. alex has a girlfriend of four years. 

“yeah-”, he tries, but his voice gets stuck, and he has to clear his throat to continue, “yeah i’m okay! i’m coming down in a minute!”

“okay, baby! i’ll be waiting right here!”

alex and you look at each other. he seems broken, like you had just told him the worst thing ever. you take his hand off of you - reluctantly - and tell him very softly, “go get your girl, al. well done again for the music”.

you clap his shoulder in a friendly way, and leave the room with a smile for johanna. for all the end of the party, johanna’s hands felt heavy on his body. they were hot and tight, and he was uncomfortable. he just wished she would stop touching him, but didn’t know how to ask her.

he felt like an asshole, too. he had almost cheated on her, for god’s sake. on his sweet, loving, caring girlfriend. 

he had almost cheated on her, but that was not the worst thing about this night. 

the worst thing was that he’d do it all over if that meant he could feel your lips this close to his ever again.

a/n : oohhhh shit's getting serious hehehe. pls don't think this is excusing cheating, it's not!!!! you guys are NOT ready for next part (neither am i) 😏😏

(if i made any mistake, please tell me, english is not my first language!)

[argentinagp-inactive]

LANDO NORRIS | Post-race interview Canada GP 2026

[margoterobbies]

BARBIE (2023) via @wbpictures_br

[tsunodaradio]

lando and the neverending breakup ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

lando norris gets dumped on a tuesday. and then it’s tuesday again, and again, and again.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 7.3k. ꔮ includes: angst, humor, romance, hurt/comfort. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: time loop. mention of food; profanity. established relationship, max fewtrell makes an appearance.  ꔮ commentary box: this idea came to me while i was on my train ride home for work. i’m not going to lie—i bawled like a baby twice while writing. do with that what you will 🫶 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 🎵 recommended listening ⸻ tuesday redux, a playlist.

The beginning of the end starts with Lando sleeping through six of his alarms. 

He wakes up to the one he set for 10:30 AM, which was already a bit of a reach in the first place. Your date was meant to be for lunch, and it takes him an average of an hour to get ready. Factoring in the amount of time it would’ve taken to get to your place? 

There was no way Lando was going to make it on time.  

He stares at the ceiling for a beat, letting the panic marinate. Somewhere in the distance, his phone buzzes. Once. Twice. A third time. It’s not even a surprise anymore; you’re always on time. He’s always slightly off it, as if his entire existence runs on a five-to-ten-minute delay. Most times, even more. 

“Shit,” he groans as he finally rolls out of bed.

The flat is cold. He left the window cracked open the night before, and now the October air bites at his bare skin. He stumbles into the bathroom, catches sight of himself in the mirror, and winces. Bed hair. Sleep lines. A half-crushed hoodie collar. Perfect boyfriend material.

You’ve been together for four years. He’d accidentally spilled an entire iced latte down your shirt after tripping over his own feet in front of a café. You’d stared at him like he was the stupidest person alive, but instead of getting mad, you had laughed. He’d spent the rest of the day trying to make you laugh again. Somehow, it worked.

Back then, Lando had felt like he’d lucked out in a way that made no logical sense. He wasn’t the smooth guy who charmed his way in. He was the idiot with the coffee stains and terrible jokes. You were smarter, sharper, someone who could read people like books. For some reason, you’d read him and decided he was worth the sequel.

The problem with time, he’s realizing, is that it makes everything you take for granted start to blur at the edges.

He throws on jeans that are questionably clean and a hoodie that he’s fairly sure you bought him. He considers brushing his hair, decides a cap will do. Classic Lando efficiency. By the time he texts you omw, he’s already thirty-five minutes late.

When he gets to your place, you’re standing by the door with your arms crossed. Not angry, not yet. Just disappointed in that way that makes his stomach drop a little. You’re wearing the blue sweater he likes. The one that makes your eyes look unfairly good in sunlight. You don’t say anything at first.

“Hi,” he offers, trying for sheepish charm.

You raise an eyebrow. “Hi.”

Okay. Not sheepish enough.

The drive to the restaurant is terse, save for the soft thrum of the engine and whatever playlist Spotify’s decided to humiliate him with today. Lando taps the steering wheel, eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. You’re looking out the window. There’s a tension sitting between you, invisible but solid.

When you finally get to the restaurant, it’s busy. Weekend crowds. Lando didn’t make a reservation. He tells himself it’s fine, you always wing it, but when the host tells them it’ll be a forty-minute wait, the look you give him could curdle milk.

“Forty minutes isn’t that bad,” he tries.

“You said this was a lunch date.”

“It is,” he says, already regretting it.

You end up waiting by the curb. He scrolls through his phone; you scroll through yours. Occasionally, he tries a joke. A few land. Most don’t. The rhythm between you—once easy, playful—feels off-beat today.

