#forgot to post this. about to set up my team for this week let’s see what happens this time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

intoblonde6ftwbbplayers · 2 months ago

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lil Paige one shot

im bored rn || request are open!

also yes ik none of this is accurate probs but pls dont judge.

pairing - Paige Bueckers x y/n reader

summary - you and Paige are "close" fiends and the fans are suspicious especially seeing you guys interact on Kk's live

warnings - none just pure fluff and clingy Paige

Looking over at KK and Ice who had stopped arguing long enough to finally start the live. You went over to them and say hi to the people.

A string of comments rolled in asking how you were and how your test went last week. Even though you weren't on the team you were always with them, on lives, in posts, anywhere.

'Y/N OMG MY QUEEN HOW WAS YOUR TEST?'

'I LOVE Y/N'

'y/n you're so pretty ilyyy'

'Y/N Y/N Y/N'

'y/n apartment tour??'

'oh to be y/n'

you always loved reading comments. they were mostly kind to you and people were pretty funny. You would especially laugh when they realized Paige was there and start thirsting over her. I mean they weren't wrong about what they were saying about her.

Distracted while reading comments you didn't even notice the fact Paige was there you until she came up and wrapped her arms around your waist hugging you from behind putting her face in your neck.

"hey ma" she said into your neck that nickname had you weak although you tired your best to hide it.

Paige loved having her head in your neck or lying on you. Ever since the first time she fell asleep in 2 seconds after laying her head in your lap she decided that leaning her head on you was the best place in the world. Only for her though.

You didn't know it but whenever your other friends would get overly touchy with you it would make her so incredibly jealous. She would make it her mission to never leave you alone long enough for the to happen but thats a story for another time.

"Hey lil Paigey" you said teasingly to her. You called her a lot of nicknames but that one was always so funny to you and it was your favorite. Paige just hummed in response taking a deep breath still in her same position.

"you okay?" you asked quieter and with a little concern as she normally had so much energy but it seamed like right now all she wanted to do was be held (by you).

"dont worry y/n she's just tired from practice" Ice said.

"yeah a certain P Boogers forgot to set an alarm and showed up late to practice so coach made her do suicides" Kk said laughing a bit as they've all been there in the past and tease each other whenever something like this happens.

"broooo" Paige said finally looking up at KK and Ice. They both laugh at their teammate knowing its not serious and go back to answering comments from the live. So you go to do the same.

'is it just me or is Paige always touching y/n'

'I NEED PAIGE AND Y/N TO DATE'

'PAIGE IS SO FINE OMG'

'nah y/n and Paige need to just admit it atp'

'KK ILYYYYY'

'they never beating the allegations'

'PAIGE IS SO CUTE OMFG'

'I need to know what Geno said to Paige when she got there late'

As you scan through the comment you just laugh slightly and shake your head. One particularly got you to actually let out a laugh and you read it out loud.

"read these comments and found out they AREN'T tg??" just making you giggle again.

"sorry to break it to you guys but me and Paige are not dating she's just a little clingy" you say ending the sentence looking over at the blonde girl who is still wrapped around you.

While your speaking Kk moves to sit on the floor going to start on her legos but not before turning the camera to face you, Paige, and Ice

"I think it's more than a little at this point" Ice said looking at the two of you.

Before you can reply you're being pulled back the other side of the couch. You let yourself be dragged by Paige having an idea of what she wants. She sits you both down on the couch and goes to hug your waist again immediately collapsing into you like you knew she probably had been wanting to.

Kk and Ice look over and shake their heads at their teammate who is gripping onto you like a koala right now and Kk catching it all on camera

"alright maybe its more then a little but I don't mind" You say looking back at Ice while your hands slowly start running up and down Paiges back making their way under her hoodie to do so like you've done a million times

you've all forget about the live that Kk has currently propped up to face the three of you

"oh we know you don't" Ice replies with the biggest smirk ever

thats when you guys all remember your one live so when you look at the screen you already know all the comments are going to be about you and Paige

Kk tosses you the phone and you catch it now holding it so the screen looks like a FaceTime

you read though the comment and reply to as many as you can

'are you and Paige dating?' "no guys we are not dating just really good friends" you say with a soft smile looking down at her half asleep with her face in your chest

'idk if I wanna be y/n or Paige in this situation'

'PAIGE IS TOO CUTE OMFG'

'Y/N UR SO PRETTY ILYYYY'

'y/n and Paige deniers real quiet rn'

'Paige and Y/n are meant for each other'

'PAIGE AND Y/N SUPREMACY'

"listen guys if you've never cuddled with friends you're missing out just saying" you say with a shrug moving the camera to Paige knowing thats who most people wanna see anyway

"Paige anything you wanna say?" you say in a different tone knowing that everyone could probably hear the smile you have while talking to her. Because yes you did like Paige but you weren't sure if she liked you.

"Nah y/n right we just friends.. and I had a long day" Paige says turning her head so only half of it is against you now

"what's that thing called love-smth with like 5 different ones?" She asks you moving her head so her chin in now resting against you scooting up so your faces are closer and you're looking right at each other (with heart eyes coming from both of you)

"5 love languages?"

"mhm those isn't one of em touch or sum shit?" Paige asks you making sure she's right and once you nod she moves back to using you like a pillow and facing the screen again

"Yeah so I think its just that me and y/n both like the physical touch one so thats why we like this" Paige said to the fans knowing thats not the real reason she's so clingy with you

all you do is hum in response and begin playing with Paiges hair while she talks to the live

this goes on for a couple minutes until you hear Paiges talking slowing down and see her struggling to keep her eyes open

You take this as a sign that it might be time to end the live as Ice has gone to her room and Kk is locked in on the legos she's building

you take the phone from Paige and she mumbles a sleepy "thank you ma"

"alright guys we're all a little tired so ima end the live. We love you guys bye!" you say finally ending the live and tossing the phone back to Kk

Paige shift on top of you trying to get comfortable and as always she ends up with her head in the crook of you neck and her hands find their way to your hips under your hoodie

"I got you p just go to sleep" you say quietly in her ear as her breathing slows down and her eyes flutter shut

once the words leave your lips you can feel your own body relaxing further into the couch and let yourself fall asleep with her as well knowing that when you wake up there will be countless photos of you both circulating the gc and possibly their stories

thank you for reading

I hope you enjoyed!

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notsopersonalcharlie · 1 year ago

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My Belle

Biker!Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader fluff

Bucky is part owner of a mechanic shop and bar, but his girlfriend is the one who rakes in the big bucks, so who's to judge him (his friends) if he's just a little (very) whipped for her.

Notes: Based on this post and this post! In my own personal headcannon readers name is Noelle, which explains the nickname bell(e) lol. There will CERTAINLY be more installments of this story. Gif isn't mine

You muttered under your breath as you pulled your work shoes off your stockinged feet. There were runs at the toes because you were too lazy last night to cut your toenails. Too lazy and distracted by a certain biker coming home. The same biker who was waiting outside, who had kindly turned off the idling engine, but still waited on the sidewalk patiently holding an extra helmet.

Bucky looked down at his phone. The Howling Commando group chat was blowing up about some sports game and Bucky turned the notifications off before making sure you hadn’t messaged. You hadn’t. He checked your location, you were inside the building in front of him. He checked the texts again and then put his phone in his pocket. Staring at it won’t help, is what you would say. What did you know? Everything, Bucky thought to himself. Sam would have laughed in his face if he could hear the inner monologue.

“See ya monday!” Your team's receptionist called.

“Not a moment sooner!” You quipped back over your shoulder as you pushed open the glass double doors. All six feet and a bit of your biker were waiting on the sidewalk, tattoos peeking out at the neck and along the wrists speaking of one of your favorite features of his.

“Hi Buck!” He looked up and a grin split his usually stoic face.

“There’s my girl.” Two long strides and you were wrapped up in his arms, a warm kiss pressed hard to your lips. Bucky spun you in a circle.

“I missed you, belle.”

“I missed you too, Buck.” Anyone would have thought you hadn’t seen each other in days, but Bucky had stopped by only a few hours before to drop off your lunch.

“You’re not getting on the bike like that, honey.” You rolled your eyes, setting down your bags.

“I know, I forgot to grab my overpants this morning. Do you have extras?” Of course he did, you knew that, but it was the sweet pout and big eyes just for him. You knew he loved to take care of you, so if you “forgot” the pants, maybe it was just because he liked to know he was always prepared.

“Of course I do.” He waited as you slid the cargo looking pants up over your work bottoms. He stored your bags away as you did, and then sat down on the bike, making sure your helmet, the black one with muted flowers sprouting along the edges that he bought especially for you, was secure on your head.

You slid onto the bike behind Bucky, taking a deep breath of the mechanics grease and sweat smell that always seemed to live on his biking jacket, before snapping your visor shut. Bucky couldn’t help the way his heart leapt a little like always when you wrapped his arms around his middle and rested the chin of your helmet against the middle of his back. Two squeezes to check that you was ready or okay, two back to tell him you was good to go. Three squeezes to say I love you, four back to say I love you too.

Bucky started the bike and took off back toward the little house they shared just two blocks down from the Howling Commando. You watched the scenery passively, relying on Bucky’s expert riding to get you home safe. You was so glad it was the weekend. Work had been busy, all week you had found yourself calling Bucky, letting him know that you had to stay late, that you would call a rideshare home so he didn’t have to come. Of course every night by the time you were ready to go, Bucky was sitting outside, leaning against his bike. The only day he wasn’t, it was because he had to drive a few towns over that afternoon to pick up a special part for your car.

Instead Steve had been waiting with his own motorcycle, grinning ear to ear as he recited precisely the text Bucky had sent to make sure you was dressed properly and your helmet was on correctly.

“You know he has never, since childhood, through the service, after, never once, acting like this with a girl.” You just rolled your eyes, followed the instructions as you always did, and sat on the back of Steve’s bike and let him drop you off right in front of the white picket fence Bucky had insisted he would build when you first moved in.

“You there, belle?” You blinked and found that they had already gotten home.

“Yeah, just... thinking.” You slid off the bike, gravel driveway crunching under your feet. Bucky pulled your helmet off your head and his blue eyes were intent on your expression, his adorable little pout on his lips.

“What’s up?” You took the helmet from his hands, setting it on the bike before pulling his gloves off his fingers and then intertwining your fingers together.

“I love our life, Buck.”

“I love our life too.” He looked worried, the little crease between his eyebrows so endearing as always. You lifted one hand to rub your thumb to the spot, eliciting a smile from him.

“That’s all, baby. I want to spend every day of my life with you.” The grin grew, and you found yourself lifted in the air again, and seated back on the bike. His sweet demeanor towards you and his friends made it easy to forget that Bucky was six feet tall and made entirely of muscle, even if he had built up a healthy bit of relationship chub since you started dating. Bucky kissed you, soft in the dying light of the evening.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you too, belle.” You stood like that for a long while, till the glow of the sun was barely left in the sky and the automatic yard lights had turned on.

“What do you want to do tonight?” Bucky asked. Sweet, as always, but it was the same thing you did every night.

“I can get changed and we can head over to the bar.” And as always, “Only if you want, honey.”

Bucky put your things away, dirty lunch containers in the dishwasher and bag beside your desk in the living room, while you got dressed. It felt like it was a fresh start to life when you pulled on comfy jeans and one of the well worn and soft shop t-shirts. You grabbed a sweatshirt, and then paused and got another one for Bucky, before heading back into the kitchen where Bucky was looking at his phone.

“Howling Commando, huh?” Bucky joked. You nodded with a grin, tossing him one of his gray Army sweatshirts.

“Only if you'll let me be one."

"You're already an honorary member," Bucky responded, pressing a kiss to your temple. You walked down the road less than a half mile hand in hand. The bar must have been getting busy on a Friday night, because you hadn’t even made it within view before you could hear the rowdy sounds of your friends and regulars. The front patio was full of folks, some spilling over into the front driveway of the shop.

“Oh! Can I check on my baby?” You asked, popping up on your toes to try to look into the tinted glass of the garage doors.

“I thought I was your baby!”

“She was my baby first,” you shot back, already heading for the side door between the bar and shop. Bucky tossed the keys to you.

“Do you want your usual?” He was already headed toward the front door of the bar.

“Mmm, how about whatever cocktail special Sam is whipping up today?” He nodded and you unlocked the door, pushing into the dark mechanics shop. The side door led right into the garage, as opposed to the neat front office, or at least Yelena liked to keep it neat, and you fumbled in the dark momentarily to find the lights. They were slow to warm up, but you started toward where your car had been sitting for a few weeks, inoperable while Bucky painstakingly replaced every piece of the engine to make sure it was as safe as possible for his girl.

Bucky walked in the front of the bar after saying hello to a handful of regulars and service buddies who still stopped by. Steve was leaning against the front of the bar, and clapped him on the back when he sidled up beside him.

“Where’s your better half?”

“Checking on her baby,” Bucky waved for Sam’s attention, “Where’s Nat?”

“Trying to get her to take a break.” Yelena scoffed from where she was sitting on a stool on the other side of Steve.

“As if you could ever make her do that.”

“I said trying to,” Steve shot back as Sam walked over.

“Where’s your belle?” Bucky scowled at his friend.

“Wants whatever cocktail concoction you’re making. I’ll take the usual.”

The custom painted powder blue vintage Mini Cooper was more assembled than it had been when you checked in on it a few days ago, and as you got closer you could see that it was almost done, a few pieces were still sitting on Bucky’s workbench.

A slightly Russian accented call of your name identified it as one of the two Romanoff sisters, one who ran the front of the shop and the other the front of the bar.

“Yeah, I’m back here.”

“I figured.” Natasha appeared from the other side of a Cadillac SUV.

“She’s almost done!” You grinned.

“I heard. The guys put me on break and when I was refusing, Bucky said I should come make sure you didn’t linger too long.” You laughed.

“He hates when I mess with his work.”

“Then maybe you should come let him mess with your make up,” Natasha suggested.

“Are you flirting with me for Bucky?” you asked incredulously. The redhead laughed as you followed her out the side door, locking it behind you before going into the bar from the front. Multiple of the regulars called out your names, offering waves and grins, and the cacophony doubled inside.

“Finally! The better one! I have your drink right here!” Sam called. You smiled, taking the drink.

“Thank you, kind sir.” The bar was reaching capacity, pool tables in the back already in full swing. The waiters were a constant blur, Howling Commando Bar shirts identifiable in the bustle from the star logo in white.

“Buck said you had a long week at work,” Nat said, returning to her spot at the front of the bar waiting to intercept underaged looking patrons.

“It was a busy one. We’re tr- Actually, you don’t really care and I don’t really want to talk about it. Where is Bucky?” You responded good naturedly, trying to spot the brunet in the crowd.

“I think I can see Steve’s blond ass over there,” Sam said, pointing further into the bar. You took your drink and headed toward the general direction. Steve and Bucky were in the corner near the office, heads together.

“Hey Steve!” Both men looked up, eyes wide, at your appearance, and quickly took half steps apart.

“Not at all suspicious guys. Good thing you were special forces.” Steve smiled, and Bucky looked a little shy.

“Buck keeps trying to hustle me in pool,” Steve responded, “I have fallen for that many many too many years in a row. Your turn to carry the burden.” He pushed into the crowd, leaving you beside Bucky.

“What was that about?”

“Just business stuff. How is the Sam special?” You eyed him as you took your first sip, pleasantly surprised by the lack of a remarkable burn on the back end of the taste.

“Better than the last one.” Bucky's hulking presence should have been stifling or claustrophobic, but instead it was comforting. You looked up into sincere blue eyes and he leaned down, pressing warm lips to yours. Your hands slipped up around his neck, holding your drink out so the condensation wouldn’t drip down the back of his shirt. Bucky’s arms were strong and warm and one hand palmed your ass before pulling away. Bucky’s hand found its way around your back as you looked across the bar.

“You know, you guys really did something,” you said, “I know I say it all the time. But it's just amazing.” Bucky and Steve had wanted to start something after they left the service and with their penchant for drinking and ability to fix nearly any mechanized vehicle a bar and mechanics shop made the most sense. Three members of their team, Tim Gabe and Percy, had moved on with their lives, even though they stopped by when they rolled through town. Sam, the Romanoff sisters, Tony, and a half dozen more had joined the family since the start, but there were still plaques honoring the fallen Commandos above the bar.

“All we knew how to do.”

