#hes a little better but hes still the same guy

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (2/2) | friendly interactions...or not

୨ৎ : featuring : kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, yuki tsunoda, isack hadjar, and liam lawson + special feature franco colapinto and lance stroll (click here for part one) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @holycastles) : meeting your friends who they seemingly get along with...kinda...not...really?

୨ৎ : genre : comedy / angst if u squint rly rly rly hard ୨ৎ : word count : 2636

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : feel free to comment whose was your favorite to read.. i was lowkey starting to run out of names for the friends but i just loved wiritng their personalities so i kept it going fr...

ʚ・kimi antonelli

when you told your friends you were bringing your boyfriend to game night, the reactions were mixed.

“wait, kimi antonelli?” asked clara, confused.

“the f1 one?” said mara. “how old is he again?”

“isn’t he like… twelve?” theo joked.

“relax,” you said. “he���s eighteen. and also my boyfriend, so behave.”

“we’ll see,” your friend josh said with a smirk. “he better be funny.”

“he’s… his own type of funny,” you muttered.

kimi showed up in a hoodie three sizes too big, with sour candy in one hand and a very serious look on his face.

“hi,” he said to your friends. “i brought these because i don’t know how to interact socially without snacks.”

there was a pause.

josh burst out laughing. “dude. same.”

mara blinked. “wait, was that sarcasm?”

kimi tilted his head. “i don’t even know anymore.”

within twenty minutes, the boys were obsessed.

he and josh bonded over bad memes. he beat theo in mario kart and yelled, “get ratioed” at the top of his lungs. at one point he said, “i’m just a little italian guy trying my best,” and for some reason, that sent everyone into hysterics.

“bro, he’s hilarious,” theo whispered to you. “like, weird, but hilarious.”

meanwhile, clara leaned over to mara and whispered, “do you get what he’s saying half the time?”

“no,” mara replied. “but it’s… endearing?”

during a break in the chaos, kimi curled up next to you on the couch.

“i think i accidentally trauma bonded with your guy friends,” he said.

you grinned. “they love you.”

“clara looks like she’s trying to decode me.”

“she’s just trying to understand the words coming out of your mouth.”

he smirked. “relatable.”

later, when you were getting your jacket to leave, you heard josh go, “hey man. game night again next week?”

kimi blinked. “i thought you guys weren’t sure about me.”

“you said ‘skibidi rizzler’ and then roasted theo’s spotify. you’re in.”

mara added, “i don’t get half your jokes, but you clearly love her, so… you’re safe.”

kimi blushed to his ears. “i do. a lot.”

in the car, he looked over at you, cheeks still pink.

“was i weird?”

“yes,” you said, grinning. “but you were also so you. and they liked that.”

he leaned his head back, dramatically relieved. “i was gonna throw up if they hated me.”

you squeezed his hand. “don’t worry, "skibidi rizzler". you’ve been accepted.”

he groaned. “never say that again.”

ʚ・ollie bearman

“i’m warning you now,” you said as you opened the door to your friend's apartment, “just let him talk. he’ll get back around eventually.”

your best friend lina raised a brow. “you make it sound like he’s a glitching npc.”

“he kind of is,” you said. “in a cute way.”

ollie burst in with a wide grin, arms full of snacks, and said, “hi! i didn’t know what people liked so i got crisps—sorry, chips—and cookies, but not the boring kind, like the chunky ones, oh and grapes? don’t know why, i panicked in tesco.”

everyone stared.

then zach went, “dude. grapes are elite.”

and just like that, ollie was in.

it didn’t take long for the chaos to unfold.

“so anyway, i was karting when i was, like, six, and i spun out and—wait, no, that was the time i threw up. different story. but yeah! that was actually at buckmore park—have you ever been there? it’s sick—oh! remind me to show you the video of my crash there. it’s insane—but like, i was fine! mostly.”

your friend jordan blinked. “you good, man?”

“never,” ollie replied with a grin. “but like, in a charming way.”

he was overly polite to your girlfriends — offering drinks, clearing plates, pulling chairs out like an actual prince.

meanwhile, your guy friends loved him. they started egging him on to tell more f2 horror stories and he delivered, with bonus sound effects.

“then the suspension just clonk right into the curb—oh! and i had no radio. like, dead silent. except i was screaming. in my helmet. obviously.”

lina leaned over to you, wide-eyed. “he’s… surprisingly not annoying.”

you laughed. “high praise.”

later, while you were helping clean up, you found ollie in the kitchen with zach, passionately explaining why banana bread is a “top-tier mental health snack.”

“i just think if i was sad and someone handed me banana bread, i’d, like, immediately heal. you know?”

zach nodded, solemn. “you’re so right.”

you walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist.

he startled, turned, then beamed. “oh! i forgot you were here for a second.”

“wow. romantic.”

“i didn’t mean—wait, no, i—ugh. i was just talking about you actually—like in a nice way—not in a creepy ‘i forgot you existed’ way.”

you laughed into his chest. “it’s okay. they love you.”

“really?”

“mmhmm. even lina said you weren’t annoying.”

he gasped. “success.”

ʚ・yuki tsunoda

“are you sure?” yuki asked as you pulled into the driveway.

you glanced at him. “sure about what?”

“meeting your girl group. that’s intense. like—way more intimidating than any race.”

you grinned. “you’ve done monaco. you’ll survive maya, dani, and alina.”

he groaned, already slouching in his seat. “i’m so short. they’re gonna judge me.”

“they’re literally all under 5'6" and alina is obsessed with you.”

that got him to sit up straighter.

the second you walked in, the energy shifted.

“oh my god, he’s so tiny,” dani squealed before even saying hi.

yuki blinked. “that’s rude.”

maya gasped. “wait, he talks back? i love him already.”

you gave him a see? look and whispered, “you’re good.”

but then alina wrapped him in a hug and he straight up hid his face in your shoulder.

“she’s too nice,” he muttered.

the four of you curled up in the living room, snacks out, wine flowing, and yuki slowly relaxing as the evening unfolded.

he told them about japan. about driving. about his new obsession with peach iced tea.

“i had six in one day once,” he said proudly. “i thought i was gonna ascend.”

“you did not just use the word ‘ascend,’” maya laughed.

he shrugged. “i’m multilingual and dramatic. let me live.”

every time you got up to grab something, yuki subtly followed you with his eyes.

when you disappeared into the kitchen for longer than thirty seconds?

“where’d she go?” he asked, shifting closer to the edge of the couch.

“she’s grabbing the popcorn,” alina replied.

yuki stared at the doorway like a lost puppy.

dani whispered, “he’s so whipped. it’s adorable.”

later, while you were all painting your nails and gossiping, yuki laid across the couch, half-asleep with his head in your lap.

alina grinned. “he’s different than i thought. i expected him to be, like… louder.”

you brushed yuki’s hair back gently. “oh, he’s loud. just not when he’s this cozy.”

he mumbled, “i’m awake.”

“you’re drooling on my leg.”

“i’m cozy,” he grumbled.

when it was time to leave, maya kissed his cheek and said, “you’re not allowed to break her heart. or we will break your knees.”

yuki blinked. “i believe you.”

alina giggled. “he’s so soft. i love him.”

as you walked him back to the car, he slid his fingers between yours and murmured, “they’re scary. but nice.”

you laughed. “you were perfect.”

“even when i drooled?”

“especially then.”

ʚ・isack hadjar

“he’s not… like… calm, is he?” your friend rowan asked as they rearranged the snacks on the table.

you blinked. “define calm?”

from the hallway, isack yelled, “babe! i almost knocked over a bike rack trying to parallel park! but we’re good!”

rowan just looked at you. “right.”

isack burst into the apartment like he was walking into a stadium, arms wide, yelling, “where are the friends? i brought vibes.”

everyone stared.

then zara whispered, “…he’s french?”

and isla said, “this is already the best night ever.”

from the jump, isack had no filter. he told a story about a bird flying into his car. he tried to do a backflip off the couch and nearly took out a lamp. he mispronounced “charcuterie” like three different ways — all confidently.

at one point, he shouted, “i love her!” across the room when you handed him a soda, then took a bow.

rowan blinked. “so. he’s like… a cartoon character?”

you just sipped your drink. “you get used to it.”

then it happened.

zara leaned in, voice too innocent. “wait. are you the one who said no no no i destroyed the car?”

isack froze.

you watched the life leave his eyes. “that was… taken out of context.”

“oh no,” rowan said. “it was very in context.”

isla pulled it up on her phone. “it’s literally right here. you’re screaming.”

isack covered his face. “i will never know peace.”

to recover, he stood on a chair and shouted, “i may have destroyed a car, but i will never destroy the vibe.”

the room cheered like he’d won eurovision.

you just watched from the kitchen, shaking your head. “he’s completely unhinged.”

rowan walked by and muttered, “…but kind of iconic?”

later, isack flopped next to you on the couch, breathless.

“do your friends think i’m insane?”

“they know you’re insane.”

he grinned. “do they love it?”

you kissed his cheek. “terrifyingly, yes.”

ʚ・liam lawson

“so he’s the kiwi one, right?” asked your friend jess, pouring sangria.

“yeah,” you nodded.

“should we… like… not bring up australia?”

“please don’t bring up australia.”

twenty minutes later, your friend caleb (who is painfully australian) was in a full-blown shouting match with liam about who invented the flat white.

“i’m telling you, it’s an aussie invention,” caleb said.

liam gasped. “that is the most offensive thing you’ve ever said and i watched you put ketchup on your pasta.”

“it’s tomato sauce!”

“it was definitely ketchup!”

you tried to step in.

“okay! okay. everyone breathe. there is literally no reason for australians and kiwis to beef right now.”

jess raised an eyebrow. “this feels… deeply rooted.”

“it is deeply rooted!” liam shouted, standing dramatically with a tim tam in hand. “they stole our pavlova. they’re trying to erase our dairy-based desserts and caffeinated legacy!”

“it’s meringue!”

“it’s national pride!”

your other friend tash whispered to you, “is this foreplay for them or should we break it up?”

you groaned into your drink. “honestly? bit of both.”

the bickering only escalated when someone brought up rugby.

“they can’t win so they start dragging sports we don’t even play,” liam muttered.

caleb stood up. “say that again.”

liam, still chewing on a cookie: “you heard me, vegemite boy.”

but the thing was… everyone loved him.

even caleb, who was actively trying to wrestle him off the couch at one point, said, “nah, he’s alright. for a sheep-chaser.”