When you finally sit down, Lando orders for both of you without thinking. It’s something he’s always done. You usually tease him about it. This time, your mouth presses into a thin line. “I could’ve ordered for myself, you know,” you say.

He freezes with his glass of water halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t think—”

“Yeah.” You look away. “You always do.”

The conversation limps along after that. He talks about his plans for the weekend; you nod politely. You bring up your work; he half-listens, distracted by the notification lighting up his phone. He laughs at a meme Max sent him, forgetting the part where you were mid-sentence. When he finally looks up, you’re quiet again.

There’s a small, sinking feeling in his chest. He pushes it down, like he always does.

After lunch, you walk together down the street. It’s sunny but cold, and he’s tempted to reach for your hand the way he used to, casually, without thinking. Something about your posture—arms folded, a step ahead—makes him hesitate.

“Hey,” he says, trying to bridge the gap. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away. Then, softly: “I don’t know.”

Something about how tired you sound makes Lando’s gut churn, and not in a pleasant way. He laughs awkwardly, because that’s his reflex. Because it’s better than confronting the fact that something has been shifting, seismic in its own devastating way. 

“Work’s been that bad, huh?” he says. 

He immediately realizes it’s not the right thing to say. You stop walking and turn to him, incredulity passing your expression before you reel it in for something more neutral. “Do you even notice anymore?”

“Notice what?”

“Exactly,” you say.

The wind carries your hair into your face. You tuck it behind your ear with a gesture so familiar it physically hurts to look at. Four years, and he still doesn’t know how to stop messing up the small things. The things that end up mattering most, building on top of each other like a stack of cards threatening to cave in.

The car ride back is, once again, filled with nothing but music. The air holds its breath, waiting for one of you to say something of consequence. Lando keeps his hands at ten and two, like concentrating on the steering wheel will fix everything else he’s botched today.

He tells himself he’s going to keep the car running. Drop you off at the porch, maybe toss out a joke about rain checks and seeing you later. Tomorrow’s another day, isn’t it? He can grovel then. 

When he pulls up to your place, he shifts into park but doesn’t kill the engine. The hum of it fills the spaces between you. You reach for the seatbelt, fingers hesitating on the buckle.

“So,” he hums. “Today was nice.”

You let out a breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “Except for the part where you almost ghosted me.”

He winces. “Yeah. My bad.”

There’s a beat where you could both just leave it there. You could get out, wave, pretend it’s fine. He could drive off, convince himself it’s just a bad day. Except you don’t reach for the door handle. You stay put.

“Come inside for a bit,” you say finally.

A corner of his lip twitches downward. “I should let you rest.”

“Lando.” Your voice carries that warning note, the one that cuts through any weak excuse he tries. “Come inside.”

He hesitates, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He wants to pretend it’s because he has somewhere to be. He doesn’t. He just doesn’t want to step into whatever conversation is waiting on the other side of your doorway.

He keeps the car running. It’s the optimist in him, the one who thinks you just want a good night kiss and then he can go on his merry way. 

Everything smells like you inside your house. Clean laundry and that candle he accidentally set off the smoke alarm with once. He stands awkwardly in the hallway while you move to the living room. You don’t offer him a drink. You don’t tell Alexa to play music. You just sit down and look at him like you’ve been rehearsing this moment for weeks.

His chest tightens. “You’re freaking me out,” he jokes weakly.

“I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say, cutting straight through the air like a knife.

Lando doesn’t even think he hears himself when he says, “Pretending what?”

“That this is fine,” you answer. “That we’re fine.”

“We are fine. We had one bad lunch date.”

You shake your head slowly, like you’re watching him miss the point entirely. “It’s not just today.”

The words land in his stomach like cold water. He takes a step closer, as if proximity alone can fix this. “If it’s about me being late—”

“It’s not just about today,” you interrupt. “It’s everything.”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He wants to argue. He wants to say that’s not fair. He wants to list every meme he’s sent, every late-night call he’s answered, every weekend squeezed in between exhausting work days. Because what did you mean everything, when the way he’s loved you was supposed to be part of that? 

You exhale, steadying yourself. The blow is swift and catastrophic. “I think we need to break up.”

The world doesn’t end with a bang. It’s a quiet sort of thing, creeping underneath his ribs, holding his heart in a vice grip. 

Lando laughs. Again, his habit. Coping mechanism. Whatever you want to call it. “You’re joking,” he says. 

You don’t smile. “I’m not.”

“You can’t just drop that on me like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” you say, patient even now. “That’s exactly the point.”

Lando stares at you, trying to find some hint of hesitation. Some crack in your resolve he can wedge himself into. All he sees is certainty, as if you already mourned this before he even noticed it was dying.