You spent the rest of the night drinking with regulars, Bucky beating them in pool and not taking money from them, and you running drinks and convincing one of the girls at the bar that Sam was actually sweet and coming by again couldn’t hurt.

“If that’s what kinda wing woman I get when I make a good cocktail, I should really do it more often,” Sam joked when the group of women moved off. Bucky appeared over your shoulder, sliding his pint glass over to his friend who refilled it.

“What’s that?”

“Just trying to get Sammy a girlfriend, since he blew his shot with all our friends.”

The bar was still in full swing when Bucky and you said your goodbyes, and if Bucky picked you up and carried you over his shoulder fireman style while you giggled the whole way home so they could get back a little faster, that was between the two of you.

Wonder what Bucky and Steve were talking about... Find out here right now!

#charliewrites #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #biker!bucky #james buchanan barnes #marvel #mcu #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfic #biker!bucky fluff #bucky x reader #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #yelena romanoff #notsopersonalcharlie

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ijustwannabecool · 13 days ago

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White Flag - PT. 3

Charles Leclerc x Fem!Driver!Reader

Summary... Two exes on the same team. They broke up before the season started. Now they’re forced to work together through 23 races, 5 continents, and one very awkward off-season.

A/N: Thanks for your patience. Part 3 is a go. I've been really busy with work and my computer broke so I'm writing on my phone and its taking forever, but I'm back baby!!!!!! Enjoy all the magic ;)

Have a good day. Happy Reading and love ya. Thanks for being patient with me, my darlings :)

Request are open ;)

like, comment, reblog, enjoy!!!

Donate a matcha for $1-> Ko-Fi

Part 1 & Part 2 <- Read before you read this part :)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Azerbaijan

The streets of Baku are slick with heat. Everything’s close here. Tighter than most. No space to breathe. No space to run.

You’ve been riding high for weeks.

Wins. Points. Glances in motorhome hallways. His hand on your lower back when no one’s watching. The kind of soft, secret love you never thought you'd feel again.

He brings you coffee most mornings. You steal his socks when you stay the night. He never says anything, just smiles when he finds them tucked in your bag.

So maybe you’re not prepared when it happens.

Maybe you forgot what it felt like to wonder where you stood.

Friday – Paddock Arrival

You’re walking toward the media center when you spot her.

Tall. Blonde. Sharp sunglasses. That curated, casual cool that only exes seem to perfect. A linen shirt just barelyunbuttoned, gold jewelry catching the sun like it knows exactly where the cameras are.

You know her name. Everyone does.

Élodie.

PR girl turned occasional model turned motorsport muse. A summer constant for Charles before you.

You saw her tagged in old photos. Monaco boat parties. Summer breaks before you existed in his world.

You don’t say anything.

Not at first.

You just watch from across the paddock.

And then you see it.

Her hand on his arm. His polite laugh. The way he doesn’t step back. The way he tilts his head like he’s listening to her.

And that?

That’s all it takes.

You don’t blow up.

You don’t flinch. You don’t storm over. You don’t start a scene.

You just take a breath that feels like fire and keep walking.

That night, when he texts, “Come over?”

You stare at the screen for ten full seconds.

Then type: “Think I’ll stay in tonight.”

He calls. You don’t answer.

You watch the phone ring until it stops, screen dimming like the end of a movie.

Saturday – Quali Day

You arrive early.

You’re all business. Head down. Hair up. Laps in. No smiles.

He arrives late.

Eyes tired. Jaw set. No music in his ears. No easy stride.

P1: You. P6: Him.

Your lap is perfect. Sharp. Controlled rage in the form of sector times.

His is messy. Missed braking. Flat-spotted tire. Distracted.

Ferrari Hospitality – Post-Quali

The room’s almost empty. Just you, your untouched pasta, and your laptop with your own lap overlay on replay.

He walks in, chest rising too fast, hands still stained from the gloves.

“You’re mad,” he says, not even sitting.

You stab at your food, not looking up. “I’m focused.”

“Focused, my ass,” he snaps, voice low but sharp. “You didn’t even look at me all morning.”

You drop the fork. “Fine. You want to talk? Let’s talk.”

He crosses his arms. “Please.”

You glare. “You smiled at her.”

“Who...Élodie?” He scoffs. “Are you serious?”

“She touched your arm.”

“She touches everyone’s arm.”

You stand. “And you let her.”

“She was saying hi.”

“She was testing you.”

His mouth parts. “Is that what this is about? Some harmless—”

You laugh once, bitter. “It’s never harmless. Not with her. Not when you used to love her. Not when the world saw it.”

He steps forward. “I didn’t want her then. I sure as hell don’t now.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you whisper.

He looks like he’s going to say something. Then stops.

It’s too quiet.

He exhales. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

You clench your jaw, still not convinced.

“And if I made you feel like that for even a second…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’m sorry.”

It lands.

But not all the way.

“I need time,” you say.

He nods. “Then I’ll wait.”

That Night

You don’t go to his room.

But you pass it.

And you pause.

Just long enough for him to hear your steps outside the door.

He doesn’t open it.

But he texts you: “Still yours. Always.”

Race Day – Sunday

The strategy plays out flawlessly.

You lead from the first corner. He holds P3. Defends hard when Oscar tries a divebomb on Lap 34.

When the checkered flag falls:

P1: You. P3: Charles.

The team explodes.

But you?

You don’t celebrate loudly.

You don’t scream into the radio.

You just exhale.

Charles’s Motorhome

You wait until the crowd dies down. Until the press rounds are over. Until the engineers stop knocking on doors and the sun starts bleeding into the Caspian Sea.

Then you go to him.

You don’t knock. You don’t have to.

The door is already unlocked.

He’s sitting on the edge of the small couch, race suit unzipped, hair still damp from the shower, head in his hands.

When he looks up and sees you, he doesn’t smile.

He just breathes.

Like he’s been holding it in for hours.

You step inside and close the door behind you.

The click of it sounds like a secret.

He doesn’t move. Not at first.

So you do.

You walk over, slow, measured, the buzz of the paddock a dull hum outside the thin walls.

When you stop in front of him, he looks up again, eyes flicking over your face like he’s afraid it’ll be the last time.

You sit on his lap. Swing your leg over. Straddle him without a word.

His hands find your hips, instinctively.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

You cup his face. Both hands. Thumb dragging over the stubble on his jaw.

“You’re still mine, right?” you whisper.

His brow furrows like he wants to cry. “Always.”

You lean your forehead against his. Eyes closed. Skin to skin.

“Next time,” you murmur, “don’t laugh at her jokes.”

“I wasn’t,” he breathes.

“You smiled.”

“I was thinking about you.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Liar.”

He nods. “Only sometimes.”

You smile. Soft. Real.

Then finally—finally—you kiss him.

Not frantic. Not possessive.

Just deep. Slow. Forgiving.

He pulls you closer until there’s no air between you.

And when you break apart, still pressed chest to chest, he murmurs:

“I thought I lost you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

Then you rest your head on his shoulder, your fingers playing with the chain around his neck.

And for the first time since she showed up…

You feel steady again.

-----

Singapore

Ferrari Hospitality – Thursday Night

The air in Singapore wraps around you like syrup. Thick. Warm. Still.

Night race. City lights. Lanterns swaying over marina water. The paddock bathed in neon and humidity.

It should feel heavy.

But for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t.

Everyone’s out. PR dinner for the junior drivers. The grid scattered across rooftop bars and private clubs.

But not you.

You’re barefoot in Charles’s motorhome kitchen, wearing his old Monaco hoodie and slicing mango with a plastic knife while the air conditioner hums softly in the corner.

He’s lying on the couch behind you, one arm slung over his face, legs still in race shorts.

“You’re going to cut your hand,” he mumbles without moving.

You smirk. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You pop a slice in your mouth and lean your hip against the counter. “You want some?”

He peeks out from under his arm. “Only if you feed me.”

You walk over slowly, wedge of mango held between two fingers.

He opens his mouth lazily, but at the last second, you shove it into his cheek.

He chokes. You laugh so hard you drop another slice on the floor.

And when you lean down to clean it up, he grabs your wrist.

You freeze.

Not because he’s holding you. But because his touch is soft. Reverent.

You straighten slowly, eyes locking with his.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says.

You nod. “Trying to stay out of my own head.”

He shifts, makes room for you on the couch.

You settle into the space beside him, your legs tangling, your head falling naturally to his shoulder.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whisper after a long silence.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Then don’t.”

You look up. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” he says.

You blink. “You really believe that?”

He shrugs. “I believe in you.”

And god, you want to cry. Because no one’s ever said that and meant it like he does.

You kiss him, slow and unhurried.

And when he carries you to bed later, he doesn’t take off your hoodie.

He just pulls you close, buries his face in your neck, and whispers:

“We’ve got this.”

Quali Day – Saturday

He goes P3. You go P2.

No games. No tension. Just clean driving and the sound of your names lighting up the timing board.

Afterwards, you share a quiet moment behind the garage. No one else around. No cameras. Just you and him, helmets still in hand, sweat cooling on your backs.

You fist the fabric of his fire suit lightly.

“Do you ever think about what it’s going to feel like?” you ask. “When it’s public?”

He nods. “All the time.”

“Are you scared?”

He shrugs. “Only if you are.”

“I’m not scared of loving you,” you say.

He smiles. “Then we’ve already won.”

You lean into him. Rest your forehead against his chest.

He sways you slightly. Like he can feel the victory coming too.

Race Day – Sunday

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

P2: Charles. P3: You.

On the podium, you stand beside him, champagne in hand, crown of misted sweat curling your hair.

You clink bottles.

He winks.

And when you’re walking off-stage, he brushes his pinky against yours.

It’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

-------

USA, Circuit of the Americas (Austin, Texas)

Thursday – Media Day

Texas air is dry and wide. Big blue skies, a thumping country playlist in the background, and the kind of sunshine that makes even bad days feel golden.

You land in Austin late Wednesday night. Separate flights. Separate cars.

But by Thursday morning?

Your coffee is already waiting in Charles’s motorhome.

Soy milk, one sugar. Lid off, straw in. His doing.

It’s not hiding anymore. Not here.

The Ferrari press room is busy. You’ve got an interview block with F1TV. He’s paired with you, for chemistry, obviously.

The interview setup was painfully bright. Studio lights, clip-on mics, two white chairs, and a laminated segment title that read: "Finish Each Other’s Sentences."

You groaned when you saw it. “Isn’t this usually for rookies?”

Charles smiled without even looking up from his water. “Or married couples.”

You shot him a look. “We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back the grin already tugging at your lips.

They started recording almost immediately.

“We’re going to begin with something simple,” the producer explained from behind the camera. “I’ll start the sentence—you finish it. Each other’s, not your own.”

Charles leaned forward, chin propped lazily on his fist. “We’re professionals.”

You glanced at him sideways. “We’re disasters.”

“First one,” the producer called. “My teammate’s most annoying habit is...”

You both answered at the same time. “Overthinking.”

You blinked, turning sharply to him. “Wait, me?”

Charles shrugged, deadpan. “You take forever to pick a tire strategy.”

You jabbed your elbow into his ribs. “You take forever to pick a playlist.”

Next one: “If we weren’t racing, we’d be...”

You answered, “On a beach.”

Charles said, “At home.”

Your head turned to him, slowly.

He was already looking at you.

The producer let out a slow whistle behind the camera. “Okay. That was… intimate.”

Ten minutes later, you were standing near catering when you spotted Lando, arms folded across his chest like a disappointed older brother.

“So,” he started, leveling a look at the two of you. “Just to clarify, you’re not back together?”

You raised your eyebrows, reaching for a banana. “Why would you say that?”

Charles sipped from his water bottle like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Because we are not telling the world.”

Lando didn’t even blink. “I saw you feed her a grape in the hallway.”

You snorted. “It was a slice of apple.”

Carlos strolled in next, hands in the pockets of his Williams track pants. “You guys are dating again.”

Charles shrugged. “Maybe.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You live together again.”

You laughed. “No.”

He pointed with his chin. “You left the hotel this morning wearing his hoodie.”

You hesitated. “It’s… comfortable.”

Pierre wandered over, sunglasses perched too low on his nose. “Told you all. They’re back on.”

George chimed in with a smirk. “I give it two days before you soft launch on Instagram.”

You raised your hands dramatically. “There will be no launch. There will be no soft. There will be no nothing.”

And then, of course, Lewis walked by, hands in his pockets, sunglasses hiding his smirk.

“There’s a lot of something,” he said smoothly, not even breaking stride.

You and Charles looked at each other. And for once? Neither of you denied it.

You’re back in Charles’s motorhome, curled up with your feet in his lap. Your hair’s damp from a shower. He’s wearing your favorite grey hoodie, the one he tried to steal in Monaco.

Charles runs a thumb over your ankle. “You okay with everyone knowing?”

You pause.

“I think I am,” you say. “It feels… safe. With them.”

His voice is quieter now. “And the rest of the world?”

You turn toward him. “Not yet.”

“I can wait,” he says. “As long as I get to keep this.”

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. “You’ve always had it.”

He kisses you.

Long. Deep. The kind of kiss that feels like a decision.

Friday – Practice

You arrive in the paddock separately.

But inside? You share a water bottle. He ties your wristband tighter when it’s too loose. You correct his helmet strap before FP1.

Carlos mutters: “Yeah, totally just friends.”

Saturday – Quali

You qualify P1. He’s P4. The paddock cheers for both of you, but it’s the way he looks at you after your final lap, like you hung the damn moon, that gives everything away.

Oscar, backstage: “They’re like… glowing.” Lando: “I hate how soft this is.” George: “I think I cried a little.”

Sunday – Race Day

He doesn’t win. You don’t either.

P2: You. P5: Charles.

But you finish, hand brushing his when you walk back to the garage, smiles lingering on your faces like the secret is still just yours.

That night, the grid goes out for dinner.

Lando raises a glass to “the worst-kept secret in the paddock.”

Lewis adds, “Protect it. Don’t let the noise ruin the real.”

And for the first time, you’re not scared.

Not of being seen. Not of being known.

Because the people who matter?

They already see you.

And they still chose to sit at your table.

-----

Mexico

Thursday – Media Pen

The air in Mexico City is thin. Not metaphorically, literally. High altitude. Short breath. Long days.

You’re used to pushing your limits, but this weekend? You feel every step.

Not because of the track.

Because of everything else.

The points gap is shrinking. The world is watching. The cameras are close. Too close. And you’re trying to pretend that your heart doesn’t skip every time Charles brushes your hand in the garage.

You answer the usual questions.

“Yes, the car feels good.”

“Yes, we’re confident going into quali.”

“No, there’s no extra pressure.”

You lie cleanly. Casually. Rehearsed.

But when someone asks, “You and Charles seem closer than ever. Has that helped the team dynamic?”

Your smile slips for half a second.

Then you recover. “We’ve always had chemistry,” you say. “Even when it wasn’t easy.”

Charles, in the pen next to you, glances over.

And smiles.

Friday – Practice Sessions

You’re fast.

He’s faster.

Not by much. Just enough to make it a game.

Every lap you close the gap, he finds another tenth. Every time he outbrakes you into Turn 4, you take it back in Sector 3.

It’s fun. It’s flirty. It’s frustratingly addictive.

And it’s starting to look a lot like foreplay.

Carlos says nothing. But he’s watching.

Friday Night – Private Dinner

It’s not a date. It can’t be. Not here.

But the restaurant is quiet. The table in the corner is yours. And when Charles reaches for your hand across the table halfway through your pasta…

You let him hold it.

No one’s looking.

Or so you think.

Until your waiter comes by with the dessert menu and smiles too knowingly.

Charles just shrugs. “We’ll take two spoons.”

You’re lying in bed, side by side, your legs tangled under the sheets and your fingers playing with the edge of his T-shirt.

He’s staring at the ceiling.

“I want you to win it,” you says quietly.

He turn to face you. “What?”

“The championship,” you says again. “If it’s between us… I want you to have it.”

His heart lurches.

“Don’t say that,” he whisper.

You look at him, eyes soft but serious. “You deserve it.”

“You do too.”

He kisses your forehead. “Not this year.”

You press your face into his chest and enjoy the silence.

Because the truth?

You’re not sure what it would feel like to win without him beside you.

Saturday – Quali

You go P2. He goes P1.

He beats you by two-hundredths of a second.

You watch his pole celebration from the garage, pretending to smile, even though your chest aches a little.

Later, he finds you sitting alone in the data room, sipping water and reviewing lap deltas.