“you’re alright too,” liam grinned. “for someone who puts beetroot on burgers.”

“you shut your mouth.”

at the end of the night, when everyone was finally winding down and swapping memes, jess looked over and whispered to you, “he’s hilarious.”

you nodded. “i know.”

“also, like… weirdly hot when he’s yelling about national sovereignty?”

you sighed. “i know.”

on the way home, liam wrapped his arm around your shoulders and muttered, “you really hang out with aussies on purpose?”

“they’re my friends, babe.”

he fake-shivered. “braver than a new zealander walking into a sydney cafe.”

you rolled your eyes. “you’re never living this down.”

“i stand by everything i said.”

ʚ・franco colapinto

franco walked in with two kisses on the cheek, a lazy smile, and said, “you must be the beautiful friends i’ve heard so much about.”

sahana looked at naya.

naya looked at you.

you gave them both the don’t start glare.

he sat down, complimented someone’s earrings, offered to pour the wine, and said something in spanish that made three of them blink twice.

you facepalmed. “franco.”

“what? i said her hair looked nice.”

“in a very specific way.”

the tension was palpable. your friends were polite, but you could feel the judgement.

sahana leaned over during charcuterie hour and whispered, “he’s too charming. i don’t trust it.”

naya added, “he’s literally the plot of a rom-com. you sure he’s not stringing people along?”

“he’s like this with everyone,” you muttered. “it’s not a threat. it’s a setting.”

the switch flipped when he stood behind you in the kitchen and wrapped his arms around your waist.

his voice dropped instantly, low and soft. “you okay? you look stressed.”

you blinked. “they’re… just feeling you out.”

“do they think i’m going to break your heart?”

you nodded.

he kissed your shoulder. “tell them i’d rather crash every race for the rest of my life than hurt you.”

you turned. “that’s dramatic.”

he smiled. “i’m latin.”

back at the table, he was still charming — but the way he looked at you? totally different.

the flirty act faded when it was just you. he tucked your hair behind your ear. rubbed his thumb along your knuckles when you weren’t speaking. smiled like an idiot when you laughed at your own joke.

sahana clocked it first. she nudged naya.

“that’s not a playboy.”

naya whispered back, “that’s a simp.”

later, as he was helping gather plates, he told maya, “she makes me nervous. that’s how i know i’m serious.”

maya told everyone.

by the end of the night, naya hugged you and whispered, “okay. we were wrong. he’s a flirt, but he’s yours. i get it now.”

you smirked. “i told you. he’s only dangerous if you’re not me.”

franco called from the door, “who’s stealing my girlfriend?”

sahana rolled her eyes. “no one, simp boy.”

ʚ・lance stroll

you warned them.

“i’m serious,” you said as you passed around wine glasses. “do not freak out. don’t mention his family. don’t ask how much his shoes cost. just treat him like a normal guy.”

“babe,” said your best friend jules, “he shows up in aston martin merch and calls that casual.”

“yeah,” taryn added. “if he says the word ‘monaco’ before dessert, i’m walking out.”

lance showed up five minutes later with a bottle of actual champagne and said, “sorry i’m late, the plane got delayed.”

you stared at him. “you could’ve just said traffic.”

he blinked. “oh. right. yeah, traffic.”

your friends whispered like you brought home royalty. which, honestly, you kind of did.

the beginning was a little awkward.

lance was polite — very polite — like he'd been trained to charm people in formal wear.

your friends tried. they really did.

“so… you race cars?” jules asked.

“yeah,” lance nodded. “it’s fun.”

“that’s it?”

“well, sometimes it sucks. but yeah. mostly fun.”

but then he relaxed a little. started laughing when jules made a terrible pun. started teasing you for how you eat your pizza. started joking about crashing a scooter once because he saw a cat and “needed to know if it was cute.”

taryn blinked. “okay, wait. he’s kinda funny.”

you grinned. “told you.”

it all went well — until brunch plans came up.

jules asked, “wanna do that rooftop place this sunday?”

lance shrugged. “we could also just fly to monaco for the day. the brunch at hotel de paris is better.”

everyone stopped breathing.

you slowly turned to him. “lance.”

“what?”

jules whispered, “did he just offer to casually jet us to monaco for eggs?”

lance blinked. “you guys don’t have passports?”

later, as he helped carry leftovers to the car, taryn grabbed you by the arm.

“i judged him too fast.”

you raised a brow. “because he’s nice?”

“because he’s a golden retriever in gucci.”

you laughed. “he’s a little ridiculous.”

“he’s also so obsessed with you it’s scary. keep him.”

lance, from the car: “are we bringing the rest of the wine or should i—wait, i’ll just buy more. never mind!”

you sighed. “see what i mean?”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[chiara-hotel]

When You're on your Period Characters: HSR | Mydei, Anaxa, Dan Heng | ZZZ | Vivian, Harumasa

✧ Mydei doesn't know too much about periods, but he helps you as much as possible during this time

✧ For example, he'll go out and get you food, or he'll cuddle you to help you with your pain

✧ While dating him, he often does things for you all the time. You mean everything to him, and he doesn't want to lose you. So during your period, he usually acts the same as he normally does.

✧ Even though he often acts tough, he treats you like you're his queen, sitting beside him on a throne

✧ Mydei also becomes more protective of you because you're in pain, and would be a little closer to you

✧ When you're cramps ease up, he becomes a little less protective, but he still is protective, since he's just like that as a person, he protects those he cares about

✧ He also remembers what painkillers and pads/tampons you like to use, and he'll get them before your period starts

✧ Not to mention, he encourages you to wear a heating pad, even while you both cuddle, he doesn't mind it

✧ Anaxa knows all about periods, what might comfort you and what you need during this time

✧ Although he is sure to ask you about it directly, since he knows everyone is different with what they like

✧ He would recommend different brands of painkillers to know which one is best

✧ And he 100% would love to get them for you while you rest due to cramps

✧ Aside from working and doing your duties, he encourages you to rest as much as possible

✧ Although he wouldn't stop you from working, since your period is something that you have to live with, and he can't change that

✧ He is also willing to cuddle you whenever + doesn't mind if the sheets are bloody when you wake up

✧ Dan Heng also acts just like normal while you're on your period

✧ You might get twice the cuddles just because you're in pain and he hates seeing you in pain

✧ Dan Heng is also willing to get you any snacks you desire. He's also willing to go get the groceries for the astral express just to get whatever you desire

✧ He'll also buy you pads, tampons or painkillers while he's out, either with you or without you

✧ Since he knows you're more emotional on your period, he wouldn't mind going shopping together as well, just to keep you happy, and he loves seeing you happy

✧ He hates seeing you in pain, but he also understands that this is something that you unfortunately have to deal with

✧ He also allows you to cuddle and touch his more dragon features during this time, when he usually wouldn't let you all too much

✧ Vivian has everything about you memorized, including your period schedule, what type of tampons or pads you like, what type of painkillers you use, etc.

✧ She does have a separate period tracker app to track yours

✧ She also loves it whenever you guys have your periods at the same time, so then you guys just want to cuddle underneath the sheets all day

✧ You guys also are sure to shop for pads and such before they happen, plus she's always stocked with extra just in case you needed it

✧ Harumasa takes your period very seriously, and he might take it so seriously that he uses it as an excuse to get out of work

✧ If you work in section 6, it could be better or worse; you could either take a day off and naturally he would have to take a day off with you, or you'll stay there and make him stay there as well.

✧ If he does get the day off, he'll appreciate you 10x more that day

✧ Cuddles? Sure! Kisses? Sure! Snacks? Sure, he'll go leave to buy some right away

✧ He loves how clingy you get while in pain, cuddling him for hours on end. Although he also hates seeing you in pain.

✧ He'll get up for pretty much anything you need, and he'll also buy anything you need

✧ If it is late at night, he might complain a bit about you having to get up to change your pad/tampon, and he might follow you and wait outside the bathroom door

[garzzum]

random oc stuff + erik kcd if he was in dragon's dogma (pawn print on his free hand)

[eddiazx]

homecoming - eddie diaz x reader

Eddie hears her before he sees her.

An adorable voice that comes from several feet away. A voice belonging to a child, a child that was roughly 7 or 8 years old, probably the same age as Christopher. 

Eddie had been with the 118 for three months by now. He truly loves the job; it was rewarding and he loved being in service of people. Among their calls though, there were quite a handful of cats getting stuck in trees. Which was why they were currently at a park, Eddie resting a foot behind him against the fire engine, while he watches Buck climb up a ladder to extract the cat. Chim was popping his gum, explaining a new sci-fi flick that just came out to Hen, who to her credit, was doing a great job acting like she cared. 

“Are you a firefighter?” The voice had asked. Eddie looks down at the little girl, a girl who looked so very familiar with her hair in two braids and brown doe eyes. 

Eddie smiles automatically, and crouches down to be at the same height as the girl. “What gave it away?” He jokes, and he’s met with the sweetest giggle that he swears could cure diseases. 

“My mommy said that firefighters are unsung heroes. We actually had one come to the coffee shop that my mommy owns. It’s named after me! I don’t drink coffee though, I’m still too little. I do love the honey banana bread she makes though! That's why my mom calls me bee."

Eddie listens with patience, a soft smile on his face at the little girl’s rambling. Chris does the same thing - gets very enthusiastic and starts over-explaining with run-on sentences. It’s the most endearing quality ever, in Eddie’s opinion. 

“Yeah? Do you know where your mommy is now?” Eddie asks.

“Bee, what did we say about you running off without telling me?” A voice asks. Eddie’s eyes follow the voice and is met with an assault on all his senses, including a very clear pang in his chest. 

You look even better than you had nine years ago, which Eddie didn’t even think could be possible, since he already thought you were gorgeous when the two of you had dated at 18 years old. 

Your face drops when you realize who your daughter was talking to. The boy, or rather the man, who had broken your heart all those years ago. The one who your daughter shared DNA with. The one who didn’t even know he had another child, because you had left Texas for L.A. the second the strip turned pink. 

You recover quickly, putting your hands on your daughter’s shoulders. “Hey bee, Milo was asking if you wanted to play go-fish. Can you head over there? Mommy will be just a minute.” 

