#but he deserves his gift

[sunnythedawg]

Happy late mother’s day to the guy that brothered so hard he mothered

[canisalbus]

hey there! sorry to bother again, but I was in a animating mood, so I ended doing a short animation of Machete for practice. It's kinda messy since I havent done that for a while, but hope you like it!

.

[hawkinsbnbg]

thank you, santa

prompt: santa | word count: 986 | rated: T | tags: omega verse, true mates, soulmates, love at first sight, omega Steve, runaway Steve, Steve has bad parents, alpha Eddie, implied mpreg | @steddieholidaydrabbles | ao3

Growing up, Steve had learned that Santa wasn't real. His parents had made sure to break his naïve fantasy as soon as he started asking them questions about the world.

For a long time, Steve believed them and thought his classmates were stupid to prepare milk and cookies for Santa. Still, somewhere inside his head, there was a small voice that doubted everything Richard and Dana Harrington told him in their dismissive tones, but Steve was too desperate to please them to even pause and think for himself.

But when he presented as an omega and had to endure their contempt for him, he decided they were bullshit.

———

Christmas was a cursed holiday among the Harrington. Or maybe it was just Steve who'd been a disappointment to his poor parents since his birth. Either way, it didn't matter anymore considering he'd made peace with the fact that he had shitty parents the moment he hitchhiked out of town to escape from under their thumbs.

And yet, three years later, he still wished his Christmas wasn't always so cold and lonely, wished he had a family to celebrate it with. But while Santa might be real, he knew he wasn't good enough to be granted such a thing. After all, no good omega would be abandoned by their pack or struggle at reining in their instinct—the one that always made him needy for a smidge of warmth and go haywire around children.

Fortunately, the record store didn't require his flimsy control, they only asked him to smile pretty and assist the customers as best as he could, which was a piece of cake given the omega training his parents had briefly put him through all those years ago.

Loathed at them as he might, part of the reason he excelled at his job was thanks to them. And every day, Steve tried to not think about that even though his mind tended to spiral without his consent. At this point, it was a bad habit he couldn't get rid of.

Steve grimaced as he stared at the fake pine tree on the display shelf. Even now, he could still hear his mother criticizing him for wearing the clothes he chose. He had got them from a thrift shop; the soft maroon sweater, the washout jeans that didn't try to squeeze him to death, the worn sneakers that didn't hurt to walk in. He wished—

Steve paused arranging the vinyl records to pinch the bridge of his nose. Maybe it was the holiday effect because he caught himself making more wishes lately. It didn't hurt to seek a little comfort from magic and fairytale, but he couldn't afford to delude himself anymore. Not when the last time he did, he had nearly been sold away.

Besides, it wasn't like he could just ask to see his soulmate right now even though it was already 1986—the year that his soul mark had mentioned—and Christmas was just around the corner. Because there was a fat chance they wouldn't be compatible and had to give up on each other in the end anyway. (He wondered if that was why his parents kept reminding him soulmates weren't real.)

Too lost in his thoughts, Steve didn't pick up the pinewood scent right away, but when someone cleared their throat lightly behind him, it was the first thing that his inner omega latched onto. Thinking it was a customer asking for his assistance, he turned around with a greeting on the tip of his tongue only to have the air sucked out of him.

The handsome stranger had long black curls, pale skin, big dark chocolate eyes, plump lips, and a cute nose that had turned slightly red due to the cold weather. His outfit was mostly black—a Judas Priest t-shirt, leather jacket, combat boots, and chains—except for the maroon knitted scarf tied in a half-hearted bow on his neck.

Not to mention the way he smelled— Steve breathed in deeply and felt something right just click inside him.

There he is, he sighed dreamily.

Mine, his inner omega purred.

They were clearly made for each other, and god, Steve needed to marry this man like yesterday.

Much to his giddiness, the alpha seemed equally flustered, pupils dilated and cheeks tinged pink as he took in Steve—fluffy chestnut hair, doe-like hazel eyes, rosy cheeks, and pouty lips—before blurting out with awe.

"Damn, '86 is really my year."

Steve burst into a fit of giggles, unable to believe his luck. According to the statistics, it was supposed to be one in a million, but here they were—soulmates and scent mates. All in one package.

The alpha seemed baffled by his unfettered joy at first, but then beamed at him brightly as he nodded to confirm the man's suspicion, as the sweet cocoa and vanilla started blooming in the air, joining the pinewood scent and earthy musk in a beautiful harmony.

Steve couldn't wait to listen to the songs of their bond once they officially mated. He couldn't wait to build a future with this lovely man.

Grinning so wide that his cheeks hurt, Steve threw himself into those strong arms, melting when they caught him in a warm and protective embrace.

With the enthusiasm of an eager pup opening his Christmas present, he unknotted the scarf and nuzzled his alpha's bonding gland, feeling a little lightheaded as he chirped merrily.

"Thank you, Santa."

This time, it was his alpha's turn to laugh in joy, hugging him close and pressing a tender smile to his head.