“You’re pissed,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

You look up. “You beat me.”

He steps closer. “By less than a blink.”

You nod slowly. “Still counts.”

He crouches in front of you, hands resting on your knees. “You’re still the better driver.”

You meet his eyes. “Not today.”

He lifts one hand and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“I don’t care what the numbers say,” he whispers. “I know who I’d put everything on.”

Your heart breaks a little. And heals all at once.

Sunday – Race Day

The race is chaotic.

Tyre degradation. Double yellows. A late safety car.

But in the end, you finish P1.

Charles, P3.

It’s the second-to-last race of the season.

You’re leading the WDC.

By five points.

Podium Room

You sit beside him, both of you drenched in champagne and sweat. He hands you a towel.

You wipe your face.

You lean into his side.

And when you think no one’s looking, he whisper:

“I don’t want to win without you.”

And you says,

“You won’t.”

--------

Las Vegas GP

Thursday – Welcome Night

Vegas is chaos disguised as celebration. A glittering distraction. A neon fever dream. And somehow, this city, loud and cracked at the seams, feels quieter than the storm building inside you.

You and Charles are tied. On points. On momentum. On the line between love and legacy.

And there are only two races left.

“Is this the airport or a catwalk?” Carmen mutters, squinting at the camera crew waiting outside.

You smirk. “Both. Welcome to Vegas.”

You’re flanked by Lily and Carmen, weaving your way through a sea of suitcases and fluorescent fan signs when you finally spot him. Charles, exiting a sleek black car like he’s in a Bond film. Hair perfectly tousled. Aviators too expensive. Strut annoyingly effective.

“You’re late,” you say as he falls in step beside you.

He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is warm. “You’re glowing.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

Still no glance. “Still worked.”

Thursday Night – Dinner at the Bellagio

The private dining room is perched on the 43rd floor, all glass and skyline. Your families are already seated when you arrive.

Your mom waves you over, cheeks flushed. “You missed the toast! Charles’s mom already tried to sneak in a wedding joke.”

“I did no such thing,” Pascale says, fake-offended. “I simply said you two make a perfect pair. That’s not a proposal.”

Charles slides a hand to the small of your back. “Please don’t encourage her.”

Your dad raises his wine. “You’ve got all of us here in Vegas. You sure you’re not eloping tomorrow?”

You laugh, cheeks hot. “We’re just racing, remember?”

Charles glances sideways. “Are we?”

You shoot him a look. He smiles like it’s nothing.

But your mom and his mom catch it.

And they say nothing.

But they see everything.

You’re wrapped in a blanket, Charles beside you, drinks in hand. The city is a blur of movement below.

“Abu Dhabi’s in two week,” you murmur.

“Don’t remind me,” he sighs.

You look at him. “Are we ready for that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts slightly, voice quiet. “My mom asked me tonight if I would be okay if you won.”

You freeze. “What did you say?”

He exhales. “I said yes. Because I would be.”

You blink, throat tight. “That’s a lie.”

“No,” he says softly. “It would hurt. But not like losing you would.”

Silence hangs between you.

“I love you,” you whisper. “More than I want to win.”

He leans in. Foreheads touching. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

Friday – WAG Suite, a.k.a The Real Paddock Power

You’re curled up on the couch of Lily’s suite with Carmen, Kika, and a few others, feet tucked under you, champagne in hand.

Lily passes you a snack. “So. Still pretending you’re single?”

You smirk. “I’m not pretending. I’m… filtering.”

Kika raises an eyebrow. “You told the media your ‘ideal weekend’ was pizza and a movie alone. Meanwhile, Charles posted a story of someone’s knee in his lap.”

You cough. “Could be anyone’s knee.”

“Sure,” Carmen drawls. “And my boyfriend never overshoots turn one.”

They all laugh.

Kika leans closer, smirking. “So what’s next? Secret marriage in Monaco?”

You roll your eyes. “No weddings. No announcements. Just us.”

“And the entire grid already knowing,” Lily grins.

You hide your face behind a pillow.

“God,” you groan. “I hate how obvious we are.”

“Sweetheart,” Carmen says gently, “you’re not obvious. You’re in love.”

Meanwhile

“You think they’ll make it through Abu Dhabi?” your dad asks, sipping from a lowball glass.

Arthur shrugs, glancing toward the table where you and Charles are laughing. “Depends who finishes ahead.”

“I don’t care who wins,” Lorenzo adds, more serious. “I just want them to get through it intact.”

“They’ve got fire. That’s the good news,” your dad says.

Arthur smirks. “And the bad news?”

“They’ve got fire.”

They all laugh.

A beat passes. Then your dad murmurs, “She really loves him, you know.”

Lorenzo nods. “He loves her too. He just… overthinks.”

Arthur leans back. “Then he better not mess it up this time.”

Friday Night

Charles runs his fingers down your arm. “I used to be scared of you.”

You look up from your pillow. “Me?”

“You were everything I didn’t know I needed.”

You smile. “And now?”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Now I’d rather lose to you than never feel this again.”

Saturday

Charles goes P1. You go P2. The front row is Ferrari red.

The moment you step off the track, you hear the cheer.

And then you feel it, his fingers brushing yours.

No one’s watching. You’re sure of it.

So you kiss him.

Just once. Soft. Quick.

Enough to feel real.

Sunday

The race is chaos. One red flag. Two safety cars. You nearly clip a barrier. Charles blocks Max like his life depends on it.

P2: You P3: Charles

But it’s not the podium that everyone talks about.

It’s you, gripping Charles’s face post-race in the cool-down room, whispering something that makes him laugh, truly laugh, for the first time all weekend.

No cameras catch it.

But the paddock knows.

Later that night, you’re sitting side by side on an overturned crate, suits still half-zipped, sharing a water bottle.

“We’re tied,” you say.

He nods. “I know.”

“Two races left.”

Another nod. “I know.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Are you scared?”

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “No. Because whatever happens, you’ll still be mine.”

You smile.

“You really believe that?”

“I know it.”

--------

Abu Dhabi

The desert is unforgiving.

It bleeds heat into your bones and tension into your chest.

Abu Dhabi has always been the jewel of the calendar, but this year, it isn’t a finale, it’s an execution. One race. One track. One title.

And two hearts on the line.

You and Charles.

Tied.

It couldn’t be scripted better. The season that started in ruins, heartbreak stitched under red Ferrari race suits, has come down to this: one last lap.

And no one, not the media, not the paddock, not the fans, knows what’s about to happen.

Not just on track.

But off it too.

Wednesday

The jet lands just past midnight, the tarmac shimmering from heat despite the late hour.

You step down with sunglasses already in place, because even if the sun isn’t up yet, the world is watching.

Charles descends behind you. For the first time in months, there’s no strategic delay, no quiet choreography to avoid suspicion. You walk side by side.

“You think anyone knows?” you whisper as you pass the cameras.

“I think everyone knows,” he says.

“Think anyone will ask?”

He glances sideways. “They won’t have to. Not after Sunday.”

Thursday

The paddock is buzzing. Cameras, journalists, influencers, all swarming like bees around a championship honeypot.

You’re seated beside Charles in the press conference. Ferrari PR didn’t even bother pretending this year.

Every question is barbed.

Every smile is rehearsed.

“Charles, you’ve never won a world title. Y/N’s leading on wins. Does that add pressure?”

“No,” he answers smoothly. “It adds fuel.”

“Y/N, can you separate your feelings for Charles from the race itself?”

You smile. “I’ve done it for twenty-two races. One more shouldn’t be hard.”

Charles snorts beside you.

You elbow him beneath the table.

The journalists catch the moment. And you know that picture will be everywhere before the end of the hour.

Ferrari has rented you both a secluded villa for focus and privacy.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, chopping vegetables with more aggression than needed.

Charles leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re going to lose a finger.”

“I’m going to lose my mind,” you mutter.

He walks over, gently taking the knife. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

You meet his eyes. “Don’t I?”

He tilts your chin. “No. Just fast.”

You laugh, a shaky, exhausted sound. “What if we crash? What if I ruin everything?”

Charles doesn’t flinch. “Then we rebuild. Like we always do.”

Friday

FP1: You top the charts. Charles trails by three-tenths.

FP2: He fights back. Finishes P1 by a margin so slim it takes the stewards five minutes to confirm it.

The garage is electric. The engineers speak faster. The fans chant louder.

But it’s the look Charles gives you across the paddock; calm, focused, and tender that leaves you breathless.

It’s not rivalry anymore.

It’s reverence.

Saturday

The paddock is silent before Q3.

You sit in your car, hands on the wheel, Charles beside you in the next garage.

Through the comms, your engineer whispers, "You’ve got this."

You breathe in. Exhale. The lights flash green.

And you fly.

You set a blistering lap.

And then Charles goes one better.

The front row is red again, him on pole. You beside him.

It’s poetry. Tragic, beautiful poetry.

You’re both in race suits still, sitting on the balcony floor with takeout containers between you.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. “Me too.”

“But not of the race,” you clarify. “Of what comes after.”

Charles reaches for your hand. “Whatever happens tomorrow win, lose, crash, podium, I’m with you.”

Tears sting your eyes. “Even if I beat you?”

He smiles. “Especially then.”

You lean in. Forehead to forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

Sunday

The sun rises slow and unforgiving.

The grid is chaos. Drones. Celebrities. National anthems. Your heartbeat in your ears.

You don’t speak much. There’s nothing left to say.

Formation lap. Lights out.

And then: war.

You trade positions. He cuts you off in Turn 3. You slipstream past him in Lap 11. A safety car resets everything on Lap 29.

You pit first. He stays out. Then he pits. You regain the lead.

Then:

Lap 53 of 55.

Charles is behind you by four-tenths. DRS is open.

The fans are on their feet.

You hear his voice in your head: Whatever happens...I’m with you.

You defend into Turn 9. He tries to dive into Turn 11.

And on the final lap, he’s right there.

You don’t blink.

You don’t flinch.

You cross the line.

P1: Y/N Y/L/N – World Champion

The car stops. You scream into the radio. The team erupts.

You jump out. Charles is already there, helmet off.

And in front of the entire world, he wraps his arms around you.

Lifts you off the ground.

Kisses you.

A full, real, soul-shattering kiss.

The world gasps.

And you don’t care.

Because love was never supposed to survive Formula 1.

But yours did.

“Y/N, how does it feel?”

You laugh through tears. “Heavy. Fast. Beautiful.”

“Charles, you’ve been chasing this for years. How are you feeling?”

He smiles. “Like the right person won.”

“And… the kiss?”

You look at him. He shrugs.

You answer: “That was magic.”

Epilogue

You’re in Monaco. The season’s over. The sun is gentle again.

There’s a scrapbook on the coffee table.

Inside it: a photo of two Ferrari drivers kissing in Abu Dhabi.

And a note Charles left in the front pocket:

We didn’t just finish the race. We started everything.

He finds you in the kitchen, stirring tea with one hand, flipping through a magazine with the other.

“You know,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around your waist, “you’re still the fastest person I know.”

You smirk. “Faster than you?”

“Always.”

The laughter is easy now.

There are moments of stillness, sunsets over the harbor, dinner with family, Charles asleep with his head on your lap while you watch replays of the season.

One night, you’re on the balcony, wine glasses in hand, watching the city sparkle.

“I used to be scared this wouldn’t last,” you whisper.

Charles turns to you. “And now?”

“Now I want forever.”

He pulls something from his hoodie pocket. A small, velvet box.

“I was going to wait until the gala next month,” he murmurs. “But maybe now’s better.”

You freeze.

The box stays closed. His thumb brushes over it like a promise not yet spoken.

“No pressure,” he says. “Just... someday?”

You nod, throat tight. “Someday.”

He kisses your knuckles. “One last lap, huh?”

You smile. “No. The first of many.”

TAGLIST:

@angelluv16 @angstynasty @hisashifrey @mynameisangeloflife @evalynkillgrave @lorena-mv33 @frenchtwistedd @baechugff @devilacot

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fandomloreblog · 26 days ago

Note

i need post-dmc5 headcanons for nero im begging 🥀/lh

AAAAH COMPLETELY FORGOT TO SHARE THESE!!! I’ve been out of the country for the last week I forgot to feed le masses 🤣

This post also counts as my announcement that I am accepting post DMC headcanon requests now :3

⚔️ Post-DMC5 Nero Headcanons 🍇

Again! While these are takes for my DMC6 sequel, you are more than welcome to use these for any sort of fanart, fics, whatever! Just please tag me, not for credit or anything, just because I wish to see what I accidentally inspire in y’all! I’m parched for DMC content!

Warnings: Mentions of PTSD and Trauma from DMC4, but otherwise all fluff!

Probably has the healthiest body out of the whole Sparda family. While he is on the leaner side, both Kyrie and Vergil make sure he has a healthy diet (unfortunately). He and Dante have cheat days where they sneak out and order pizza or other junk foods. Somehow Vergil always finds out, though.

Takes on a more emo/punk attire after Vergil and Dante get back, piercings, lots of torn jeans and shirts, the works. Part of him did it to contrast with his dad’s more prim and popper attire, but another part of him did it because we wanted to.

Still rocking the faux hawk, only because he tried dying his hair a bit ago and realized that color DOES NOT come out of white hair without God themselves intervening, so Kyrie had to buzz it all off so it grow back normally. He cried and looked like a shaved kiwi for almost a month. Dante never let him live it down.

Ends up getting really into DIY stuff. Mostly it’s with clothes and outfits, such as cutting up his own jeans and shirts and styling them into something he’ll like, but he does end up helping Nico when making new devil bringers. Strictly in a cosmetic sense, she never lets him touch any of the mechanical components.

He tried doing that once and ended up causing the prototype she made to combust and nearly set the van on fire. Since then there has been a “Nero Isn’t Allowed To Touch Nico’s Shit” rule.

Preferably spends time with Kyrie when not doing missions for DMC. Kyrie went to college after the events of DMC 5, so whenever she’s busy with schoolwork or classes, he’s at the Orphanage in Fortuna he and Kyrie own, helping out and watching over the kids.

Inadvertently has become somewhat of a Credo figure to the orphans, which he’s extremely conflicted about. Technically he’s almost the age Credo was when he died. (Nero’s 25 ATP, Credo died at 26 in my lore)

Speaking of Credo- He’s still hung up over his death. He still blames himself for what happened, and it haunts him. On the worst days, he’ll end ip having nightmares of what happened, or worse. It usually ends with him just lying awake in the living room playing shitty videogames or watching some childish cartoon show.

Occasionally Vergil or Dante wake up and join him as well. They don’t judge or ask why he’s up, just if he wants some snacks or why he chose Power Rangers to watch or something.

Kyrie also occasionally catches these moments. She usually just gives him hugs and cuddles and asks if he wants to talk. Sometimes they do, about how Credo was and funny memories. Sometimes they don’t, and just wallow in the silence until Nero starts crying. He’s been looking into possibly doing therapy, but then again, try explaining to a mental health professional that yes, demons are real, my older brother figure got killed by one, and no I’m not crazy.

Somehow has become MORE reckless after DMC5. Because all regrowing his arm taught Nero was that he could do that. And now he gives Vergil and Kyrie a heart attack whenever he comes back missing a leg or a hand because “Dante said the fish didn’t bite”.

Absolutely despises (and enjoys) how close Kyrie and Vergil have gotten. His girlfriend and his dad now tag team on him to take care of himself.

For hobbies, he mostly does artsy stuff. Sketching is his main go-to when bored, drawing concept art for a new Devil Bringer, or sneakily sketching one of the DMC members before they spot him. Has a whole sketchbook that is just pure Kyrie art which she stole from him. (He was embarrassed about it until she went “This is my most treasured possession now”)

He still also plays video games, mostly teaching Dante how some of them work. He’s basically the only computer literate one in DMC, so he’s the one that gets summoned when the wifi router breaks or when Dante can’t figure out the controls.

Also got into writing a little bit, mostly from Vergil. The poem book he left inspired him somewhat, so he started messing around with that. Vergil accidentally found one of Nero’s poems and assumed it was some lost page from his own book from “how good it was” which nearly made Nero cry. They occasionally have little poem/book club sessions.

Speaking of family- he ends up meeting Patty 3 days after the events of DMC5 because she kicked down their door with a sword questioning why Dante went AWOL. They end up getting along really well, with Patty teaching Nero most of what she knows about DIY. She started helping around at the mobile branch as an assistant, getting trained by Dante how to use some of the weapons until Dante says she’s “demon ready”.

