#and it isn't that life isn't worth it without him

[ontherunnt]

Hihii! You write so perfectly for Simon, and I just had to ask...

Could we get Simon x fem!reader where she makes an offhand comment about how she randomly gets really strong urges to be hugged throughout the day? Like she'll just be going about her day, then BOOM. She needs the fullest, coziest hug and it'll ruin the next few hours for her if she can't have one.

I know Simon isn't the most snuggly, PDA guy ever, so I thought this would be interesting 😭

hi!! thank you, pookie <3 i love a soft Simon even though his character is…odd, so it's definitely interesting lmfao. i hope you like it ᵔᵕᵔ

Simon Riley with a partner who just wants to be held

pairing: Simon Riley x reader

wc: 1519

warnings: none!

Simon Riley had never known physical affection. He’d known fists, knives, and kicks to the stomach. He’d known the smell of bourbon and cigarettes from the second he’d been born. He’d known violence and pain from a man supposed to love him—or at the very least, shield him from danger. Unfortunately for Simon, it’d been his father who’d presented the biggest threat to him. 

His brother hadn’t been much better. While he’d never hurt Simon, he hadn’t been any help. His mother hadn’t been the worst, but she hadn’t been the best. She’d never been one to go to talent shows or to hang Simon’s picture on a wall. There hadn’t been a single person in his life who’d cared about him enough to keep him safe.

He’d never known a gentle touch, and he’d never been bothered enough to seek it. 

He didn’t mean for it to happen—it just did. When you spend your entire life correlating someone’s touch to being hurt, you learn to cower away from it. Simon didn’t do hugs, or hand holding, or cuddles. He didn’t care about which side of the pavement he walked on or what temperature the thermostat was set to. 

Until you rolled around, that is. 

You came into his life mercilessly—in the best possible way. Simon had been through more than enough unforgiving shit to believe in any higher power, but if he did, then there wouldn’t be a single doubt in his heart that God himself had sent you. You fit into him like you’d been put on earth for that purpose. Everything he’d been through suddenly wasn’t nearly as bad, so long as he could have you in his life.   

You understood him without speaking, you comforted him without prodding, and you loved him without hurting. 

The night terrors didn’t startle you—you still slept by his side and poured him water when he couldn’t even form coherent sentences, too shaken by his memories to think straight. The scars that adorned every inch of his skin had become a familiar map you traced with feather-light touches every night to put him to sleep. Whenever you spoke about him, there was always a trace of pride in your voice he’d never heard from anyone else—like he mattered, like he was worth something.

Maybe Simon Riley didn’t do hugs or kisses or cuddles. But you did. 

You sought his touch like your life depended on it. While you didn’t shy away from mundane, fleeting moments—squeezing his arm, running a hand through his hair, planting soft kisses on his cheek—what you really craved was to be held.

It took him embarrassingly long to notice the link between your shift in attitude and how long it’d been since his arms had been wrapped around you. It would’ve been easier if you’d used your words, until it became clear to him even you weren’t aware of it. 

It was gradual, but not subtle. One moment, you’d be curled on the sofa, book on your lap and humming something absentmindedly. You’d smile at him, or compliment him, or give him that look so full of love it made his brain short-circuit. Then you’d be irritable, annoyed the slightest of noise, and would stop whatever you were doing.

Today, you gave him a small wave before returning your focus to the book who’d stolen you from him for the past three days—something about dragons, something about riders. He had no idea, but he’d gotten you the second one already, just in case. 

He kissed the top of your head, drawing a satisfied hum from you. 

“M’getting’ a drink with Johnny,” he said, tapping the page of your book so you’d pay attention to him. “Won’t be long.”

You barely registered his words as you waved at him the way he’d wave at a cashier. He rolled his eyes, a gesture he never knew could carry affection, and grabbed his keys from the counter. 

By the time he walked through the doorway, he heard the clock ticking in his head. He heard it while he sipped on his first pint of Boddies. He heard it while Johnny talked about his football team like the Celtic had any chance at winning anything outside the confines of Scotland. He heard it while he waited by the pump at the petrol station, foot tapping impatiently against the concrete. He heard it while he fumbled with his keys at the door, well aware of how long he’d been gone. 

It wasn’t until he stepped into the flat that the clocked stopped ticking, and in its place rang an alarm. A loud, jarring one in the shape of your abandoned book on the coffee table and the sound of the shower running. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he roamed through the flat, slowly removing his layers. 

He knew how to play the game—a game you weren’t aware of. 

He left his coat on the rack, next to your own. His shoes were left by the door, otherwise you would’ve cut off his legs. His face-mask had been thrown in the bin the second he walked into the bedroom. He left his phone on the nightstand and lowered himself on the bed, just by the edge. 

By the time you walked out of the bathroom—hair dripping wet, Simon’s shirt sticking to your body in ways that made him wish he hadn’t gone out with Johnny, shorts so short they barely covered anything—he sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin rested on one of his palms. 

You were upset. 

He could see it on your furrowed brows and slow, practiced breaths. He could see it on the way you walked up to him without saying a word, silently looking down at him with those eyes of yours. He could see it on the almost-there pout on your lips. 

He didn’t give you the time to speak. He reached and intertwined his fingers with yours. You smelled like that bodywash that drove him crazy—the one you’d used since you first met. The shirt smelled like him, which threw him off guard only for a second before he pulled you onto his lap. 

You straddled him with ease, a clear sign of how many times you’d done this. His lap had become your preferred spot—reading, kissing, talking. He let go of your hand only to move his palms to the small of your back. You wrapped your legs around his middle and let your forehead crash against the curve of his neck, taking in his scent. 

The alarm in his head went out. 

He ran a slow hand up and down your spine, letting the moment simmer in comfortable silence for a beat longer. You wrapped your arms around him—one over his shoulder, the other under his arm. Your hold wasn’t tight, but it felt desperate. You nuzzled the curve of his neck, and Simon felt almost pathetic for the low groan you drew from him. 

The same arms that had held military-grade weapons now wrapped around your frame with utmost care. He pressed you against his chest tighter as he placed a slow kiss on your temple, your skin warm against his lips. 

Like a plant that’d finally been watered, you perked up at the gesture. You sighed softly before placing a kiss on his neck, finally lifting your head. 

He grunted at the sudden warmth that spread through his body. “Careful there.”

You giggled, arms now wrapped around his neck. He took in the sight—your now bright eyes, your frown gone, and your smile wide. You placed a kiss to the corner of his lips, and it was then that Simon knew your tank was nearly full. 

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into the soft, exposed flesh. He closed the distance between the two of you, lips crashing against your own. You tasted like toothpaste, he probably still tasted like beer—it didn’t matter. You let out a surprised groan against his lips, which lit a fire in his chest. 

You pulled away smiling. With your arms still wrapped around his neck, you leaned back, trusting Simon to keep you from falling over. He couldn’t help but smile back at you, almost involuntarily. His hold didn’t falter—he’d never let you fall.

“How’s the book?” he rasped, eyes still locked onto your kiss-swollen lips. 

You huffed. “Couldn’t finish it. Suddenly didn’t feel like reading anymore, dunno why.”

He chuckled, full of amusement and entertainment. Maybe you hadn’t figured it out, but he knew why. But he wouldn’t say it, because if you’d been put on this earth for him, then he’d also been put on this earth for you. And Simon Riley would hold you in his arms for the rest of his life if you’d let him. 

He wrapped his arms around you and threw himself back on the bed, loving the way your giggles echoed in his head while he kissed you like a starved man. 

[peace-hunter]

Do you think in the haunted AU, Onyx is reminding Optimus of what the ecology was like before Iacon's construction drove out cavern-dwelling creatures from the underground, and how the surface is meant to function without quintesson activity?

yeah. Yeah OTL

i love that idea! i think onyx was one of the most devastated at the damage the war did to their world and also one of most insistent on finding ways to repair it. half their time was spent fighting the quintessons and the other half collecting samples of everything they could get their hands on, keeping them stored away in the hopes they could be reintroduced to the ecosystem once it was safe to do so.

they may or may not have run out of space in their labs at one point and started piling them up in every room available to the point their siblings joked that they were trying to turn the tower into an indoor garden.

sadly, they never got to put their plans into action. and perhaps even more devastatingly, most of the samples were lost when sentinel "cleaned" up the tower afterwards. only a precious few were lucky enough to be overlooked and survive.

and. and maybe this isn't the most vital thing they could show optimus. maybe it isn't as important as battle tactics or government logistics. maybe it won't as helpful to his survival as another thousand little things they could teach him.

but. they don't want him to just survive. they want him to live. they want him to have hope and joy and everything that makes life worth living. they want him to know there's more than just battles and a war-torn world.

they want him to know the fields will bloom again someday.

haunted au

[rinis-rift]

And I don't Blame You

ꕥ Glory and fame blinds Abby easily to say the least. and now he pays the price. He cries at a grave that he isn't sure if it's yours, he didn't honor you when you were alive, and now, he isn't able to even find your place of rest. <angst, hurt, no happy ending>

male!Deceased! reader x Abby

wc: 1.2k

extra: this song is so sad, and i chose the most prideful member of the saja boys + NO HAPPY ENDING HERE + idk how to write angst, so uhm, i tried

this feels like an elaborate shitpost 😦

masterlist

He’s the prime example of not knowing what you lose until it’s gone. Blinded by his own glory of a revered and respected warrior, he forgets that among the crowd screaming and cheering his name, his male partner stands off to the side.

But regardless of the growing number of silent days that passed over, you stood by his side, quietly, always admiring him. He was the love of your life. When he was still small, you’d hold him, humming songs, caressing his hair.

You held him with the care no one would offer him, gave him a reason to keep training, keep trying to get to his goals. Your smile would make his heart do laps, and now, he only gets that feeling from running a lap.

Your eyes shone with a light that couldn’t be diminished, the fire in your heart wouldn’t be snuffed out by the silence of all things. You worked on your end, your hard work was so you both could have a meal at your shared home.

Every night, you’d both sit at the table, sharing a conversation filled with laughter and affection, two empty bowls or plates would sit in the sink by the end of the night.

You’d worked tirelessly to please him because you loved him. You were patient, loving, considerate, helpful, everything under the warm sun that could warm someone up. You were an angel in this world. 

But it didn’t matter how good you were, he made a deal with Gwi-Ma.

Abby wished for strength without support, he muttered prayers of being the brawns of an entire army. He accepted that on his own. 

He wasn’t enough for the army, for the country he served, he had to be more in order to afford the glory he so desperately craved.

And his wish was granted. 

Abby never told you the deal, but he did tell you his accomplishments. His medal, the piles of gold he received, his armor and ego grew in sync. He felt prideful of you, not because you were there to love him when no one else did, but because you admired him. Like everyone else.

But now, when a meal was served, only one bowl was emptied. Silence became a norm, the bed was cold, deprived of the warmth that could only erupt from love. The cold days felt colder. The silence sounded louder.

Your hands were empty, you didn’t have your lover’s face to hold, his soft hair to comb through with your fingers. Your voice cracked when you hummed the songs you’d sing to him. And that was the start of the unfortunate events that started to befall you.

You watched him stumble home late at night, and while there were never any acts of infidelity, you couldn’t help but feel ignored. But even the late night appearances started decreasing- he stopped showing up at all. 

Deep in your fathomless heart, you subconsciously knew that you became an afterthought in your boyfriend’s life.

It felt like as the silence in your life increased, so did the sickness. From your throat, it spread to immobilize you, your family members took you to doctors, trying to rid you of this plague that messed up your body.

Your hands grasped around nothing, you spooned nothing in your dying bed. Your eyes sunk in, but that life-like shine never dimmed, you stared out the small window like it would bring back the love of your life.