“Okay!” She tells you with a beaming grin. She then turns to Eddie, and says, “I liked talking to you firefighter man! You should come to my mommy’s shop sometime!” With that, she runs over to where your friends and family were. 

You internally curse the fact that your daughter was such a social butterfly, before finally meeting Eddie’s eyes. He looks like he was struck by lightning; eyes wide and mouth gaping. He was reeling, and you couldn’t really blame the guy. 

“She’s mine.” He says, eventually. It isn’t a question, rather, a simple statement, but you nod anyway. The familiarity that he had seen in the child makes so much sense now, down to the quirk of her smile that you have - but he could also see features of himself in her. The pang in Eddie’s chest was now reduced to a chronic, dull ache at all the years and memories he wasn’t there for. Again.

“I know it’s a lot to ask”, he starts, voice rough but surprisingly steady for someone who just received world-altering news, “but I think Christopher - my son, and I would love to get to know her more. I feel like they’d get along great. Could we all get to know each other?” The words feel wrong a bit, because there was a time where Eddie and you had known each other inside and out. Likes, dislikes, dreams, fears, and life goals - you had practically been an Eddie Diaz encyclopedia.

You’re pensive as you consider his request. You knew this day would come, where you would have to have this conversation with the father of your child. It doesn’t stop the fear gripping your insides, the fear that he would get close to the two of you, and then proceed to leave. It was a fear that was supremely unfair to Eddie, because he didn’t know when he chose to marry Shannon that you had been in the same predicament. And you didn’t know that hours before he was due at the altar, he had stood in front of your then empty house, desperately hoping you would tell him not to marry Shannon.

So with a rapidly beating heart, you smile softly. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s get to know each other.” 

[kinda-indecisive]

˳.⁺⁎˚ ⋆ ˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ His Clothing pt I ˚ ⋆･˳ . ⁎˚ ⋆･˳.⋆ .˳

You (MC) unintentionally surprise the guys by wearing an article of clothing that belongs to them (for the first time).

Part 1: The Rafayel, Zayne, and Sylus Edition!

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

Rafayel

“There you go, nice and warm. Wow,” he had said, his voice a near whisper, his mesmerizing gaze focused on you so completely, “That color is beautiful on you, you know? Your eyes are glowing.”

You had thought that comment was ridiculous. Your eyes were glowing, when his were the ones worth talking about? Worth writing entire poems about if you were more eloquent.

You had blushed and changed the subject, his gaze lingering on you a little longer before accepting the conversation change and enjoying the rest of your walk together.

That conversation was a few weeks ago, before he left for Verona to visit his Aunt Talia and attend an old friend’s 20th wedding anniversary. 

Now as you walk out of the Association building, cheeks warm from the memory, you bury yourself in the scarf, deep within the warm fabric.

As if knowing you’re thinking about him, your phone buzzes.

*See you in 30 minutes, cutieeee. You’re not annoyed by my texts are you? Is that why you’re sending Thomas to pick me up instead of showing up yourself?*

Rolling your eyes, you’re still smiling when you respond.

*You know I’ve been working late since you left. My schedule will go back to normal tomorrow, now that you’re back :)*

The string of emojis he sends back is ludicrous, but it gets his message across.

Just 28 minutes to go!

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

When the familiar, sleek black Ferrari pulls up to the curb next to you, you try to imagine how this reunion is going to play out. Maybe you should have brought flowers? Rafayel is an avid enjoyer of beauty in all its forms and would probably love a bouquet. But that sorta makes you feel like one of his many fans. Maybe a single flower would have been better? 

At any rate, you haven’t brought anything but yourself. He wouldn’t be expecting anything more than that, right?

Your thoughts are interrupted, however, when your boyfriend leans fully out of the rolled-down window.

“My scarf!” he points an accusing finger.

A few passing pedestrians glance over to get a look at the scarf thief and you turn away, hiding your face.

“I’ve been looking all over for it!” he continues, “I tore up the room I was staying in, thinking I’d misplaced it. Then when I couldn’t find it, I thought that maybe some sneaky little squid stole it right off my neck with their freaky little tentacles.”

Folding your arms across your chest, you decide you’re going to be just as dramatic right back at him, “Seriously? You let me borrow this scarf, Rafayel! You said the color looked beautiful on me, or did you already forget?”

His jaw drops and he opens the car door, rushing out without closing it behind him.

“Of course I didn’t forget! You were so beautiful that night, I thought I’d dreamed it. The same as right now, too,” he says, tentatively reaching toward you, as your arms are still folded defiantly across your chest, “I freaked out when I saw the scarf because it was from Talia and she lectured me the entire time I was in Verona about how I don’t take care of gifts. If I had remembered I’d left it in my cutie’s hands, I would have had a good excuse.”

Squinting at him, your arms fall and he smiles gently, lowering his eyes to yours, “I could get used to this, you know? Coming home to find you wearing my stuff. Next time, I’ll accidentally lend you something bigger. I have cashmere cardigans that are so soft, it feels like you’re drifting in sea foam.”

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

Zayne

Waking up late, you curse quietly to yourself when you find a text from Zayne asking you to bring his laptop to the hospital if you have the time, otherwise he’ll come pick it up at lunch. Apparently a lot of the hospital’s computers are still down due to the Wanderer attack that you had been part of getting under control last night. The aftershock of the attack had caused strange outages several blocks out from the point of attack, so you aren’t super surprised to hear the hospital was also affected. 

Not wanting Zayne to give up his precious time, you quickly shoot him a text that you’re on your way while hurriedly getting ready. In a rush, you shrug into one of his button-ups and messily tie your hair up, glancing in the mirror for no more than a second before scooping his laptop up and rushing out the door.

When you arrive at Akso Hospital saying you’re there to drop something off for Dr. Zayne, everyone’s moods seem to shift. You hadn’t expected such cheerful attitudes, considering the situation with the computers, but you don’t think anything of it until you bump into Dr. Greyson. At first, he greets you with his usual big smile and wave. But when his eyes widen and his cheeks flush a soft pink, you’re more than a little intrigued now. 

“Whoa…” he says, looking down at his tablet, “I mean, hey. Are you looking for Zayne? I heard he just finished with a patient, so he should be in his office now.”

You thank him warily, directing yourself to Zayne’s office. A little flustered by everyone’s attention this morning, you’re more than relieved when you enter his office and he looks up at you, smiling faintly…

Only to be hit with a new wave of crippling embarrassment when your own boyfriend double-takes at you, his ears turning a faint, nearly imperceptible shade of pink.

“Did I wake you?” he frowns, “You should have stayed in bed and rested. You worked hard last night.”

“No, I’m great! I was awake ages ago, I just left my phone in the other room and didn’t see your message until later.”

Shifting awkwardly under the weight of his stare, a moment passes before a slightly more mischievous smile graces his lips. Walking around his desk, he sits at the edge of it with his arms crossed as he looks at you, “I would believe you, but in that case, I would also have to believe you intended to make such a bold statement. Why else would you purposefully choose to wear the only one of my shirts with your lipstick stains on it?”

He gestures to the collar.

Looking down, you notice the deep red marks along the collar of the otherwise stark white shirt, most of them smudged, some very clearly the defined shape of a pair of rouged lips.

Your face and neck burn with heat when you finally realize why people looked so amused and alarmed when you’d come in.

“I…I just grabbed one and ran. But, Zayne, the date that this happened was last week… why was this even hanging in your closet in the first place?”

Although the pink color still lightly dusts his ears, he speaks nonchalantly, “ I meant to take it to the dry cleaners, but I couldn’t bring myself to have the marks removed yet. Besides, I have plenty of other shirts that aren’t stained. The chances of you grabbing that one was… small.” 

“Not small enough,” you groan, walking toward him and dropping your face into his chest, “Everyone in the lobby was giggling.”

He puts his arms around you and chuckles, “Well… I’m sure this has satisfied some people’s curiosity about our relationship. Perhaps they will finally stop prying for details.”

˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆   .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

Sylus

“Something’s wrong with Miss Hunter, Boss.”

“Death may be inevitable.”

Rolling over and squishing your face into the pillow, you try to block out the sounds of him and the terror twins outside your door.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you hear Sylus scold in what could be called a reassuring voice, though you’re almost certain you heard a hint of uncertainty. Despite your bad mood, you can’t help but snicker a little.

Rolling out of bed, you give up on trying to relax, plodding into the bathroom and shutting the door behind you.

“Sweetie?”

Sylus’s voice is practically as soft as a dove’s coo as he walks into your bedroom, having shooed the twins away. You sit on the toilet lid, pulling your knees into your chest. There is silence for a heartbeat before he comes to the bathroom door, “I just got home and heard you aren’t feeling well. Are you alright? Do you need anything?” 

You sigh, returning to your feet, going to the door, swinging it open, and glaring up at him. He looks stunned, concerned, and still so soft as he looks down at you and you feel yourself soften up almost immediately.

“I’m fine, Sy. I’m just… having a bad day. And it might just be like…” you mumble something under your breath and he raises an inquiring eyebrow. 

“What was that?” he inquires.

“I said it might just be, like… hormones or something. I don’t know,” you shrug, then groan, leaning in and burying your face against his chest, “I’ll apologize for snapping at Luke and Kieran later. Right now I just wanna be alone. You can stay, but you have to be quiet.”

“I won’t make a sound,” he pledges.

Begrudgingly, you let him follow you to the bed where you start to get comfy, only to notice him standing to the side, watching you curiously. He doesn’t say anything, staying true to his word, but you finally huff in slight annoyance when he continues to linger in the same spot longer than you expected.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re wearing my sweater, sweetie.”

Having forgotten stomping into his room and snatching one off its hanger before hissing at the twins and stomping into your room, you awkwardly look down at the blankets.

“You weren’t here.”

He continues to look at you like that isn’t an answer and you sigh dramatically, continuing, “And I missed you, alright. I haven’t seen you in, like, four days because of your business trip. And you always tell me to ‘take what’s mine’ and all that, so I went in and took your sweater. And now it’s mine.”

Flopping back on the bed, you glower at him until he sits beside you. 

“You’re right, I do say that,” he agrees with a nod. He pauses and you tilt your head back to look up at him. His normally sharp eyes are impossibly soft when he looks down at you, his smug smile also a slightly softened version. “It’s just that this was a pleasant surprise to come home to. You’re here looking for comfort, practically drowning in my sweater. You even smell like me. It’s almost like I never left at all.”