He sits down across from you. The couch dips under his weight. “I can fix this,” he says, his words tripping over one another. “I’ll be better. I swear.”

You shake your head. This is not the first time Lando has promised to change his ways. The last time—was it a couple of months ago?—it had been about his tardiness. A couple of months before that, it was him getting complacent. 

Lando feels something collapse inward. All his jokes, his easy charm, his excuses have nowhere to land here. He runs a hand through his curls. “So that’s it?” he asks, his tone edged with disbelief as a matinee runs through his head: Four years, four years, four fucking years. 

You look at him for a long moment. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice wobbling. “It is.”

It’s not the three words that Lando likes hearing from you. The silence that follows sticks to his ribs. Lando just sits there for what feels like forever, waiting for the punchline that isn’t coming.

–-

Lando wakes up to his 10:30 AM alarm.

For a second, he thinks the world ended in his sleep. That would explain the dull throb in his chest, the dry mouth, the way the morning light slants across the room as if it’s highlighting the wreckage of his life. His phone buzzes somewhere in the sheets. He ignores it.

All he can think about is last night. The way you sat on the couch, hands folded like you’d been holding that sentence—“I think we need to break up”—in your mouth for weeks, just waiting for the right silence to drop it into. The look on your face when he tried to fix it. The way the quiet swallowed him whole after.

He presses his palms into his eyes, hard. He didn’t even cry. Not properly. Just sat there until you got up to show him to the door. He drove home on autopilot, parked, sat in the car for what felt like hours. Fell into bed still in his hoodie, smelling like the cold air outside your house.

Another buzz. He groans, grabs the phone. The screen lights up with your name and a text.

hey, are you still coming for lunch?

Lando blinks. Reads it again. Checks the date in the corner of the screen. Tuesday.

That’s impossible.

It was Tuesday yesterday. The breakup happened yesterday. He can still feel it like a bruise under the skin.

He scrambles upright, heart thudding. Checks his messages. All the texts from yesterday—the apologies, the follow-ups, the radio silence—are gone. It’s as if they never existed. Maybe last night was some elaborate nightmare his brain cooked up to ruin his morning.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Either I’ve lost it or…” He trails off. There isn’t really an ‘or’ that makes sense.

Your message is still sitting there. Bright. Normal. Casual. As if nothing happened. He types back before he can think it through:

omw.

He throws on the same hoodie, the same jeans, cap pulled low. Everything about the morning feels like pressing replay on a scene he didn’t like the first time.

By the time he pulls up outside your place, the déjà vu is punching him in the face. You’re there again. Same blue sweater. Same folded arms. Same disappointed-but-not-yet-angry look. He swallows. “Hi,” he says. The word tastes strange.

You raise the same eyebrow. “Hi.”

He almost says, Didn’t we do this yesterday? but bites it back. Instead, he forces himself to follow the script. Drive to the restaurant. No reservation. Forty-minute wait. The same lines, the same tightness in your mouth. It’s a bad rerun of his own mistakes.

“Forty minutes isn’t that bad,” he says automatically.

“You said this was a lunch date,” you say, and something within Lando lurches. 

He wants to scream. Or laugh. Or maybe both.

The host hands you two the buzzer. He stares at it like it’s proof he’s losing his mind.

When you finally sit down, he hesitates before ordering. He catches your eye. You look tired already, like you’ve lived this day twice, too. “I could order for you,” he says carefully. “Or you can… you know. Do it yourself. Obviously.”

You frown. “Are you okay?”

No. “Yeah. Totally.”

Lunch proceeds like before. Him half-listening, distracted. Except this time, he’s hyperaware of every misstep. Every time he looks down at his phone, every awkward pause. He’s watching himself dig the same hole and can’t stop it.

When he drives you home, his hands grip the wheel like a lifeline. He pulls up to your house. Keeps the engine running. The moment stretches.

“Come inside for a bit,” you say.

His stomach drops. He knows what comes next. He lived it. “I really should let you rest.”

“Lando,” you say, same warning note.

Inside, you sit him down. Same couch. Same look. Same sentence. “I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say.

His pulse spikes. “No, no, no, no,” he mutters, mostly to himself, like that’ll stop the script from playing. “Not again.”

“I think we need to break up,” you continue.

That’s the thing about reruns: the endings never change, no matter how badly you may want them to. 

–-

Lando wakes up at 10:30 again.

The alarm blares, lilting very much like Worst Sound in the World. His first thought isn’t about breakfast, or brushing his teeth, or even the crushing weight of heartbreak. It’s, “No fucking way.”