Oh, you poor thing. If only you were valued as much as you valued him. You did all you could, didn’t you? You always tired yourself out knowing that it was going to be worth it. Knowing that he would make it worth it.

Needless to say, the fever never went away. And when it did, so did you.

Within your last hour, you wondered. If you had the warmth of a lover who appreciated you, would this illness pass?

You died thinking that he didn’t care for you.

It was too late. He was too late.

Abby caught news of your death four days after your family members hosted your funeral. A letter he didn’t open because he assumed it was you checking on him again, that, and the fact that the king was holding a banquet in his honor.

It didn’t matter what his excuse was, because you were already looking down at the green earth, down at him. From the clouds, your eyes gazed at those who showed up. Rain poured heavily, reflecting the sorrow felt that day. Reflecting your disappointment.

Gwi-Ma didn’t allow the act of Abby going to his dead boyfriend’s grave, and so, the markings spread faster. He was dragged down to Hell right when he reached the gates of the graveyards of where your funeral was hosted.

And Abby dies a human, and is reborn back into the worst version of spirits. A demon.

He dwells in the underworld for centuries, he doesn’t find any remnant of you down there. No one to hold him, sing to him, cook for him. Gwi-Ma’s voices, his taunts and jabs at your death echo in his mind without rest, he even cruelly hums the tune you would hum to him.

But who is he to say what is and isn’t cruel? He couldn’t even be there on time for you.

So when he is offered to reach the surface to plot the end of the world, he accepts. He’s desperate to find you, even if you both won’t ever cross paths again, he wants to go to your grave.

The sun is blazing down on the graveyard, it takes Abby weeks to locate the general area where you both used to reside. But against all odds, he finds it, he runs rows and rows through the graveyard, passing stones of the deceased.

He longs to find you, for he hasn’t left you flowers. He hasn’t given you flowers in years, his heart breaks at every row he passes, he feels the emotional weight pulling him down at the flowers that were left behind by the dead loved ones.

The sun seems to get hotter as he gets closer to the end, his mind a mess. And when he reaches a wall, he realizes. He realizes something terrifying, something that could break someone.

He doesn’t remember your family name. A name that he was supposed to take over, but the day where you both adorned blue hanboks seemed to delay after your death day. And with that realization, his sweat and tears mix.

He huddles over, he ignores how harsh the sun is. He deserves it. He didn’t deserve your love, not when he couldn’t even remember your last name.

Your smiles blend together with faces of royalty, the men he spent nights with, having fun, having all the splendor a man could enjoy while you always sat in a house that was meant to be shared- now lost in history. History he couldn’t honor.

He couldn’t even send you off to a place you already arrived at, somewhere he never will reach, you both would never meet again. You both were divided by a fate that was caused by him and him alone.

It felt like the weather was condemning him, not a cloud on this sunny day. He wasn’t there to properly mourn you, and you weren’t there, centuries later to watch him cry over what he missed, but had every opportunity to love properly.

Your grave, it was close, he hadn’t reached it yet. The same way he never reached you.

He doesn’t blame you if you wanted to bury him in your memory.

tags: @abby-himbo-truther (ik u like this guy so) @tofumiarchives

not my best work i know i know

i hate a**y but shut up

[dodger-bunny]

I've got a new story cookin', so here's a little taste! I have found Distress Signal and I hear your call! This is going to be part of a new series I'm just too excited not to share this first part.

(And by the by no- Dispatch isn't gonna be The worst™ in this story. He's only marginally a shit head.)

"Arnie? Arnie, are you there?"

The mans' question was met with a prolonged silence.

"Damn it!"

Cursing at his desk, "Dispatch" tossed his headset down into the table of his cubicle. This late into the night, or morning rather, there was no one else around the office to bother with his little fit. Only him, and that blood curdling echo of shattered glass and scraping metal still ringing in his head from the radio mere moments ago. His heart was racing, and as he downed his sixth cup of coffee for the night Dispatch couldn't help but bounce his leg wildly from his seat. Gripping his mug with one hand while frantically tapping his fingers against his knee with his other. Setting down his mug Dispatch took a hold of his mouth, his thumb nearly tight enough to bruise his jaw, as he let off a shaky breath and glared towards the floor with wide anxious eyes.

The connection was lost the second that crunching grind of metal began, but the address of Arnolds' last known location was still blinking across his screen, and Dispatch couldn't stop staring. Without warning the lights suddenly came on. Voices both laughing and groaning about the day ahead flooded into the room as his co-workers took their seats beside him. A man clapped him familiarly enough along the back in greeting, but even then he couldn't be bothered to take his eyes off the screen.

"Hey! Burning the candles from both ends, huh? Did you ever even leave last night?"

Dispatch couldn't find it in him to respond, but even if he'd wanted to, the other was right back to work. Just like they all were. He sat frozen. Breathless yet heaving, and for the longest while that seemed like just about the only thing he could do. The walls felt too close, the clack of keyboards and detached voices too much, and that's when he heard it. The scrape of metal legs sliding closer towards a desk, but in that moment it wasn't. 

It was the van. Its metal twisting, glass exploding, and that scream– Dispatch abruptly stood to his feet, causing the chair he'd been sitting in to knock back against the floor. Several eyes turned to face him then, confusion and annoyance marrying their features, but Arnolds' scream was just about the only thing on his mind. It rang over and over, cutting off far too soon each and every time in an endless loop growing louder and louder. His pulse rose just as quickly as his shallow breaths, and it was all Dispatch could do in that moment but to run.

Hands reached, familiar voices called out to him in alarm, but he just kept on running. Through the halls, down the stairs, and past the scrutinizing gaze of Mr. Afton, Dispatch burst out front doors in a furious bid to reach the parking lot. He fished out his keys with shaking hands, scraping the door once or twice before the key finally slotted into the lock. His plain tan Rambler American may not have been a looker compared to the other modern cars in the lot, but she's never failed him before. He'd make it. He'd find Arnold– he had to! 

With one churn of her engine Dispatch painted the asphalt in a nasty skid of rubber before booking it towards the street like a bat out of hell. The traffic thinned the closer he got to the outskirts of town and, despite his best efforts, his petal kept hitting the floor as he drove. Rain began to trickle across his windshield, growing in intensity the further he went, until he was left with no choice but to turn on the wipers. The steady rhythm of the blades gave Dispatch something to focus on other than the thudding sound of his own heart, and he took it. He took it for all it was worth. Never in all of his life was he more grateful for that irritating sound.

Dispatch drove for what felt like hours as he gripped the wheel. His knuckles white and shaking while the rain poured even harder. It was coming down so heavy that he almost missed the upturned van on the other side of the road, until he saw an outstretched hand. Dispatch slammed on the breaks, nearly swerving his car off the road in the process before he brought it to a stop. He shoved his shoulder against the door as he opened it, not bothering to shut it behind him as he hurried off towards the flaming car. The fire seemed to be dwindling under the rain, but Arnold was still in there.

"ARNOLD!!"

Once again, silence.

"I'm gonna get you out of there." He promised, sliding on his hands and knees through broken glass, "J-just hang on– Goddammit!"

Arnold remained unresponsive. Even as Dispatch took a hold of his arms and drug his limp body out of the van. He took care to be as mindful of the glass as he pulled him out. Well as best as he could given the mans' substantial heft compared to his own lithe frame, but eventually after a strained effort of heaving and lifting, Arnold was free. With heavy breaths and hands splayed across either side of Arnolds' head, Dispatch hovered over him. Kneeling along the asphalt as his eyes scanned the technician for any signs of life. 

His long dark hair clung haphazardly in tangles across his face. A face so pale and exhausted compared to that warm olive glow under the sunlight just two mornings before. What should he do? Check for a pulse? Was Arnold even breathing? Without much thought Dispatch pressed his fingers against the mans' throat as he laid his head over Arnolds' chest. 

He was relieved to find a steady pulse beneath his fingers as his head was lifted from an intake of air. It was only when it happened again that he let himself believe that Arnold was alive. A smile found its way across Dispatchs' face between the gentle huff of a laugh, but was all too quickly dropped as he lifted his head off the unconscious man beneath him. This was no time to be celebrating. He needed to get Arnold to the hospital. Now.

Dispatch was hardly a handyman, but he did what he could to drag Arnolds' slumbering body off the car. He opened the door, tossing the technician into the passengers' seat before securing him with the belt. Shutting the door, he hurried towards the other side and promptly sat down with a wet plop against the leather seat. He was heaving again, an unfortunate reminder that he was more woefully out of shape than he remembered being, as he lolled his head over towards Arnold.

"Arnold?" He nudged, hoping to wake him.

Still nothing. This was supposed to be a simple retrieval job. Nothing more. What happened back there? What the hell even was that thing– and how did it mimic his voice?

"I'm gonna take you to the hospital, alright? Just hang in there Arnold."

Dispatch adjusted his mirror and was surprised to find a few bags joining the faint wrinkles of his own face. Crisp blue eyes, verging close to steel, stared back at him with a hint of exhaustion. However he knew that was nothing compared to Arnold who, even while sleeping, seemed so worn and broken. Dispatch spared the man a guilty look as he gently brushed a strand of hair from his resting eyes. As Arnold began to turn towards the touch Dispatch suddenly pulled away. Placing his hands back at the wheel with a deep breath as he started the car.

Every so often along the drive Dispatch couldn't help glancing Arnolds' way. He'd slumped against the window as soon as they got moving, and with every look he shot towards him his grip on the steering wheel only tightened. He'd been told this was a one hour job. Sure, it was a shit thing to do to make someone who'd already worked over thirty-six hours work one more, but the job was guaranteed for double pay. Not just for him, but for his tech too. He thought the worst that would come out of this would be some harsh words over the radio like always– not this–!

Never this…

"You can tell me Arnie." He spoke, for no one in particular, "It's okay."

A grin, plastered as all get, stretched across Dispatchs' face like gritted teeth. He forced a laugh between his smile, but it did nothing to push back the tears. Blinding him slowly but surely as he held the wheel for dear life.

"Tell me how much you hate me."

He waited, but no answer came.

[doeisagun]

NEUTRALIZE every man in sight 💙💛 ( band au boblena x solo artist fem reader )

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

wc: around 5300 words...

tags: SMUT (18+), reader has gender neutral language used for them aside from their genitals pre-established boblena/poly boblena, double penetration ( piv + strap in ass) so Probably unrealistic sex, masturbation, wet dreams/sexual fantasies about your (technical) bandmates (doggy, oral, voyeurism), (possible unhealthy relationship dynamic?), reader wears a dress and is detailed to have a pussy, oral (yel receiving, bob receiving from yel), you're in a weird sandwich position at some point, eavesdropping, beatles song title drop, alanis morisette song title drop, obligatory american pie scene, bob is a kisser and a drooler, yelena's a flirt, bob still kind of has powers?? happy bi pride or something idk this is super fast paced i just wanted to push this out lol

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

you finish strumming your guitar, and a thunderous applause follows. heart throbbing with adoration, you bow your head, still sitting on the stool they provided for you. "(y/n) (l/n) on the today show, everyone!" the host clamors, and you can feel yourself smile wider than you've ever smiled in your life.

you finally feel like you've made it.

every bad youtube cover and high school pop concert solo was worth /this/, the lights and the people and the music..

your outreach was ever-expanding with your newest single's popularity, and even more so when you dropped your debut album — which gained you two noms for the pop categories, along with the big four, tied together with two complimentary invitations.

you decide to bring along your friend, who happened to be in the industry long before you, kate bishop: writer (and ghostwriter) of countless billboard top 10 hits at only age 24. she was more seasoned than you, without a doubt, but she was always willing to extend a hand if you needed it.

one of said hands included sending you your own personally tailored dress for your performance AND one for your red carpet walk. what the fuck!

you cried to her about how to repay her over face time, and she had the audacity to laugh at you! "i don't care, dude. i just want you to have fun. you gave me an invitation."