"Merry Christmas, baby."

———

December '86, Steve Munson was home.

———

September '88, Emily Munson opened her eyes with a loud cry, ready to conquer the world with her tiny fists and unruly curls.

Cradling their pup in his chest, Steve smiled tearfully and let his husband wrap them both in those loving arms.

Santa was real, after all.

[sysig]

Gift (Patreon)

[ridingtorohan]

hey!! i saw ur recent post about the tulpar crew walking in on reader touching themselves, could u do the same but vice versa?

Ask and ye shall receive!

𓇻 ft. tulpar crew x gn reader

𓇻 content. 18+ content, minors dni. possible second hand embarrassment. masturbation, sexual propositions, the whole shebang. this is a sequel to this post. this one can definitely be read on its own though. lightly implied that reader didn't accept swansea or daisuke's offers in the prequel but that can be left up to interpretation. jimmy's definitely happened though.

𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, reblog, or send in asks!

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Masterlist - Want to Join my Taglist?

Curly is just so damn tired. Tired of the reports, faxes, checking the straps in the cargo bay. One of the few downtimes he gets is when he can sit and watch the constellations pass on the common room monitor. The Augira, Constantine and Mitena were all ones that he recognized from this sect of the system, all penned from the eyes of Saturn and further.

Movies are a scarce commodity on the screen, given Jimmy's track record of not wanting to hook the systems up, but it helps him nod off most times.

Working out, though? Working out he can do. Pony Express has given him permission to bring his weights on board, alongside a slew of magazines and audiobooks to listen to.

While Curly doesn't think of himself as a gym rat, those moments to himself are some of the best. Nothing but the burn of iron, the strain of his muscles with each rep. It's methodical work, one that sets his mind at ease and off of reports for once.

Some days, he can get Jimmy in on the action, but most of the time his co-pilot bemoans it. Each time they worked out, the stretches between the next session grew longer.

He's pleased when you agree to attend a few sessions with him. By then, it's almost amicable between you two, as if him walking in you didn't even happen. He's very much acted the part of a dutiful captain, though, he can't help his own eyes from wandering when he sees you stretch. Can't help himself from putting his hands firmly on you when he goes to correct your stance. It doesn't linger, doesn't wander, but goddamn, does he wish he could throw propriety out the window.

It's after one of his solo workout sessions when he chooses another way to unwind. Really, that's the only explanation for it. One that he tells himself anyway, because the strain of propriety is heavy. If he still thinks of you from time to time, if your face crops up in his thoughts while he touches himself, that's his business.

The only places you'd catch him in the act is either in the bathroom or his room.

Curly has always been imaginative, thoughts trailing to roads not travelled, paths that burn out of sight. Of you, sprawled out on the bed, and how he wished he had stayed. How he'd have given anything to hike your legs over his waist and kiss you senseless when he slid against you.

As it always is, every fantasy comes to an abrupt end. Every night that he had dreamed of walking in to find you waiting, you found him. Wifebeater drenched in sweat, towel draped over his shoulders, every line of his well built body on display, hand fisted around his cock.

There's a difference between wishing you'd walk in on him and actually receiving it.

A painful, terse moment lingers between you two, tension so thick he swears he can cut it. His hand completes the motion, wiping from his base to the tip, each breath deep. Despite how uncomfortable he felt (for more than one reason), he also felt more prepared. "Hold on a minute." He'll cover himself, boxers and uniform hiding himself from view.

If you believe you could flee from the room without Curly following you, you're dead wrong. He'll track you down, put this to bed once and for all. He'll catch you, half-dressed in his uniform, blue workwear draped around his waist, hand against the wall. "We have to talk about this."

Regardless if you stay or leave, not talking about it is no longer an option. You've both seen more of each other than was warranted, then what you both signed up for, but dammit he wants this. And he's so tired of shying away from things that he wants. From the person that he wants. All because of some higher-ups sitting cozy back home saying that it's wrong to do. He can't do it anymore, not when he feels like he's on the cusp of something great for once in his life.

"I know that what happened isn't what either of us expected," he'll start, voice low and perhaps far too sensual to be appropriate considered his half-dressed state. "And frankly, we can keep it to ourselves, pretend we never saw it." Biting the bullet is one of the fewest things he's done in life, but this is something that he wants to do. By fractions, Curly leans in closer, his voice entering a low murmur. "But... it doesn't have to be. We could give each other a.. hand, so to speak."

Routine. That's one thing that the Tulpar is good at. Routine. Each meal time, the rigid necessity of clocking in and out on time, even bathing. Pony Express may be a shit machine but it's well oiled, worked raw by the people under it. Delivering the payload is a smooth easy task because they all work on it together.

Part of that routine is shift work. Jimmy, ever the night-owl, works evening and night shift. This makes it so incredibly easy to avoid him if you wanted, especially since he walked in on you tending to yourself.

But he doesn't let you forget it. Since that moment, there's a smoldering heat in his gaze, eyes hooded as he watches you go about the room. Watched as you did your tasks, always standing too close - enough that you can get a whiff of his woodsy cologne, or feel his arm against yours.