He lies there staring at the ceiling, pulse climbing. His brain does a quick replay: yesterday (but not yesterday), the breakup, the restaurant, the text. He sits up so fast his head spins. Checks his phone. Tuesday. 10:31 AM. Same text from you waiting on the screen.

hey, are you still coming for lunch?

“Okay,” he says aloud. “Okay, okay, okay.” He laughs once, short and disbelieving. “I’m on a prank show. Sick. Someone call Ashton Kutcher.”

He thumbs out his standard reply. 

omw.

In the bathroom mirror, he stares himself down like he might crack if he looks too long. “It’s fine,” he mutters. “This is fine. TikTok does this. It’s a thing. Social experiments. Hidden cameras. Maybe Max is in on it.”

The mirror doesn’t offer much reassurance.

By the time he gets to your house, he’s vibrating with unease. Same sweater. Same porch. Same confused little wave from you. He gets out of the car like a man walking into a trap he can see but can’t avoid.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” you reply, eyebrow already halfway up to arching. Wow, you’re good at this. He never knew you were such an actress. 

Lando gestures at you, almost accusing. “You’re wearing the same thing.”

Your brow furrows. “What?”

“This is like… I’ve seen those TikToks. Social experiments. Hidden cameras.” He spins in a half-circle, scanning the street. “Are you filming me? Is there a drone somewhere?” 

You take a small step back. “Are you okay?”

He laughs again, a little unhinged. “No, because this is the third Tuesday I’ve had,” he sputters, “and I swear to God if you tell me there’s a forty-minute wait at the restaurant again—”

“What are you talking about?”

He drags a hand down his face. “You’re good. You’re really good. I didn’t even see the cameras. Where is it? Is Max behind this? Carlos? You? No, wait. You wouldn’t do this, you’re too—”

You’re staring at him like he’s grown a second head.

The drive is silent after that, punctuated by his muttered commentary about déjà vu and bad TV. It’s not even the tense type of silence, just the kind where you’re obviously wondering if Lando has lost his mind. He’s fairly sure he has. 

At the restaurant, the host gives the exact same apologetic smile. “It’ll be about forty minutes.”

Lando barks out a laugh. “Of course it will.”

You give him a look that lands somewhere between concern and irritation. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“No, no, this is great. Love this part.” He pockets the buzzer with the air of a man resigned to his own execution.

“Lando, what the hell is going on with you today?”

“Honestly?” he exhales. “I don’t even know anymore.”

By the time he drops you off, he’s somewhere between hysterical and numb. You ask him to come inside again. He tries to refuse. You insist. The scene unfolds. Same couch. Same look.

“I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say.

Lando rubs his face with both hands. “Here it comes.”

“I think we need to break up.”

“Yup.” He exhales. “Nailed it.”

You stare at him, hurt and confused, and for a moment he almost breaks. He wants to grab your hand and explain everything. But how do you explain a third Tuesday to someone who’s still on their first?

So he sits there, the words landing like they did before. It’s almost a little bit funny, how they never hurt any less. 

–-

Lando wakes up to his 10:30 alarm again, and the sound doesn’t even bother him anymore. 

It’s background noise now. Birdsong. Tinnitus. He just lies there staring at the ceiling for a moment, hand over his face, letting the weight of it sink in.

It’s his ninth Tuesday.

He’s stopped hoping it’ll be Wednesday when he checks his phone. He knows what he’ll see. Still, the little flash of the date on his lock screen feels like a punchline he can’t quite laugh at yet.

Lando goes through the motions. Shower. Hoodie. Keys. The drive to your place. By now he knows exactly how long he can stay in bed before traffic screws him over. He knows which playlist you’ll put on when he finally picks you up. He knows the conversation about your neighbor’s cat that always happens at the second red light.

And he’s not trying to change any of it. Not today. He’s tired. There’s something perversely comforting in watching the dominoes fall the exact same way.

You’re waiting outside when he pulls up, smiling at him in that easy, familiar way that hurts more now. He smiles back because he still can. Because for these few hours, before the world tilts on its axis, everything feels almost normal.

“Hi,” he greets. 

“Hi,” you say back. 

He doesn’t mention that he’s had this exact exchange nine times. It’s starting to feel like a script. The faux pas add up like clockwork. He forgets to ask about that thing you told him last week. He answers a call mid-conversation. He scrolls through something on his phone when you go quiet for a second too long. He’s not even trying to fix it. Not yet.

The drive back is the same. You offer to have him in, he gives the same noncommittal shrug. It’s like watching a film he’s already memorised but can’t turn off. 

“I think we need to break up.”

Every time, those words feel like dropping through a trapdoor.

He watches himself react. The surprise, the scrambled words, the disbelief. It’s almost detached this time, like observing a stranger wear his face. By the end of it, he’s sitting in his car again, engine running, the same ache settling into his chest.