"but-" your eyes are wet with tears, and your bottom lip quivers.

"hush- you deserve it-" and she hangs up.

you do deserve it. don't you?

god, you hope so..

__

the grammys were magical. your body was buzzing with wine and vodka, adrenaline flowing through your veins

being that you won best new artist and album of the year, you had much to talk about to the paparazzi clamoring after your limo that would take you to the after party. you answered their questions with a bright zeal, ducking and dodging cameras while arm in arm with kate.

"so, y/n, how's it feel to pop out with six grammy noms and two wins with only one album out?"

your mouth runs, "awesome. its- crazy."

"who were your influences as a child?"

"what life events /inspired/ the choice for the single?"

"and what was your favorite act of the night? any standouts?"

your lips curl into a smile. "mmm.. fuck, uh.. the thunderbolts. fuckin' incredible. the yelena’s got this- this voice, and the drummer? woah. like, there's not a single member of that band that isn't crazy talented. i want a feature so damn bad--"

during your early career days, when you still had free time, you would lay down on your couch and watch those compilations of the thunderbolts’ being ‘random and funny’ that were obviously made by tweens with too much free time. that being said, those videos provided you with a comfort that you couldn't find in your crummy food service job or what family you retained after you moved.

you always had a draw to yelena, but it was mainly a casual interest. she was strictly out of the box of celebrity crush, because it felt.. off. you admired her. that was it. the drummer (bob..?) was.. cute. that’s where your interest for him ended.

kate laughs, and gently guides you into the limo, chattering "you'll get all that and more for vanity fair." you hiccup, and your brain's tipping over with blonde and brown. that smile of yours broadens. a video of your drunken escapades end up on tmz, and leapfrogs its way to–

__

four grammy wins for the thunderbolts equal about four rounds in the bedroom — well, that's the conclusion that bob and yelena had come to, anyway-

the blonde-haired woman rolls off of bob, both their bodies drenched in sweat. she picks one of his gummy worms from a bag on their bedside dresser drawer, and revels in the way his face scrunches up. such a brat, she thinks, as his eyes fade from a blazing gold down to his ocean blue.

his hand gently rubs over her middle, and he presses a tender kiss to the side of her breast. his voice comes out a gentle rumble, "..hear me out: johnny storm."

yelena looks appalled, "the fuckin- guitarist? oh, no, hard pass. did you see his suit during his acceptance speech?"

"it was.. creative! creative people are cute." bob raises up from the bed, walking over to their bathroom, "the buzzcut isn't bad."

"i don't know you anymore-"

he giggles, all high and wheezy, and it's enough to make her grin. so? she plays his game.

"dazzler?"

"cute." she unlocks her phone and scrolls the timeline.

"falcon?"

she purses her lips, "he's cute." yelena says without a second thought, and shrugs.

"cyclops?"

"the fucking- scott?? summers?? who does music with emma frost? instead of emma frost??"

silence. yelena frowns.

"i think i want to un-date you." yelena says as bob turns on the water for their bath.

"un-date?" the corner of his mouth drops.

"i don't like thinking about breaking up with you, it's depressing." she shrugs, and she flops back on the bed. "especially after that, Черт возьми-"

bob steps, back to the bed, head cocked to the side, "i'm guessing that means it was good?"

yelena snorts, "that means it was fucking amazing, solnyshko. did you lick pudding cups instead of using a spoon or something?"

bob laughs, covering his face. she beams at his happiness, "no! no, you're laughing, but i'm asking a serious question-"

her phone chimes, and they look down at the notif: "ava 👻: bro"

another one, "ava 👻: (y/n) mentioned us in a bloody interview?? the cute singer with the smile"

yelena brings the phone up to her face, her face twisting into a smirk, "so.. i have a new hear me out-” bob shuffles around to look over her shoulder, at the video where you're stumbling over yourself, all smiles and giggles.

a stark contrast to when bob caught you tucked off in a corner after your second acceptance speech, stuck out like a sore thumb, breathing hard and trembling. he brought you back to yourself, and you were more than grateful for it. you were briefly able to meet yelena, with her jade eyes and soft jaw, and the rest of the band before you were whisked away to the after party. as you chugged down glasses of wine, you remembered her touch on your bare shoulder, squeezing out some of the tension.

your name wraps around her lips, and bob's head rests on yelena's shoulder. he mumbles his answer into her ear. they go for another round in the shower, your name hung heavy in the steam.

they totally don't sneak out to the after party after valentina, their manager, has gone to sleep — and they totally don't make you an opener for their next tour as soon as they've got you cornered.

“you were our first pick.” yelena barters, and it makes you smile dumbly.

you don't agree. you totally don't agree.

__

touring life is weirdly comfortable.

you're comfy in your room on the tour bus, equipped with a bunch of snacks and a fluffy comforter. for most shows, you were allowed to stay back here and chill after your set was over with. obviously, you had developed a bit of a routine. you would stretch, do some vocal cool-downs, and then plop on your couch to watch something dumb to take your mind off the fact that you were gonna do this all again in two days.

fuck.

you’ve become extremely jaded with your growing popularity, though you still love your job, you’ve deleted most socials off your phone save for instagram. fandom, both good and bad, was a pain in your ass. you really weren't in the mood to deal with any type of bullshit about the way your tone shifted in an interview or how you worded things- not when you were living out your dream.

during a binge session of cooking videos from this little indie youtuber you were into, you realize that you don’t really feel like a person anymore. you feel like a product.

you sigh, popping open a bag of chips. tears bloom at your tear ducts. maybe an indefinite hiatus is in order-

your phone rings, and its “Yelena 💛”. you pick up a little too fast.

the sound of laughing meets your ears, and you can't help but feel a little worse than you did a second ago.

“(y/n)! (y/n)! me and- me and bob were planning to go by this twenty-four hour doughnut spot that’s around the corner-”

you put aside your bag of chips, “yeah?”

“they make all their stuff fresh, and we were wondering if you wanted to come-” she purrs, and your stomach stirs with.. something. bob cuts in, “more than okay if you don't want to either! n-no pressure- just, uh, wanted to make you feel more welcome on the tour.”

“it’ll be like a date.” you can hear her smile over the phone, feeling a throb in your- “sure!” you toss your chip bag in the trash, “i’ll be ready in five.”

they knock in five, then you three are off.

__

yelena and bob are constantly prodding you with questions on the way there, the night air cooling you three down.

the taller man leans down to tap your shoulder to meekly ask about who did the mixing on your debut album, and you answer him in kind. the small smile on his face after getting his answer warms your heart, as much as his deadly focused expression does when typing your audio engineer’s contact info into his notes app.

“sorry- that's two a’s? or is it an e-?” he blinks down at you, ears red with embarrassment. you laugh and supplement, “just the e.” and you cringe a bit at his “oh, okay, sorry-”

the shorter of the two pulls you by in the arm, and whispers into your ear “can i do background vocals for your next ep? single- album or whatever?” you stammer, and play with the skin on your earlobe, “i- yeah! yeah, sure, absolutely.” that feeling between your legs blossoms again, and suddenly her wolf cut gains 10x more appeal to you.

she smirks at you, hand snaking around your waist, voice dropping an octave “i really want to work with you, (l/n). it would be an honor, you know? working with the best new artist of this year. wonder what you could show me in the studio-”

a bell cuts off her tangent, and you look up to see bob holding the door open for you two. yelena breaks off from you, and walks through, kissing bob on the cheek with a small “thank you.”

acid bubbles deep in your stomach.

you walk through, not looking bob in the eye.

your order’s a blur, but you end up with your favorite flavor, all fluffy and soft between your lips. you don't catch yelena intently staring at your mouth while you eat because you’re trying to ignore how bob’s drooling over a jelly doughnut.

you three order an assorted triple-dozen for the band and tech crew, and you all carry a box. the couple banters and chatters on the walk home, with you being eerily quiet. yelena’s palm grazes the small of your back before you step back inside of your room on the tour bus.

you slip your index finger between your lips, sucking the sugar off. then, you stare at the wet digit. your eyes squeeze shut.

“..i think i need a shower.”

in said shower, your fingers can't help but travel down between your thighs.

fog fills your bathroom mirror.

you lean up against the tiled wall, two fingers plunging in and out of your hole, slick from the pour of the shower above you. it felt so good, but it wasn't enough- why didn't you just turn on some porn? what was wrong with you?

you couldn't stop thinking about yelena: about the way her fingers would taste on your tongue, fucking roughly in and out, carrying spit- you’d moan around the fingerprints, before she snatches them away from you and forces you on your knees. your fingers speed up, protruding yourself wider for nothing. absolutely nothing but the taste of her pussy on your tongue as you lap her up, hands placed on her thighs but not gripping (in case she wanted to slap them away), listening to her rough moans ring out against the walls of her room.

fuck, you haven't even seen her room yet either? god, you’re such a weird fucking pervert- you whimper, picruring her breasts trembling with every minstration you make inside her cunt. her hand twists in your hair as she barks at you to: “speed up. fucking go faster- i said, faster! oh- ahn-! good fuckin’ pet-! Хорошо для тебя, облизывая это вот так- you're doing so well-” and your cunt slobbers before your mouth does, your legs shaking. you nip and suck and kiss at her clit, taking in her growls, feeling her thick thighs clamp around your head.

your eyes roll back, your fingers pumping in and out at an unreasonable pace. you were so fucking close, you could almost taste her slick dripping down your chin as she squirts on your tongue. legs shaking, you scream into the crease of your elbow as you come.

your chest rises and falls. your legs shake.

fingers pulling out of your quivering hole, you can't think anything but: holy fuck. what the fuck.

you slide down the side of the shower and put your knees to your chest. of /course/, you have a crush on fucking yelena belova when she has a goddamn boyfriend- you should've known!

__

you make your way to the rehearsal room the next morning, earbuds blaring white noise.

this was manageable. all you had to do was just act normal for the rest of time, and then never tour with the thunderbolts ever again. your heart splinters in your chest at the sentiment. no.. there's got to be a better way-

BOOM! pow pow!

the sound of cymbals crashes out, along with an instrumental version of ‘you oughta know’ by alanis morisette blares from the room across from you. you stare from across the grass, at a bob who’s enjoying himself far too much.

he’s screlting the lyrics behind a (mostly) soundproof window, hitting every drum like they owe him money. you can't help but watch him. you can't help but smile.

the song ends, and he’s panting, a little drool pooling from the corner of his mouth. he gives an exhausted smile to the speaker, then the window. he waves, and you freeze. you don't even register that yelena’s slipped in beside you to get to the door, wrapping her surprisingly muscular arms around his broad shoulders. yelena with a sleeper build.. that was something to file away for later and tuck into your spank bank.

she presses a kiss to his beanie, and whispers something into his ear. he, then, looks up at you and gives you a.. slightly less than bombastic wave, coupled with a nervous smile which you aren't mad about at all. he mumbles a small, “hi (y/n).. sorry about the noise..” and you wave back, but don't give him a dignified response.

him and yelena chat, and you’re quickly making your way out the door.