He's almost helpful, even when your tasks really don't necessitate the need for another. His hands linger, hot against your uniform, his hips against the back of yours whenever he steadied you, or reached above you. Each word a rumble in his throat.

Except there's never really any change to talk to him about what happened. Not when every moment is tense, fraught with unresolved desires and need. Not when Daisuke or Curly walk into the room, silencing the burning questions and words that haunt your lips. Jimmy seems especially disgruntled about the interruptions, getting almost snappy towards the other crewmembers.

All in all, you rarely have a moment to speak with him. It's the furthest thing from your mind when you step out of the shower, more than eager to collapse face first into bed and sleep the weariness away.

If you're the sort to bring clothes into the washroom to change into, the absence of them is noted fast. No amount of scrounging around turns them up either. At a loss, it's to your sleeping quarters to wrangle up something else to wear.

Except you're very much not alone the second you step into your door. The door swishes behind you but you're effectively grounded, eyes drawn to the man lounging on your bed.

His head is tilted, messy hair falling across his hooded eyes, a dark and smoldering look to them. A slow stretch of a smirk crawls across his face, a pleased look darting into his eyes.

Jimmy is just as bare as the day he was born, an arm languidly thrown over your pillow. A leg bent up, not at all coy about having himself on display. His other arm is resting against his thigh, one hand smoothing along his flushed cock in a slow, slick motion. His fingerstips are all but slathered in precum - or actual cum, as you might suspiciously think when you look at your clothes haphazardly thrown onto the floor, looking sticky.

"There you are. Took you long enough." He breathes out your name, chin tilted upward, something primal lurking deep in his eyes. Jimmy clicks his tongue, ever the disapproving copilot. "You should know better than to keep someone waiting." Despite the curt, wanting tone to his words, he doesn't move towards you. Letting you go to him. Like he knows you will.

"I've been thinking," each word is low and deep, husky in his mouth. Jimmy's hand very much doesn't stop moving, stroking himself as you're rooted to the spot. Whenever you glance down between his thighs, his smirk deepens. "That you owe me for what I did for you."

It's not like you could dance around the topic forever; each touch, every interrupted conversation, it all would have culminated to this. Jimmy waiting for you, eager to put his hands back on you, to feel you tremble and shudder beneath him as he pulls you apart.

The thing was, you realize, it'd be terribly easy to leave him here. To not respond to his advances. The door was to your back and even Jimmy had enough sense not to walk out nude in pursuit of you. It'd be easy to walk to another crewmate's quarters and pilfer clothes. It'd be laughed off, brushed under the rug just as another incident, excused as you being unable to enter your room because of 'technical difficulties'.

The thing is, though, you can clearly remember how his hands felt, the way he moved. How Jimmy watched you with the same intensity now, his eyes a dark promise of a repeat experience, if not more.

You don't really want to refuse such an offer, do you?

Try as Anya might, she can't get the image of you out of her head. The sounds you made, how your hands moved. She'd tried to be civil, though how quickly she averts her gaze and fidgety hands betray how much it affected her. Nerves, she'd try to excuse it. Nothing ever related to you, of course, because that sounds too much like blame. She blames herself for walking in on you masturbating, and blames herself for wishing that she hadn't left.

But by god, did it make her needy and so sexually frustrated. She's found every excuse under the sun to touch you then jerk back, at war with herself. She has to act professional. Doesn't she?

Something about you, seeing you like that, had coiled something burning inside of her. Something hot, that festered low in her gut.

For the most part, she can act professional. Mostly. But she can only get so far from letting her eyes trace your silhouette, from sitting on her leg whenever you talk to her. It's risky business, even riskier when she decides to keeps a few tokens of yours. Things that smell like you, even distantly - papers, a bracelet. Things that you've lent to her before.

It's been a while since she got laid, since she's even been attracted to anyone. But something about you just sets her on fire, burning with want and need. She needs you like she's never needed anyone before.

Realistically, Anya knows it's because of the forbidden nature; because of the close proximity day in and day out, but there's something so tantalizingly beautiful about it too. She's a sucker for it.

One of her favourite places to get off is in the medbay; she can lock herself in it - but she doesn't. Because it's so much more tantalizing when she thinks about you walking in. When she thinks about pressing you against the desk and using her medical expertise on you. She wants to hear you - taste you - feel you. Is that too much to ask for?

That's exactly where you catch her. Her breath coming out in hot breaths, eyes shut tightly, uniform pulled open. It'd be so easy to mistake it for something else, such as the room being hot - if it weren't for where her hands were.

One has all but ridden up her shirt, rolling the peak of her breast between her fingers. The zipper has gone all the way down to her waist, one hand curled tightly in her underwear, motions jerky as she fingers herself.

Every inch of her wishes that it was you, your fingers working her over, touching her clit and prodding at her walls. She feels so close, having edged herself for a bit until you came in.

It was just to ask her her input on supper, or for a nonsensical question that very well could have waited for another moment.