For the first time, the thought lands cleanly, without panic or denial or that ridiculous TikTok conspiracy theory he tried a few loops ago: Maybe the goal isn’t to figure out the time loop. Maybe the goal is to stop you from breaking up with him.

The thought sits there, heavy and sharp, as he drives off to get his heart broken another time.

–-

Lando wakes up to his 10:30 alarm with a plan. 

It’s not much of a plan, but after nine Tuesdays of sleepwalking through the same breakup, it feels revolutionary. He’ll fix it. He’ll be better. He’ll get ahead of it this time.

He’s out of bed faster than usual, brushes his teeth like he’s racing in Formula One, and even puts on a decent shirt instead of his usual hoodie. The mirror catches him mid pep-talk. “You’re not screwing this up again,” he mutters, pointing at his own reflection like a threat.

First stop: flowers. Easy, right? Romantic, thoughtful, gesture-y. Except the florist near his place is shut for renovations, and the gas station flowers are… well. They exist. Slightly wilted lilies and some anonymous pink things that look like they’ve been rejected from a Valentine’s bin three years running.

He buys them anyway. “These are her favorites,” he tells the cashier, who nods like he doesn’t get paid enough to question the lie.

The drive to your place is familiar by now. You step out, still oblivious to the looping chaos he’s been living in. He hands you the flowers with a flourish he hopes masks how cheap they look.

“Oh,” you say, taking them carefully. “Are these meant to be apology flowers?” 

“They’re ‘just-because’ flowers. I know they’re not your favorites, but they didn’t have the ones you like,” he lies smoothly. Inside, he cringes at the limp stem hanging at a tragic angle. 

He changes up the restaurant this time, too. He’s picked somewhere new, hoping a change of scenery might rewrite the script. It’s louder, busier, slightly too warm, and he immediately regrets it when you get seated by the kitchen doors. A waiter barrels past every thirty seconds like they’re in a high-speed chase.

You talk. He tries to focus. He really does. But the place is distracting, and when his phone buzzes in his pocket, he checks it without thinking. You stop mid-sentence. His stomach sinks. Old habits die screaming. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly, locking the screen. “Reflex.”

You nod, but there’s that tiny shift in your expression. The one he’s seen nine times already.

The food takes too long. He tries to make a joke about it. He spills a bit of water when passing you the bottle. His chair squeaks loudly whenever he shifts. It’s like the universe has queued up a blooper reel just for him.

On the way back to your place, he’s rattled. He thought trying would make a difference. It hasn’t. You’re quiet in the passenger seat, hands folded in your lap, flowers on the dashboard looking increasingly funereal.

Outside your house, it happens again. The talk. The look. The slow dismantling of whatever hope he built that morning.

“Lando, come inside.” 

He tries to interrupt, to reroute the conversation. “Wait, is this about the flowers? Because the florist was—”

“It’s not about the flowers,” you say softly. It never is.

He listens to the words he’s already memorised, each one sinking deeper because this time, he thought he had a shot. He thought doing better, even slightly, might change something.

You break up with him anyway, steady and kind, while his confusion coils tight in his chest.

He sits in the car longer than usual, flowers still on the dashboard, petals starting to wilt for real now. He presses his forehead against the steering wheel.

“Great plan, mate,” he mutters. “Nailed it.”

–-

Lando wakes up at 10:30, already plotting. 

He’s tried flowers. He’s tried dinner. Now, he’s convinced the answer is to reroute the entire day. No restaurants. No driving around. Just you, him, and the safety of your living room. How could anything possibly implode if you never leave the house?

He shows up with a sheepish grin and a plastic bag from the grocery store. “Surprise. I brought snacks,” he says, holding up a family-sized bag of crisps. The lie that follows is almost elegant. “Thought we could just stay in tonight. Y’know. Cozy.”

You blink, surprised but not displeased. “That’s… different.”

“Good different,” he insists, stepping inside before you can change your mind. The smell of your house hits him all at once—detergent and candle wax, faint perfume clinging to the air. He’s starting to think this might actually work.

The day unfolds weirdly well. You sit cross-legged on the couch, blanket pooled around your lap, laughing at the ridiculous movie he picked. He’s sprawled in the armchair like a teenager trying not to make things awkward, hyper-aware of every shared glance, every brush of your knee against his. For a few hours, the loop feels like it’s cracked. No argument over the check. No overcooked risotto. It’s only the two of you, tucked into the soft edges of domesticity.

Then, near midnight, something shifts. It’s the way your laugh falters during a lull in the conversation. The way your eyes start drifting away from him instead of toward. A gut-deep wrongness, the same one he’s come to dread.

You set your mug down. “Lando, we need to talk.”

He can feel it coming, like a punch he’s already taken a dozen times. “Can it wait until after the movie?” he tries, half-joking.