__

thirty minutes to showtime, and you're shoving your hands into your panties in the bathroom of your new venue. you clasp a hand over your mouth as you palm yourself, feeling the wetness pool through your undergarments.

seeing bob covered in sweat this morning wasn't doing shit to you. not at all. you bite down on your hand to cover your moans, flashes of his big hands wrapping around his drumsticks melding into fantasies about him wrapping his palm around your neck, and how he would apologize while his hips roll up into yours.

triplets on the tom-toms, triplets on the snare, triplets on the hi-hats- you bet he’d fuck in triplets too, skin slapping and nuts clapping against your ass as he takes you on his drum throne. moaning into your ear like a man starved for your flesh, he’d rock into you until you have to grab onto his back for support.

your fingers speed up.

he looks so innocent, but that's probably just a front. you’ve seen yelena, there's no way that he's not getting lost in that at least once a week- pervertpervertpervert-

you picture bob taking her in doggy, and they're looking each other in the eyes. yelena’s back arches into his girth, and her mouth drops open. the taller of the two grunts, whining and spilling inside her like he’s inhuman. she moans, her voice tapering off into a growl as she sucks him in, snugly.

your head lolls on your shoulders, and you look down at your panties.

with ten minutes to spare, you change, and head to stage for sound check. yelena and walker wave at you from where they’re sitting on a large speaker.

your opener goes by in a blur.

you opt to watch them from the sidelines this time, sitting in a cheap chair in front of the pit. you smile and clap along to the thunderbolts’ set along with the audience, giving you a weird sense of deja vu. you didn't really factor in that it’d feel this strange on the other side now.

yelena pushes some hair (oh, are those new pink highlights??) out of her face, and puts the microphone to her lips, slightly out of breath. “so, we usually end the set with that song, and then you all go home-” the crowd groans in despair, to yelena’s glee, “i know, i know, we don't want to go either-”

walker chimes in with a quick, “yes we do.” and the audience gives him a roaring laugh. “okay.. we kind of want to go.. but! but. for this particular stop, i wanted to do a little cover of a don mclean song- i /know/, i’m old.” the audience chitters. yelena sighs, and chuckles bitterly. “i used to sing it with my family. that is the most you’re getting of my personal life- but.. it's my favorite song in the world even, so.. american pie. 2..3..”

you see her sniffle into her hand at the end when everyone's singing along, and you catch yourself crying too. she walks offstage before everyone else, and bob follows in kind. you duck out from your seat offstage, looking around before crossing around to the backstage area. she’d never looked like that before.

hearing her around the corner, you stop dead in your tracks.

“i’m good, bob, i promise. just.. yeah.”

“y-you ran-”

“i ran?”

“yeah.. everyone was worried about you. i-i’m worried about you.”

“i’m just having a-” you hear something, a kiss, maybe to her hair by the way its dampened? muffled. “weird day. really weird day. pulling nails. dad was being.. himself, because it's my birthday today.”

her birthday?

“do you still wanna do the- thing with (y/n) tonight..? if you're not up to it, i don't wanna ask. it's your day.”

your eyes widen.

“god, i hate that. don't say that.” a beat, “don't apologize either. you're okay.. i just need to blow off some steam.”

“want me to run you a bath with the fancy salts?” another kiss to the hair, and yelena’s tone softens exponentially, “yes, sweet boy.. but no bath bombs. makes my skin itchy.”

“gotcha, ‘lena.”

you turn around and bump into a frazzled john walker, who curses as you two knock against each other. “fuck, man-”

you scramble to apologize, but walker shrugs it off. “nah, man. it's cool.. what’re you doing heading this way anyway? the bus is, like, on the opposite side of the parking lot-”

“i’m looking for the bathroom.”

“..there's one up the hall down there-” he walks up a bit, around the corner, “look at those two lovebirds, huh?”

you chuckle nervously, “yeah..”

“i don't know why they don't think anyone knows. worst kept secret they’ve ever had.”

“yup, that's so weird..” your voice breaks, leading the man to look at you, eyes narrow. he hums in curiosity, rubbing his chin with his thumb.

“..you’re acting weird.”

“no, i’m not-”

“when i saw you — you were just standing here.. holy shit, you were eavesdropping, weren't you?”

your shoulders drop, and your face heats up. “NO! no, i don't- never, i wouldn't-”

it's your ringtone that plays, and you look at your phone screen. john rolls his eyes, muttering a small “better answer that.” before crossing the corner to leave you alone.

not only are you a pervert, you're also a creep.

buuut —

you still accept the invite to watch dumb cartoons with them in their room, though, sweating profusely as you do.

on your way back to the room, you’ve picked up yelena a necklace with a cute jade green guitar pick on the end of it. a stupidly impromptu gift, you think as you walk up the ramp to your room, she’s gonna hate it.

you're stepping out of the shower when a new notification pops up on your phone, from yelena “bring snacks. and something cute to wear. we want selfies 💛💙”

okay.. odd. you send back a green heart, which gets hearted by yelena.

you put on a two piece pajama set in your favorite colors, looking at yourself in your full-body mirror.

this was going to kill you.

__

tangled is playing on the tv, and the conversation has suddenly pivoted towards sexuality. yelena’s rubbing bob’s knee while waiting for your answer, and when you give it, she purses her lips. “that is valid. bob?”

“uh.. i like who i like. don't wanna label it.”

you and bob both stare at yelena, who puts her head on your shoulder. “oh.. well, as you’ve already noticed, (who hasn't) me and bob are acquainted-”

fuck! fuck fuck fuck fuck!

“but i’ve always been open to.. more. he has too.”

YES! fireworks light up behind your eyes.

bob chuckles deeply, and you feel your heart melt down between your ribs. yelena scans your face, and grabs your cheeks, “and if i’ve been misreading things, i very deeply apologize, but.. you want us too. don't you?” bob’s big ass hand runs up and down your arm, and you start to feel dizzy. “i-i’m sorry-?” yelena repeats herself slowly, like syrup, and you answer with a small, squeaky, “yes.”

a slick smile crosses her face, and your noses press together. “knew that was your answer. part your lips for me, baby.”

kissing yelena belova feels like minute 1:55 of i want you (she’s so heavy), all dark tones and floaty, fingers stringing over your back and holding onto you like a weight. guilt sits heavy in your gut, but it's quickly dissolved by the feel of your girl licking into your mouth like this.

you melt down into the couch cushions, and you can see bob turning the tv to their shared spotify in the corner of your eye. “nuh-uh, you focus on me.” she whispers, and your eyes flutter closed, your fingers laced lazily into her hair. swapping spit was good until your jaw started to hurt, and you whined into her mouth.

some low frequency blues rock blared through the room, and yelena pulls away, her lips plump and raw. her hair was so messy, and her body was already wet, not to mention the blooming wet spot between her thighs. she catches your eyes, “well? world’s your oyster.” and leans back on the lap of her boyfriend, grinning up at you.

your mouth waters, and your jaw starts to feel a lot better. the blonde haired girl reaches back and paws for bob’s sweatpants. his nose turns red and he pulls down his waistband, looking away from them both. yelena coos, reaching up to pat his cheek. “don't be shy. it’s just y/n. right?”

you look between them, “yeah.. y-yeah, its okay.”

bob bites down on his bottom lip, eerily quiet, before pulling back the elastic of his boxers. his cock springs free, and he’s.. kind of hung. your mouth is agape. the tip is kind of mushroomy, and the veins at the base lead up to his tummy, which is adorned with a small belly button piercing. he covers his face in embarrassment, chuckling nervously to himself. “oh, god-”

you’re still looking him up when a sigh is pulled from his lips, and you can't help but stare down at the culprit. yelena’s tongue has licked a fat strip up his base, as made apparent by her tongue being stuck to it, along with the precum that's already dripping down from his tip. she looks back at you with what’s almost a glare, “well? get to work?”

eating her pussy feels even better than how it did in your dream, her arousal mixing with the salty taste of sweat on your tongue. she groans around bob’s dick, and pops off to stroke him, making him make little “ah, ah, ah”’s at the back of his throat. yelena’s voice softens when she asks you: “are you.. okay with me being- fuck- mean? to you? or- do you want me to be- mmh- soft? gotta know- ah-”

you pop off of her and mumble, “the first one” against her inner thigh, before going back to reclaim your prize. she lets out a moan against bob again, sneering at you with a “good bitch- holy shit-” and her mouth’s right back on him, with bob wailing straight into the air. tears bloomed at his eyes, drool pooling down from his lips. “it's so good- it's really good- thank you- you're both so pretty- oh m-my god-” his voice hinges off toward the end, and pitches up with his second. “oh my god-”

you love the scream you pick up on when you slip a finger inside her, and curl it upwards, your tongue swirling circles on her rosebud of a clit. her mouth slips off of bob’s shaft to moan openly into the air, her thighs locking around your head. her boyfriend cradles her jaw, whispering soft affirmations to her as you bring her over the edge properly. “yeah.. they're doing so good for you. that's all we want to do. we want you to feel good..”

yelena sobs against his thick thigh, clutching onto it. she squirts all over your tongue, orgasm blooming within her. as she comes down fully, bob twitches against her face, a shameful expression on her face. you wipe your mouth and look up at him, before looking down at her. she pants, nudging you with her heel. “get on top of him.”

you watch her roll off the couch and get onto the floor, promptly crawling towards him. he looks petrified, but when you put a hand to his cheek, all of the tension that he had harbored within him previously held fell short. “you’re okay.” you murmur against his chest, sliding your pants down to your knees. his eyes go down to your crotch, and his eyes widen in splendor.

“you’re really pretty, (y/n)..” he rubs your rear with gentle hands, and you press back against them, “y’want my fingers, cherry?” head cradled into his shoulder, you nod and listen to him spit a glob onto his fingers. he shoves a finger into you, and immediately gets to work, tilting his head to capture your mouth in a kiss.

“‘t’s okay- you're okay-” he pants against your mouth, face hot and body blossoming with redness at his throat. his eyes glow gold, but it's probably just the television screen or something.

“you're doin’ so well for us- do you want me in your pussy, and her strap in your ass? huh? would that be good for you?” you nod rapidly, thighs trembling. you can feel his large fingers stroke you in tandem with the kisses that he places on your temple. “my bunny:.” he slips his fingers out of you, kissing your whimper away.

bob looks over your shoulder, “there she is.. hi, sunshine.” he gently strokes your back. yelena meets his lips for a chaste kiss. she pulls off from him and gives a kiss to your earlobe, “you ready, (y/n)?”

the necklace. shit! your eyes widen. “in my pocket.” yelena and bob give each other eyes, and yelena’s lips twist in confusion. “i’ve already lubed myself up, if that's the issue..?”

“no!” your heart pitter patters against your chest, “no, uh- i have a .. necklace. i want you to wear it, yelena.”

bob’s jaw goes agape, and yelena pulls you back by the skin on your neck. “yeah?” she digs in your pocket like you had stolen the damn thing, snatching it out of your pocket. “you want me to wear this while i fuck you stupid?”

you whimper, nodding as you cling to bob’s torso. the blonde slaps your ass and shoves you forward into bob’s chest, barking at bob to lift your hips, and he immediately does so. “sorry, cherry..” bob whispers, “you can take it. know you can.”

he slowly sinks you down onto him, which results in you letting out a muffled moan against his skin. bob whimpers as he feels himself fill out around you, head going all empty. yelena moves to kiss your neck, slotting her legs between yours and bob’s. she clips the necklace around her shoulders.

a slap lands on your ass from yelena, and you start rocking on bob, getting about 3/4ths of the way down before you start to feel him in your stomach. bob babbles into his palm at the feel of you, your head stuck to his chest like a weight. yelena slips inside you, filling you right to the hilt.

the room fills up with a cacophony of moans and slapping, yelena’s hands gripping your ass in a vice — that's when you realize that she's fucking you into him, you tighten around bob and bite back a scream. you and bob are drooling onto one another as yelena growls into your ear, your hole clenching with every thrust.