Snorting, you curl yourself closer to him and pout into his neck, “Well I’m glad you’re happy. Me, on the other hand? I’ve been miserable the entire time you’ve been gone.”

He chuckles, a low, deep rumble in his chest, which your cheek is pressed against. The sound and sensation warm you up, inside and out, “I apologize. Making you miserable was never my intention.”

You ignore him, curling into him even closer. The sweater means nothing now that you have the comfort of the real thing. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Previous Post ←(･ ᗜ ･)ﾉ

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, another post! :)

taglist❤: @fallthelong

MY LOVE AND DEEPSPACE MASTERLIST

[yourstrulyrani]

reader x ghost except reader is middle eastern and kinda self conscious of how her arms are lowkey as hairy as his and thinks shes “less feminine” for it (im projecting)

simon riley x sergeant/woc!reader summary: you hate your arm hair amongst other things, but simon couldn't care less. & a little banter about colonizing w/ simon bc he's a british babe LMAO a/n: OMG YES PLEASE I'M PAKISTANI AND I HAVE ARM HAIR SO THIS SPOKE TO ME OMGGGG YESSSSSSSS PLEASEEEE i love your mind. i had so much fun writing this btw.

If Simon Riley was given the chance to describe you, "unfeminine" wouldn't be on the list. You thought otherwise, however.

"I mean look at this, LT. I have as much arm hair as you at this point." You huffed in frustration. You were in the fitness center on the treadmill, trousers and short-sleeved shirt showcasing your arms. You knew you had hair. You didn't have to use eyebrow pencil because your eyebrows were already thick enough. You didn't have to use mascara all the time because your eyelashes were long enough. You barely even used any hair products because thank goodness the hair on your head was healthy enough.

You loved your hair until it came down to your arms. You extend your arms out in front of you, showing your lieutenant the hair growth on them. He was on the treadmill beside you running. While you huffed in frustration at your physical appearance, he was huffing because of physical exertion.

He slows down the speed to a brisk walk before talking to you. "It's just hair, you know." He shrugs his shoulders, "Normal."

You squint at the tall man in annoyance. Why is he so nonchalant about this? "Easy for you to say." You bite back. "As a woman I shouldn't have this much hair on my arms. It's weird and not even feminine."

"Said who?" He tilts his head. If he had the courage. (which he still has yet to build up even after working with you for several years) he would take you by the arms, pin them over your head, and make out with every inch of your body until he gets in between your legs. Hopefully then, you would feel like a woman. tell you how beautiful you were. That you were, to him, the epitome of being a woman. You were strong-willed yet kind, fierce yet ethical, and had a job that most men would rather scurry away from than ever think of pursuing.

"Said the models on social media." You let out a breathless exhale. "Said the girls on Youtube who give you 'tips and tricks' on how to get a guy."

"The only thing that isn't feminine are the women telling you that you aren't feminine because of some hair, Sarge. Hair is hair. Never hurt anyone." You give him a glance. Most men wouldn't say that. They'd tell you to shave or wax it off. But not Ghost, you can see the truth in his eyes. He truly doesn't mind.

He continues on, "Also, it's normal because of your genetics. People in the Middle East, Asia, and generally warmer areas are genetically designed to have more body hair because it provides thermal protection. Your ancestors had it so it was just something that has passed on." Ghost continued on his reassurance that your hair was perfectly normal.

You never thought about it that way. You never saw it in that light, that it was simply for your protection. You then thought about the other things you thought were weird, like your nose. You knew that a nose job wouldn't hurt, but some of your ancestors had this same nose.

What would you gain if you altered a piece of their history that you literally, physically, had on you? You wouldn't be any better than the colonizers who stole from them.

You decided to banter, "That's rich coming from a Brit you know. The only reason so many countries have an independence day is because of Britain."

Ghost lets out a throaty chuckle, "I'll take care of the reparations then, Sarge." Ghost takes a look at your arms. Something human and feminine. "I meant what I said though, about the whole arm hair thing. Hair is normal. Don't be ashamed of something you have because someone told you otherwise." He paused, taking a look at your sweat-glistened body. "You're perfect the way you were made." The sentence came out in a mutter, fearing that it was too intimate for a man like him. He hoped you didn't hear it either, which was a success.

You gave Simon a warm smile, "I know you mean it, LT."

"Simon works too you know," he offers you his name.

"I know you mean it, Simon." His name escaped your lips in a pant because of your current cardio session on the treadmill and immediately Simon felt his shorts grow tighter in the middle. He tried to sneakily adjust himself by tugging at the ends of them, his body lowering and knees pointing outwards for a moment to adjust.

If Simon Riley was given the chance to describe you, "unfeminine" wouldn't be on the list. There would be feminine. Amongst dangerous, sweet, desirable, lovable, cherished, and so close to ruin yet so far to even have.

Sometimes as a white guy, specifically British guy, Simon would never think of pursuing a woman like you. Not in the sense that you were unworthy, but that you needed a man who was worthy of you. Your culture was rich and he was one of many witnesses of it. He saw the flag on the right shoulder of your uniform that wasn't the American or the Union Flag. He saw the way your lips would curl to speak your language that wasn't English. He saw you in the kitchen on base in the middle of the night cooking alongside little steel tins of various spices. He heard the way your accent coated your tongue when you spoke English. You were a woman to be respected. A woman of so much history. A woman whose ancestors fought his own people in resilience. Simon, because of this, saw himself to be a man with such little potential.

The professionalism between a sergeant and their lieutenant was a dynamic Simon never thought about sabotaging until you became that special sergeant.

(i need me a british man so he can pay his reparations by going down on me and licking my cl— OMG WHO SAID THAT)

[chadobi]

“Control”

Bayverse Leo x reader

Slow burn | tension | unspoken love

Hi guys! If you want me to write you something that’s on your mind just text me! Oh and i have this one shot in drafts like for 6 months! Soo i hope you will like that🤍

——————

The dojo was quiet.

The only sounds were your breaths—soft, controlled—and the padded thumps of your bare feet as you tried, for the fifth time, to copy Leonardo’s stance.

“You’re still leading too much with your right side,” Leo said gently, stepping behind you again. “It leaves your ribs exposed.”

“I’m trying,” you mumbled, planting your foot harder into the mat.

“I know,” he replied, and you could hear the warmth in his voice.

Then came the light pressure of his hand—fingers grazing your ribs to guide you, the other on your shoulder to tilt you back slightly.

Every time he touched you, it was careful. Like he thought you’d break. Like he was afraid he might.

You didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, trying to breathe steadily while your heart kicked in your chest.

“There,” he said, his voice suddenly quieter. “That’s better.”

You nodded but didn’t speak. His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back, the absence of him suddenly noticeable like cold air rushing in where heat used to be.

————-

Training with Leo had become a routine—a ritual, almost. Late nights in the dojo after everyone else had gone to bed. Just you, him, and the low buzz of energy between you that neither of you addressed.

It started off simple. You’d asked him to teach you how to defend yourself—nothing serious, just enough to hold your own. He’d agreed without hesitation, but now, weeks later, it was clear: this was about more than fighting.

It was time. Connection. That quiet closeness only built through repetition and shared space.

You stepped into your stance again and exhaled. “Okay. Let’s try it one more time.”

Leo nodded, moving into position across from you. His movements were always fluid—controlled, strong, beautiful. You hated how often you caught yourself staring.

He came at you slow this time, giving you the chance to counter. You blocked, pivoted, then tried to sweep his leg. He dodged it effortlessly, catching your wrist and twisting you toward him to stop your momentum.

You stumbled forward.

Straight into his chest.

Your hands instinctively landed against the edge of his plastron as his arm came around you to steady your back. For a second—just a heartbeat—you stayed there, face turned slightly into his shoulder, breathing hard.

He was warm. Solid. Close enough to count the tiny scars on his skin.

Then-slowly-you looked up at him.

And he was already looking at you.

Neither of you moved.

The world outside the dojo didn’t exist. Just his eyes, locked on yours, with something in them so intense it made your stomach twist. Something tender. Something terrifying.

Your lips parted—like maybe you’d say it. Maybe this was the moment.

But you didn’t.

And neither did he.

Instead, Leo blinked and gently let go, stepping back, his arms falling to his sides like the moment hadn’t just happened.

“You’re improving,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

You nodded once, trying to catch your breath. “Thanks. That… felt better.”

He looked down briefly, adjusting the strap on his arm, then nodded too. “We’ll stop here for tonight.”

You grabbed your water bottle, trying to hide the way your hands trembled just slightly. “Same time tomorrow?”

He gave you a soft smile. “I’ll be here.”

You offered a half-smile back before heading to the exit.

And as you walked away, you didn’t look back.

Because you knew if you did, he’d be watching you.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d be wishing, like you were, that one of you had been brave enough to say it.

[giuliannna]

I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU

— trying to prove his worth to you, boxer!hamzah only causes more damage. inspired by this ask

continuation of cheer me on and make me a better man

you’re half-asleep on the couch when he walks in.

it’s almost two in the morning. all the lights are off except for the dim glow of the lamp beside you, and you’ve been sitting there for hours, just staring at the door like your frustration might make it swing open.

and now, finally, it does.

hamzah stumbles in with his hoodie half-zipped and his knuckles red and raw, but not bleeding like usual.

there’s no new wounds decorating his face, just the same leftover scars from a week or two ago, before you guys made the agreement that hamzah would take a break from boxing to focus on healing your relationship. the first progressive thing that’s happened in months.

he freezes when he spots you, immediately clocking the irritation etched into your features. you don’t say anything right away.

“i didn’t think you’d still be up,” he mutters, scratching the back of his neck like his excuse will undo everything.

you stand slowly, blanket falling off your lap. “where were you?” you press him for an answer that you already know.

he hesitates.

“hamzah.” you warn.

“i-” he sighs, looking away. “i just.. i had to.”

your chest tightens. “we agreed.”

“i know.”

“you promised.”

he winces at your tone. “it wasn’t some big thing, i swear. just a local match. barely anyone there.”

you laugh, cold and breathless. “yeah? was it worth it?”

“i won.” his voice is soft but steady, like he’s hoping that matters more than breaking your trust. “y’see? i can still win.”

you shake your head, eyes burning. “i never asked you to prove that to me.”

he steps forward. “but i need to. i don’t know who i’m supposed to be for you anymore.”