The door swishes shut behind you and her eyes flutter, dark as she looks up at you, flush all but crawling up her neck.

Seeing how you look at her - how you came to look for her- needing her for something, a question halfway on your lips - and it's her undoing. She moans your name, guttural and hoarse, hips jerking, dripping over her knuckles. "Wait-" Singlehandedly one of the better orgasms she's had, better than when she pined endlessly.

When her senses come back, Anya is breathless and shaken - and you're long gone.

She's not letting you go this time. Not when a new, burning question lodges inside her. Did you like what you see? Did you wish you weren't there?

Anya approaches your door at night, knocking crisply and when you grant entrance, she stands there, the atmosphere almost palpably awkward. She takes a few steps closer, feeling flighty and desperate, eyes searching your face, whispering your name.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she whispers, voice low in the room, nerves biting at her throat. She can't not know anymore. "But I'm... glad that you did."

"Is this.. tension between us all in my head, or, do you want me too?"

It's one thing after the next. Couplings came loose, Daisuke's homework is not up to par, the lightbulbs need to be changed but no one seems capable of doing it. It all amounts to a sort of frustration winding up in him. Swansea has enough grace not to lash out at anyone, but it's there, palpable in his tone.

By some saving grace, you're willing to help him out with his work. Passing over screwdrivers and wrenches, new copper wire as he needs it. Swansea has noticed that you're attentive and eager like that; willing to help. Sometimes, he really wished you were his intern instead of Daisuke, not that he blames the kid.

He really needs a damn beer.

Wanking out his frustrations as a teenager and young adult had really suited him just fine, and with each passing day, it becomes a far more likely possibility.

It surely does not help when every little moment with you feels charged. Knuckles brushing when you supply him with mechanic tools, or when his arm brushed against your thigh as he steadied the ladder for you.

Swansea finds his gaze lingering.. on how your uniform bunches, the sway of your walk, the excited chatter to your tone when you've launched into some spiel or other. Each look he gives you is in quiet contemplation, though perhaps not as obvious as to why.

He's long since brushed off your curious questions.

It's when Anya outright slipped and fell over an oil spill that Swansea called it quits. There's only so many small annoyances that he could take before it became a hazardous snowstorm.

After it's suitably cleaned, he tried to find a place to tuck himself away. Keyword: tried. Something else always needed to be fixed, and he had enough years under his belt to know the ins and out of everything. Leaky faucet? Hold his glass. Vaccuum given up? He's got it. Curly, goddammit, he has it.

It's so grueling to find a moment of peace, so he takes what he can. That just so happened to be in the utility room, frustrations to a boiling point.

He knows his body, knows just the right way to stroke himself, the perfect amount of pressure. Learned it long since his youthful days, since his amicable divorce from his wife. Sure, it might feel mechanic at a certain point, but to him, it was a small reprieve. A getaway that only booze came close to.

Foreskin pulled back, his head is tucked low, eyes heavily lidded, fingertips pressing under the tip of the head just like he likes.

Swansea has himself sticky with precum when the utility door rattles and open. "Swansea, I found your keys-"

His eyes track up, eyebrows raised. Whatever hasty attempt you may have made, it's blocked by the aging mechanics of the utility door. It's from an older rig, one that still uses keys instead of the security bars that the medbay and cockpit use. Which means it's faulty as shit.

He sighs, head tipped back, eyes still on you. "That's on me for not leaving a sock out there," he grumbles, voice gruff and husky. A reference to how he told you to ward off people when he caught you masturbating earlier.

Moving his hand from his cock, his gaze is surprisingly steady, arm draped against the back of the chair. "Listen, kid, I won't say shit about this if you don't. Keep it jammed tight better than a olive jar when making margaritas. But." He rolls his neck, feeling a satisfying crack run through him. "I can show ya a few things that the ole cap' or other men won't, if yer interested."

Daisuke has been, for lack of a better word, edgy around you. Hovering, then trying to create distance. He can't seem to decide how to act around you. Not when he's seen you that way, pleasuring yourself. When he wishes you'd involve him.

He's seen plenty of naked people before, got hard over them, but wow, did you take it to the next level. Even how you tilt your head or roll up your sleeves has him in an outright tizzy, straining hard in his pants.

Daisuke often has to excuse himself from your presence. Ignoring Swansea's rolling eyes and knowing scoffs is easy; ignoring you is harder.

It's during one of those mundane tasks, where you're prattling about your work to the others, his eyes glued to your form, absorbing every word that he can't take it anymore. Excusing himself, he pops right out of the room, awkwardly striking towards his bunk.

But of course that is the exact moment you decide you need to return his gameboy - or comic, or whatever he had lent you a few weeks prior.

Daisuke is completely in the groove, pants folded down, back propped to the wall, knees folded and lips parted with each heavy breath. He's always been loud, noisy and boisterous. But his saving (and falling) grace is that he's also often playing movies in his room, and what muffled sounds you may hear from the other side of the door is easily chalked up to that. (Or perhaps, you knew.)