“‘m clo-o-ose-” bob whines, his voice raw. yelena bites your shoulder, hips slamming into you faster. “then come. fucking come, the both of you. come on my cock- fill up their pussy- do it for me- it’s mine- give me what's mine-”

with a few more rough strokes, you come with a silent scream around bob’s cock, and he follows in kind. you breathe against one another. he pulls you up for a sweet kiss, stubble brushing against your cheek. your heart throbs. you feel yelena pop out of you, moaning lowly.

“(y/n)..” yelena breathes, rubbing your hip, “would you like to join us for a warm bath?”

“and, like.. a /movie/ movie.” bob chirps.

“and a /movie/, movie.”

you smile, melting into bob’s chest.

__

TRANSCRIPT (EXCERPT): VANITY FAIR INTERVIEW WITH (Y/N) (L/N)

VF: So, to start out, let's address those dating rumors.

(Y/N): Unprofessional. I like that.

VF: Thank you!

(Laughter.)

(Y/N): I think that me being the newest member of the Thunderbolts isn't a big deal. I think I deserve to like.. be a glorified groupie if i want to. It's comfortable.

VF: Glorified groupie!

(Y/N): Joking! I help! I do.. I think that I.. like who I like. If that's Yelena? Cool. If that's Bob? Awesome.

(Silence.)

(Y/N): ..Can we talk about the album now?

__

[fireflyingaway]

so what is bran thinking?

why would he abandon will with no way to get home? why does he spend that entire day acting like a little bitch? what's going on with him?

it's nearly midnight, but i've watched the vodka cranberry mv thrice now and i have a lot of feelings, so i guess i'm funneling them into whatever this is. bc we all get what will's thinking-- the music tells you what will's thinking-- but what about bran? what is going on with him? what's he actually thinking?

first of all, there's definitely internalized homophobia here-- that's been implied from the beginning: see heather

with certain understandings of pacing in the this song mv, it was all but said that the first kiss scene we see happened before this night-- we know that because it has to have happened before the second kiss, which very clearly took place on this very night.

so why would bran have kissed will and then proceeded to flirt with heather, only to go right back to kissing will? the obvious: internalized homophobia. bran knows what he wants, can't pull himself away from what he wants, but he also is very much living his life in a small town in texas-- he wants to be able to blend in, to be accepted by his peers, his best bet to doing that is to get with a girl.

@too-tired-omg was able to provide a lot of notes on bran's efforts to fit in with the more masculine and heteronormative texan standards on two hours of sleep (very impressive) and she's completely right: everything bran does that day is in his own effort to try to distance himself from his own queerness-- and, subsequently, from will:

his shirt is painfully dark and dull-- and very much exactly the sort of thing men wear in texas to look cool without daring to have the nerve to stand out.

he switches out the vodka cranberry-- fruitier, more feminine, directly associated with queer spaces-- for the darker and more masculine drink.

he spends most of the night focusing his attention on women and pointedly not on will.

so there's definitely a lot of internalized homophobia going on tonight, that much is clear... but i believe there's a lot more going on under the surface here-- a direct anger at will, and i realized there's a tension underneath, a note we've had since before the this song mv dropped that's not easily spotted or remembered:

will said he was coming for the summer. he's not intending to stay.

there's a strong implication here of like... wilson having moved ahead someplace, maybe in a big city, having a life that grew beyond their small town in texas-- meanwhile, bran's still working at this little ice cream shop in the same town they grew up in, probably feeling quite stuck in place while will's off doing big new things.

that's... a lot of bottled up resentment.

we think about this before the events that had taken place this summer, bran probably already felt a lot of repressed anger over will moving out of town-- we're talking about a pair of best friends here, these kids grew up together and then will set off to bigger and better things, leaving bran alone. we think about the insecurity there, the sense of abandonment: he feels like will thinks he isn't good enough, like he isn't something worth sticking around for-- if will really needs something bigger and better, what must bran be worth to him? clearly not much, right? not enough to get him to stay.

there's already an anger there before we get into anything we see here and then this fucking summer happens. bran gets will back-- only for the summer-- and things immediately jump back into being just like old times but wait now there's something new. now there's this tension happening. now they're staring deep into each other's eyes, now they're holding each other in the middle of the night-- now they're kissing. now there's this hot and heavy summer fling thing going but don't forget!!! don't forget it's only the summer!!!! after all this, will's still leaving!!!!!

so now we get to this day at the bar as summer's about to end-- bran's already upset about having been abandoned the first time and now will's leaving him all over again. and not only that, either! will's leaving him with all these feelings-- they've explored new waters now, shared all these sacred and intimate moments together-- bran's had everything he was taught about what he's allowed to feel and want broken down in front of him, but will's still not staying!!! he has another life to move on to-- a bigger and better life, a life far from the drab and boring small town or the drab and boring bran.

he's already felt alone and abandoned and now he's preparing to feel that like a tidal wave all over again. he's already felt like he's not good enough, like he's not worth enough, and now he's facing the idea that he's still not-- even after everything they've done, will still needs more, still needs better.

so bran starts the process of preparing to distance himself-- he draws will away, pushes him away, focuses his attention on other things, things that might stay, things that might think he's worth staying for-- but then will has the nerve to get mad!!! he has the nerve to get mad at bran for trying to save face, for trying to hold onto a shred of pride, for trying to prevent this from breaking him all over again!!!

so, we go back to the start: what is bran thinking?

he's thinking he's not going to let will do that to him again. he's thinking if he's that worthless, there's no reason will should want him around at all. he's thinking will won't get to abandon him again-- not again-- because he's gonna be the one to do it this time.

it doesn't matter that will's leaving if bran leaves first.

[witchyam]

beyond evil/jwds fic recs NOW (please and if you are free)

ohhh anon your timing is immaculate because i was about to do a fic rec post anyway! these are some i loved in no particular order: 1. Turning Page by completist (T) "5 times Han Joowon wrote letters to Lee Dongsik that he didn’t send, and 1 time that he did." This is beautiful, I have little words to explain how perfect this fic is. Please just read it.

2. History of a Monster by princesskay (E) "From 1998 to 2022, a history of Lee Dong-sik's search for love, his sister, and how those two things have damaged each other time and again." One of my favourite Dongsik-centric fics out there. 3. The Topography of your Touch by pepperfield (G) "After returning to Manyang, Ju-won navigates the ways bodies can interact. Dong-sik adjusts accordingly." oh i love when you all psychoanalyze juwon. do it more keep going that boy is so weird™ 4. if i could hold you for a minute darling, i'd go through it again by wildthing (E) "“If you’re sticking with me for good, I’m going to request… that I die first,” Dongsik says, one side of his mouth lifting up in a rueful grin, “because a life without my young master might be one loss too many for this old lunatic.” Juwon stills, his body locking in place." oh dear, beware of this one. it's VERY emotionally heavy, with a MCD tag. but when i tell you this fic changed me; i couldn't handle it. I was sobbing for real by the end of it. Also please read other fics by this author, they are too good. 5. call you out on your contrarian shit by katierosefun (G) "dong sik trying (and failing) to get han joo won to go see someone else. han joo won only has one (1) type, baby, and that's lee dong sik." oh i love u author katierosefun. 99 (!!) BE fics and every single one is an absolute treasure. PLEASE check out their other fics as well!! 6. What isn't The Grave by isozyme (M) "Juwon moves in unannounced." not much to say except that i loved this read. i dont remember a lot from it as i read it a while ago with ongoing exams sooooooo. but its beautiful and its worth your time 7. providence blue by princesskay (E) " Released from his parole, Dong-sik decides to sell everything and start over somewhere that isn't Manyang; but there's just one problem holding him back. What color should he paint the guest bedroom of Nam Sang-bae's lakehouse, the last property left to him by the dead and tethering him to home? Like providence, Han Joo-won reappears in his life to help him decide." I LOVE PRINCESSKAY'S FICS!!! this is so beautiful, please read.

[ilikekidsshows]

don't all the other heroes already have their miraculouses by the time werepapas happens? like how lazy can you be when the only thing you have to do is make a phone call and wait? especially in comparison to how it used to be when the other heroes were temps? girl was willing to put chat noir's life on the line when he was left to fight akumas on his own while she had to go out and give people their miraculouses but when adrien is just sitting in a giant trophy with no actual harm coming to him she starts losing her goddamn mind. like if the class salters keep going on with how lila brainwashed the class and turned them into idiots who don't think critically, they should be saying the same thing about adrien cause his entire existence turns marinette into an absolute dumbass. and whatever marinette does when she's not thinking due to adrien's ability to turn marinette's brain completely off is way, way worse than those fics that have the class believe lila's lies and have them bully marinette and destroy her art journal. marinette with her brain off said "i'm gonna harass other girls that are potential love rivals", "i'm gonna immediately give up my miraculous cause (this illusion of) adrien is being held hostage", "i'm gonna lie about being an akumatized cause this ranodm girl i'm jealous of doesn't get mad at me", "i'm gonna use my hero alter-ego for selfish reasons and try to make it look like my lie isn't a lie" (and end up breaking some girls' prosthetics in the process), and "i'm gonna kill my boyfriend"

also, if marinette were the smartest, bestest, most amazing ladybug and tactician in the history of superheroes, girl should have been able to figure out how to extract the butterfly without breaking the item. that would have actually meant something. but nope. girl couln't be bothered to take the time to carefully save the guy she loves oh so very much. he's not even worth the hassle of a phone call to her.

---

You hit the nail on the head with the “he's not worth the hassle” line, because that's what it amounts to. It's an incredibly consistent character trait of Marinette's that she is incapable of being patient towards people. She's willing to put together a convoluted plan and implement it, but, the instant she would have to wait for others, she's done, no way is she doing that. She's the main character, she's not waiting on anyone else.

Like, we saw this impatience in 'Werepapas', when Cat Noir called her to tell her that he was having difficulty getting to the spot, she completely wrote him off, and it's even present in 'Volpina', when Cat Noir is right next to her, telling her they're most likely seeing an illusion, which is Volpina's power, and she can't even manage to be patient enough to consider his suggestion. Marinette not only lacks patience to wait for others, she also lacks the basic respect of considering the possibility they might have a solution she hasn't considered.

It's like that post I made about her inability to accept help from anyone who might be able to give her orders. She has to be in charge, she has to be the smartest person. If she admitted to needing someone else to solve a problem then she's no longer the smartest person in every conceivable situation and the girlpower fantasy doesn't allow her to admit to such a weakness, even as the end result is her killing her boyfriend as the solution that's easier than asking for help. Marinette would rather lie hurt on the ground than admit she might need someone to carry her to the hospital. Anyone saving her will have to do so while she's yelling at them to put her down because she can save herself.

Maybe you could try to spin that as a positive, that Marinette doesn't want others to fix her problems, but even that would be her, once again, making something completely about herself when it isn't. This is about Adrien, him being in such peril that she supposedly can't think straight, and she wants no help to make sure his safety is the top priority. Of course, why would Adrien's pathetic safety be a priority, when we have Marinette's comfort to consider.

[knoxwallace]

"It's definitely a very specific skillset to get up there at the high level," he agreed, knowing it wasn't something just anyone could be masterful at. Anyone could learn to play and understand it enough to win now and again, but it took a different type of dedication and practice to get to the point where you were winning consistently in the big games. "It's actually pretty fucking cool to learn about. Some of the bigger named guys post a lot of stuff online, videos and stuff talking about it. Worth a listen if you're into learning about it at all." Knox had things like that playing all the time in the background, gleaning whatever tips and tricks he could to up his own skills.