“you’re supposed to be you, hamzah. my boyfriend,” you snap. “not someone i have to bandage up every week.”

you’re only angry because he violated the agreement that was supposed to make your relationship better.

wouldn’t he, of all people, pounce at any opportunity to fix your issues?

“i’m sorry. i can make it up to you.”

his tone is laced with desperation. he sounds like a child desperate for approval - like your love is a trophy he has to earn with bruises, blood, and begging.

your voice is quieter now. “i don’t need you to do this for me. losing or winning - it doesn’t matter.”

hamzah swallows hard, his shoulders tensing up. there’s a flush creeping up his neck that’s not from the fight. it’s shame. you can see it in his eyes - the kind that comes from disappointing someone you love.

he doesn’t speak, not right away. he just steps closer, slow and careful, until he’s standing right in front of you. his hands tremble slightly when they reach for your waist.

“i can make it up to you,” he repeats softly.

you look up at him, brows drawn.

“i’ll be good. just let me show you, please.”

he sinks to his knees in front of you.

his fingers find the hem of your sleep shorts and he kisses your thigh like an apology.

“let me make you feel something,” he whispers, already tugging your shorts down. “something good.”

his mouth is warm against your skin. desperate. you feel it in every kiss he presses to your thigh, in the way his breath stutters, how his grip tightens around your hips like he’s afraid you’ll push him away.

but you don’t.

he looks like he needs this - needs you - and you haven’t decided yet if that’s a good thing or a bad one.

hamzah nudges his nose against your inner thigh, the bridge of it brushing your skin as he looks up at you. his eyes are glassy, wild with need and something much heavier - remorse, maybe.

“jus’ wanna make you feel good,” he says again, softer this time, almost slurred. “let me. please.”

you thread your fingers through the bleached roots of his hair and tug just a little. “okay,” you whisper. “yeah. you can.”

he doesn’t waste another second. he can’t afford to, not when you’re already slipping through his fingers.

you don’t remember stepping out of your shorts, or when you sat back down on the couch again - but he’s between your legs now, and his mouth is on you like he’s starving.

his mind is set on the idea that if he can make you fall apart, it’ll fix everything. if you moan his name, maybe it means you haven’t stopped loving him.

and fuck - he’s always been good with his mouth, but not like this. it’s uncoordinated and messy and too much all at once, tongue curling in deep, groaning like the taste of you is the only thing keeping him down to earth.

you grip his hair. “hamzah - slow down.” you breathe out, slightly whiny.

he doesn’t. if anything, he works harder - like your voice is another thing he has to earn. his arms hook under your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the couch, tilting your hips so he can bury his face deeper. he moans into your cunt, trying to apologize with every bit of his mouth.

“you don’t have to-” you start to speak, but you moan involuntarily, hips jolting when his tongue hits the perfect spot. “fuck - hamzah!”

he hums, and the vibration rattles through you. he loves hearing you say his name like that. loves it more than the sound of a crowd cheering for him in the ring.

you don’t mean to look down, but when you do - his eyes are shut tight, like this is holy, like worship. his fingers are shaking where they grip your thighs, arms straining, muscles twitching.

he’s unravelling. and it’s not just from the apologetic action; it’s from the fear that this might be the last time you’ll let him do this.

your stomach tightens as you cum - you’re shuddering, overwhelmed, fingers tangled in his hair as he drinks it all in like it’s proof that he can still reach you.

but even when you’re completely spent, when your thighs are trembling and you’re pushing at his shoulder - he doesn’t stop.

you whine at the overstimulation, your body thrumming with excessive pleasure. “h-hamzah!” you choke out. “too much!”

he pulls himself away with a small sigh, like he’s admitting defeat.

he rests his forehead on your inner thigh, panting against your skin, still holding onto you for dear life.

“i don’t know what else to do,” he breathes out. “i’m trying. i’m trying.”

you slide your hand down to his jaw, thumb brushing over almost-healed area where he had split his cheek open a few fights ago.

“hamzah,” you whisper. “this isn’t going to fix everything.”

he looks up at you, broken and blinking, his face flushed and his lips shining with your arousal. “then what is? tell me.”

you stare down at him, both of your hearts simultaneously cracking open at the seams.

”you need to stop doing this to yourself. you’re making it worse.”

he bows his head. his breath stutters. and then he’s crying.

right there, on his knees, with his face pressed to your thigh. muffled sobs, quiet and pitiful, the kind that sound like they’ve been building for a while. he’s not loud about it. he just clings to you and lets it happen.

you just sit there, your fingers lazily stroking through his sweat-dampened hair at the base of his neck.

eventually he calms down, but you know he’s still waiting for something - waiting for you to say something that will make this all okay. still waiting to be told he’s enough.

but you’re tired of lying. you don’t want to patch it up with soft words that don’t mean anything anymore. you don’t want to tell him this fixed it, that everything’s fine, when it isn’t.

“this isn’t right,” you murmur, thumb brushing along the shell of his ear. “this isn’t how love works.”

“i don’t know how else to love you,” he whispers.

you close your eyes. “it shouldn’t be about me. you don’t even know how to love yourself, hamzah.”

he doesn’t respond.

he finally doesn’t try to spin his pain into something noble.

you shift slightly, and he lifts his head just enough to look up at you. his eyes are red-rimmed and tired.

“do you even know why you went back?” you ask.

he swallows hard, and for a second, he looks like he’s about to lie.

“makes me feel purposeful for you.” he mutters, brutally honest.

you nod once, slowly. “you think that’s the only way to have purpose?”

“i know it is.”

you lean your head back against the couch and sigh. you hate the fact that his mind is wired this way.

when you speak again, your voice is quieter. gentler.

“i think you need to figure out who you are without me.”

he flinches - like the idea physically hurts - but he doesn’t argue. he just drops his gaze again, head resting back against your thigh.

“i don’ wanna lose you,” he says, barely audible.

“i know,” you whisper.

the silence that follows tells you that you’re both already long gone.

a/n: this was sitting in my drafts for so damn long i had to force myself to post it. i fear there’s no coming back from this

xoxo giulia

taglist: @gulicore @slushedup @arroganceisherfavoritecolor @layzerzlovesu46 @babysitter19 @marixoa @starjely @viennawaiits @h-yalexaaaa @freakzah444 @anginluv @gabwilliams @sturniyolo @screamertannie @brlwla @yourstrulykiya @thefantastickid @hamzaholic @isathefantastic @divinesturn @forestlv4r @mayapuma20 @ottakugirl @hamzahsbestone @pulcen @rustnroll @venus-planetof-love @hamzahsn1gf @rock678 @wandas-lovey @guiltyfemcel @axetheboyboss @harrys0nlyange1 @ttlynotme @yassqueen1303 @animalcrossingshameless @bigmamaelli @pictureperfectblue @slushingmynoob @cupidsbrainrot

[angelickks]

01. LES - Joel Miller

▶︎ •၊၊||၊“Girl, I wanna know, are you ready to cry? ʻCause I'm no good.” He tells you he’s bad for you. Then makes you come so hard you forget your own name.

𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑼𝑬 ☰ 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝑹𝑼𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝑬 • pedro pascal mlist!

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): nsfw. mdni! 18+. emotionally unavailable smut. toxic. emotionally constipated!joel. unprotected p in v. creampie. oral (f!recieving). rough sex. implied grief/ptsd. power imbalance (emotional). angst. emotional manipulation. unhealthy coping mechanism. reader knowingly engaging in toxic relationship dynamic. pussy pronouns. written as a bunch of diff scenes but still a cohesive drabble if that makes sense?? (gif not mine)

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: joel miller x fem!reader

────────

YOU KNEW BETTER. You always knew better when it came to him.

Or did you?

He told you from the beginning. Voice low, eyes flat, like a man trying to be kind when he’s never been taught how.

“You don’t want this.”

“I ain’t what you think.”

“I’m no good for you, sweetheart.”

But the way he looked at you said otherwise.

The way his hands shook when he touched you like you were holy.

The way he kissed you slow at first, then harder, like he was mad about how good it felt.

The way he always stayed a little too long after. Never in the bed, but in the doorway, as if he wanted to say something he never would.

You knew what he was before he ever laid a hand on you. That look in his eyes, like he’d been through the end of the world and didn’t come out the same. The way he spoke, always a little hoarse, always a little heavy, like everything hurt.

You could’ve walked away. You didn’t.

You let him take you instead.

He doesn’t fuck you like a man in love. He fucks you like a man trying to forget.

────────

It’s late. Always is.

You’re half-asleep when he shows up at your door again, guilt in his eyes and sin in his hands.

He doesn’t kiss you at first. Just pushes you against the wall, unzips your jeans, and slips his fingers between your legs like he’s checking to see if you still want him. You’re wet—of course you are—and he groans like he hates that about you.

When he finally speaks, it’s against your throat.

“I’m an awful guy.”

You don’t answer. Just pull him into your bedroom, into your sheets, into your skin like maybe you can fix something broken just by holding it hard enough.

────────

He kissed the inside of your thighs first. Then your stomach. Your ribs. And always last, your lips, like he was scared of the repercussions of it.

You’ve learned his rituals by now. They live in the bruises he leaves behind, etched into your skin like scripture. Joel always kisses every part of you but your mouth. He saves it for last, or never at all. Like kissing you there would be too intimate, too indulgent. It’s too honest. Like the softness of it might undo the ruin he’s already made of you.

Because God forbid he offer tenderness in the aftermath of his destruction. Whether it's your body he’s wrecked, or your heart.

“Always so soft f'me, such a sweet thing” he whispered, voice shaking, his southern drawl thick with something shy of love. You smiled and reached for him, guiding his cock to your entrance.

He rocked into you slowly, holding your gaze. No growling. No urgency. Just slow, full, relentless strokes. His hands were mean, his grip bound to leave bruises.

Perhaps, a new addition or just the same ones he always made sure to keep blooming. A cruel reminder.

It made you cry. You didn’t mean to. But you did.

He wiped your tears with his thumb and groaned like you’d slapped him, “This ain’t good for you, baby.”

But he didn’t stop. In fact, his hips drove impossibly deeper.

The line between your moans and choked sobs and his incoherent words and groans blending together like perfect sin.

────────

He takes his time. Makes you feel every inch. Fingers digging into your waist, mouth between your breasts, sucking and biting. Groaning your name like a warning and a prayer.