He’s also been looking more into his mother and her disappearance. Not out of a familial sense, more so as just a way to get answers on his family tree and genealogy. He honestly assumes her to be dead, but he doesn’t verbalize it after seeing how hung up on LIR Vergil was. Also because a small part of him wants her to be alive too.

An even smaller part wishes that if she were alive, for her to come back and they could all be a proper family.

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mediocre-shark-tales · 2 months ago

Text

Mental Healing with the Race

Doohan Sister Reader F1 Driver Reader Cadillac Formula 1 Reader

Hey Guys, I just wanted to say I am still super sorry with every chapter that takes longer than I used to be to get them out. I asm currently in the middle of the last 2 weeks of college, so lots of studying and prep for our huge Final Projects or Tests. On top of that my FSAE team and I are prepping to leave for the Big Competition three weeks from now. However, I do not want any of my chapters to lack in the love and work that I put in to writing them. So I will do my best to try and get them out more regularly, but I will not post anything early or with any less love than the last one. So should they continue to take longer please remember this. No one has said anything about this but I still want to make sure that everyone knows I am not done with this story, just a little busy right now. With that said please enjoy...

The gym lights flicker on just before sunrise, humming low above my head like they’re still waking up, too. My hoodie is heavy with sleep and my shoulder twinges the second I shrug it off, revealing the newer, thinner brace beneath. It’s progress — less restrictive, easier to hide under my clothes — but it also means I’m out of excuses. The world thinks I’m still resting. But rest never made me stronger.

I roll out my mat in the same corner of the performance room as always. Familiar. Quiet. Grounded. Axel lays just a few feet away, head on his paws, eyes tracking my every move like he knows this day is going to be rough.

Because it is.

Today is cardio and strength. And no cast means full-arm weight again. It’s the first real milestone — a make-or-break kind of day.

I sit on the mat for a moment, my back pressed against the cool wall. My fingers find the scar on my forearm, tracing it absentmindedly. A reminder.

The crash didn’t defeat me.

"Alright, warrior,” Diego calls, stepping into the room and clapping his hands once. He’s grinning, but there’s a crease between his brows — the one that always shows up when he’s worried about me. “Scale of 1 to 10. Pain?”

I crack a tired smirk. “About a 4. Maybe a 5 when I raise my arm too fast.”

He raises a brow. “And how much of that are you downplaying to look cool in front of us?” Slightly nodding towards Axel.

I glance over at my dog, who immediately perks up like he knows he’s being talked about. “A solid 60 percent.”

Diego laughs, but he kneels down next to me, softer now. “Y/N, you’ve made insane progress. But we’re still building up. You don’t have to prove anything today.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” I say, even though it’s a lie. “I’m just trying to… feel strong again.”

He doesn’t challenge me. Just gives a nod and offers his hand to help me up. “Okay. Let’s do this. But the moment I see that shoulder falter or your breath get shaky, we’re pausing. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The warm-up is fine. Easy even. Jogging laps around the indoor track with Axel trailing behind me like a shadow. My lungs are steadier than they’ve been in weeks. I feel… almost like myself.

Then we shift to shoulder presses.

“Let’s start light,” Diego says, passing me the small dumbbells — the baby ones, I tease in my head. I hate how small they feel in my hands.

“Come on,” I mutter to myself, planting my feet. “You’ve done this a thousand times before. Hell, you used to double this weight for warm-ups.”

“That was before your bones tried to throw a party and forgot to invite safety,” Nico pipes in from the corner where he’s leaning against a table, flipping through my training notes. “Let’s not reenact the crash scene here, yeah?”

I shoot him a look but secretly, I’m glad he’s here. He grounds me. Keeps me from letting the fire inside burn too hot, too fast.

I managed the first set. My form is shaky on the second. By the third, my shoulder screams. My breath catches.

Diego notices before I say anything. “Stop. Drop ‘em. Right now.”

I obey, lips pressed tight. My pride stings more than my shoulder.

“Sit,” he says, nodding to the bench. “Now tell me what your body’s saying.”

I slump onto the bench, sweat trickling down my spine. “It’s saying I’m not ready.”

He kneels again in front of me, tone low and honest. “No. It’s saying you need time. Which isn’t the same thing.”

Nico steps closer now too, crossing his arms. “You’re not failing by resting, Y/N. That’s the bravest thing you could do right now — listen.”

I exhale shakily, brushing my sleeve across my face. “I just… I don’t want them to worry. The boys. They were scared enough. If they knew I was training again, they’d—”

“—They’d be proud,” Diego finishes for me. “Because you're doing this smart. You're building up again. You’re not throwing yourself into a cockpit half-healed. You’re working for it. Quietly. Strongly.”

I don’t respond right away. Just nod and lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes on Axel who’s still watching me with that serious, almost human stare.

“Just… don’t tell them yet,” I finally whisper. “Let this be mine a little longer.”

“Of course,” Nico says, his voice softer now. “Your story. Your pace.”

“Besides,” Diego adds, grinning again as he hands me a bottle of water, “when you finally show up at the garage again and toss your helmet on like nothing happened, they’re gonna lose their damn minds.”

I chuckle. “I can’t wait to see their faces.”

I pick the dumbbells back up before they can stop me. Not for another full set — just one more press. One more reminder that I can. I lift them once, clean and steady, before lowering them again.

“That’s enough,” Diego says gently. “Today, that’s enough.”

And for once… I believe him. Because I know I’ll be back again tomorrow. And the day after that. I’m not chasing the old me anymore. I’m building someone stronger.

—

I hadn’t realized how much I missed the scent of race fuel and burnt rubber until I stepped through the paddock gates again.

The buzz. The noise. The heartbeat of a track that never really goes quiet.

The second my shoe hit the pavement inside the circuit, it all came rushing back — that itch in my fingers to feel the steering wheel again, the thrum in my chest that didn’t hurt anymore but still pulsed with memory. I wasn't driving today — still under the "you're technically held together with sports tape and medical optimism" clause — but I was here.

That counted for something.

Nico was walking just to my left, sunglasses on, hands in the pockets of his black team jacket, looking every bit like my silent, slightly too-calm bodyguard. Meanwhile, Paul practically bounced beside me on the right, grinning like a rookie who’d been handed keys to a spaceship.

“I swear, I thought you were just a myth,” Paul said, shifting the duffel bag on his shoulder. “They said ‘Ghost will meet with you before FP1’ and I was like, cool, should I also expect a unicorn and a sentient AI?”

My voice changer cracked slightly as I tilted my helmet toward him. “Sentient AI would be less chaotic than most of this team.”

Paul snorted. “And here I thought you were gonna be mysterious and intimidating. You’re… kind of hilarious.” I shrugged beneath my oversized hoodie. “Don’t get comfortable. I bite.”

“That would explain never taking that helmet off.” he said with an exaggerated look of fear. “Let me just go prep for my debut with the racetrack cryptid watching me from the pit wall.”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “Your job today is to not crash my car, Aron. It likes being pampered.”

“Anything else I should know?” he asked, just as we turned down the garage hallway.

I smirked under the helmet, then nudged him with my elbow. “Lots. Don’t downshift too hard into turn six — it’ll get twitchy. There’s a subtle bump on the exit of nine, trust your rear to hold but don’t overcorrect. And if you talk back to Diego during the debriefs, I’ll personally short-sheet your bed for the rest of the season.”

Paul stared at me, eyes wide. I tilted my head playfully. “What?” “That was… disturbingly specific. How do you even know about short-sheeting beds?”

“Because I’m creative and mildly vindictive.” Nico coughed — poorly disguised laughter — and muttered, “He learned it from Oscar.”

I pretended not to hear him and turned my attention back to Paul. “You’re gonna be fine. I’ll be on the pit wall the whole time, headset on, translating Diego’s feedback into ‘Paul Speech.’ He’s been dying to lecture someone other than me.”

“Oh great, I’m the replacement victim,” Paul said, mock sighing. “But really, thanks. This means a lot, Ghost. Being the reserve is weird — you never know when you’ll actually be used. I thought I’d be invisible.”

I reached up and tapped the visor of my helmet, voice softening through the modulator. “Invisibility doesn’t mean unimportant. You’ve got this.” He smiled then, really smiled. That bright, pure grin that reminded me so much of Jack it almost stung.

“Alright, cool,” he said, straightening his posture like he was trying to match the height of his moment. “Let’s go make you proud.”

“Oh, you’re already halfway there,” I replied. “You didn’t trip coming off the shuttle. That’s one more point than I had on my first day.”

“I knew you were a disaster once,” he laughed.

“Once?” Nico muttered beside us. “That implies improvement.”

“Rude,” I said flatly through the voice changer, flipping him off.

We turned into the garage then, the loud hum of tools and chatter dimming the second we stepped through the threshold. The mechanics looked up, a few nodding in recognition as I passed, others just giving me that respectful kind of glance — Ghost’s back. Even if I wasn’t driving, I was here.

Paul peeled off to go suit up. I took a breath, looking over at my car — technically still mine, even if someone else would be behind the wheel for FP1. It gleamed under the overhead lights, waiting.

My fingers twitched. Soon.

Nico said something, but I didn’t hear him — not really. Because just then, the gravity of being back settled in my chest. Not pain. Not fear. Just this warm, solid weight of home.

And I didn’t even realize how tightly I’d been holding onto that until I let myself feel it again.

—

The hum of the garage had dulled to a low buzz after FP1 wrapped. Tools were put back in drawers, pit boards were stacked, and Paul was somewhere in the back being debriefed, grinning like a kid who’d just aced his first big test.

I stayed where I was on the pit wall, not wanting to really speak to the media or answer questions. I didn’t need to hide here. But, it still gave me that edge of comfort… a thin line between me and the rest of the world. Especially when emotions threatened to press a little too close to the surface.

“You looked good out there,” a voice said behind me — calm, familiar, warm.

I turned slightly, already recognizing Franco’s tone before my eyes landed on him. He gave me a soft nod, leaning his elbows against the barrier beside me, helmet tucked under one arm.

“I wasn’t out there,” I said, the voice changer wrapping my words in static.

He tilted his head, blue eyes sharp and quiet. “Didn’t say you were driving. I said you looked good out there.”

I paused. Then exhaled through my nose and pulled out the mic cord completely, letting it hang from the railing as I leaned forward a bit, matching his posture.

There was a moment of silence before I added, softer, “You know it hurt… at first”

He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

“It hurt a lot to sit here and not be the one buckling in. To know that the car — my car — was about to be driven without me. And that I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t fight it.”

My hands clenched slightly at the memory — the ache in my ribs still faint under the surface, the scar on my arm pulling a little under the hoodie.

“I kept thinking about how many races I might miss… how slow recovery’s felt. How I used to fly in that thing. And now I’m grounded. Watching. Coaching. Like I’m some kind of whisper in the background of my own team. Truly a ghost by name. ”

Franco didn’t say anything. He just reached out and tapped his knuckles lightly against mine — an anchor.

“But…” I said, slowly, breathing in deep. “Then Paul started talking. Asking me questions. Getting excited. Like… full-on spark-in-his-eyes excited. And I realized I could still be part of it. Just from here. From the wall. From the headset.”

I looked down at my gloves, flexing my fingers. “He listens. Like really listens. And seeing him figure things out… watching him light up after his first laps? I don’t know. It felt… right. Not perfect. Not the way I wanted to be here. But right… okay.”

Franco nodded once, voice soft. “You’re still racing. You never stopped.”

I looked at him.

He smiled faintly. “Just because you’re not in the seat doesn’t mean you’re not driving this thing forward. He wouldn’t be out there doing so well without your help. You’re shaping him. You’re shaping this whole team.”

The words hit me harder than I expected.

My throat tightened a little behind the helmet. “I think… for the first time since the crash… I don’t feel broken being here. I feel like I still have a purpose. I want Paul to do well. I want him to prove himself. I want him to have the chances I had. And if I can help him get those… then maybe this isn’t all just pain and waiting.”

Franco reached up then and gently knocked on the side of my helmet. “That’s the champion mindset. And the good teammate mindset.”

He grinned. “Even with the scary voice mod.”

I huffed a laugh. “It’s for dramatic effect.”

“You’re terrifying,” he deadpanned. “Inspiring, but terrifying.”

We both chuckled, the kind of laughter that eases tension like a pressure valve finally letting go.

Then Franco leaned back and said quietly, “It’s okay to feel both, you know. The pain and the pride. You’re allowed to miss it. And you’re allowed to find joy in what you can do right now.”

I swallowed hard, but nodded.

“Thanks,” I said. “For saying that.”

“Always,” he replied, and for the first time that day, I let myself take my helmet off — slowly — and just breathe.

He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t stare. He just offered a genuine smile, no different than the one he gave me when I was Ghost.

“You’ll be back in the car soon,” he said. “But until then? This version of you — the strategist, the leader, the teammate — is just as badass.”

I blinked at him, then smiled.

“Don’t tell Diego or Nico that. It’ll go to their heads, like some mother duckling they might pull me from my seat.”

Franco smirked. “My lips are sealed.” I smiled back before following him back across the pit towards the garage.

—

It was race day when the others finally found me.

Sure, they knew I was here. The media had caught glimpses of "Ghost" in the paddock all weekend, whispers and blurry photos circling online. But catching me for a real conversation? Actually pinning me down? That was a whole different challenge to them.

Until a very familiar flash of papaya orange caught me out.

I was tucked away in a quiet corner behind one of the hospitality buildings, sitting on a crate, sipping from a water bottle, my legs stretched out in front of me.

A shadow fell over me, and I looked up — only to see a smirking Oscar Piastri standing there, arms crossed.

“Well, look who I finally found," he said, tilting his head at me with a grin. "Thought you were supposed to be taking it easy during your injury. Yet here you are. Hiding like a delinquent.”

I didn’t get a word in before he stepped closer, peering dramatically at me.

“I hope you at least have your brace on under that hoodie," he teased, tugging playfully at the sleeve. "Would hate to have to carry you back to the medical center and explain to the physios why you’re broken again."

I scoffed behind the voice modulator, batting his hand away. "Relax, Mum," I said dryly. "Brace is on. Doctor's orders. I’m being good."

Oscar chuckled, dropping down onto the crate beside me with a quiet oof, bumping his shoulder lightly against mine.

"I dunno if sitting here in your emo corner counts as being good," he quipped. "But it’s good to see you. Missed you, you know."

I smiled — small, hidden — but it was there.

"Missed you too, mate."

We sat there for a beat, the sounds of the paddock — tools clanging, fans yelling, engines roaring in the distance — fading into a quieter hum around us.

"You look good," Oscar said suddenly, voice softer now. "Healthier. Stronger."

"Feel stronger," I admitted, fiddling with the hem of my hoodie. "Still a long way to go. Still can’t race yet. But it’s... better being here. Even if I’m not in the car."

Oscar nodded, watching me with that patient, careful look he only ever used when he dropped the sarcasm.

"I’m proud of you," he said simply.

Before I could say anything back — feeling dangerously close to getting a lump in my throat — another familiar voice floated over to us.

"There you are!"

I turned just in time to see Charles approaching, helmet in one hand, hair a little messy from pulling it off, suit half-zipped down. His face was lit up with relief, though there was a thin line of worry etched between his brows too.

"I have been looking everywhere," Charles said, crouching in front of us, resting his elbows on his knees so we were eye-level. "You are impossible to find sometimes, you know that?"

"Occupational hazard," I joked lightly, voice still crackling with the modulator.

Charles huffed a laugh, but then his gaze softened as he studied me.

"You are really here," he said, almost to himself. "And you are doing well."

"Trying," I said honestly. "It... wasn’t easy at first."

Oscar nodded beside me, nudging my arm. "But she's kicking ass. You should've seen her, Charles. Advising Paul like a damn pro. Ghost engineer era unlocked, I can’t wait to see what they can do during the race together."

Charles smiled — a real, warm smile — and reached out to squeeze my hand where it rested on my knee.

"I am proud of you, mon amie," he said. "More than you know. It takes a lot of strength to be here. To stay when it hurts."

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing gently into my chest — not painful, not overwhelming. Just... steadying.

"I needed to be here," I whispered. "For the team. For myself. Even if it’s just helping from the wall. It feels like... I'm still part of it."

"You never stopped being part of it," Oscar said quietly.

Charles nodded, squeezing my hand once more before letting go. "And you never will."