Hank had a point, there wasn't anything so thrilling in the aquarium that it was something that had to be on the list of places you could hang out. "Oh, come on. How could you possibly go on in life without getting to see the sea slugs again?" he teased, snorting a bit at the idea of it all. His head nodded warmly as Hank praised himself, a genuineness to it that Knox couldn't help but want to support. "No bullshit, that's awesome, dude. Not easy putting yourself out there at all, especially when it isn't something you do a lot. Here's hoping you get out there again soon, don't let the fish guy bring your vibe down."

When it came to ordering the food, it didn't occur to Knox at all for even a second to question Hank's restrictions or make the order complicated at all. He was easygoing when it came to food, happy to eat whatever was in front of him without much fuss. "Ah, nah man, it's all good. The food doesn't need all the extra shit people put on it anyway, it's that good without it," he assured Hank. "Drinks on you sounds good to me, though. They usually have some good beers, I'll drink any of 'em."

@hxnkbrxmson

"Well now we see why I've never been particularly good at the game," Hank made a joke at his own expense when Knox said the skill was in reading people. He wasn't great at bluffing either. Sure he could bit his tongue but his face always gave him away. "Its all incredibly impressive. I had no idea so much went into playing well." Any time Hank had played, it'd been simply to pass time and fight boredom. Nothing as serious as this and it was incredibly interesting to him to learn about this new side of things.

"I don't think there's anything happening in there that I can't live without," Hank laughed. Skipping over explaining that he couldn't think of a single person he knew in all of America that would escort him to the aquarium so he could enjoy the peaceful silence of it all. "Huge win. It's been years and years. As gutted as I want to be that it didn't work, it's impressive it even happened." There was a dismissive shrug but hearing himself say that really had the words sinking in, Hank liked it all. It was a win. He'd done something major here.

Knox wasn't bothered by a single restriction. Not a whine or bit of reluctance, he immediately came with a solution and Hank didn't know what to do with that. He was ready to defend the choices or, at minimum, they each ordered their own food, and it was for nothing. He was so shocked by it he couldn't do anything other than stare as it processed. "If you want sour cream, you could get it on the side?" Hank tried to suggest, still computing the situation. He wasn't a fan of the stuff but if Knox wanted it. "I could get the drinks? I could, for sure, I mean. I definitely can and should get the drinks. Please." @knoxwallace

[rosemaryreality]

If when Megumi and Yuuji talk again Megumi asks why Yuuji insists on saving him, and we get a callback to "personal feelings/selfish, emotional decision" i will die. You'll never hear from me again

[localcryptidsteg]

Hang on

HANG ON

Why do you dislike the attempt to humanize a villain in a show where the final fight ISNT EVEN ABOUT THE HERO DEFEATING THE VILLAIN?

Its about Aang remaining true to himself and NOT choosing the same path of violence that Ozai took and expects him to take as well.

The point is that Aang is so inherently NOT wired for revenge or violence or harm and still sees a human in a monster, meaning he CANNOT under any circumstance kill Ozai

Yeah no shit they tried to humanize Ozai? We're supposed to be viewing the events over Aangs shoulder, from a sympathetic outside perspective

In order to fully have that dynamic, and understand and accept that Aang viscerally isn't capable of ending a human life, we too as the audience must have some limited view of Ozai as human. And not just in a "hes merely a man, he still bleeds" way, but as a true human who could have gone down a different path and still has an inherent worth, and a capacity to change (if he changed once he can change again). We NEED to see that he was once something else in order to establish that Aang cannot defeat Ozai the way everyone else expects and wants without sacrificing himself and betraying the beliefs he hold at his very core.

Its an inconvient aspect of the story but it is fully necessary. Otherwise you just have "evil is evil, good is good, and perfection is easy because you just have to be good forever from the word go"

And thats just not the story being told

I dont know how much sense this makes really. I feel like theres definitely a better way to describe it. But I also feel the story would be missing something if the attempt to humanize Ozai a bit wasnt there. It could probably have been done better, but it IS needed in order to tell the story fully

I know you didn’t like the show’s attempt to humanise Ozai by showing us his baby painting. What would you have thought if Zuko didn’t go to watch the Ember Island Play with the Aang gang. Instead, Ozai himself sat next to the Aang gang to watch the play, but no one knows it’s Ozai. Ozai helps Sokka talk to the actors, and Sokka remarks, “What a cool guy. I wish everyone in the fire nation was like him.”

I don't see how big-ego Ozai would ever dress as a commoner just to attend a silly play. Besides, as far as I interpreted, he avoids the places Ursa was in (the Graden, Ember Island) so I think he will not go to the play either. But Sokka's line here is funny.

[notyakuza-malewife]

Renji beats Kirishima and Shouma for putting Yoshino at risk and not a month later, she gets kidnapped and almost killed. Kirishima made a mistake that almost cost her life (if she hadn't been half as crafty as she was, she'd be dead). Shouma fucking knows about it. Tsubaki knows about it!!!!

They're not telling anyone.

Am I the asshole for wanting Renji to find out so I can see his reaction?

[helenofblackthorns]

idk why but sometimes I look in the anti tsc tags just because it's fun. the insane opinions you can stumble upon... for example I had no idea people were so passionate about jalec & jace/izzy that they sincerely believe they should have been canon. like they might the only people who think that but I admire the commitment

also I once saw someone say that the show is better than the books because it had representation. they were not claiming the books had worse representation mind you, they were explicitly claiming that the book didn't have any representation 😭 I think they must have read the wrong books because????

I also saw someone say that you could cut coa & cofa out of tmi and it would be perfectly understandable. they doubled down on coa having absolutely no storylines that are relevant in cog which. it doesn't have to be your favourite book or anything. but things did in fact happen. people died (mainly simon).

[spamtoon]

(Out of nowhere, you are approached by a familiar lightbulb-headed Cog.)

Ah, it's you, cat. Thinking you're oh-so-slick. Muttering and whispering under those raggedy whiskers of yours... Thinking I am unable to hear it all...

Well, you've simply underestimated my fantastic hearing. You probably want to know the reason why I'm here, taking a 'break' from my incredibly important scientific breakthroughs? It's quite simple, really!

(She gets close, and squints her eyes.)

I know what you are.

Farewell, now!

(She then leaves the way she came from.)

(Spam giggles immensely, covering her face... it always seems like she's giggling, isn't she? This lasts... at least thirty seconds. Longer than usual.)

And I know what I am too, Sparky! You broke through something, that's for sure. Really, broke through...

(She looks down, continuing to laugh nervously.)

You know, I find it odd you Havent tried to bulb blast me into the stratosphere by now. I mean knowing how you acted with Frostbite. Is there something peculiar about me that you perhaps can't quite track? Something about me that you... don't know what I am?

I know, I know, I'm talking to nobody again. But you were there when I had a moment today with the one the only Frostbite The Bravecog. You may be remaining. Lurking in the shadows. Knowing about these thoughts that I'm thinking.

(The giggling resumes, lasting far shorter this time.)

Your brother's a piece of fucking barp, by the way

(She braces for impact for a few seconds, wincing while smiling, before comically looking around to realize nobody's there. She sighs.)

Wow, okay maybe toony superhero show logic doesn't apply in this situation. Cool.

WAIT I JUST FUCKING REALIZED WHAT SHE MEANT but like. Dude if she meant that then what's the point I mean the whole ahh sellbot department barping knows unless you're Really low on the ladder. Heheh... maybe she did mean what I thought she meant.

Oh i'm so fucking screwed. What kind of bitch gets filament fever

[lesenbyan]

I think the Hilson is getting to me so much bc this is the first time I've watched the show since actually identifying as disabled and being in pain 24/7 and watching House get angry and fed up and selfish when he sees the people who force him to keep going and have made him quite vicodin twice do everything they can to not live a life in pain is like.

Yeah House. I get where you're coming from now. You're still an ass, but like, yeah, I would be too a little

[whatsverstappeningnow]

how f1 drivers react

when they want you back after you break up with them (part two to this fic)

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

Weeks pass in painful silence. For days after the sudden breakup, Max tried to call, to text, to contact you. But the longer you ignored him, thinking it was for the best, the more it hurt. Eventually, the phone calls stopped, and the texts too. Your world descended into self-inflicted silence and loneliness.

You knew it would be hard without him, but the loneliness was worse than you could have ever imagined. It settled deep in your bones, carved into your soul and invaded every aspect of your life. Every moment of silence was a reminder of what you had given up. 

Every second of silence was a reminder of how alone you were.

Friends tried to comfort you, tried to tell you that you had made the right choice. But in the middle of the night, with nothing but the cold emptiness of your apartment to hold you, you could only spiral into darker thoughts: you had done the wrong thing. But it was too late. What was done was done. Max had stopped calling, moved on likely. You needed to as well.

You couldn't bring yourself to watch his races. You told yourself that it was for the better. You needed to let go completely. It was the only way you could move on and build a life without Max.

But when you see him again, finally, it’s not at a race. It's not some flashy paddock media day or high-stakes press event, things you used to loathe and love so much. It’s on your doorstep, hoodie pulled up, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. 

“I keep waiting for you. Every night. I keep thinking you'll call, you'll turn up at my house. You never do,” he says quietly, holding your gaze for the first time in forever. “Look me in the eye and say it again. Tell me our love isn't worth it. Tell me you don't love me anymore. C'mon. Tell me to leave and I will.”

You open your mouth to reply, not even sure what you could possibly say in response beyond what you'd already said that infamous night, but Max just holds up one hand to quiet you. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and taps it a few times before a sound starts to play out of it quietly. 

It's you.

Your voice echoes back to you, happy, laughing, talking about something stupid. You hadn't realized he’d saved it. You're not sure why he would until the sound of you hanging up echoes around you both.

I'll talk to you later, ok? Bye Maxie. I love you!

“That’s the last time you said you loved me,” he says, voice low, pure exhaustion dripping from his words. “And I’velistened to it every single night.”

Tears sting your eyes and threaten to fall. Max finally steps closer but still doesn't reach out for you.

“I haven’t driven better. I'm getting worse, I'm making stupid mistakes. I haven’t focused more. I’ve just... missed you. Every day. Every night. You think you were holding me back? I'm scared every time I drive, scared of winning and still going home alone. Scared of doing well and you thinking that it proves you right when I know I'm fucking miserable. I'msorry I told you to leave. I shouldn't have... fuck, I'm just scared, and tired, and I want you. Please.”

Behind him, thundering clouds threaten to erupt and pour down over the city. Dark storms brew with forbearing gloom.

“You want to protect me? You want to make me a better driver? Then stay. Let me love you again. Because losing you has nearly fucking destroyed me."

His hands finally reach out for yours, holding them tightly. His hands are cold, but you find that you don't mind. You need to feel him so desperately that you're willing to endure the torture of the weather on your fingertips. Within you, a deep desire to keep Max warm and safe resurfaces with renewed conviction.

“You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted outside of racing. Please. I love you. I've only ever loved you.”

Despite the tears welling in your eyes, a small smile spreads across your face.

"It's cold. Come inside." You whisper the words, tugging slightly on his hands.

"Only... only if you mean this. I can't come inside if you're just going to turn me away again."

Swallowing guilt, swallowing your hurt and fears, swallowing everything you thought was right that turned out to be so wrong, you say, "Come inside, Max. Please."

Love you think, is the sound of Max closing the door behind him and knowing he is here to stay. 

lando norris

You know you shouldn't watch it, but when the clip comes up on your instagram you can't help but pause and watch. It's instinct: you see Lando, you watch. Despite everything, all you said, all that happened and tore you two apart, you still care deeply for him. 