His thrusts are deep, deliberate. Slow at first, then rougher, meaner. He calls you sweetheart and baby, but he doesn’t mean it the way you want him to. Not yet.

You scratch at his back and he moans through gritted teeth, "So fuckin' tight, baby. Tell me who fucks ya this good." You beg for more and he gives it, like it’s the only thing he knows how to offer.

When you come, he kisses you like he shouldn’t have. When he comes in you, it sounds like an gruff apology.

────────

He’s on his knees, again.

Not because you asked. Not because he’s gentle. But because something in him can’t not do this. Like eating you out is the only way he can say the things he refuses to speak.

His palms are heavy on your thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin as he spreads you wide on the edge of the bed. He’s looking up at you like a man praying at the altar of a sin he’ll never give up.

"Keep your eyes on me," he rasps. His voice is thick with heat. All raspy and ruined, just how you like him.

Then he lowers his mouth to you and devours.

Not soft. Not teasing.

He tongues you like he’s starving, like the slick between your thighs is his only salvation.

The first drag of his tongue has your head falling back, your hips jerking. He pins you down with one arm, growls against your cunt like it pisses him off how sweet you taste.

"Fuckin’ hell, baby... you always this wet f'me?"

He knows the answer. You’re soaked. You always are for him.

He licks slow at first—long, lazy strokes that make your thighs tremble. Then his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks, messy and rhythmic, the kind of motion that’s got your legs trying to close around his head, your moans raw and desperate.

And Joel? He groans into you like he’s addicted.

His beard is soaked. His fingers move to dig into your hips to keep you still. And when you start to cum, he doesn’t let up. He pushes his in tongue deeper, buries his face in you like he wants to drown in it, uses your orgasm as his absolution.

You whimper his name. He just moans in response.

Like he can’t stop. Like he won’t stop. Like getting you off is the only way he knows how to be good.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s the only time he doesn’t feel like a monster.

────────

After, he doesn’t move. Just breathes beside you, chest heaving, hand still gripping your thigh like he’s scared of what comes next.

You reach for him, just a brush of fingers across his ribs. He flinches.

“Joel…” you whisper.

He shakes his head. Presses his forehead to yours.

And still, you let him stay.

Because you’ve never been good at letting go of the things that ruin you soft.

[makeyuomine]

written in the stars // part 2

Part 1

Summary: An unexpected encounter at the local bookstore stirs unresolved feelings and quiet tension. What begins with distance slowly shifts as unspoken thoughts come to light.

Tropes: Slow burn, strangers to lovers, mutual pining.

Author's Note: Hi everyone! ⭐️ Thank you so much for the love on Part 1 of Written in the Stars! This is very new to me. Feel free to message me recommendations or ideas!

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

It had been three weeks since the planetarium.

Three months since she'd stood under a canopy of stars and let a near-stranger kiss her hand like she was something rare. Three months since she'd slipped the torn piece of paper into her coat pocket—then her nightstand drawer—and never dialed the number. Not once.

(Y/N) told herself it was nothing. Just a moment. A beautiful, fleeting thing.

But she still hadn't thrown the paper away.

Stuff like this doesn't happen to me, she thought. And honestly, she wasn't wrong—things like this rarely did.

For three months, she wrestled with the same looping question—whether a man like him could have actually liked someone like her.

And by 'a guy like him' she meant someone who, from the little she'd seen, seemed effortlessly attractive, smart, and surprisingly direct.

There was no resolution, no peace. Eventually, she wandered to her favorite bookstore in Los Feliz, hoping that maybe a new book could silence the noise in her head, if only for a little while.

(Y/N) had been purposefully avoiding the Romance section—the last thing she needed was a reminder of love in any form. Instead, she wandered aimlessly through the other aisles, letting herself judge books by their covers. The overly illustrated ones didn’t appeal to her; she preferred something cleaner, quieter. Understated.

At the end of the row, she reached for a third book.

The One I Didn't Call was the title of the book. She let out a dry laugh, eyebrows lifting. "No fucking way."

Flipping it over, she skimmed the summary. Definitely a romance. Definitely shelved in the wrong section. And, somehow, despite her efforts to escape the topic—it actually sounded good. Relatable, even.

With a sigh, she added it to her new collection of books. Maybe the universe had a sense of humor after all.

She was just about to round the corner when she saw the very person who had been consuming her mind for months.

Her feet stopped before her brain caught up.

Harry stood a few feet away in the media section, his back mostly turned to her as he skimmed the contents of a record sleeve. A small stack of items was tucked under one arm—books, a film or two, something that looked like a CD, even. She didn't know anyone who still bought physical music, and yet… of course, he would.

He wore a light button-up shirt again—this time a soft, weathered shade of cream that caught the bookstore's amber lighting. The sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal the collection of tattoos on his forearms, and his shirt was untucked like he'd tossed it on without thinking too hard. Effortless. Warm in a way that made her ache a little.

She ducked back a step, heart beating fast.

She could walk away. He hadn't seen her yet. She still had time.

But she didn't.

Instead, she stood frozen at the edge of the aisle, her copy of The One I Didn’t Call held tightly to her chest, as if it might shield her from the reality of what—or who—was five feet away.

As if he could feel the weight of her gaze, he glanced up—his eyes scanning the aisle until they landed on hers, unerringly and all at once.

For a second, his expression flickered—something hopeful behind the eyes—but it was gone just as quickly. Replaced by polite recognition. A distant nod.

(Y/N) froze again. She hadn't planned for this.

His mouth parted, as if to speak, but then he seemed to think better of it. Instead, he looked back down at the book in his hands, the motion too pointed to be anything but deliberate.

She stayed where she was, heart thudding, pulse loud in her ears.

Because she saw it this time—clear as the title still pressed against her chest.

He wasn't indifferent. He was hurt.

The stillness stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. Harry cleared his throat first, the sound almost awkward in the quiet space.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said, his voice quieter, as if he was testing the waters, unsure of what the atmosphere between them was.

"Same here," (Y/N) replied.

She swallowed hard, feeling like the world was tilting around them. "I didn't mean to—"

He shook his head, cutting her off. "You don't have to explain anything." His eyes flickered briefly to her hand, still clutching the book.

The One I Didn't Call.

A soft chuckle escaped him, the title almost too perfect, too ironic for the situation.

She must've picked up on it, too—her lips curling into a small smile, the irony of it not lost on her.

"Listen," (Y/N) began, voice a touch unsteady.

"I haven’t stopped thinking about that night at the Observatory," she confessed, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

Harry’s brows lifted, clearly caught off guard. He had all but assumed she’d moved on—that whatever he’d felt had been one-sided.

"I haven’t either," he said quietly.

The warmth of his words settled in her chest, softening something that had been wound tight for weeks.

Encouraged, she stepped a little closer. "I’m sorry I didn't call. It was… stupid, really. I was scared."

He said nothing, just listened, gaze intent on her like she was something rare.

She hesitated, then added, "I didn't think you could actually be interested in someone like me."

That stopped him. His expression flickered—confusion, disbelief, maybe even a trace of hurt.

Why would she think that? Had he said something wrong? Did he come off insincere? His thoughts tumbled fast and tangled.

But before he could say anything, she stepped in gently.

"It wasn't you," she said quickly. "It was nothing you did. I just.. It's personal stuff I need to work on."

Harry gave a small nod, the clarity softening the sting he'd carried—the ache of what he'd assumed was rejection turning into something more bearable.

"I know we don't really know each other," he said, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. "But there's something about you that draws me in. You're beautiful—and there's this quiet way you carry yourself that just… sticks with me."

He paused, searching her face.

"So I'm trying to understand how you could ever think a 'guy like me' wouldn't be interested in someone like you."

(Y/N) didn't know what to say. She had never really been in a situation like this before.

(Y/N) didn't answer right away. The weight of his words settled between them like dust in a shaft of light.

She looked down, then back up at him. "I think I've spent a lot of time convincing myself I’m not what people want," she said, barely above a whisper. "Even when they're standing right in front of me, telling me otherwise."

They stood there, surrounded by rows of paperbacks and hardcovers, a pocket of quiet in the world.

Harry's eyes softened. He didn't push, didn't press.

After a beat, he glanced at the book still in her hand and smiled faintly. "You gonna buy that?"

(Y/N) looked down at the cover again—The One I Didn't Call—and exhaled a breath that was almost a laugh. "Yeah," she said. "Feels fitting."

He smiled, just a little. "Can I get your number?"

She looked at him—really looked at him—and nodded. "Yes."

The cashier’s bell rang softly in the distance, signaling the end of something—or perhaps the beginning.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Author's Note: Thank you for taking the time to read my work!

[lover-of-mine]

What a lot of people don't understand is that "I'm sorry" isn't actually an apology.

More often than not, the words "I'm sorry" is used purely as a platitude; 'the magic words to get people to stop being mad without having to actually do anything' if you will.

An actual apology shows accountability and makes an effort to address the root of the problem.

"Heard someone was being a dick to you" covers the first part.

And the problem isn't just that Bobby is dead, but that without him the 188 as a family unit is falling apart (no more eating together). As Eddie can't exactly bring back the dead, he does the next best thing: brings in Chris & Tia Pepa. He's not in a position to make the 118 a family again, but he can at least reaffirm that Buck's has a place in Eddie's family.

Yeah, they still have a lot of stuff they need to talk about and deal with that caused their little spat, but the apology for said spat has already been done and accepted.

Yep! Like, the same way Buck tries to stutter through words when he feels like he needs to make up for something, because Eddie is a words guy, Eddie was giving Buck the closest he could get to the thing that would make Buck feel better. Buck feels like his family fell apart and Eddie knows lines were crossed in the kitchen, so much so he admits to being a dick, and while I need them to have a conversation, the act of giving Buck family works better than any words Eddie could say at the moment. Also, because let's face it, it's been like this for a while, but if you let the two of them really Talk, it's gonna end on a feeling admission or them making out against the nearest surface. There's a reason why the show keeps adding something to stop the conversation, you can't realistically let them talk without pulling the trigger on them. They are in a place where all they need is exactly one honest conversation, and honestly, it makes sense for the both of them to be avoiding that conversation out of fear of disrupting what they have and the fact that they can't put the way they need each other as love yet for whatever reason. The word sorry mean nothing if you don't back them up and Eddie put Chris on a plane to cheer Buck up. Because Buck needed something that Eddie alone can't provide. A simple sorry would not make Buck feel better.