You catch him like that, hand fisted around his lean cock, shirt ridden up over his stomach, his movements sharp and jerky. It's bad enough that you walk in on him like this - but another to hear Daisuke rattle out your name, the sound breathy and full of want coming from his lips.

He's a poor, flushed mess, eyes wide when he looks up at you - and it's so plainly obvious to the both of you that he didn't call out because he heard you come in.

"I- I can totally explain." Except he really can't, can he, when he has his dick in his hand, just moaning your name literally seconds ago.

Any attempt to backtrack out of the room will be greeted with a hasty, "Oh my god, no, pleasewait!" As he all but tries to leap from his bed, tripping over his pants in his haste to get to you. Daisuke is nothing but determined and will try to talk to you about this, even if you manage to successfully flee.

Choosing to stay has him utterly red-faced, almost ashamed as he rambles through a tirade of, "Okay, so," punctuated by repeated, stumbled phrases before he manages to get out, "So, me calling out your name just now - total accident. Unlessyoudon'twantittobe? But, like, I definitely understand if you want to leave but I'dreallyratheryoustaybecause I really can't stop thinking about you and, - oh hey, is that my gameboy? You can just set it-- that's not important! I just. Really don't want you to leave. Please."

[honehonn3honey]

All drawings about Shouto from 2019 to 2024

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Special mention to this kind of fish and cat’s ass Shouto:

Oh! And this pillow that I don’t remember his name:

[beetlethebug]

Spite confessing his favorite part of Emmrich is his crow's feet. because he and Lucanis are crows, and they show up most prominently when Emmrich smiles. and Spite likes it when Emmrich smiles. Which also means that Emmrich can sometimes catch Spite yelling things like, "Put our feet on his face, you idiot!" whenever they're around and Emmrich is visibly upset. It always gets a chuckle out of him (despite Lucanis' embarrassment), so Spite keeps doing it.

[two-ii-tango]

faith characters doing Normal People things because i am SICK and TIRED of this fandom being allergic to happiness

[fcaruana]

Hiii just wondering if you could please translate this interview Maria gave about Franco? https://youtu.be/AqMKHpuQHLw?si=l9pbKdUVwM52dMuY

Sure, here it is! I skipped a few less interesting parts. For those who don't know, María is one of his 2 managers.

About the 2025 rumors: "All those rumors circulating about Franco signing for a seat are 100% not true. There isn't anything signed. I don't know if you've seen Jamie's [Franco's second manager] tweet saying 'Thanks for the info [about Franco confirmed at Red Bull] how strange, you found out before I did!'. For now Franco is a Williams driver, we have 3 races left with them and at the moment we're in Williams. James himself said he's negotiating with other teams, it's a discussion between teams that I can't say much because I don't know. There is a wish for Franco to stay in F1 in 2025, from so many people: his fans, us, the F1 itself would love for him to continue, Williams themselves are pushing to make it possible. If that wish becomes a reality we'll announce it when it happens for sure. For now, there is not any signed contract."

"I admire Franco so much. The way he's been dealing with the pressure and exigency of F1 is admirable. I was sure it was going to be like this, but he's still 21 years old, working with the mindset of a much older person. The physical and emotional effort he's putting in is impressive."

About how they take much more care of Franco now: "In F1, the only difference is that the exposure is many times higher. Now Jamie and I pay much more attention to the way this is affecting him, how he deals with this exposure and everything that's been happening to him. In that sense, the good and bad things have intensified a lot. So we are keeping an eye on him almost every second, both on and off the track."

About Franco meeting fans and signing their stuff even after Sunday's race: "That's just his nature. We spent the entire weekend hearing crazy stories of people who traveled to Brazil from Argentina by motorbike, people who didn't even have a ticket for the race, people getting wet in the rain. And he was incredibly moved, he felt that very intensively, saying 'what a wonderful thing is happening to me, look at all those people!'. From the paddock we all could constantly hear their chants, songs and screams, and everyone else was like 'what is going on?! what is this?!'. That is super positive for Franco, he couldn't stop coming out, he just wanted to go out and greet them. Obviously by the look of his face, his mood, he wasn't very excited at that moment, but he didn't want to stop giving back just a little bit of their constant support. He's still the same person [as before F1]. After the race he went out with that [sad] face, because he thought 'all those poor people, coming all the way to Brazil and look at what happened'. He felt like he had to do it for them, saying it's for all these people that he has to do well."

"We would've loved to be at the banderazo. Picture this: before leaving we even had to buy an extra suitcase just for all the gifts Franco received this weekend. It's been incredible."

About the impact of Franco's fans on F1: "I don't know if you've seen it, but now the Instagram account of F1 has been posting in Spanish (targeted to hispanic countries). I don't remember the F1 ever making such an amount of posts in Spanish before. This means that the F1 is embracing with gratefulness this community, these new argentinian fans and everyone Franco's bringing in."