It’s a post-race interview. Lando’s just gotten a podium, according to the video's caption anyway. He looks as he always does after a tough drive: hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, eyes wide, adrenaline high as he slowly calms down and takes deep breaths inwards. His smile is wide, until the journalist makes a passing comment...

"Must be nice having all the distractions out of the way now."

Something shifts in his expression. It’s barely a flicker, but if you know him—really know him—you can see it. You know what the interviewer means, the media, the sprint, the free practices, quali, it's all out of the way now. He only has to think about starting P1 tomorrow. All the distractions are gone. Almost all the opsticals of the week have been passed. But the joke doesn’t land. His smile falters, then falls completely. His eyes are hollow with want, tinged with a hint of fear.

And then he says it.

“Not all distractions are bad.”

The interviewer laughs, confused, asks him to elaborate, and he seems all too happy to comply. But he keeps going. The world around you seems stuck, you can't take your eyes away from the screen. If you listened carefully, you swear you can hear your life caving in around you.

“Sometimes the things everyone else thinks are a distraction are actually what keeps you grounded. What keeps you… you.”

He looks down, clears his throat, doesn’t continue. What's said is said. When he finally looks up again, staring into the camera lens, it feels like he is looking right at you. His eyes meet yours for the first time in weeks, even if it's just through the screen. The familiarity of his gaze burns. Your heart cracks. You miss him. God, you miss you. 

The video cuts off and you are stuck again in the quiet abyss of your empty apartment. Everything is quiet again. But later that night, you get a text.

I didn’t mean to say that. but I meant it.

Before you can question yourself, second guess your instincts, you reply.

congrats on P1 I didn't see quali but I saw the interview

Then, after a moment of consideration, you add:

I miss you too, btw

It's a few minutes of dead silence, eerie uncomfortable nothingness, before he responds again.

can i call you? please

You think of his words earlier, of the way he looked as you walked out of his life and shattered all you had built together. You call him without thinking of the alternative. 

"Hey," his voice rings out through your speaker.

"Hi."

There’s a pause. The kind that aches. You can hear his breath, unsteady, shallow, like he’s been holding it since the second your name lit up his screen.

“I didn’t think you’d reply,” he admits quietly.

“You didn’t leave much room not to,” you say, your voice almost a whisper. “You're not the only one who feels alone right now, Lando.”

“I know I can’t take back how I made you feel," he murmurs, "I just… I need you to know none of this, none of the podiums, none of the wins, means anything when I’m not coming home to you.”

Your throat tightens. You try to swallow it down, but his words eat at the fear in your heart...

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” you say softly. “Giving you space. Taking myself out of the equation. I didn’t want to be the reason you—”

“You were never the problem,” he cuts in, firm but gentle. “You were the only thing that made the rest of it bearable.”

Another pause. This one is softer. He exhales.

“I want to fix this. I don’t care how long it takes.”

And maybe you should hesitate. Maybe you should ask for more time, time to think it over. But you’ve already spent weeks apart, feeling the ache of a life half-lived. And now, hearing his voice, hearing the tremble he’s trying to hide, something in you unclenches.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” He sounds like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You smile, a little cracked, a little shaky, but real for the first time in days. “Yeah. Win your race, Lan, then come home to me.”

oscar piastri

The past few weeks had dragged by you in a dull, confusing haze. The sun felt dimmer, the rain less harsh, the breeze not so calming. Everything was just... off. You knew adjusting to being alone again would be difficult, but you never imagined it would feel like this. So helpless, so cold.

Without Oscar, someone you relied upon and loved so completely, your life felt empty. You spent your days going through the motions. You woke up, ate, slept, worked. It all felt so monotone. It was impossible to do something without wondering where you would be if you were still with Oscar. 

A seed of doubt planted itself in your mind. Maybe, just maybe, you think, you were wrong. Maybe things would have been better if you were still together. But you cut the sapling before it could grow into a full thought. 

Dwelling on the past was killing you. Dwelling on the past was leaving you tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that left you feeling nothing at all. Heaviness hung in your bones.

Sleep seemed to abandon you these days, leaving you alone in the moonlight hours. The howl of the wind was your only companion in the night.

It’s past midnight when your phone buzzes. With nothing better to do, and no inclining that sleep would find you anytime soon, you reach for it from where it is charging on your bedside table.

Oscar's name stares back at you through the bright light of your phone, blinding you momentarily in the darkness of your bedroom. 

You hesitate before opening it, his name on the screen still does something awful to your chest. Memories of past late night calls, tired giggles and intimate words, swirl around you in a haze of regret. But, to your unexpected surprise, it’s not a text. It’s a voice note. 

You press play. The second you hear his voice, the pounding in your heart seems to double in speed. And yet, the comforting familiar sound also puts you completely at ease.

Hey. Sorry, I know it’s late where you are. I shouldn't— I know— I just got back from dinner with the team. Everyone was laughing about something, and I almost turned to tell you about it. As if you would be there, next to me.

He exhales sharply, so suddenly that it shocks you out of the trance you're in. Hearing his voice again, speaking directly to you, feels like a delusion after all this time. There’s silence for a few seconds, just the quiet rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him rubbing his hands against his clothes that way he always does when he’s nervous.

You can imagine it as if he’s standing right in front of you. But you know that if he was here, standing close and looking you in the eyes, you wouldn’t know what to say, how to act, to look him in the eyes and not admit all the regrets you’d been having.

Missing him feels like longing for a lost childhood toy, something you remember so fondly and yet is so resolutely out of reach. But loving him is something you can never let go of.

It’s stupid, I know. It's been weeks. We haven't even talked once since. I know. I should know better. But I just… I don’t think I’ve gone one day without reaching for my phone to text you, call you. And I haven’t sent anything, 'cause I didn't want to hurt you more than I already have. But tonight it kind of hit me that maybe I should. Text you, I mean. Reach out. So, I guess that's what I'm trying to do. I don't even know if you'll listen to this. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I should have fought harder. Should have told you more often how much you mean to me, how much you still mean to me. You were never a distraction. You were my balance. My constant. My love.

You wouldn't hear me then, but I have to make you hear me now. I love you. I love you. I'll say it as many times as you need to believe it again. And I miss you. Every day. I just want to try again. Please, let me show you how much I need you, how much I love you.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling. When the recording stops, you drag the audio back to the beginning and listen through it again. Over and over, you replay the section where he tells you he loves you. 

He sounds just as truthful, just as honest, as the first night he said it to you. The night he held you so close, kissed you so slow and carefully that you wanted to melt into the floor and never touch anyone but him ever again. The night you felt whole, and loved, and so at peace with your life. The night you had remembered over and over through the past few weeks with a longing dread. Suddenly, yet slowly, in small thoughts, then all at once, it feels like you have no option but one.

You don’t text him back. No.

You press call. He picks up immediately.

carlos sainz

You probably should have expected this, should have seen it coming from a mile away. Carlos is not one to let something, or rather someone, he loves slip through his fingers like spring water. He's built his life around the people he cares about, painstakingly carved out a space for each of them in his chaotic, fast-paced life… he wouldn't let you think so lowly of yourself for long. 

It’s only been a few weeks, but it’s felt like a lifetime. 

You open the door of your apartment, dressed in pyjamas and an oversized hoodie that was likely his, once upon a time, to find him standing there. Hair slightly messy. Hoodie zipped halfway. 

His eyes drift over you, slowly, taking every inch of your appearance. It doesn’t feel crude though, or intrusive, his gaze is so familiar, so kind, it fills your heart with joy just to be seen by him again. A small pit of guilt sinks in your stomach, you are the reason you haven’t seen him. This was your choice, after all, one you made for him.

He holds a takeout bag in one hand, your favourite food from the place you always used to order from together when it rained. It was the food that comforted you in your worst moments and excited you when you were feeling your best. 

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Yet here he was. 

He offers the bag, holding it out in one hand while the other settles on his hip. But he doesn’t move closer. He looks stuck in place, unsure of what moves to make and yet so confident in his presence at your front door.

“I’m not here to fix anything. Not if you don’t want me to,” he says softly, a tone of admittance colouring his words. “I just thought… you probably haven’t eaten. You always forget when you are stressed, or tired.”

You take it. Hands brush. He pulls away first. You find yourself immediately missing his touch.

Carlos looks down, then back up, eyes dark and earnest.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I’ve been telling myself to let you go if that’s what you need, what you really want. But I also know you pushed me away thinking it was helping me. That it was the unselfish thing.”

He pauses, breathes deeply as if centring himself. He speaks with a tone that tells you he has been thinking of the right words to say for days, and is still afraid of driving you away.

“But cariño… you were the thing keeping me sane. I didn’t need saving from you. I needed saving with you. I need you to save me. Every day I need you to save me.”

You bite your lip and look down at the bag. The familiar smell fills your nostrils.

“My house is so empty,” you admit, and it feels like exposing the deepest part of your soul. “I’ve still been watching you drive. You’re doing well. I’m happy for you.”

“I’m driving well, maybe. But I’m not happy, cariño. You have known me long enough to know that is the truth.”

You can’t find it in your to meet his eyes, he keeps speaking anyway.

“I’m not driving well because you are gone. I’m driving well despite it. Because my life is nothing but racing now and I am miserable. Every day I think of you. There is no one else for me, and you must let me show you again. Without you... without you I am no one. You make me whole.”

His words are sweet, and so painfully honest that they burn into your heart.

“I’ve missed you. More than I should. Even though I feel like I shouldn’t. I want you to become everything you’ve ever dreamed of. But watching you do that without me…” you trail off, unable to explain the hurt you have inflicted on yourself by forcing him to go. Doing this, this conversation, out in the open feels too exposed. You want to tell him you love him in the comfort of your home. The home you want to share again.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask it in a hushed whisper, like saying it loud will frighten him away again 

He smiles faintly. “Only if you want me to stay this time.”

“Will you? Please? I think... I think we need to talk.”

His smile is soft, understanding, filled with hope, “Of course, my love.”

That night, he holds you close. He doesn't leave, you don't ask him to.

alex albon

You don’t pick up the first time he calls.

Or the second.

But the third? You answer.

“…Hey,” he says, voice gentle and soft, but cautious. He's holding something back. Like he is afraid of scaring you off.

You don’t say anything at first. Just breathe. Just listen. You half expect him to hang up, regret his decision to contact you and disappear again. After all, you were the one who walked away, who could blame him for holding onto resentment and anger and just... hanging up?

The,n quietly, you say, “Alex.” His name feels like the only thing you could possibly say.

He lets the silence stretch out. It doesn’t feel awkward, just heavy. Shared. Weighted with everything that’s been left unsaid for too long. Everything you didn't explain that day, everything you struggled to say. The silence reminds you not of the emptiness of your apartment, but of the comforting quiet of lying in each other's arms. Everything, even silence, feels better with him around. Even if it's just his voice.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, finally. “Not really. I’m not calling to change your mind. I just—” He sighs, shaky and unsure. “I just wanted you to know I think about you. Still. Every day.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead to your knee, trying too hard to not let your thoughts spiral away from you. You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, and your heart somewhere between breaking and blooming at the sound of his voice.

“I’ve been driving ok, not great, not badly,” he continues. “Doing the media stuff. Smiling for the cameras. Saying the right things when they ask. Everyone keeps saying I look happy.”

Happy, just like you wanted him to be. That's the reason you did all of this. For him. To help him, even if it hurt your soul to do it. 

There’s a pause. Then a quiet, dry chuckle.

“But I’m faking it. All of it.”

Your breath catches, stuck in your throat. No.