Buck is bad with big emotions and Buck never had to grieve someone he loved. No one Buck loves has ever died on him. So he doesn't know how to regulate. And with Bobby's last words to him, Buck put himself in a protector position that no one asked him to be in. So he feels like people don't need him and he's forcing himself to not need them. Because he can't get the thing he wants, Bobby back. Buck avoiding his own feelings assessing the grief scales and being the one to talk Chim of the ledge is not gonna help Buck heal. Eddie's grief is explosive, it always has been, but he's better at walking himself out of it. So much so that he had a plan worked out before Buck even woke the next day. The concept that an apology is void if it doesn't come with the words "I'm sorry" is crazy.

[mirrren]

Major spoilers for ep 17 of 911

Ughhhhh okay I’m gonna get beat up for saying this but we throw around words like “gaslight” and “narcissist” so much online that sometimes I feel like there are a lot of people that don’t entirely realize what those words mean. Allow me to give a perfect example, from someone who was raised by a narcissist (hi daaadddd): watch the newest 911 episode and listen to the way Eddie talks to Buck when Buck gets home. I’m not even going to get into the train wreck of an argument they had before, no, for now we’re just focusing on the after.

Something narcissists love to do when they know they’re in the wrong is to shift focus. They’ll give you a gift they know you like, or take you somewhere special, all while ignoring the elephant in the room. It’s a way to manipulate your emotions. You’re so mad at them and then woah! Now you’re going to a fancy restaurant or you have a new diamond necklace. Or someone you miss has just come home from Texas. What a big family reunion this is. It’s a way to make them feel better about themselves, make them seem like the good guy. Remember in Tangled when mother gothel and repunzel got into an argument about seeing the lights, and then mother gothel came back home she announced she was going to make hazelnut soup? She doesn’t bring up the argument until she notices that her “gift” hasn’t shifted the blame effectively. Now, in Eddie’s case it actually works, and Buck doesn’t bring up their argument, so Eddie gets the glory of being the good guy.

Let’s rewind a little bit now. Folded sheets and a note that says “gone to the airport.” Do you fold your sheets when you sleep on a friend’s couch? Maybe if you’re polite. But the inclusion of this detail better serves as a way to hint to the audience that Eddie may be gone forever. Still it works to prove that Eddie had malicious intent. He could’ve put the note on the fridge. He could’ve written “brb” or hell, maybe even texted Buck to let him know. But he didn’t, I wonder why? Gaslighting 101 tells you that if you want to actually make someone feel like they’re crazy it has to be significant and insignificant at the same time. You can’t just say “no” and expect someone to be efficiently gaslighted. If you want to manipulate someone it has to be plausible, something you can twist or something you know they’ll forget. I was born at 10:50 but my dad always insisted I was born at 11. He was able to gaslight me through this because he knew 1. I didn’t have proof and 2. It was so close in time that it really didn’t matter. A few years ago he started to say I was born at 10:50 and any time I tried to argue that he always said 11 before, he would deny. I didn’t have proof that he said that, and I felt like I was going crazy.

Now, mirrren, you ask, what does your traumatic backstory have to do with Eddie Díaz of 911 fame? Hang on I’ll get to it. When buck came home surprised that Eddie was there, Eddie said “my note said I was going to the airport. The airport and Texas are not the same. They don't even have the same amount of letters in their—” which is true, but he never said he was going to be back either. It’s his tone that gets me. “Buck is so stupid for not realizing that he was coming back, Buck should’ve known, Buck is so lucky I’m around because I’m the only thing keeping him attached to sanity, I am a great person for doing this to Buck.” It’s patronizing, and it’s insulting. Narcissists do this a lot. Most of what makes gaslighting insanity inducing is the fact that the manipulator makes you feel like you’re stupid, like you’re just a kid. Maybe Eddie wasn’t intending to manipulate Buck, but his words and his tone indicate the opposite. If he wanted to make Buck feel like he left to Texas that’s still messed up for a friend to do. Even if I shipped buddie I would feel that way. Because this interaction was just so similar to how my dad made me feel every day of my life.

It’s understandable if those of you didn’t know that this behavior was a red flag. I don’t want to hate on any buddie shippers out there. But this behavior is concerning, even if it’s just a plot device or bad writing, it’s indicative of unfavorable characteristics and I can’t support Eddie after that interaction. I know it was an apology. He says “heard some dick was being mean to you” and sure I guess that is apologizing but does he ever say sorry? Does he even say that it was him that’s being mean? And if he did say sorry, or even if he did say it was him, what kind of apology is that? Make your best friend think you’ve left forever just to return with two people you know he likes? Nah I’m still mad, bud.

I had a lot more I wanted to say, but this is already so goddamn long I’ll cut it short here.

[tornadoxp]

Look Outside Curse Swap AU: AKA how I lost my god damn mind and didn't sleep for 24+ hours

Brace Yourselves

okay so a few days ago I had this idea were Sam after the Flawed Ritual Ending gained the ability to "condense" himself into a human form like Leigh.

I thought this was just going to be a cute idea that I may or may not post or do anything with. However, as I was going to bed my brain decided to flashbang me with this the second I was one foot into LaLa land.

Suddenly a fucking chain reaction happened in my brain where I tried to wrestle with the implications of Leigh as the protagonist and Sam as a shapeshifting monster that can be recruited. Not to mention the other major characters like who can easily trade places and who should remain the same and how being cursed or not cursed changes they're character, quest or role in story or gameplay.

Ultimately, I find this au would more interesting if it's just exploring how cursed characters and non-cursed characters would change if they weren't or were. Thus, any role switching that happens would be more based on the characters fitting different niches instead of being arbitrary personality swaps.

here's what I got so far with the characters that ended up directly trading places.

Leigh the Shopkeep <--> Sam the Timid Beast

A lot of people head cannon Leigh as someone who was frustrated with her job myself included. She would probably see the 15-days as a vacation she was woefully unprepared for and needing to go out to scavenge.

The chase encounter would be significantly easier as the beast would be fighting to regain control and can be easily scared off with a single molotov.

Immediately after this Leigh rediscovers her thrill-seeking side and chases after it only to be disappointed that the monster is replaced with some weird looking guy.

She eventually recruits Sam with the hopes of toughing him up so he could give her a real fight in the future. It also helps that she has a consol considering how Sam broke his and everything in his apartment during his transformation.

I'm not really sure how Leigh would work as a player character.

Sam on the other hand as an ally would have two forms. In his human form he would have support focused abilities but due to this ungainly form would have dogshit weapon aim and crit chance. In his cursed form he would be similar to Leighs cursed form in the base game I just haven't thought of any differences.

If Sam is left behind in the apartment, he would passively recruit ally's while Leigh's away for better or for worse.

Joel the Little Slugger <--> Sophie the Tangled Child

also Clint <--> Harriet

I am not happy with this drawling of human Joel.

Anyway, Joel would randomly knock on Leigh's door saying he was separated from his family in the parking garage after they tried to leave for a game before they knew what was happening. This also means that Clint would also be a door encounter asking if Leigh has seen his son.

However, Clint can also become cursed like Harriet in the original game and lure Joel out. Leigh would have to physically stop Joel from approaching or else Clint would eat Joel alive... yeah.

as an ally Joel would be a ranged biased fighter, pitching and batting baseballs at far enemies. He can retrieve the baseballs he uses and find more but only after combat.

Joels baseball theme is based on the hat in his bedroom and literally nothing else. The only sport he mentions that I can recall is football, but I don't think an 8 year old is going to be doing much ramming into a giant creature. It would be really funny if he still bites people, probably in a character interaction.

Sophie on the other hand is not going to have a good time.

a few days in Sophies and Harriet apartment would be broken open revealing that the interior is tangled with hair. Any furniture that is still visible is crushed beneath the tight wraps. You could find Sophie in her room hiding. What happened was Harriet accidently looked outside and became cursed. While struggling to maintain her sanity she ended up attacking Sophie and infecting her with the curse.

You could fight Harriet in the master bedroom which would be a tough fight because of her ability to constrict. Or you could bring Sophie with you and upon seeing her Harriet would briefly be brought to her senses and sorrowful for what she did lean down so she could be put down. If refused she would push everyone out of the apartment and seal the entrance.

As an ally Sophie would still be focused on applying debuffs on enemy's this time though she doesn't need to hide and has a skill that can apply constrict.

Sophies personality would differ greatly. She would still pull pranks on other characters like tying doors shut and placing tripwires to knock over things when people pass. But she would be significantly more withdrawn with most of her interactions being completely silent. Unlike Joel she doesn't use denial to cope so she is completely aware of the fact that she would probably never see her mother again.

Jesus I have been yapping for a while, so I'll just briefly go over the direct role swaps I'll probably talk about later.

Hellen the Gardener <--> Papaineu the Giant

Nestor <--> Rafta

Jasper <--> Sybil, this one is going to be painful

Astronomers <--> Artists

[2698rr]

a headcannon of mine that plays into the other headcannon where his eyes are a little messed up ever since he came back.

jason needs to wear glasses.

but does he? no, not at all.

he thinks they are dorky. which is just absolutely ironic, coming from him.

he’s a dorky guy. you bring up his guns, his favrioute books, his bike or even just some recent political topic, he’s into a full rant.

‘oh yeah, well i actually added that part because it makes the steering so much better and that’s because..’—all that was brought up was that his bike sounds a little different.

‘well! ironic you say that considering charlotte brontë never liked jane austen, cannot belive you don’t know that, it’s such a famous fact!’—the poor man working the counter only brought up that he had read the two for a book report.

‘Oh Yeah! the carving in the side of my gun is actually a testament to the original creator of my bullets, he was an awesome guy, did you know he used grade A material for the..”—nobody brought that up.