About Brazil GP: "It was tough, it started tough and it ended tough. Considering it was an unknown track for him, his first time there, the tricky rain conditions we had, if I go back to all the sessions I think Franco was quite fast, even though he couldn't try the inters until the race because of his crash in quali. So I'm happy with the work he's done, considering he's a rookie, it was his 6th race, the wet unknown track, he did a good job. At the end there was too much water, in the straight there were two big rivers. Unfortunately he aquaplaned in one of them and lost the car, there was nothing else he could do. It can happen to you, like it happened to him and many others, or it can't. So it happened, the conditions weren't good and there isn't anything to throw in his face by my part."

About his relationship with his race engineer and their radio in Brazil: "It's always like this, maybe Franco has an opinion and Gaëtan has another, sometimes they agree but the most important part is that they win and lose together. Franco and Gaëtan will win and lose together, in the good and bad times. We'll never know what would've happened if they had listened to Franco [about him repeatedly asking for wet tyres before his crash]. The point is that him and Franco have a great connection, he trusts a lot in his criteria and this hasn't changed at all. They're always together in the simulator, now going for Vegas and thinking about the future."

About Franco feeling bad for the mechanics after his crash: "He wanted to be there helping in any way he could. I don't know what other drivers do but Franco is very affectionate with all the members of his team and greets them every morning, says goodbye to everyone every night, he has a special connection with them. His biggest worry was the effort they had to put to fix his car so he was constantly coming in and out of the garage, asking if he could help with anything, supporting them and thanking them."

About his relationship with Alex and the overall climate in Williams: "The best thing is that it's like a small family. It's our first F1 team so we can't really compare, but it feels good to work there, it doesn't feel like you're in F1 and feels like we're still in MP [F2]. Everyone is lovely and it's a pretty family-like climate."

[kaicko]

Happy (?) Birthday Byakuya-bou !! 🏃🏻‍♀️🌸🎂

[teyrnacousland]

The whole thing with Lucanis being plucked up into a found family and becoming a happier healthier person for it are great but it makes me almost bitterly jealous on behalf of Illario. I think that guy would really flourish by having a group of friends (and maybe a lover). Imagine it. Imagine a version of Illario where he was appreciated and valued and given the attention and love he needed and deserved. I have no real coherent or interesting thoughts to add here all I have is this overwhelming need to give Illario friends.

[mamamittens]

You know, for the slightly personal vendetta I have against Teach for various crimes (primarily ensuring I will never have more than a handful of clips and frames of Thatch to fawn over and the entirety of Marineford), I can't help but wonder about his motivation.

And feel kind of bad for him.

Canonically, he never sleeps.

Like, ever.

And that just makes me wonder how thoroughly he has to lie to himself about how he grew up. Like, it couldn't have been totally pleasant on a pirate ship. God knows Shanks is an alcoholic and Buggy is... Himself because of the few years they sailed with Roger.

But there's also no denying how much Whitebeard's crew cared about each other.

Was it the fact that he could never be at the top with his adopted family? With so many brothers and sisters, he's almost certainly not anyone's favorite.

He seems ambitious but lacking in some ethereal, key thing. Perhaps it's his duplicity that ultimately means he could never be Pirate King in any real sense. A title like that demands pride and an upfront declaration of self.

(we're not touching the multiple personality allegations for now)

And the symbol. Three heads.

Even when he struck out on his own, he couldn't seem to imagine actually being alone. And that's kind of curious, actually.

For someone so determined to cheat and steal his way to the top, to stand out amongst the rabble as Pirate King, he chooses to identify as one of many.

What does he fill his time with, now that he's thrown away so much in pursuit of power? Dreaming is such a big theme in One Piece, so for a man literally incapable of this, what does he have?

What does Teach tell himself late at night when everyone else is asleep. When the world is quiet save the waves lapping at his ship.

Does he laugh at Thatch's betrayed ghost? Chuckle at the ridiculous way Ace threw away his life rather than ally with Teach?

Or did that get old--if he ever did it to start with.

Does he feel Whitebeard's disapproving eyes on his back when the stars go dark. That disgusted tone informing him with absolute certainty that he'll never be Pirate King.

That everything he's ever done was for nothing. Less than nothing.

Blood so thick on his hands the ultimate prize will just slip off his fingertips, no matter how desperate he gets.

If Teach can't even escape his worst parts through dreams, does he even understand their weight anymore? Or does he only know that the taste of want never leaves his tongue

Wet gasps on an abandoned deck.

Soft clattering of slick beads on cobblestone.

Late night parties fallen into silence.

A snowstorm raging all around him.

Condemnation from the only man he ever called father.

Do you regret, Marshal D. Teach?

Can you even feel it?

Or are the nights just long stretches of darkness with hollow ripples on the ocean?

[shannonsketches]

what if they murdered freeza together. as a treat.

what if we gave granolah a big ol kaiju vegeta and they stepped on freeza as a team instead of going to therapy

[dearmyloveleys]

love and hatred each fill half the heart.

大梦归离 (Fangs of Fortune) 2024

(3/?)