You give him that soft, sad look that doesn’t care about punchlines. 

The words unravel the same way they always do. You love him. You care about him. But this isn’t working, it’s everything, it’s over. He doesn’t even bother to argue. He’s sitting on the couch cushion like it’s quicksand, nodding as if he hasn’t been here before.

“Can I stay?” he blurts out at the end. It’s desperate and humiliating and entirely sincere. “It’s—it’s really late.” 

You hesitate, then sigh. “The couch. Just tonight.”

It’s not much, but he clings to it like a life raft. You disappear into your bedroom, the sound of the door clicking shut making the walls feel miles thick. He lies down on the couch, staring at the ceiling, convinced maybe sleeping here will break the loop.

He wakes up to his 10:30 alarm in his own bed.

Lando shoves his face into the pillow and lets out a muffled scream.

–-

Lando figures that the solution is to not see you at all.

If the breakup happens when you’re together, then the obvious fix is to… not be together. It’s completely flawless in theory.

He turns off his phone’s notifications, buries it deep in his hoodie, and grabs his keys. By noon, he’s halfway through a breakfast sandwich at a café he’s never been to before, sunglasses on, hood up, convincing himself this is exactly what people in control of their lives look like.

Your first text comes in around 12:17. Then a second. Then a call. He ignores them all. It’s not personal, he tells himself. It’s strategic. The universe can’t orchestrate a breakup scene if the actors never enter the stage.

By mid-afternoon, he’s at a go-kart track thirty minutes away, tearing through laps with laser focus. Each turn is a silent act of rebellion. No lunch date. No awkward silences. No heartbreak. He drowns himself with engine noise and the illusion of agency.

It’s only when he’s parked in a random lot at sunset, scrolling through TikTok like a man hiding from the law, that the text comes in.

i can’t do this anymore, lando.

He stares at the screen. Blinks. Reads it again, as if maybe the ending will rearrange itselfif he squints hard enough.

“Seriously?” he mutters to no one. 

His stomach twists in a way that’s half panic, half disbelief. He’d managed to avoid every single pitfall, every moment where things usually went wrong. And you’d still broken with him. Over text. 

He drives home in silence, gripping the wheel like it’s personally betrayed him. By the time he gets back to his flat, the frustration is simmering under his skin like static. He throws himself onto his bed without changing, staring at the ceiling.

The 10:30 alarm will ring again. He knows it. Not for the first time, the thought makes him want to scream.

–-

Lando wakes up at 10:30 and decides, with the kind of manic confidence that only comes from repeated failure, that this time he’s going to get ahead of it. 

If he breaks up with you first, then maybe the loop won’t know what to do. Check-fucking-mate.

By the time lunch rolls around, he’s seated across from you at the restaurant with his hands clasped. You’re mid-story about something that happened at work when he blurts, “We should break up.”

It’s not his most ceremonious way of going about it, but whatever. He’ll probably have a couple more Tuesdays to nail it. You pause, your fork nearly clattering on to the table. “What?” you sputter. 

“Yeah. Break up,” he says, nodding like this is perfectly reasonable. “I just think… yeah.”

Your eyebrows draw together, suspicion creeping in. “Did Max tell you?”

Lando freezes. “Max?”

“So he did.”

He didn’t. Lando’s finds himself trapped in a conversational cul-de-sac with no exit signs. Max Fewtrell, his best friend since God-knows-when, knew that you were planning to dump him? “Uh… maybe?” Lando sputters. 

“Wow,” you say, crossing your arms. “I can’t believe he’d do that.”

“Yeah,” Lando agrees weakly.

You look at him, doing that thing again where you read between all the lines. “Okay. Then why do you want to break up?”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Because there is no reason. There never was. Not one he believes, anyway. 

Lando can live through hundreds of Tuesdays, and there still wouldn’t be one where he would want to end things with you. There’s not a cell in his body that wants to leave you—the feeling, so intense that he can’t even bring himself to lie. 

Sitting here, watching the tiny crease form between your brows, his throat tightens. For a second, it’s like he’s hearing his own words from outside his body, and the sheer absurdity of them makes his stomach lurch.

“I…” he tries. His hand curls against the edge of the table. “I don’t know.”

Your voice softens. “Lando.”

He laughs, brittle and shaky. “This is going so well.”

The rest of lunch limps along. He can’t undo the words once they’re out there. He can’t explain the real reason without sounding like he’s lost his mind. He drops you off; you invite him in to ‘talk about it’. Lando shakes his head and tells you there’s nothing to talk about, which is a good chunk of the truth. 

He doesn’t know what hurts more: that you still chose to end things, or that for a moment, he almost believed he could let you go first.

–-

Lando wakes up at 10:30 and doesn’t text you back.