For a moment, the three of us just sat there in the shade, the chaos of race day spinning on without us. It didn’t matter. It could wait.

Because here, hidden behind the noise, tucked into a small, forgotten corner of the paddock, I was reminded that even when I couldn’t drive, even when my body wasn’t at a hundred percent — I wasn’t alone. And that was enough. For now at least.

—

The race was chaotic.

From the second the lights went out, my heart thundered in my chest, the noise of the engines vibrating through the pit wall. I sat perched on a high stool right beside Diego, headset snug over my helmet, live feed on the monitors in front of me.

Paul's voice crackled through the radio — tight, a little anxious. His first F1 race. His first real chance. He'd qualified P14, and while it was a hell of a debut, he wanted more. We all did.

"Focus up, rookie," I murmured into the radio, voice softened by the modulator but still carrying the firmness I knew he'd hear. "Eyes forward. Breathe. You’re better than half the grid out there."

"Copy," Paul answered, clipped but trying to sound calm. I could hear the nerves anyway, layered under every word.

The first few laps were brutal — midfield battles that could turn ugly fast. Paul held steady, sharp and clean even under pressure. But he hesitated at key moments — lifting just a fraction when he could’ve pressed the attack.

"Car ahead is struggling with rears," I said, low and steady in his ear as Diego fed me data. "Watch him out of Turn 7. You’ll have him on exit."

A beat.

"Okay," Paul breathed. "Okay, Ghost. I trust you."

I smiled behind the visor, chest tight with pride.

And sure enough, two laps later, Paul slipped past in a beautifully patient move, climbing to P13.

The race ebbed and flowed, the pit stop cycle throwing chaos into the midfield. Every time Paul's focus wavered, I was there — guiding without overwhelming, steering him without grabbing the wheel.

"Car in front weaving under braking. He’s nervous. You stay clean. He’ll crack first."

"Brake balance forward two clicks. Save your fronts, we’re gonna need 'em later."

"Trust your exit speed. You’re faster in S2. He can’t stop you if you set it up early."

It was like music, almost — this silent, invisible dance we did together, woven between the roar of the engines and the crackle of the radios.

Lap by lap, Paul clawed his way forward. P12. Then P11.

When we hit the final stint, fresher tires on and the car lighter on fuel, Diego leaned toward me, excitement flashing in his eyes.

"One more position," he said into my private channel. "We get points."

I keyed my mic again, calm even though my heart raced like mad.

"Paul. Eyes up. P10 ahead. You are faster. You are faster. Stay close. Pressure him."

Paul’s breathing was heavier now, the strain of the race wearing on him, but he responded instantly. "Copy, Ghost. I’m on it."

I watched, fists clenched, as he chipped away at the gap — lap after lap, tenth by tenth.

Finally, into Turn 4, he made the move — bold, late on the brakes, perfect.

P9.

Inside the points.

The final few laps were a blur of adrenaline, shouting, encouragement.

When the chequered flag waved, Diego practically threw his headset into the air beside me, and I couldn't hold back the yell that ripped from my throat over the radio.

"YES, PAUL! YES! THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT!" I screamed, voice cracking with pride and joy.

Over the team radio, Paul whooped, the pure exhilaration pouring out of him.

"OH MY GOD, THANK YOU, GHOST! THANK YOU!" he shouted, breathless. "I COULDN'T HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT YOU!"

"You did that," I said, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt under the helmet. "You kept your head, you fought smart — you earned this, Paul. You earned every bit of it."

He was still yelling and laughing as he pulled the car into parc fermé, tires screeching slightly. The mechanics and engineers around us were clapping, cheering, and I stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed.

He did it. We did it.

I pushed through the crowd toward the car, heart hammering.

Paul barely waited for the car to cool down. As soon as he wrestled himself out of the cockpit, he tore off his steering wheel, slammed it into its mount, and sprinted toward me.

"Ghost!" he shouted, voice hoarse with emotion.

I didn't even have time to react before he threw his arms around me, nearly knocking us both off balance.

Our helmets clashed with a loud crack, making both of us stumble a little, but neither of us cared. Paul clung to me like a lifeline, arms tight around my back, helmet pressed to mine.

I wrapped my arms around him in return, gripping him just as hard, laughing breathlessly even as something in my chest squeezed and ached with pride.

"You absolute legend," I said, voice trembling. "I'm so proud of you, Paul. So, so proud."

He pulled back just a little, enough that our visors almost touched.

"Couldn't have done it without you, Ghost," he said again, voice thick. "You believed in me when I wasn’t sure I could do it."

"I knew it from the start," I said quietly. "You just had to see it for yourself."

For a moment, the noise of the world faded away — the shouting, the music, the celebration. It was just the two of us, standing there in the middle of it all, holding onto each other like it mattered.

And maybe it did.

Maybe it mattered more than either of us could say.

Masterlist

Taglist @widow-cevans @honethatty12 @wierdflowerpower @imlonelydontsendhelp @thatsnotaddy @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @littlesimps-world @dozyisdead @mizzy-pop @lost4lyrics @anunstablefangirl @nikfigueiredo @reiluvr @mymmyrym @ferrarisstrategy

#x reader #driver!reader #f1 #f1 angst #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 grid x reader #f1 imagine #f1 driver!reader

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emrys-in-paris · 14 days ago

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The Quiet Things

Pairing: Jamie Tartt x Reader - Second person Word count: ~1.1k Rating: T Setting: Post-Wembley (Season 2), AFC Richmond bus ride Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, soft slow burn Summary: After Wembley, Jamie sits next to you on the quiet bus ride home and you both open up about your families.

Content Warnings / TWs:

Parental abuse (physical and emotional; scars mentioned)

Emotional neglect from parents

Mentions of sibling death (overdose)

Guilt / trauma / sport burnout

Mental health themes (depression, grief, identity loss)

Indirect suicidal ideation (“prayed for an injury”)

The bus is quiet.

Someone laughs near the front — probably Isaac or Sam — but the noise doesn’t reach the back. It doesn’t touch where you and Jamie sit, pressed into shadows and exhaustion.

He sat down next to you without asking. Just dropped into the seat like gravity pulled him there, like he was looking for the heaviest place on earth to sink into.

You didn’t ask him to leave. You never would.

His shoulder brushes yours. The silence is thick, but not uncomfortable.

"I ever tell you I hate buses?” he says suddenly, voice rough.

You turn to glance at him. “Because they remind you of away matches or school field trips?”

He huffs — a sound that could’ve been a laugh, if it didn’t land like a sigh.

"’Cause they remind me of comin’ home.”

You don’t ask him to explain. You already know what he means.

His eyes are on the dark window, the reflection of streetlights slicing across his cheekbones. He looks like someone cracked him open earlier and forgot to put him back together.

"He did it in front of everyone,” he says. “My dad.”

You nod. Not sympathy. Not shock. Just… recognition.

"I’ve had worse,” he adds, like it’s a badge of honor. But it cracks. You hear it.

You sit in that space with him, let it breathe, let the silence carry more weight than your words ever could. Until your voice breaks the stillness — soft, steady, like a confession:

"I made every national volleyball team from the time I was eight.”

Jamie blinks. Looks at you.

"Started in the best clubs when I was in second grade. Got scouted early. Stanford, UCLA, Texas — full rides. Pick one.”

He tilts his head a little. “You played?”

You nod. “I was supposed to go to the Olympics. That was the plan.”

You swallow hard. "My older brother died the summer I turned seventeen. Overdose. He was always… different. Quiet. Sensitive. They never saw him.”

Jamie’s still now. Completely still.

"They were too busy molding me into some perfect machine. Every win bought me silence. Every medal meant they didn’t fight. If I was good enough, he’d be safe. That’s what I told myself.”

“He wasn’t,” you whisper. “And neither was I."

Jamie doesn’t interrupt. He just shifts a little closer, like he knows what it means to be the one holding up a crumbling house with your own body.

“When I quit,” you say, “my mum slapped me so hard I had a migraine for a week. My dad didn’t even yell. He just said, ‘What a waste.’ And walked out of the room.”

You keep your voice low. Controlled. Like if you let too much in, it’ll all come pouring out.

"They used to beat me. Mostly my back. Easier to hide the bruises. I’ve still got scars.”

Jamie’s eyes drop to your hands. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask to see. He just breathes in sharply, like it hurts him to imagine it.

“I hated the sport by the end,” you admit. “But not because of the game. Because it made them love me.”

He nods. Eyes burning in the low light.

“They didn’t love you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “They loved what you could do.”

“I was good,” you whisper. “So fucking good.”

There’s silence after that -- a heavy, aching silence.

“I used to pray for an injury,” you say eventually. “Not something to ruin me. Just enough to make it stop. Just… a way out.”

Jamie exhales like you’ve punched the wind out of him.

“You don’t need an excuse,” he murmurs. “You survived them. That’s enough.”

And then — softly, gently — his hand slides over yours. Warm. Calloused. Steady.

He doesn’t grip, doesn’t squeeze. Just rests there. Like he’s saying I’m here without speaking.

You don’t pull away.

His knee touches yours, and neither of you moves. There’s nothing flashy about it. No grand gesture. Just presence.

Then he says your name — just your name — and it sounds like something holy.

“You ever want to be seen again… not for what you can do, but just for being you — I see you.”

You look at him.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it.

______________________________________________________________

Anyways, i hope you liked it!! feel free to leave me advice on my writing in the comments and thank you for reading!!

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfic #ted lasso fanfic #sports trauma #reader insert #angst with comfort #hurt/comfort #post wembley #second person pov #slow burn

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magnificentbirb · 7 months ago

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okay so i wrote a little thing. this is just some mild post-abu dhabi charlos angst, mostly charles overthinking, but after seeing the photos of carlos all in white for the williams tests, i couldn’t get this scene out of my head, so… jazz hands. here it be.

idk if this will turn into anything longer, but i figured i’d drop it here for anyone else having c² feelings this week. 🫠

enjoy~!

The first photos of Carlos in a crisp white race suit hit Charles like a punch to the solar plexus.

He sees the shots while scrolling absently on Instagram, attempting to stave off the remains of a mild hangover with mindless social media. Charles knew the test was happening today, but apparently he forgot his own promise to himself to avoid social media so soon after an emotional race weekend, and now he’s paying the price with a rush of breath from his lungs.

Carlos looks… good. Of course he looks good. His skin is still tanned from days on the beach in Qatar and his hair is perfect, as always, and his broad shoulders and slim waist were basically made for the clean lines of a race suit, but the white—

The white feels wrong.

And if Carlos is wearing a race suit, that means he drove the car. A car that, for the first time in four years, is not the perfect match to Charles’s.

Charles stares at the photos, gnawing on the inside of his bottom lip. Against his better judgment, he opens Twitter. The videos and photos of Carlos in the sleek blue Williams are easy enough to find. Carlos’s fan accounts are posting them with wild, reckless abandon, posts full of exclamation marks and blue hearts and genuine excitement. Charles’s heart pangs a bit at that—at the idea of these fans so easily abandoning legendary red for legendary blue—but he can’t find it in himself to blame any of them. Carlos’s fans are loyal, and seemingly as delighted by the prospect of a new journey and a new challenge as Carlos is. Charles can’t really begrudge them that. He’d also follow Carlos Sainz to the ends of the earth, if he could. A new team would be nothing.

Charles watches the videos of Carlos driving the Williams. He’s not sure whether he’d be able to know without prior context that it was Carlos driving until one clip shows Carlos taking a corner where he brakes a bit later than Charles would, because he always brakes later than Charles at that particular corner, and—yeah. That’s Carlos. The white 55 emblazoned on the nose of the car confirms it.

White on blue. No more white on red.

Charles closes Twitter. He stares at the golden-lit ceiling of his hotel room, then over at the clock on the bedside table. If there are photos of Carlos after the test, then that means his laps are done, right? He should be free.

Charles has his phone unlocked and opened to Carlos’s contact, his thumb hovering over the call button, before he finally pauses.

Carlos is probably debriefing with his team. He’s probably focused on the car, on the potential improvements, on the tests lined up for tomorrow, on the unfamiliar engine and a new racing engineer, new mechanics, new possibilities.

He’s probably not thinking about Charles at all.

Charles lowers his phone. He shouldn’t interrupt. He’s no longer Carlos’s teammate, no longer a priority, and that’s… fine. It makes sense. Charles should let him get on with his new team. He knows how much Carlos has been looking forward to these two days of testing. He doesn’t want to get in the way of that.

Charles sets aside his phone and stares at the ceiling some more. Eventually, he’ll meet his mother and Arthur for dinner, and before he knows it, it’ll be tomorrow morning, and he’ll be back at the track and maybe—maybe—he can see Carlos then. He doesn’t need to bother him tonight. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since they were teammates. Charles doesn’t miss him that much. He’s fine. He cried it out a bit with Carlos on Sunday, both of them laughing at themselves through their tears, and that was that. Charles is fine. He can wait.

He closes his eyes and sees Carlos in blinding white.

He can wait.

#charlos #charlos fic #1655 #1655 fic #f1 fic #birb fic #basically just charles trying not to feel things #i’m excited for carlos at williams but i’m already mourning c² can you tell

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zeke-fanfucs · 1 month ago

Note

The actor au where they find Kamor asleep in like random ass set pieces

And they just don’t know he’s there and do a scene with him asleep in the background

Where’s Karmor?

There was an unspoken rule on the Bastard vs Zombies set now.

If things got too quiet.

If a couch went missing.

If a sarcophagus prop mysteriously had breathing noises.

If the alien pod looked suspiciously…cozy”

Karmor was probably asleep in it.

⸻

It started during a 5 AM call time on a horror-themed planet set. Mahatma was prepping to stitch open a prop cadaver. Hipswitch was already in full Obscuran gear, sipping coffee and running lines with the intensity of a man trying very hard not to scream.

Then someone shouted, “HEY WHY IS THERE A HUMAN LEG STICKING OUT OF THE PROP DUMPSTER?!”

They pulled open the lid and—there he was.

Karmor.

Fully unconscious.

Using a fake severed tentacle as a pillow.

Snoring softly.

Wrapped in what might have been part of a crashed spaceship

⸻

By week two, everyone stopped questioning it.

“Is that Karmor in the tavern set candelabra display?”

“Yep.”

“Should we wake him up?”

“Nah. He looks peaceful.”

⸻

One day, the crew filmed a full conversation between Faith and Devlin — a dramatic sibling standoff in the ruins of a religious temple — and didn’t realize until editing that Karmor was curled up on a high shelf in the background, asleep like a gremlin in a hoodie.

Devlin zoomed in and posted it on his stories:

🎬 “Meanwhile, our rising star.”

📸 Karmor, mouth slightly open, drooling on a stone tablet.

Faith added sparkles.

Albus commented:

“Caption: this man is my sleep paralysis demon.”

Then posted a selfie with Karmor passed out in a laundry basket with the caption

“Caught the cryptid again. Unflattering and proud 😤📸”

⸻

Hipswitch, on the other hand, took it as a personal duty.

He started carrying a blanket.

Not for himself.

Not for dramatic cape flourishes.

For Karmor.

You’d see Hipswitch mid-line, glance off-screen, and casually throw a warm fleece over Karmor’s slumped body behind a potted plant. “He’s delicate,” Hipswitch explained. “Poor boy’s always workin’ or worryin’. Ain’t no harm in nappin’.”Mahatma agreed. “He’s like a tragic housecat. You just gotta let him be.”

⸻

Except Attila.

Attila did not let him be.

The moment Karmor’s head hit any remotely soft surface, Attila was crouched nearby like a goblin with a Sharpie.

Today, it was a mustache.

Yesterday, it was fangs and eye bags drawn so well the makeup team mistook them for prosthetics.

“I’m helping,” Attila said, drawing devil horns on Karmor’s forehead with an artistry that was frankly impressive. “He’s too clean-cut. Needs edge.”

“You’re gonna give him skin poisoning,” Mahatma muttered, snapping a photo anyway.

Karmor, half-awake, once whispered, “I dreamed I had six eyebrows,” and went back to sleep.

⸻

During a big climactic fight scene, the crew was ready for a flawless one-take. Explosions. Emotional yelling. A dramatic turn—

—and Karmor was in the background, curled up in the wheelbarrow full of laser guns.

Everyone stared.

Nobody cut.

Hipswitch, mid-monologue, walked past the camera, tugged the blanket from his belt, and lovingly tossed it over Karmor without missing a beat.