[javierduffy]

just a few javieran horse headcanons because i like them a normal amount

branwen

- tall AND fat. kieran makes sure he’s always fed (maybe even accidentally a teensy bit overfed. just because kieran can’t help but indulge him when he butts him with his head or nuzzles at his pockets when he knows there’s treats in there. but never too much because ‘obesity is a problem, even in animals !’). probably about 17hh, taller than average for a kentucky saddler but nothing too big. especially since kieran himself is quite tall

- VERY well-tempered, both naturally, as well as because kieran has literally made him bulletproof. bagged him, blanketed him, stood, jumped, backflipped onto and off of him. this kindly gentleman of a horse only spooks when he wants to be bratty specifically.

- i think he’s about 6 or so, came from the stables kieran worked at after being orphaned, he was just a colt when kieran was just a kid. kieran learned how to birth foals quickly, and branwen happened to be one of them. with the way that they fell in love with each other and the way that branwen whinnied and pranced up to the fence when kieran came back to buy him after the army didn’t work out, you’d think that horse was born just for him.

- his favourite treats, in order, are rutabaga (kieran’s secret for branwen’s glossy coat. also why he’s kinda fat.), boiled potatoes mixed into his oats, apples, and fresh greens. he’s simultaneously incredibly easy to please because of the simplicity of the latter parts of his favourites list and also very needy and complicated because kieran so loves to make his pony happy with his absolute favourite treats, so he tries his very best to get branwen’s eccentric tastes pleased once falling into the VDL’s.

- i always say “a horse’s favourite thing to do is hurt itself”, and i think this statement holds relatively true for branwen as well, though there’s a 25% chance that he’s actually hurt, a 50% chance that he’s only mildly injured or spooked and he’s playing it up to get kieran to dote on him, and a 25% chance that he will protect kieran with his life when they’re in a dire situation (see: snake on the ground or gunfire nearby. or even god forbid a spare tumbleweed find it’s way rolling nearby.) despite kieran’s last wish being his horse getting injured. branwen thinks that he’s gotta be The Man and protect his dad sometimes. it does not help in any situation ever whatsoever.

- branwen is the PERFECT companion for a trail riding date. he’s settled, calm, has a great gait, and as a gelding, truly is not worried about other horses being “faster” than him, so he never gets rowdy nor has any problems when partner riders/horses crowd him. kieran is allowed to ask for as many kisses as he pleases because branwen will never jump when javier’s gold-tipped boots poke him in the side and boaz irritatedly flicks his flank with his tail. truly a goated wingman. also never complains about long rides, and enjoys being out of camp with his rider for as much as physically possible for both of them, so he’s never barnsour in either direction.

boaz

- as an american paint, he’s naturally short and stocky. saddle ends up being a bit loose, though, as javier isn’t as dedicated to keeping him perfectly fed or groomed. he loves him, sure, but horses are somewhat of tools to him, so he kinda does slightly more than bare minimum to keep him kempt and healthy. around 14.5hh, slightly shorter than average and quite dense with muscle

- temperamentally a bit volatile. this horse has just as much drama as his rider, if not a little more. doesn’t like something ? ridden too long ? that stick looks too much like a snake ? hasn’t spent enough time with kieran that day ? he will snort and grunt and bunny hop if javi isn’t on him, and shudder hard enough the saddle shakes underneath him if he is. boaz likes to please his rider, but he also demands pleasure himself, and has no issue with “accidentally” placing a hoof on his owners nice, intentionally clean boots, and subsequently slowly leaning more and more of his weight onto it when he doesn’t immediately get what he wants. bratty pony. generally, he keeps javier safe, though, when it comes down to it.

- around 5 years old. after dutch found javier trying to steal chickens the first time they met, he soon took him back to that ranch and their first take as gang leader and member was a 1 year old grey paint colt for javi to train and subsequently ride. until he was rideable, javier rode a morgan that was formerly hosea’s, named carolina, while he lead boaz everywhere behind him.

- favourite treats, in order, are corn cobs (especially dried), prickly pear fruit AND cactus, sugar cubes, and sliced apples. will force javier to share his maiz with him. javier has always sliced his apples up since he was a colt, not only because javi simply finds comfort in toying with his knife, but also because boaz will not eat them otherwise. javi will also cut all of the spines off of the cactus before letting boaz eat them.

- in terms of injury, boaz is the most dramatic tank on the planet. this horse could arthur morgan-style run face first into a tree and then fall off a cliff and walk it off. but not before he gimps and limps and whines and teeth grinds his way into javier leading him instead of riding him for the next mile or two. once kieran started taking care of him, there is also a 25% chance of boaz faking a terribly painful injury just to get kieran to dote on him.