“I catch myself thinking about you in the stupidest moments,” he says, softer now. “Like... I’ll be walking out of the paddock and I’ll reach for my phone to text you something dumb. Just muscle memory. Or I’ll hear a song you used to sing in the shower and it’ll hit me like I’ve run out of road.”

You stay quiet, swallowing hard and fiddling with your jumper sleeves. Against your better instincts to run, to hang up and hide yourself from the truth that maybe breaking up wasn't saving him, you stay.

“You remember how you used to tease me for holding my breath when I’m nervous?” he says, voice roughening just a little, like he's holding in a hollow laugh that is bubbling in his chest. “Like, properly holding it—like I’m underwater?”

You smile, just a little. Of course, you remember. 

"Yeah..."

“I keep catching myself doing it again. A lot. I didn’t even realise until Carlos pointed it out during a sim session... said I looked like I was about to pass out.”

Another small pause.

“Anyway,” he says, trying to collect himself. “If this is really what you want, I'm not here to yell at you. But I need you to know. I just... I hope you’re okay. I really do.  But if you’re not, if there’s ever a day you want to talk, about anything, bout everything.... I'm here. I'm always here”

You don't hang up.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the phone. "I ruined this. All of this."

"No, baby, no. Please don't apologise. You were doing what you thought was right." His voice cracks a little, rushed and urgent, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again.

“I miss you,” you say. Simple. Honest. Like breathing.

“I miss you so much it makes my chest hurt,” he says. "I know I can’t go back in time, but I want to move forward. With you. If there’s any part of you that wants that too…”

You wipe your eyes again and sit up straighter.

“I want that,” you whisper. “I’m scared. But I want that.” And that's all it takes. 

charles leclerc

After weeks of moping around your apartment, mourning your own decisions and cursing yourself, your friends had put their feet down and ordered you to have a night out. Something to take your mind off of him. Despite the fact that you had no desire to go out, you agreed. More for their peace of mind than your own.

You're dressed in your favourite dress, make-up done, hair perfectly in place. At any other point in your life, you would feel beautiful, but for some reason, you don't feel much of anything at all. From the second you enter the party, some rooftop bar event your friends had heard of through word of mouth, you want to go home. But you don't want to let them down, so you try and stick it out, try to pretend you feel ok.

Time passes by you, and it's hours before you notice it. Notice him. Because of course he is here. Why wouldn't he be?

Charles walks through the dancing crowd and it's like the sea parts for him, people move effortlessly out of his way despite the lack of room on the dance floor. His eyes scan the room and then, as if on instinct, they land on you.

He walks over without any dramatics, but there is a speed in his step. He's afraid if he's too slow you'll disappear into the crowd again. He's barely a metre away when he starts speaking. You can only just hear his voice over the booming music, but the heartbreak in his voice is unmistakable.

“Every time I win, I wish you were there. Every time I lose, I need you.”

You inhale sharply. He's suddenly right in front of you. He looks down at you with tired, hurting eyes.

“You said you didn’t want to hold me back. But love doesn’t hold me back—it grounds me. Keeps me from getting lost in all of this. Cheri, how could you ever believe your love was hurting me? Without it, I am nothing.”

You’re frozen in place, drink in hand, heart in your throat. You thought this night couldn’t possibly get worse... you never imagined it might get better. You never thought you'd get the chance to explain yourself to him again.

“Charles…” you say, barely audible, unsure if he even hears it over the bassline of the song thumping through the bar the screams of joy that pervade around the room, the sound of dancing feet shaking the building.

But he does. Of course he does.

“I know I should have said something earlier,” he continues, closer now, lips practically against your cheek so you can hear him clearly. His hands hold yours, keeping you close with a grounding grasp. His eyes flick briefly to your friends standing behind you, watching from the edge of the crowd, unsure whether to swoop in and save you or stay back and let this moment unfold. You hope they stay away, you couldn't stand to lose this moment because of well-meaning friends. His gaze returns to yours, and it’s the same one you’ve seen a hundred times before. 

“But I wanted to give you space. I thought… if I gave you time, you’d come back when you were ready.”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humour in it. “I wasn’t going to come back.”

“I know,” he says, voice strained and tired. “That’s why I’m here. One of my friends saw you in the crowd, I had to come. I'm sorry. I had to try one last time.”

The music shifts suddenly to something slower, softer. You glance over your shoulder as the crowd shifts to accommodate the new rhythm, but Charles doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He only sees you. The rest of the room fades into the background for him.

“I didn’t think I deserved you,” you admit. “I didn’t think I could watch you go out there every weekend, chasing something so dangerous and demanding, and not become the thing that dragged you down.”

“You were never the weight,” he says, without hesitation. “You were the anchor. There’s a difference.”

You don’t speak for a moment, letting his words settle over the noise, the lights, the blur of people around you. You’ve imagined this moment a hundred ways over the past few weeks, some louder, some messier, but none quite like this. There is something so soft about this, despite the noise. 

“You look beautiful,” he adds quietly. “But you don’t look like yourself.”

That’s what undoes you. That sentence. The gentle truth in it.

“I haven’t felt like myself.”

“Then let me take you home.”

“Charles—”

“Not like that,” he says gently, quick to clarify. “Not unless you want that. I just… I want to talk. Or sit in silence. Or be there while you fall asleep on the couch watching something terrible. I don’t care what it is, just... let me come with you this time.”

You look at him, really look. And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest loosens, just a little.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s go home.”

lewis hamilton

You’re alone on a walk, one headphone in and hands stuffed into the pocket of your hoodie, desperately trying to shield yourself from the cold wind of the mid-afternoon, when a familiar voice calls your name. The sound of the voice, so comfortingly recognisable, causes you to stumble over your own feet. He's here. 

It's Lewis. Hoodie on, hood up, looking just as surprised as you feel seeing him out in the world. He stops a few steps away from you. The distance feels like a gorge you could fall into if you take a wrong step. The fall would go on for ages, you can't risk slipping now. 

“I’ve been writing, texting you, then deleting it all before I send it,” he says quietly. “Trying to find the right words to say. Honestly, I don't think they exist. Every time I think I've figured out what to say, it just feels wrong.”

You just stare, hands fidgeting in your pocket as you feel stuck to the concrete sidewalk.

"I'm sorry. I know you probably want me to walk away, but if I don't say this now, in person, I never will."

Before you can stop yourself, you say softly, "I never want you to walk away, Lew." The truth of your own words surprises you. Lewis can only smile slightly at the sudden interjection. But he knows, just as well as you do, that you didn't leave him because you fell out of love. It was fear that drove you away.

“I thought I could prove something by letting you go. That I could be strong. But the truth is, I’ve felt lost without you.”

"Lew—"

“I miss you,” he adds, and it’s almost a whisper. “God, I miss you so much. I've stayed up at night just thinking about what you said. I can't believe I let you believe all those things about yourself. I can't believe I didn't fight harder to prove how much I love you.”

You stare at him. This is the version of him that you always knew. The one who cares so deeply, it scares him. The one who never walks away unless he thinks he has to.

“You could’ve sent any of those texts,” you manage to say, voice uneven and slow. “I probably would’ve answered, no matter what you said.”

“I didn’t want to reach for you until I knew I could be what you needed. You need someone who can show you that you aren't a burden. You need someone who can prove how loved you are. You deserve perfection.”

You let the silence linger a beat longer. Then you take a slow, steady step forward.

“I didn’t need perfect,” you say. “I just needed you.”

Lewis reaches out, gently, finally closing the gap between the two of you. “Let’s start again. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

You nod before your voice catches up.

george russell

It’s been raining all day, light, misty showers that make the city feel cold. The world is sad, you want to say to your friends, but you don't think they'd understand what you mean. Maybe you just mean you are sad. But even that feels wrong.

You’ve left the windows open just a crack, a small sliver of room to let in the crisp storm air as you curl up on the couch. There's a cup of tea in your hand that's slowly going cold, but you don't drink it. It's more for the company than for taste. The TV plays something you aren’t watching. It's just background noise to keep your thoughts from drifting back to him. 

It’s been weeks. Long enough that you’ve memorized the silence his missing presence has left behind. You miss him, but it was all for good reason.

You don’t hear the footsteps outside your apartment, you don’t hear his car as it arrives at your building. But when the doorbell rings, something deep inside you seizes up.

You freeze.

You haven’t seen George in weeks. But when you open the door, he’s there, suitcase by his side, hair messy, expression shaken. You realise suddenly that he must have come straight from the airport. His race ended only 15 hours ago. He's come straight to you.

“I’m not here to argue,” he says softly. “I just want to talk. Please.”

Against your better instincts, you hold the door open and step aside, welcoming him in in silence. He walks in slowly. His eyes scan your apartment like he doesn't recognise it, like he hasn't been there a hundred times before. Seeing him feel so out of place feels like a punch to the gut. It's a reminder of what you said to him, the way you pushed him away so suddenly, so cruelly.

Eventually, after a moment of quiet contemplation and awkward insection, he sits on your couch, wringing his hands in his lap. When he speaks, finally, his voice holds with it a tone of practised care. He's been thinking about what to say for days, you're sure of it. 

“You said I needed to focus. That I needed to be selfish.”

He looks up.

“Well, this is me being selfish. I need you to hear me, let me speak before you turn me away again. Please." 

You swallow the lump in your throat and settle yourself down across from him on the couch. You keep a bit of distance from him, not trusting yourself to be able to not fall apart if you sit within arm's reach. You missed him more than words could explain, but you owed him the chance to speak. You know you do.

After a deep breath, long and slow, he starts to speak again.

"I need you. Not just the good parts. I want the hard days. The fears. The panic at 2 am. I want all of it. I’ve spent every day since you left wondering if I could’ve... should've... done more. So here I am. Doing more.”

You press your hands into the couch cushion beneath you to stop them from shaking, trying desperately to listen to every intonation and shake of his voice, as if you could uncover every thought he's had for the past few weeks if you just listen close enough. 

You aren’t sure what to say. You thought you were protecting him by leaving, giving him an out to finally focus. But now, here he is, telling you the absence of you is the only thing that’s really hurt him. The truth hurts more than your fears ever did.

“I kept thinking… maybe if I just left you alone, gave you time and space, you’d feel free again. Feel more like yourself again. ” His voice dips. “But I think about you constantly. Every second since you walked away. And I don’t feel free... I feel hollow. And you're right, I should be more selfish with my career, my life. So this is me being selfish about what I want: I want you. I want you next to me all the time. Every day. Every night.”

He swallows, hard. Like saying all he's feeling out loud is hurting him. But he keeps going despite it.

“If you don’t want this anymore, truly don't, not because of what you think is best for my career, for me, but because you don't want it, I’ll go. But I had to try. I had to tell you that you weren’t a distraction. You were my calm in the chaos. You still are.”

You stare at him, heart caught in your throat and eyes glued to his sombre gaze. Your voice breaks when you speak.

“I've missed you so much, George.”

His shoulders sag with relief. “I know I'm not perfect. I know I wasn’t always good at balancing it all. But I never stopped loving you. That has never changed. Not for a second.”

He shifts, adjusting his posture sat upright on your couch. After a moment's hesitation, he asks, “Can I hold you?”

When you nod he moves slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll wake you from some fragile dream. But when his arms wrap around you, it’s like the weight of everything you've ever feared has finally lifted off your shoulder.

You melt into him.

And for the first time in weeks, you breathe easy.

taglist: @fastandcurious16 @coolpeanutchaos @hangingwiththestars

-> ree here! I'm sorry for the length inconsitancy and any mistakes! I tried to just do what felt right for each set up and I have editted this very sleep deprived from uni study... send help for my incoming essay due dates i am avoiding by writing imagines instead...