“…Springrock ain’t got no place for cowards,” he said, steely-eyed, as behind him a peacefully snoring Karmor adjusted his position with a soft murmph.

The director rubbed their temples and said, “Honestly, just leave it in.”

⸻

Bonus blooper audio from the cast interviews:

Faith: “We once put him in a coffin for a prank and forgot him there. We wrapped and he was still asleep in it.”

Devlin: “I think he’s part cat. Or haunted. Or both.”

Albus: “One time I used him as a bench. Didn’t realize it was him until he mumbled something about cosmic injustice and rolled over.”

Karmor, in his only interview:

“…I’m just tired, man.”

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just-a-shark333 · 19 days ago

Text

Not so bad

obagiyuu fluff!!

Shit it's been so long since I posted a fic here i forgot my system. Wait a sec I have to go check 😭

ok ok got it

Timeframe: Mostly unspecified, probably pre-series.

Pairing: Obagiyuu

Word count: 2,515

Notes:This took like 6 hours T~TI swear it only felt like 3 at mostanywayssss I hope you like it!! It's wayyyy longer than anticipated lol. It's also kinda lazy at the end but i was literally writing for 6+ hours straight so its to be expected. I've had this idea rattling around in my head for weeks so i just had to get it out lollAlso, i think it's worth mentioning that I (probably) don't have an eating disorder, so the few lines about that might be like, wrong or inaccurate or whatever idkkk I just really wanted to include that detail

Summary:

Giyuu gets forced into hosting a Hashira Dinner party, he invites Obanai earlier than everyone else so that he can eat without having to take his mask off in front of the others. Obanai realizes that maybe Giyuu isn't as bad as he thought

Team building exercises had to be Tomioka's least favorite part of this job. He had absolutely no reason to need to be close with the hashira. Being friendly with them didn’t improve their fighting skills, all it did was waste time and build useless relationships that just set everyone up for eventual despair when they inevitably died one day.

But alas, no one else seemed to share that sentiment. So here he was, being forced into hosting their next “Hashira group dinner” that everyone seemed so excited for.

“I’m..not so sure I should do that.”

“Aw, c’mon Tomioka! I’m sure you're a great cook!” Tengen exclaimed throwing his arm uncomfortable around Giyuu’s shoulder.

“It..It’s not that…I just…Don’t think I’d be good at this.”

“Tch. Yeah, get someone else to do it. I can’t stand to spend a single moment more around that guy than I have to. Let alone be inside his estate for a whole evening.” Sanemi chimed in with his opinion that could only leave Giyuu wondering who even asked him. He was quickly reprimanded by Mitsuri, with Obanai swiftly backtracking over anything else he had ever had to say about him and agreeing with her. Shinobu softly chuckled at the interaction and made a comment about how awkward a dinner with a host who doesn’t speak would be.

“C’mon Tomioka! Just do it! What’s the worst that could happen? Someone doesn’t like you cooking? It’ll be fine, trust me!” Internally, Tomioka imagined being stuck in the estate that wasn’t even really his, surrounded by all the people who seemed to think of him as one of them despite him being clearly not. They’d see his ‘home’ and whatever he manages to prepare for them to eat and they’d look at him and realize just how much of an imposter he really was. Those that already disliked him would hate him even more and the ones who kept trying to befriend him despite his clear reluctance would lose all hope for him, ending any attempt they ever made to be kind and beginning to resent him.Just as he deserved.

But…There was a part of him. A small, quiet, useless part of him that didn’t want that to happen.

He opens his mouth to decline for the last time, but as Rengoku and Mitsuri rushed to loudly agree with Tengen’s statement, followed by calmer encouragement from Shinobu and Gyomei, Giyuu couldn’t find it in him to say no.

“...I’ll send you all letters when I get the details worked out.”

~-♥-♥-♥-~

So, here he was. Preparing and plating food for all the guests he was to have over in just over half an hour.

Except for one.

There’s a knock at his door, and Giyuu quickly drops the spoon he was holding to go answer it. Opening the door, he’s met with the vaguely irritated face of Iguro Obanai. He lets him in and quickly leads him to the dining area, where a long table is set up with placemats, silverware, and chopsticks but no plates yet and no other people.

“Is…No one else here yet? I know I’m a few minutes early but I would have thought that someone else would be here by now.” Obanai looked around the empty room.

“Ah right, about that. I invited you earlier than everyone else.”Obanai stared at him with the strongest look of confusion Giyuu had seen in a long time. Obanai was seemingly still processing what Tomioka had just said so casually, as if this is a normal thing to do.

“You…What?”

“I invited you early. It's almost six right now, but the others won't be here until about six-thirty.”

“...why?” Obanai was still desperately trying to wrap his head around whatever the fuck Tomioka thought he was doing right now.

“I..uh…Well. It’s hard not to notice really…” Tomioka awkwardly looks towards the floor in the direction opposite of Obanai, only just realizing how strange what he was doing sounded, “At the normal dinners we have you don’t eat. It’s because you don’t want to take your mask off in front of everyone, right?” He looks back up and makes eye contact. Obanai looks rather taken aback by the blatant analysis of his behavior. “So,” Giyuu continues. Looking away again, but less so this time than before, “I thought that I would invite you early. So that you can still eat, you just don’t have to do it with everyone else watching. I’ll be out of the room when you eat, and during the dinner I’ll give you a full plate of leftovers so that it doesn’t look odd that you don't have one.”

“I..You…You’re serious? You’re going through all this effort just so I can…eat a meal?”

“I am. It’s more than just a meal. It’s getting to comfortably enjoy something that everyone else does too. And, you won’t have to go home and make your own food after this.”

Obanai just stares at him, wide eyed, rethinking every perception he had ever had of Tomioka.

“You can sit here,” Giyuu pulls out a seat at the head of the table. “So that if I do have to come through the room I still won’t see your face.”

Quietly Obanai sits down in the chair, and Koburamaru’s tight grip around his neck loosens a bit.

Shit.

He really had misjudged Tomioka, hadn’t he. Thinking back on it Obanai can barely even remember why he ever started thinking of him in such a way. He was just so quiet all the time, he never spoke to anyone and no one knew anything about him and it made it so easy to just believe whatever anyone said about him.

“Here you go. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything. If I pass through here I’ll tell you first.” Giyuu sets a plate and small bowl down in front of Obanai and turns to leave, but he only gets a few steps away before he’s stopped by the soft sound of Iguro’s voice.

“Actually, Tomioka, before you leave…”

Giyuu turns around, immediately closing his eyes and slapping his hands over them. “Yes- AH! Y-Your mask…” Obanai laughs a little in response, “I-I’m sorry. I thought you meant for me to turn around…I barely saw anything I swear.”

“It’s fine, Tomioka. I Intended for you to see it.. You may open your eyes. If you want to, of course, I don't blame you if you don’t want to see such an awful sight…”

Tomioka carefully peels his eyes open, removing his arms blocking his view. As he’s able to look at Obanai he’s taken aback. An awful sight? How could Obanai ever think that when he’s just laid eyes on the most beautiful person he’s ever had the honor of laying eyes on.. Carefully, Giyuu steps closer to Obanai, extending his hand to cup the side of his face. “It’s…no. You’re beautiful.”

“...What?”

Tomioka quickly retracts his arm, blushing and turning his head away again. “I- uh- well- I just…said that your scar looks nice! Sorry. I-I’ll go now!” But again, before he can leave Obanai grabs his hand.

“...Sit.”

“..ok..”

Tomioka sits down at the seat to the right of Obanai’s and watched as he took a bite of his meal.

“It’s good.” Obanai sounded nervous in his tone of voice. He hadn’t really been certain of his plan of what to do after asking Giyuu to sit with him, only really being sure that he wanted to speak with him.

“Thanks. I don’t really cook often, so I’m glad this turned out well.”

The two settle into a comfortable silence, just sitting in each other's presence for a few minutes as Obanai works his way through his plate. The silence was broken by Giyuu shooting up and exclaiming “Oh!” before running to the kitchen, stopping only to mutter a promise to be back soon as he leaves.

Iguro stares at the archway to the kitchen as Tomioka returns with a small plate, about the size of his hand. On it are various scraps of meat that were cut off in the preparation of the meal.

“Here. This is for Kaburamaru.” He places the small dish to the left side of Iguro’s plate, and allows the snake to use his arm as a pathway onto the table. “I’m not actually sure what snakes can eat, but I’m pretty sure this is fine for him.”

“You…You made Kaburamaru his own little plate? And you knew his name?” He really had fucked up. He’d spent the entirety of the years he’d known Tomioka criticizing and making fun of him for everything and Tomioka had been paying attention to his quirks and insecurities and learning details about him that he wasn’t even certain Sanemi actually knew.

“Do the others not know his name?” Giyuu asks, genuinely sounding confused as he gently scritches Kaburamaru’s scaly head.

“Mitsuri does. I don’t believe anyone else does, though. Rengoku might, but Sanemi always just calls him ‘that damn snake of yours.’”

“Huh. I just assumed everyone knew.”

“I..uhm…Giyuu. I’m. I’m sorry.” It’s difficult to squeeze the words out of his mouth, but Obanai doesn’t think he’d be able to sleep tonight- or ever again- if he didn’t say it.

“For what?”

He had to be joking. How could he seriously not know what he was apologizing for!? After years of treating him like human trash non stop he had the audacity to ask what he was apologizing for when he finally worked up the courage to!

“For…For misjudging you so badly and treating you so awfully for years! I don’t think I’ve ever said a not crappy thing to you in the entire time I’ve known you. And even despite that, you go through all the effort of doing all this for me. And…and so…I’m sorry. For assuming you were a shitty person when I guess you’re really just antisocial.”

“Oh. It’s alright, really, I was already used to it by the time you joined in. And besides, when it comes to all this I know how crappy it feels to not be able to eat at these events. This is the least I can do.”

“What?” Had Giyuu also never eaten at an event like this? He had never paid much attention to Tomioka at those dinners but now that he thought about the time he had hosted he did notice that one of the plates was almost full when he cleaned up at the end of the night.. He’d just chalked it up to someone not being hungry, but had Giyuu really just never eaten anyone’s cooking?

“It’s silly, really. I just- I just can’t eat when there are people around. I don’t know what’s wrong with me but when I’m not alone anything that goes down comes straight back up.” The words felt bitter in his mouth, surely Obanai would think he was crazy after hearing him admit that.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Obanai said flatly, taking another bite of his food.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Tomioka looks at him and just smiles. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles, genuinely, for the first time in years. And Obanai has to redirect his full attention to his plate to hide the blush creeping onto his face at the sight.

“Thank you, Obanai, that means a lot to me. Really.”

“Yeah…No problem. And I mean it, by the way, there’s nothing wrong with you. Tons of people have issues with things like that.”

Tomioka stays crouched down next to him just smiling and watching for another minute before Obanai finished eating. As soon as he’s done Giyuu reaches over and picks them up. “I’ll take these to the kitchen for you, I have to finish plating some stuff for the others before they get here.”

“Ah, ok” Obanai puts his bandages back around his mouth and let Kaburamaru slither back around his shoulders, picking up the snakes small plate and carrying it into the kitchen where he places it on top of his empty plate in the sink.

“The others should start getting here in a few minutes if you’d like to wait in the main room, or have a seat at the table.” Giyuu tells him as he portions food out onto plates and rice into bowls, carefully making different portion sizes for each Hashira.

Obanai does as Giyuu says and moves to wait in the main room of the estate, answering the door every time someone arrives and giving them the same instructions he’d been given until Giyuu comes out and tells them all to go sit down.

~-♥-♥-♥-~

The dinner went smoothly, everyone eating and chatting as they normally would, occasionally complimenting the food but overall hardly acknowledging that Tomioka had been the one to make it. As they all finished and prepared to leave, Sanemi approached Obanai.

“Hey. You wanna go get something to eat after this?” It wasn’t uncommon for Sanemi to accompany him to pick up food from a restaurant after these dinners.

“Oh uh, actually I ate beforehand today. Sorry..”

“Ah ok, you wanna just go home then?” As much as he’d usually love to go home with Sanemi, hang out, probably talk shit about Giyuu. Make fun of his home’s bland interior or how he hardly spoke the whole night despite hosting but honestly? Obanai didn’t feel up to that. And he almost doubted that he ever would be again.

“I…was gonna stop in a town a bit away from here before going home, actually. It’d probably just be better if you just went home by yourself tonight.” It was the first lie he could think of, and it was a pretty awful one at that, but he needed to talk to giyuu one last time before he left tonight and the last thing he wanted was for Sanemi to see him.

“Right…You have fun with that I guess. I’m leaving.”

“Okay, see you later.” Obanai waved at him before making his way back over to the kitchen where Giyuu stood, washing dishes. Two full and hardly touched plates on the counter next to him.

“Hey.”

“Oh, hello Obanai.” Giyuu sounded a lot more cheerful speaking to him now than he had earlier. “Did you need something?”

“Oh no, I just wanted to thank you again. And apologize again. This was really nice.”

“I’m glad you appreciated it, but really there’s no need to thank me. Or apologize.”

“If you’re sure…Hey. Before I leave, we should hang out sometime. Just like, get drinks or food and talk or something.”

“Yeah…That- That sounds nice. Let’s get drinks soon.” And once again Giyuu smiles at Obanai, big, and bright, and happier than he had felt since officially joining the corps.

Maybe, just maybe, things wouldn't go so badly this time. Maybe Obanai wouldn't leave him like everyone else had.

And maybe, Giyuu wasn’t quite as bad as he had always seemed.

~- end -~

hihi!! I hope you liked it!!! Comments and Kudos are always appreciated, esp comments lol

I swear im gonna finish the dadbaccio Au fic. The last chapter is like halfway done I'm struggling im sorry

anywayyys,

Don't forget to eat food, drink water, and get sleep! Don't intentionally not eat food, drink water, or get sleep! Love youu <33 Thanks for reading!!

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serenadeonacanoe · 2 months ago

Text

Untitled, 2025 (GD x OFC) Chapter 2: Budget Romeo

Pairing: G-Dragon/Kwon Jiyong x OFC

Genre/Warnings: Slow Burn, Tour Life, let's add these along the way.

More on AO3

-----------------------------------------

January 2025

Christmas break was deliciously slow. I stayed in Seoul. I usually tried to make it back to see family every two years or so, and sometimes they would visit instead, especially now that Grandma was getting older. But this year, she was the one who went abroad to see my mother and so… I was alone in Seoul for the holidays. And by god, I enjoyed it so much. Probably because only once the tension wore off did I realize how hard I had been working the last couple of months - and how much work was still ahead of me.

Once or twice, I caught myself checking emails that first day off, but then it got better. I deep-cleaned the apartment, read a book for the first time in what felt like ages and had a New Year’s dinner with a couple of friends. Jiyong texted me the next morning, but honestly, it read like something he might have copy-pasted to the whole team, so I just replied briefly, wished him all the best, and left it at that.

I didn’t think about it much while I enjoyed the time away, before work picked up again ten days later. And it picked up fast. At the end of the month, Ji was set to perform in Paris - his first big, big live performance since the MAMAs exactly two months ago, and a month before the album drop. It would be with Taeyang and I was confident it would be a full success. His performances never really worried me. If things got stressful at my job, it was mostly because there were so many moving parts, so much to plan, coordinate and double-check.

So much, in fact, that I almost forgot about the Instagram account. I am at the first meeting back and suddenly realize I should get some shots just in case. We had scheduled some content for the break, but now it was back on me to keep it running. And people just liked content that felt like it was happening in real time - understandably. Everyone is chatting because, to no one’s surprise, our superstar was late. And not just a little late. Full-on, unapologetically late. It is fine, though. We all have emails to write and coffees to finish.

When he finally shows up, he is in full social protection mode: mask, sunglasses and a wooly hat. Even though I don’t always fully understand what he’s feeling when he needs that kind of shielding, I sort of get it by now. Usually, it’s not too bad around people he knows, but who knows what he’s been up to the last couple of weeks - maybe he needs to warm up again. Which doesn’t mean he isn’t charming. When he sees me standing at the back of the room filming, he points a finger at my phone and runs toward me. Well, no, not me, obviously - the camera. Let’s be clear. Still, maybe I also need a little time to adjust, because for a second I seriously forget that what I’m seeing on my screen isn’t meant for me. The cute attempt at a wink (unsuccessful, but he’s getting better), the dramatic removal of his hat followed by a hair ruffle, like he’s embarrassed his aegyo got away from him, and the little giggle when he walks off. Be still my beating heart.