He’s past the point of pretending that his choices matter. Whether he shows up or not, whether he apologizes or hides or drives off into the distance, the breakup will happen. It’s starting to feel like gravity. 

Instead of rehashing the script, he pulls on a hoodie that still smells faintly of your shampoo, grabs his car keys, and heads to Max’s place. If he’s stuck in this endless rerun, he might as well spend it somewhere that doesn’t smell like heartbreak and half-eaten takeout.

Max answers the door with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, toothpaste foam threatening to drip down his chin. His hair sticks up like he’s been electrocuted. “Morning?” he mumbles around the brush.

“It’s noon,” Lando says flatly, shouldering past him. He drops himself onto the couch with the kind of exhaustion that makes his bones feel old. “I need to talk.”

Max pads back to the sink, spits, rinses, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then flops down into the armchair opposite. “You’re scaring me. Did you kill someone?”

“No.” Lando presses his palms against his eyes. “She’s going to break up with me today.”

The resounding silence feels a lot like a gotcha moment. Max did know, and Lando would be angrier if he wasn’t so damn exhausted. 

“She’s gonna do it. I can’t stop it,” Lando insists, voice pitching higher, like if he says it with enough force the world might finally listen. His voice cracks as he looks up at Max, the words spilling out of him, “How could she change her mind like that? How—how do you just wake up and realize you don’t love someone anymore?”

Max leans back, arms folded. “People are like that,” he says gently. “We change our minds.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Lando snaps before he can help it. The words stick in his throat. “I haven’t changed my mind. I still love her.”

And there it is. 

Because after every shitty thing he’s done—after every shortcoming, every moment when he could have been kinder—the truth glares like a neon sign against a brick wall. He loved you, he loves you, he will love you through Tuesdays and whatever else waits on the other side of this nightmare. He will wake up at 10:30 for the rest of his life, feeling your loss like a phantom limb. 

He will not change his mind. He doesn’t want to. 

It hits Lando how raw that sounded, how he didn’t even try to hide it behind a joke this time. Max doesn’t laugh or deflect. He just watches him, steady, like he’s holding space for something fragile.

“Sometimes,” Max says after a beat, voice softer than Lando expects, “we think we’re doing our best for the people we love. But not hurting them isn’t always the same as giving them what they deserve. You haven’t been a bad boyfriend, Lando. You just haven’t been a good one, either. And that’s okay. That’s just life. You live and you lose and you learn.”

Lando stares at the carpet, jaw clenched, chest tight. He wants to argue. He wants to say Max doesn’t know everything, that it’s not that simple, that he tried. But the words don’t come, because Max isn’t wrong. Lando knows that too well. 

He can try, and try, and try, but it won’t undo the weeks, the months. The cracks are already there. The story has been written, and somebody has to leave. 

It’s going to be you. 

Lando takes in a deep, shaky breath. “Fewtrell, you’re not gonna remember this,” he mumbles, “but thanks.”

Max frowns. “Why wouldn’t I remember?”

“Eh.” Lando shrugs. “Just a feeling.”

(When Lando finally leaves, it’s late afternoon. He doesn’t make it to you. He doesn’t pick up your calls. He tricks himself that it’s just like any other day.

Hours later, like clockwork, the breakup text arrives anyway. It’s short, familiar, and perversely comforting. He reads it once, presses his thumb against the glass like it might change the words, then flips the phone face down on the table.

10:30 comes for him anyway.) 

–-

That morning ‘after’, Lando doesn’t bother acting like he’s fine.

His eyes are bloodshot, hoodie half-zipped, hair flattened in weird places from not caring. When your eyes land on him, your first instinct is concern, not anger, which feels like a small, temporary miracle.

“Hey,” he says. His voice trembles embarrassingly on the single syllable. “Can we… just have a good day? Please.”

You look at him like you’re searching for the catch. There isn’t one. He doesn’t have a speech prepared. He doesn’t even have a plan beyond this pathetic, desperate ask. Just one day. One good day before everything caves in.

Something in your expression shifts. “Of course,” you say, your shoulders loosening, and he feels so bad. 

He feels so guilty to ask you this. He feels terrible to demand your patience and your love when both have already worn so thin. But he’s tired, and he’ll take whatever love you can still afford to give him—even the bits and pieces of it. 

The day unspools like a song playing a little too softly. Lunch at a café where he keeps his hand on your thigh the whole time. Not in a casual way but like if he lets go, the world might end. A walk by the pier where he buys you ice cream you don’t finish, where he laughs too loudly at your jokes, as if volume alone could keep things alive. 

You don’t push him away. You don’t ask questions. You indulge him, which Lando finds to be infinitely worse than everything he’s gone through so far. He once had so much more than your indulgence. He had your devotion, your affection. He had deserved it once. 