- kinda the worst wingman ever LMFAO easily annoyed, easily aroused, easily offended, and as a stallion, HAS to walk in front of the “herd” (his rider’s boyfriend and his horse). pins his ears back, smashes into personal space, flicks branwen with his tail (and preferably kieran, if he can reach him) even sometimes will nip at branwen if the latter tries to calmly make this date a date and not a life or death race (whoever loses, their dad is gay) and walk side-by-side to aid their riders’ hand holdings. will make executive decisions via stopping or veering off for fresh green grass beside the trail, will at points actively attempt to shudder javier out of his saddle (has succeeded once when javi was distracted by a story being excitedly told by kieran), and will also spook and take off running so fast javier thinks it must have broken his neck from the velocity. generally makes trail rides a living hell, but kieran finds it charming, and it makes for some cute shoujo-style “omg … *reaches out to help you up after your horse bucks you off because he saw a log that looked nothing at all and everything like a cougar and pink and white soft bubbles surround me* are you okay ? here, let me help.” moments. maybe some day boaz will be allowed off of the national american terrorist list written by javier “rizzless rider” escuella

ok im tired and that’s all i can think of please enjoy and feel free to contribute 👍 i love them so bad im gona cry

[kismetconstellations]

Because I'm still bitter... The first time I consciously verbalized that "I hate this show", came when, as I predicted, there was absolutely no acknowledgement of Shiro having no living family on Earth, come the Atlas's "launch date" at the start of Season Eight.

We get shots of each of the Paladins interacting with their families, including Allura as a part of Lance's family, which is a sweet touch.

Then, there's a passing shot of Shiro standing alone and isolated on the Atlas's bridge that he isn't even the focus of.

I had a feeling this would be the case when, ahead of the finale of the second season, the Paladins are cheerfully reflecting on their growth and the challenges that they've overcome preceding what they believe will be their final fight with Zarkon.

Shiro, however, is dead silent, back turned to the others, and, when we do see his expression, he's stone-faced and seemingly deep in contemplation. Something that no one acknowledges, or seems to be in any way concerned about, even with Shiro's history of thoughts that he loses himself in being distinctly unpleasant ones.

When he does speak, it's to somberly offer the definitive statement, "You realize, once we defeat Zarkon, the universe won't need Voltron, anymore." The kids naturally express wanting to see their families, again, once the burden of defending the universe has been lifted from their shoulders, even if it means, for Pidge and Keith, going out and finding them.

Shiro, though, voices no such desires. He dons the Fearless Leader/Black Paladin mask and encourages his underlings that they can't fail, and that's that. Cue them looking dramatically out over the horizon before the credits roll.

One could hem and haw and offer any number of supposed explanations for the unsettling absence of any lifegoals for Shiro outside of "defeat the bad guy and defend the universe", especially viewing this scene in hindsight.

"Shiro and his long-term partner split up before the Kerberos mission. Maybe it would be awkward for Shiro to see him, again, and Shiro doesn't want to discuss that with a group of teenagers, especially as their commanding officer."

"Maybe they intended for Shiro's family to show up later and simply didn't have the time to include them, or he has a strained and/or estranged relationship with his family and wasn't too concerned with going back to them."

"He's been declared legally dead, and the cartoon made to sell toys to kids didn't want to bog their child audience's brains down with the confangled nuisances of bureaucracy."

"Maybe Shiro had no personal desire to return to Earth, and would have assisted Pidge in looking for Matt and Sam had he lived."

And, any of these would be more interesting than what we were actually given, which is nothing, because the showrunners didn't know how to and weren't equipped to handle the sheer level of complex and compounded trauma they had afflicted Shiro with. It was easier to brush it all aside, as that shot of an out of focus Shiro so deftly displays. Especially once Shiro had been killed and effectively permanently replaced as the Black Paladin, then brought back to life and retired to "boring adult" status. They killed his partner off-screen, following the dissolution of the relationship, and briefly showed Shiro mourning the loss,

and I guess that was their "emotional pathos for Shiro" quota met for the rest of the show.

After that, he was gifted his own ship and the position of Captain/Admiral aboard it to sequester him off with Sam, Iverson, Veronica, Slav, a similarly unceremoniously demoted Coran, and the rest of the side characters, under the guise of him being promoted to a position of actual significance. And, as much as I love Shiro having his own ship, and the figure he cuts in that stylish and immensely flattering Admiral coat, it shouldn't have to be said that this is both a massive insult to his character after he had the most narrative significance and pathos of anyone during the first two seasons, and a cheap, cowardly tactic employed to avoid the reality that the writers have alluded to Shiro seeing himself as having no purpose if he isn't performing a heroic duty to others, and being passively suicidal when no such duty exists.

"Don't look too closely, everyone! Let's not linger too long on this!" Otherwise, you'll realize that Shiro, in fact, has no one to support him outside of people who already have families of their own. And, "The universe won't need Voltron, anymore", was really Shiro saying, "The universe won't need me, anymore."

And, damned if the brain trusts behind this show didn't try to prove how little they needed Shiro, only for their story to fall apart at the seams after killing him, and the quality to, fittingly, take a nosedive straight into the abyss once they committed to nerfing and sidelining him while having other characters pitifully attempt to retrace steps that he had already taken, stumbling over his distinct and unforgettable bootprints.