Later, at the meeting, we talk about incorporating more old images into the campaign. People had loved the childhood pictures used during the MAMA performance. So I pick up a hard drive on the way out - it contains all the images from Ji’s career, neatly arranged by year and tag. I figure I should try to stick to the theme and sprinkle in a few of the older photos when I present the next couple of posts.

I sit down in the hallway with my laptop while everyone else lingers in the meeting room. I don’t know how long they’ll be and I don’t feel like hovering. The number of images is so overwhelming it freezes me for a second. I’m trying to figure out where to even start when my mouse hovers over the folder marked 2014. Hmm. In the end, I don’t know why I click it. Why I’m looking. But back then, the private and public sides of things often blurred - long before social media became what it is today. And I almost shriek when I come across what looks like pictures from that holiday house after a bit of scrolling.

Someone must have brought a Polaroid. I don’t remember any of it, which isn’t surprising considering how much I drank. Or how much time has passed. The pictures aren’t high quality, but they have that lovely deep saturation and somehow smell of sunscreen. People by the lake, people laughing at a campfire. And then... people lying under a tree in the shade. Me, next to him, eyes closed. Ji looking at me with a smile. Wow.

I can’t help but study every detail. I remember that moment vividly, but seeing our younger selves hits different. His hair was long and black back then, undercut showing - he looked like a completely different person. So young. Me too, actually. That fringe…

It would all be very wholesome if it weren’t for the next picture. Jiyong, much later that night. Cigarette in mouth, eyes super spaced out, clearly wasted. His arm around Cheungha, who looks similarly drunk.

I take a deep breath. And then I quickly shut my computer when I hear footsteps beside me in the hallway, even before I realize it’s Jiyong himself. He stops mid-step, probably because I’m sitting on the floor when there are perfectly good desks nearby. Also, I just behaved like I’m hiding something, which… I kind of am.

“That bad?” he asks, and I can’t help but smile before I shake my head. “No, you just startled me.” “Oh. Well, we can’t have that. Sorry.” I shake my head again. “I was just looking at old pictures. The hairstyles are all over the place.”

To my surprise, he squats down until he’s at eye level with me. Mask and shades are gone, though the winter hat is still there.

“Well... yeah, that I get. That really is scary. What year?” I hesitate. My mouth is a little dry when I finally answer. “Around the time we first met?”

I hold his gaze, pinning him down a bit with it. I probably shouldn’t ask, but ever since that moment before break, my curiosity about whether he remembers me from way back then has reignited. I’m not even sure why. What does it matter now?

I think there’s a flicker in his eyes. A shift. His composure drops for half a second before he slowly nods. “So... like ten years ago?”

We stare at each other, the moment hanging. He remembers. Or at least, he’s not pretending he doesn’t. “Eleven,” I correct him, knowing full well that the exact number isn’t the point. “Ten and a half…” We’re both smirking now.

“Show me?” I take a breath and open my computer again, click back to the first of those summer pictures. He skips through them himself, the laptop still on my lap. When the tree photo appears, he sucks in his upper lip and chews on it for a second. Is that discomfort?

“We were babies,” he finally says. “Yeah, we were. But really, we were grownups, right?” He nods slowly. We were in our mid-20s… no teenagers. His eyes are still on the picture when he speaks again.

“Was a good weekend until…” He pauses. “Until?” “Until I messed it up.” His head turns toward me and there’s something oddly satisfying about it.

He didn’t break my heart back then. But it was kind of a dick move. And after seeing him again all these years later, I always felt like I wanted that to at least be acknowledged. It took its sweet time, but here it is, finally. And I feel a weird sense of peace.

“Yeah, you did. But you drank what felt like two bottles of Jack that night, so…”

He didn’t exactly apologize. I didn’t exactly say it’s fine. But it feels like both of those things just happened. And I know he feels it too, because he starts grinning before getting back to his feet.

“You should check out the hair from early early 2020. Man, that was bad,” he says, clearly about to leave - probably already late for something again. “Oh, I remember that…” I say, and he just nods. Then he turns around and walks away.

I look back at the picture one more time, then sigh and shut the computer. Time to go home.

Summer 2014

Sunday night, trying to make dinner for everyone staying at the holiday house. It's… a mess, honestly. The idea was sweet, but the reality is that most of us would rather be outside drinking or swimming and now no one took care of it and everyone’s hungry too. So yeah - we ordered takeout. The place is kind of remote and the order was huge, so it’s going to take an hour. In the meantime, a few of us are scavenging for snacks like it’s a group survival challenge. I figured helping is the least I can do, considering I got invited here, so now I’m slicing up cucumber sticks and laughing at myself because let’s be real, no one’s going to eat them. They might end up in someone’s drink, maybe, but that’s about it. Still, effort counts, right?

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I kind of am, when Jiyong shows up next to me. Is he just really quiet when he walks or did he time this on purpose? When I glance over and see him grab another knife to (very badly) help chop, I can’t help but smile.“What?” he asks, smirking. “You can’t admit you like hanging out with me?”

Yeah, that’s the thing. It makes me feel silly how into him I am, but at the same time, it feels so good. Like, my body is already reacting before my brain can catch up. He looks very pleased with himself, clearly enjoying the effect he’s having. “Maybe.” I say, keeping it vague, eyes back on the cutting board. He shifts his hip just enough to nudge mine, casually, like he does it all the time.Both of us grin wider. Then his pinky slides over, hooking into mine.We are literally holding fingers while chopping vegetables. It’s painfully adorable.

After a minute, I can feel his gaze on me, so eventually I give in and look back, chin tipped over my shoulder, lips already twitching into another smile. He is just… beautiful. There’s something wild in his eyes, and at the same time he can be unexpectedly sweet. And - ugh, I kind of hate to admit this, because it’s not something I want to be into - but he’s effortlessly cool. The way he moves, the way he talks, even the way he leans on the kitchen counter now looking at me from slightly below. He’s just… cool. That look really does something to me. Like he’s perfectly happy to stay in this moment, letting it stretch out, riding the tension instead of jumping ahead? I’m into it. I’m so into it. My friend warned me. And she’s right. But… damn.

We look at each other for what feels like minutes. No more pretending. No more playing it off like a coincidence.His hand slides closer, then settles gently over mine, fingers weaving in between. He moves a little closer, one hand lazily playing with the ends of my hair while my fingers absentmindedly fumble with the collar of his little polo. And thank god that’s exactly when someone else walks into the kitchen - because honestly, who knows where that was headed. We both take a tiny step back, just enough to make it look casual. He’s grinning like getting caught was half the fun.Honestly? Same.

The cucumber sticks go exactly as expected: ignored. But then the takeout finally arrives, and suddenly everyone’s back in party mode, as if hunger never existed. And wow, what a party. Even more alcohol than last night, music blasting, people dancing, laughing too loudly… I get pulled into a chat with two other women on the deck and lose track of time for at least an hour. By the time I look around again, everyone’s several drinks ahead of me. I know I won’t catch up - not that I want to. Watching everyone slowly unravel is kind of fascinating. I’ve seen drunk people, especially in Seoul, but this is different. It’s indulgent. Decadent, even. I’m not sure I belong here, actually. Scratch that - I know I don’t. But dropping in for a few days? Kind of delicious.

And you know what would make this whole sun-soaked, wine-drenched weekend perfect?Finally kissing Ji.God, finally.

Screw being careful. We’re heading home tomorrow. It’s now or never. He was watching me earlier, too - half an hour ago, maybe more. He even looked a little annoyed that I was talking to someone else. I haven’t seen him for a while, but now that I’ve made up my mind, I’m not interested in waiting.

I want to kiss that cheeky little smirk right off his face.

He’s kissing Cheungha. And by kissing, I mean they’re making out in the dark, pressed against the hallway wall. Her hand is under his shirt, and he’s feeling her up.

For a second, I just stand there, frozen. My first instinct is to turn around and leave, but then she notices me - or at least notices they’re not alone - and starts giggling. Ji turns his head toward me as well and I can tell he recognizes me instantly.But I don’t wait for his reaction. I leave.

On my way outside, it’s like there’s static buzzing in my thoughts. Fuck. I drank a lot too. I can’t even organize what I’m thinking. Eventually, as I make my way back down to the lake without any real plan, it all comes out - in the form of laughter. It surprises me a little. But seriously, it is kinda funny.I won’t pretend I’m not upset. At both of them, actually. But the fact that Cheungha warned me about this - and then went and did it anyway?Come on. It’s so dumb it’s funny.

I stop when I see Seunghyun by the lake.He looks up and smiles when he recognizes me. “Let me guess. You just walked in on budget Romeo with his tongue down someone else’s throat?” I snicker and sink onto a log next to him. He must have seen them as well.

He takes a drag from his cigarette and pats my shoulder.“Jiyong’s a mess. A charming mess. But still a mess.” “Thanks for the heads-up.” “Don’t take it personally. He does this. He treats attention like it’s oxygen. And I’ve never seen Cheungha this drunk, if that helps.” “Not really. But I appreciate the effort.”

He watches me for a moment, then grabs a bottle from beside him and offers it to me. I accept. “We could make out to even the score. For symmetry.” I can’t help but grin.“Tempting. But I think I’d rather go home with a little dignity intact.” Seunghyun nods. “You’re smarter than you look. That’s rare around here. But it’s after 4 AM, so… just wait 'til the morning.”

I sigh, take a sip and nod, trying to collect my thoughts. “Okay, yeah - you’re right. But let’s at least take a dip. I need to clear my head.”

Minutes later, we’re in the water. And honestly?I’m actually having fun. Screw kissing pretty boys. Probably never going to see the guy again anyways.

#fanfic #big bang #big bang fanfiction #gdragon #gdragon fanfiction #kwon jiyong #kwon jiyong x reader

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sailorsplatoon · 2 months ago

Text

I am still going to be on vacation when this comes out, but thanks to scheduling posts I can still get you chapter 15 of An LED Light at the End of the Tunnel!

You can slo read it on ao3!

First

(fanfic below cut)

Four leapt onto the station platform, a large bag draped over their shoulder and a wide smile on their face.

“Holy shit, you guys weren’t kidding, Splatsville is huge!” They exclaimed as they took in the towering buildings, a vast array of different shops, restaurants, and entertainment. The skyscrapers were so tall, Four thought they might fall over from staring at them.

“Told ya,” Nell teased, dragging a bag of her own. “Although, I don’t think I’d want to live here. I think I still prefer Inkopolis.”

“You got a soft spot for Inkopolis now, Nell?” Phal teased. Spore seemed to make a laughing sound, though it could have also been a burp.

“Shut up,” she grumbled in response. “I just appreciate that Itys has shown us enough hospitality to let us stay at their apartment for the time being.”

“Everyone, Neo’s been waiting for us for the past several minutes,” Atra pointed out, gesturing to the inkling and faer smallfry standing a few yards away from the station.

“Are you coming or what? The others are already my place!” Fae called. Faer Octarian was getting better, though fae still struggled with some pronunciations, and often forgot small words.

“‘The others are already at my place’,” Atra corrected.

“We’re coming!” Four called to Neo, rushing into the city. The four Octarians followed close behind.

Splatsville was being decorated for the upcoming Splatfest, with machinery and boxes of decorations everywhere. Four and the others were planning on staying at Neo’s condo for the weekend so that they could get to see what a Splatfest in Splatsville was like. Four had taken the Octarians to Splatfests in Inkopolis Plaza before, but they’d never gotten to see a Splatfest in Splatsville. This one was special too; Shiver, Frye, and Big Man were competing to see who would be the better leader of Deep Cut.

It had been about a year since Neo defeated Mr. Grizz, and the war between inklings and octarians finally came to an end. Now the vast majority of octolings were living freely on the surface, which Octavio was more than happy to see. With no war to fight anymore, he dedicated his time to working with Marina on a way to cure the octarians who had been sanitized in the Deepsea Metro, and hoped to eventually use the same method to cure those who had been fuzzed as well. The two had even asked Four and Eight to help out. Four was set to act as a security guard and help with some beta testing, while Eight would be the first official user.

“So, what teams are you all joining for the splatfest?” Neo pried as fae let the group to faer condo.

“I’m team Big Man, obviously.” Nell shrugged a little.

“Team Frye all the way!” Phal cheered, Spore gargling in agreement.

“I’m going to have to go team Shiver,” Atra said.

“I still can’t decide. I think they’d all be great leaders,” Four whined.

“Come on, Four, you gotta pick a team!” Neo punched them lightly in the shoulder, faer tone teasing.

Four elbowed faer back playfully. “I know, but it’s so hard! What are the others going with?”

Neo sighed, trying to remember. “Captain’s going team Shiver, Eight’s team Frye, both Callie and Marie are team Big Man— I think that’s ‘cuz of the Liquid Sunshine thing. I’m team Shiver.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t narrow down my choices at all,” Four sighed.

“Well maybe everyone else will be able to help you decide because we’re here!” Neo announced, stopping in front of a large condominium complex. “Come on in!”

Fae held the door open as the Four, Phal, Spore, Atra, and Nell walked through.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Guess what? There's another oneshot with this chapter! Time to see what Four and Marie have been doing just a few weeks after this!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64590094

#splatoon fanfiction #An LED Light at the End of the Tunnel #splatoon au #agent 4 splatoon #agent 4 #neo agent 3 #marie splatoon #new squidbeak splatoon #splatoon oc

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okayto · 1 month ago

Text

Mini-Reviews: Recent Mystery Demos

Celebrated the end of finals by playing through a bunch of demos in my Steam library, so let's see how they were!

Escape Tales: The Awakening

A haunting narrative puzzle game that plunges you into a world shrouded in darkness and mystery. Immerse yourself in a gripping tale of loss, redemption, and the echoes of a forgotten past based on the well-received escape room card game.

I'm not familiar with the physical game this is based on—until this moment copy-pasting the description, I didn't even know it existed. I saw a demo for a game described or tagged as "narrative," "mystery," and "story rich" and downloaded it immediately.

The demo takes you through the story set-up, and the first setting (which can include a couple puzzles), and I expect it gives a good taste of what gameplay is like. It's heavy on the narrative; you're doing a lot of reading, and clicking on some static things to complete puzzles, not navigating a 3D character. It was definitely enough time for me to get invested, and I was jolted when the game revealed the demo section had ended. Definitely going to be looking into the full game.

Demo Playtime: Took me 20 minutes

Release Date: October 2024 (demo still available as of post date)

Find It: Steam

Kill the Clock

A narrative time-loop mystery adventure where you relive the same week to solve a murder that keeps changing. Customize your character, roll dice to influence story outcomes, and uncover the truth—before time resets again.

The time-loop aspect intrigued me, but it didn't even come up in the playable demo, which I'm hoping means the game will have quite a lot to do! Not that that's a criticism of the demo; I was enjoying myself so much I completely forgot about the concept that induced me to download it in the first place.

This is a visual novel-style game, with character dialogue and choices. There's limited customization (witness the two base character options above, though shortly after the game begins you're given a chance to make changes to hair and some other accessories), and you also choose a profession that gives you stats in different concepts like combat, persuasion, and bribery—stats that affect your success during the game, as you may need to roll dice to use skills, and higher stats obviously make winning more likely.

I am, frankly, now very invested in finding out what happened re: the murder; I enjoyed all the demos here, but this is the one I keep thinking about most. The art is pretty, and the writing seems fine— the devs appear to be a small team in Korea, and their updates on Steam have mentioned smoothing out the English translation a few times, which must've worked since nothing stood out to me as awkwardly-phrased.

Demo Playtime: Took me about an hour

Release Date: Expected early June 2025 for early access

Find It: Steam

Mysteries of Perception

A detective game where you will see the same scene through the eyes of different characters. Uncover their secrets by analyzing all the clues. Switch perspectives and learn everything about the artifacts of the Distant and the deaths in their wake. Glory to the Stars!

A solid point-and-click title whose strength lies in the intriguing setting we find ourselves in. It quickly becomes clear that this isn't our world; we're looking at archaeology and discussions of history of not just places renamed from our world, but somewhere with a completely different history (of alien visitors? perhaps?).

Gameplay itself is easy to figured out—click on certain things to investigate, and if you can't figure out what, you can cause all clickable things to sparkle if they haven't been investigated yet (but since that's an action, you can avoid it if you prefer hunting everything yourself). You can switch between two characters, getting different perspectives and in some cases different investigation options. The mechanism for solving the scene and moving on requires both investigating, and then using clues in a some of fill-in-the-blank.