He keeps catching himself staring at you like he’s memorizing your face. Every time, he forces a smile, then forces you to laugh. It works, sometimes. Other times, the air between you stretches thin and trembling. A string pulled too tight.

By the time he drives you home, the sky is bruised purple. The car idles at the curb, headlights washing over the pavement. You reach for the door handle, mouth opening to invite him inside, and something in him splinters.

“Wait,” he says. It comes out shaky, barely a sound.

You turn back to him. His hands are clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. He’s trying so hard to hold it together that it’s painful to watch. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t do this.”

Tears slide down his cheeks before he can stop them. Hot, humiliating, relentless. He drags in a breath like he’s drowning. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Your eyes are glassy too, and that’s what gets him. It’s—what? His twenty-second Tuesday?—and you’re only crying now. 

The two of you sit there, the engine humming low beneath the sound of quiet, shaky breathing. It’s not a breakup conversation, not technically. Both of you just cry, and cry, and cry, watching four years crumble somewhere between the dashboard and the rear view mirror. You walk back into your house alone. Lando waits until all the lights are off before driving away.

He doesn’t remember how the night ends. Only that when he wakes up, it’s 10:30 again.

–-

Lando wakes up to the same ceiling, the same pale shaft of light sneaking through his curtains. He’s lost count of how many times it’s been Tuesday. His phone screen blinks 10:30 at him, but for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t scream into his pillow. He just lies there, breathing, heart a strange mix of calm and ache.

It’s not just any Tuesday. It’s the Tuesday.

He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. Something in his chest has settled. He’s stopped hoping the loop will break if he just fixes enough small details. He’s stopped pretending this is about finding the trick. Today isn’t about winning.

He showers longer than usual, stands under the hot spray until his skin turns pink. He pulls on a shirt he knows you like. Then he drives to the flower shop across town—the good one, not the petrol station where he’s grabbed wilted stems in a panic. He asks for your favorite flowers by name, arranges them himself, fussing over each stem until the bouquet looks like it belongs in a photograph. The woman behind the counter gives him a knowing smile. He doesn’t explain.

You give him a surprised smile when you see the flowers, and for a brief moment, he sees a glimmer of the old you. The one who used to look at him like he was the sun.

“Wow,” you say, touching the petals gently. “You remembered.”

“Course I did,” he says, pretending like he didn’t have to drive twenty minutes out of the way and nearly break down in the parking lot.

At lunch, he takes you to the tiny bistro tucked into the corner of an old street, the one where you first told him you loved him, voice shy but steady. Your eyes widen when you see the place. For a heartbeat, he sees it. Your guard slipping, a flash of the old warmth. It punches the air out of his lungs. 

He keeps the conversation light, cracks jokes, listens harder than he’s ever listened. You laugh, softly, like you used to, and he feels both full and hollow at once.

Lando realizes halfway through dessert that this is it. This is his final act of love: Letting you go.

He doesn’t say it out loud, though. Doesn’t make this about him. He just reaches across the table, brushes his thumb over your knuckles, memorizes the way your hand feels in his. This could be the last time, or it could be another Tuesday. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters except for the way he hopes he’s done halfway right by you. 

When he drives you home, the silence in the car is gentle and kind. The streetlights blur into streaks through the windshield. He tries very hard not to cry.  

Lando parks outside your house and kills the engine before you can ask. 

He turns to you and takes in every inch of your face like he’s storing it somewhere safe. This is how he wants to remember you. Still his, for a brief, beautiful moment. 

“Hey,” Lando says, voice cracking. “Before I walk you in—can I get a kiss?” 

He sees the hesitation. That heartbeat where you wonder if it’s something appropriate, when you’ve already prepared for what you’re about to do. Lando is just about ready to start begging when you nod.

Your first kiss had looked a lot like this, too. His car, a streetlight above, the promise of something. When Lando leans in to kiss you, this time, he tastes salt instead of giddiness. He’s not sure whose tears it is. He kisses you until he can’t breathe, until his lungs protest, until he has to face the inevitable. 

There used to be a car battery inside Lando’s chest—one that would roar to life when you kissed him, looked at him, said his name. 

Tonight, that battery is cold.

Your forehead presses against his. Tears cling to your lashes. Your mouth moves, devastatingly slow, against his, as you whisper, “Lando.” 

The car battery inside his chest clicks one last time,—

and then it dies with a whimper. ⛐

[uranium-core]

evil scientist reader whose true love dies tragically but it's okay bc they frankenstein that mfer but to life #mycreature

[quadrantslando]

[rhodeys]

INCEPTION (2010) dir. Christopher Nolan

[starsstillstay]

alex turner photographed by jason joyce