I enjoyed this and do plan on getting the full game, but I sense that it may be somewhat short. When the demo finishes, it appears to show that the demo portion is the first chapter of three; I would guess that the second and third chapters may take longer (the things you have to solve definitely got longer from what I could see), but I suspect it's still a fairly short game.

Demo Playtime: About 15 minutes

Release Date: January 2025 (demo still available as of post date)

Find It: Steam

Chrono Crimes

Investigate crimes and solve them... before they happen. Scour future crime scenes, corroborate suspects' alibis, search for incriminating evidence and uncover the truth before the culprit can get away with it.

The most interesting gameplay of the demos so far, It begins looking like a standard visual novel-style game, clicking through dialogue, but then it shifts: you're a new investigator involving time crimes. Your first day, you need to sleuth around an elite high school to solve (or prevent) murders—but the caveat is, not only do you have a limited amount of time on each trip, but if the other characters see you, you're immediately flung out of the past, requiring you to make yet another trip.

This is done in a stylized but 3D environment, and the other characters move around in real time. This means if you make multiple trips (and you will have to make multiple trips), you can start figuring out who goes where when, making it easier to avoid getting caught on subsequent trips. When you finally gather all the clues and safety transport those back to the office, you can begin a preliminary interrogation with your coworkers that's like a visual novel again.

I love the concept. Having to sneak around, observe and avoid characters in real time was really fun, and I can't wait to play more. It does, however, still need some work. The same thing that makes this interesting (real-time character discussions and scenes) means that when you make multiple trips, you'll watch some of the same things over and over. You're kicked back to the present the moment a character sees you, which can be really hard to gauge if you're hiding (or if they came up behind you and you're kicked back to the office for seemingly no reason). You can only retrieve "clues" if you don't get caught AND use the time machine (situated in a closet); if you head back to the office by getting caught or running out of time, the clue doesn't come with you (despite clue being...just information, no physical objects). The dev team is Spanish, and while the English translation is 100% understandable, it definitely uses phrasing and words that sound clunky and unnatural.

Since the game is still in development and doesn't have a release date yet, there's still time to hope the final version will smooth out the issues.

Demo Playtime: Took me just under an hour, but will vary widely depending on how much you can avoid being caught

Release Date: Unknown/TBD

Find It: Steam

Until Then

A fateful meeting sets off a chain reaction, upending Mark's life. People disappear and memories prove unreliable. Uncover a hidden truth with Mark and his friends in this narrative adventure and race to unravel the mystery before it's too late.

A late addition to this post (i.e. I played the demo after the original post was written and queued, but added this because I really liked it), this was a fascinating and beautiful game. The pixel graphics convey way more emotion than I would've expected going in, and I loved navigating through the setting (Philippines) as the main character goes about his day.

The story so far is enticing—teenagers, friendship, crushes, navigating schoolwork, all with the backdrop of a worldwide series of disasters the previous year, and the distinct sense that something is wrong (in a "was that a glitch in the Matrix"-sort-of-way), but the demo portion ends without a reveal.

Gameplay was fun. There are large amounts of narrative conversations, many of which require choosing from 2 or 3 reply options and which presumably can affect the game and your relationships. It's not a traditional visual novel, though, and you navigate from place to place via side-scrolling walking, and I enjoyed a mini-game to grab fried snacks from a pot.

The thing that stands out, however, is how smartphones are used in the game (which takes place in 2015): at times you are carrying on individual or group messaging conversations, and you can actually scroll up and down in the chats, as well as switch between them. The game smartphone is also used at times to scroll a Facebook-like social media—which also allows you to click and see post comments, open news articles, and see user profiles. It was super cool, and really lets you understand more of the worldbuilding without hitting you over the head. Immediately added the full game to my wishlist.

Demo Playtime: 60-90 minutes

Release Date: January 2024 (demo still available as of post date)

Find It: Steam, PS5

If you’re interested in a game described above, it may also be available in other formats or platforms than what I played. If you liked this post, click my “reviews” or “video games” tags below or search on my blog to find more.

#video games #reviews #Chrono Crimes #Mysteries of Perception #Kill the Clock #Escape Tales: The Awakening #Until Then game

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michaelormewood · 1 year ago

Note

How do you feel about Hugh possibly killing Lacey? I don’t think the show will go that dark either but it would be a great season opener!

well that would definitely be an interesting way to kick off the second season, and i can see the appeal of bumping off a main cast member, but i do agree with you that i don't think they'd do it. they actually seem pretty averse to the darker or grittier stuff.

i don't even think you'd need to kill lacey off for lacey-in-danger to be an interesting storyline. like... if i was writing it i'd have lacey disappear (i mean found itself kind of forgot she was on the show at some point and she and the actress deserve something to do....). i'd have her disappearance be the overarching case of the second season, with the cases of the week paralleling lacey's disappearance, i'd throw in flashbacks to gabi and lacey's immediate post-kidnapping relationship and how it developed over the years, perhaps even flashbacks of sir following both of them as they grow up to show that he was never fully out of their lives. someone continues to drop clues about lacey's disappearance and of course everyone assumes sir is behind it except gabi (let's say gabi and sir have been in contact through social media or secret meetings or something, and gabi's reasonably sure he didn't take lacey).

the truth about lacey's disappearance and ultimate fate is resolved in the finale, with annie lopez as the kidnapper (because i refuse to believe annie is actually dead). annie--who faked her death a few years earlier--has been obsessed with finding sir, and kidnapped lacey due to her connection to him. she's been trying to lure sir into the open and believed kidnapping a surviving victim would get his attention. annie gets taken in and eventually committed to a mental health facility.

the team is still fractured but with lacey back, things look hopeful for the first time all season. gabi has slowly begun to win back the trust of her team members, and she and trent have grown closer. but she still has that problem of sir to iron out. they arrange a clandestine meeting for gabi to inform him that lacey was found. sir figures the gig is up and gabi will be turning him over to trent, but gabi surprises him by saying she isn't going to immediately give him up to the police. he helped get lacey back for her and she feels some gratitude toward him. the season ends with them striking an uneasy truce; sir will keep assisting M&A from the shadows and gabi will keep sir off the radar as long as he keeps his nose clean.

the final scene of my imaginary s2 would be them sitting on the balcony of a hotel with a tea service. gabi pours the tea and sir looks at it and wonders if she's poisoned it to finally get rid of him once and for all. but gabi makes a show of taking his cup and drinking from it to reassure him she has no murderous plans (for now). they sip their tea together. you can hear police sirens in the distance. they look at each other over their cups. a tentative truce has been struck. end scene.

(you could either end the show on that final scene OR set up a deeply weird, personal, complicated partnership for s3 too!)

#anonymous #replies #ask box #lacey quinn #gabi mosely #hugh evans #found nbc #nbc found #found spoilers #long post #text

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soleillunne · 2 years ago

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asking for your selfship headcanons bc we can never have enough of alyzuha and xiaolyssa content in the world <3

OH OH I HAVE TONS SBHJFKMGLH

also this is a mix of alyzuha and xiaolyssa :> also theyre all over the place

i have trouble sleeping so kazuha lays down w me and whispers to me and does the thing where you like draw shapes on smos back until i fall asleep to help me

also he wakes up before me but i always wake up before breakfast is ready bc idk i cant sleep for that long for some reason

as for xiao: he doesnt sleep that often bc of nightmares but he always lays w me (us?? id die if it was kazuha x alyssa x xiao)

i would rather die than be near bugs of any shape of form so both kazuha and xiao take care of them before i even notice (slight flashback to that one time i told vi changsheng would eat bugs for her lmao)

also in both cases i fall first and they fall harder bc heart eyes have you seen them

expanding on the fireworks hc which is here , kazuha would take me to a secluded area and would just watch the stars w me and maybe we would whisper to eachother and just talk all night

also as mentioned in vi's selfships series like twice i think (i keep going back to those theyre so cute) i make bracelets for us three!! theyre all custom made and like different from eachother but also when you look at them you can understand theyre a set if that makes sense

xiao gives us (i decided to go with xiao x alyssa x kazuha shh) like um blessed stone thibsg I FORGOT WHAT THEY WERE CALLED that like alert him when we're in danger so he can come fight w us before we can even call for him bc he worries :(

I SPEAK TO XIAO IN TURKISH JUST TO SEE HIM FLUSTERED LMAO

kazuha tries to teach me japanese at some point (since i think each nation has a language of its own and teyvats language is like a worldwide language as an extra) AND HE FAILS BC I CANT UNDERTSAND IT but i get upset bc i think hes disappointed in me and i try so hard to learn it on my own so i can impress and suprise him one day

xiao: "what language you speak doesn't matter as long as you're mine" USDBFHGIUJOH DIES

kazuha confesses first to me but i confess first to xiao

OKAY SO I WROTE THIS IN A POST OF MINE AND IT WAS EXTREMELY BASED OFF OF ME BUT!! me and zhongli def have tea on afternoons at least once a week where we talk about xiao

similarly i will talk about kazuha to beidou (and she'll try to embarrass him)

special occasions (like birthdays, anniversaries etc.) are spent w just us three and nothing else. like we dont run errands or any of that we just spend time together (kazuha wrote me a haiku on my bday - as his voiceline goes- once and i started crying lmao)

all of us prefer handmade gifts over bought ones so gifts are very pretty but also they all mean sth to us!!

kazuha lets me play with his hair and xiao plays with mine its like those pics where multiple people braid their hair at the same time if youve seen it before HIS HAIR IS SO SOFT ASBDJFKGLH

kazuhas handwriting is pretty if you can read cursive but xiaos is unintelligable so mine is the only handwriting that you can actually read lmao

we have two cats. because i love cats and i have two of them (OH MAYBE WE'LL HAVE 3 BC TOMOS CAT OMG)

kazuha cooks, i bake and xiao sits on the counter looking pretty as he taste tests the food

THEY TEAM UP ON ME TO FLUSTER ME AND I GO ///// IRL LIKE DVGBHJFGH

when im in pain™ they both hold me and kiss me all day to make me feel better :")

alyzuha is friends to lovers and xiaolyssa is reincarnation au (detailed verison here) but also xiaolyssa has insane friends to lovers with angst potential (it has angst potential in general but i dont like thinking abt it bc it makes me sad lmao)

thats all i got at the top of my head rn

#selfship #chitchat #aly's friends.[mika✨]

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lastweeksshirttonight · 2 years ago

Text

It was 95 degrees with 35% humidity today, my house feels like the inside of a blast furnace, and somehow I decided this was prime "watch and write about John" hours. So greetings from the surface of the sun, we've got more LWT to see!

Last Lee Tonight (wherein there is, theoretically, a universe where John Oliver is writing Tumblr reviews of Lee's topical news comedy) Season One, Episode Seven

(original air date: 6/15/2014) Major topics covered: US immigration reform, Washington Football Team Interview: Stephen Hawking

Trigger warning: racist iconography

"If you don't learn the recorder, you're fucked." "Seriously though, playing the recorder sets you up for life."

So uh, fun story. Remember how last week I said that the YouTube channel was finally starting to get the hang of things by episode six, aside from the occasional oddity of a one-minute clipped joke here and there?

The YouTube team didn't upload the main story from this episode to the LWT channel. At all.

We're still in prime "figuring this shit out" mode! Strap in!

That's consistent across the entire episode. After the last episode, which saw the show starting to coalesce into its modern form, this episode seems to go back to the drawing board and toss all kinds of shit at the wall to see what sticks - it's honestly most reminiscent of episode one. The opening segments are lightning-fast and don't transition into each other well, the central topic doesn't go nearly as deep as you'd expect it, and there's a random (but amazing) interview at the end of the show. I wonder if the next episode will swing the pendulum in the opposite direction again.

John starts our episode banging and then punching the desk, going in the opposite direction from our last episode. He seems to be taking out his rage on the glass countertop, which he looks very silly doing.

We begin by revisiting net neutrality, from Episode Five. (I'm linking it because I wrote this months ago, and if your executive dysfunction is anything like mine, you totally forgot everything about the episode.) In that episode, John described Tom Wheeler as a dingo, and somehow Tom Wheeler was asked about the LWT episode in a FCC meeting. He speaks like a literal robot and refutes, in the weirdest way possible, the idea that he's a dingo. How is that the thing you focus on from that whole segment. How. What? Christ.

youtube

The unsaid caption "Satire is not C-SPAN, however." goes without comment, which is unbelievable to me. That phrase cracked me up so hard I had to pause the episode. I know there was a rich vein of missing the point entirely and subsequent dingo humour to mine here, but come on John, that caption is a gift.

We then move to Iraq, where ISIS forces crossed nearly the entire country in five days and stole $400 million dollars. This bit only goes for about a minute before we move to another topic, Obama visiting the Standing Rock Sioux reservation and pledging aid. We finally then transition into a discussion of the Washington Football Team, who, at the time, were still refusing to change their goddamn racist name and iconography, which I will not be using here. (I did learn from writing this that apparently they have rebranded - FINALLY - as the Washington Commanders in 2022, after two seasons of being Washington Football Team.)

youtube

I appreciate how John lets an extremely sincere and powerful commercial made by Native Americans regarding the offensive name largely speak for itself, aside from one dark joke at the end, before discussing what an abject shitwhistle former Washington Football Team owner Dan Snyder is and how pathetic his protestations are.

It did take a while, but Snyder was ousted from his ownership post of the team in 2021 after a massive expose of sexual harassment under his watch was released in 2020. He's been mired in investigations over financial conduct, fraud, and deceptive business practices as well, to which I can only say "good".

The night's main topic, which has no YouTube video anywhere (I'm sorry), is immigration. John says he has a vested interest in the topic and the audience laughs, which is funny-weird because it doesn't seem like John is trying to humorously highlight his insider nature here. The real focus here is the debate over immigration reforms, as the system is (and remains) very broken and anti-immigrant sentiment is high all over the world.

I do wish this clip was on YouTube. It's not the most informative piece on immigration, but is a nice window into how much John loved this country prior to the beginning of its full collapse. This definitely takes much more from The Daily Show mold, being a comedic monologue interspersed with news clips that allow John to riff on the state of immigration, as opposed to later LWT immigration segments, which tend to be exceptionally sobering. This one is comparatively light-hearted and surface-level, and John delivers the material with a very comfortable confidence. I don't think the segment itself is a standout, but I really like John's attitude here.

We technically get our first animal-fucking joke during this segment, which is about bears only fucking face to face and stops John cold as he helplessly giggles over it. One step closer to getting all the running jokes in order!

Somehow, the end of this with the animated Actual American Tale video is on YouTube, so please enjoy one of the most depressing things LWT has ever put together. It's genuinely far more distressing than the actual main topic segment.

youtube

The episode ends with the only appearance of "recurring segment" Great Minds: People Who Think Good, where John interviews Stephen Hawking. Interestingly, I was listening to a podcast today (gonna likely make a separate post on it) where John talked about how much he loved interviewing Hawking and how he wanted to showcase the man's wit and humour more than his intelligence. I think that the interview is incredibly successful in that regard.

youtube

I adore this interview so much. Never have I had so much fun watching John get totally roasted.

Random notes:

Lee is a very predictable man corner: today we get a black suit jacket with lavender shirt and dark purple tie, which is a great look, 9/10. The only thing keeping it from being a 10 is that it's missing an element of boldness. Maybe a deep purple jacket or a shinier tie?

Lee continues being predictable in a second bullet point: the interview outfit is a black suit jacket with a light-blue and white checkered shirt and black tie. Definitely a pedestrian but still solid look and I still love the baby blue on John, so I give this 7/10.

Please stop making me talk about American football in these, John, I beg you.

"I lost my virginity to the sound of a man ranting about Bulgarians." This is so far the best line of early LWT, I will bear no other arguments.

There are no random 1 minute YouTube clips of isolated jokes this episode! 🎊

Once an episode, someone from the past 20 years of American political culture pops up that I've completely forgotten about and am upset to be reminded of. This week, it's Michele Bachmann, who I refuse to look up to see what she's doing now. You cannot make me think more about Michele fucking Bachmann.

There is an extended interview with Stephen Hawking that adds a few nice bits, like John asking Stephen a meandering hypothetical about him being a drug lord with inconsistent staff.

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#john oliver #last week tonight #last week tonight with john oliver #stephen hawking #last lee tonight #Youtube

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