‘I’m just saying. he destroyed everything, just to prove a point to clark, metropolis is screwed.’—nobody else is in the apartment.

now, that’s not the main issue.

the issue is the fact he cannot see, his eyes sometimes get glossed over. effects of his body not coming back right and sometimes reacting unnaturally.

it’s not a constant issue, but it happens. and the best way to stop it is to wear the glasses.

but he refuses to, he has them sitting on his bedside at home. in-fact to feel more focused while he reads—and because he knows he’s away from prying eyes—he’ll put them on.

but he’d rather crawl back into his own grave then ever wear his glasses out in public, he absolutely seethes at the mention of it.

however, he does have them installed into his helmet.

when he first came back his body was still adjusting. making it hard for him to get anything done, so he had put them in.

two people know about it, ironically—it’s the two people he genuinely wished didn’t.

bruce and dick.

bruce figured out during their confrontation when jason had revealed himself, he hadn’t brought it up (knowing it wasn’t the time)

however, many months later down the track when things were just a hint less tense he had asked about it, jason shrugged it off and bruce hummed.

for his birthday that year a suspicious luxurious looking glasses box ended up on his doorstep, he threw them out.

but well, i’ll spare the angst.

dick had figured out around the same time bruce had, and that’s because they had gotten into a physical fight.

when the helmet flew off he was both dazed and realising that at the worst time, his eyes were mucking up again.

it didn’t take long for dick to realise, he cocked his head, spared the words, but decided to do a little test.

he’d basically said he’d given up, giving jason his helmet back— which ended up causing him to start an entire other argument about how he’s cowering away—and waited to watch.

as soon as jason had the helmet back on he was more steady, able to see more clearly and pick things up quicker, so dick realised very easily.

anytime they get into fights now, he try’s to refrain from hitting near the eye, just incase.

now, with all this said i think jason’s eyes still work fairly normally. especially the longer his body gets used to being back, i just think it happens every few months—or when he’s like super worked up. (like hyperventilating level)

anyway, it’s just a small little headcannon of mine and after re-reading the last one i posted i realised i never added this!

[the-peak-legend-of-first-gen]

Okay, hear me out (I know this might be controversial but still…) I love both James and Jaegyeon but they are fundamentally different as lovers. Here’s my no-sugarcoating, brutally honest two cents on how each of them would be in a relationship:

Jaegyeon:He comes off like a total bitch on the surface, but deep down? He’s a devastatingly soft, pining, and hopelessly devoted puppy. At first, he won’t act gentlemanly—nope, not even close. Especially during his current blonde era, he gives off that annoying energy of guys who watch YouTube videos about how they're "too tough" to need a girl. But plot twist? He has a massive crush on that one girl who shows up at the same petrol pump as him.He’ll pursue you, but in an incredibly tsundere way. Like:

“Why are you even talking to that guy? He’s totally going to break your heart.”

“And why do you care, Mr. Na?”

Rough around the edges? No—very rough. But gradually, once you start noticing the little things he does—like letting you into his car even though it just came out of service, stocking your favorite drinks just in case, or quietly dropping you home—you realize there’s a tenderness there. He’s not bad. Not at all.

Once you’re actually in a relationship, though? Don’t expect roses and candlelit dinners. Sorry—no flowers and cheesy stuff. Fights will happen. Screaming, shouting—you name it. But in the middle of it all, he’ll catch himself, stop, and try to pull you into a cuddle. Still, he’ll give you space when needed… albeit very, very reluctantly.

You can be completely silly with him too—he’s totally down for theme parks, car cafés, and dancing in the rain.

Now the not-so-pretty part: If you guys ever break up, he will let you go. Not in a “get lost, I’m better off” kind of way, but because he loves you too much to keep hurting you. His maturity will come through here. It’ll hurt—a lot. He’ll be a mess after the breakup. Jealous if you move on. But eventually, when he sees you smile genuinely after a long time, that aching part of him will finally let go.

Now to ......

James: Let’s skip teenage James for now (that deserves a whole other conversation) and talk about adult James—both when he was an idol and now as he is.

When he was still in the industry and you two were together, he wouldn’t even look at anyone from the entertainment world. Not because you were some “special princess” above actresses or models—no. It’s just that the risk was far greater. He already had Charles breathing down his neck, and a relationship with someone inside the industry would be much harder to hide. So weighing on the scale of vulnerability, dating someone outside, someone “normal,” was easier to conceal, protect, and cherish.

That said, James will be a gentleman. Gallant, suave, respectful—he treats you like a lady.But he’ll make it up to you with luxury—gifts, trips, anything you want—except his time.

Even in arguments, he won’t raise his voice. He’ll stay calm and composed. He’s the type who’ll quietly keep track of your preferences, your quirks, your dreams—you’ll feel like the one person in the world he truly sees. And you are. You’re the tiny corner of his heart he protects at all costs.

So what could go wrong, right?

Here’s where it gets dark : At his core, James is a manipulator. He’s soft on the surface but harbors a cold, calculating fury beneath. During fights, he won’t scream—but the words he says will sting deeper than any shout. “Sorry” won’t fix the wounds he leaves behind.

He’ll say: “You don’t need to know everything, sweetheart. I’ve already taken care of it.”

He always thinks he knows best. And when your relationship teeters on the edge, and you want to leave?

He. Won’t. Let. You.

You’re his. The only one who’s ever held his heart—and he expects you to cherish that privilege.

Who are you going to leave me for? Who could possibly compare to "James Lee" or "Diego Kang"—for the world?

He has the looks, the money, the power. And if you try to walk away? He’ll make it painfully hard. You’ll suddenly realize what it feels like to pry something from a lion’s mouth.

Now, I’m not saying he’s some yandere (ew, please no—I hate that trope). But in my interpretation, this is just how things would unfold.

To wrap it up: Being with Jaegyeon is chaotic, rough, and emotionally intense—but the guy’s got the right heart.Being with James? It’s a dream… until it’s not. And if you ever try to end things, be prepared: leaving James Lee is not something anyone does easily.

[pankowcrumbs]

As Many Times as You Need X Joseph Quinn (Requested)

MasterList

Joseph Quinn Masterlist

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

AN: This one hit a little too close to home for me cause to be honest I need to hear this myself.

It had been one of those perfectly average nights. The sort that makes you feel like everything’s alright, even if you’ve done absolutely nothing worth remembering. We were curled up on the sofa well, I was curled, and Joe was more or less draped across it in that lanky, dramatic way of his. The telly was on, some show we weren’t even really watching. Just background noise, filling the comfortable quiet that tends to fall when two people know each other inside out.

He was warm, his arm slung loosely around my waist, thumb idly stroking over the fabric of my hoodie. One of his, obviously. I always nicked the comfiest ones. His hair was slightly messy, curls flopping onto his forehead, and I’d spent the better part of the last half hour absently carding my fingers through it while he laid his head against my chest.

The world was still.

So when he spoke, it caught me off guard.

"Why are you with me?"

I blinked, half-glancing down at him. “Hmm?”

He didn’t look up. “I mean really... why? Besides the money.”

I laughed softly, ready with some sort of joke probably something cheeky about his ability to order uber eats without glancing at the price.

But then I felt it.

His body had tensed slightly. His hand had stilled. His breathing was shallow.

And when he finally looked up at me, I saw the tears in his eyes.

My heart sank.

Not in a dramatic, movie-scene kind of way. In the real way. That sudden drop in your stomach when someone you love looks like they’ve been carrying a weight too heavy for too long and they’ve only just let you see it.

“Oh, Joe...” I whispered, sitting up straighter, cupping his face with both hands.

He tried to blink the tears away, but one escaped, trailing down his cheek, and I caught it with my thumb before it could fall much further.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick. “I don’t mean to be that guy. I just I’ve been trying not to say anything for weeks. But it’s there. Always. Just... sitting.”

I nodded slowly, not rushing him. His eyes were bloodshot now, and he looked genuinely exhausted.

“You think I’m here for your money?” I asked, gently.

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I don’t know. Not just that. I mean no. Not you. But it’s happened before, you know? And she...” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “My ex used to tell me people only liked me now because of who I am. That I was boring, or too sensitive, or anxious. That the attention would fade and no one would actually stay.”

He let out a shaky breath. “And I don’t want that to be true. But part of me’s still terrified that it is.”

I leaned in, pressed my forehead against his, and closed my eyes for a moment.

God, I hated her. Not in the petty way, but in the way you hate storms that knock down people’s homes. She hadn’t just hurt him she’d rewired him. Made love feel conditional. Fragile.

“Look at me,” I whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

He did. Barely. But he did.

“I don’t love you because of your money,” I said softly. “And I’m not with you because of your face, or your name, or because you can buy fancy wine when I’d be happy with a £3 one.”

He let out a tiny laugh, tear-wet and broken. “You do love the wine, though.”

I smiled. “Sure, but I’d still love you if we were sharing chips on a park bench.”

He went quiet again. I could see the battle in his expression the one between wanting to believe me and not quite knowing how.

So I told him the truth. The whole truth. The messy, soft, unfiltered truth.

“I love you because you talk to animals like they understand you. I love you because you rewatch the same five comfort films like they’re sacred texts. I love you because you overthink everything and still find time to make everyone feel seen.”

He blinked at me.

“I love how you double-check your texts to make sure they don’t sound too blunt. I love how you cry at films you’ve already seen, how you say sorry too much, and how you play with the edge of your sleeves when you’re nervous.”

He swallowed.

“I love that you let me in,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when it’s hard. Even when your past is louder than your present. I love you in all your anxious, overthinking, late-night-thinking, soft-hearted chaos.”

By then, he was crying again. But it was different. Softer. Almost peaceful.

“And I will tell you every single day, in every single way you need to hear it that I’m not here for what you have. I’m here for who you are. And if that means repeating myself a hundred times a day, I will. Because that’s what love is, Joe. It’s not just kisses and smiles and stolen jumpers. It’s sitting in the dark with someone and reminding them that the monsters aren’t real even when they’re convinced they are.”

He pulled me into him then, arms wrapped so tightly around me it nearly knocked the breath out of my lungs. His face was tucked into my neck, and I could feel the warmth of his tears against my skin.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

“Shut up,” I whispered back. “You deserve all of this and more.”

We sat there like that for a long time. The telly still buzzed in the background, but we weren’t watching. We weren’t doing anything, really.

Just being.

Existing in this quiet, sacred space where fear and love met in the middle.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at me again. His eyes were still red, but the panic had settled.

“You’re not going anywhere?” he asked.

“Only to the kitchen for snacks,” I said, smiling softly. “And I’ll come back.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Promise?”

I held up my pinkie. “Promise.”

He linked his with mine. That stupid, silly little gesture we’d started doing early on, almost as a joke. Now it felt like an oath.

“I love you,” he said, voice still trembling.

“I know. I love you, too.”

He nodded. “Tell me again in the morning?”

“I’ll tell you in five minutes if you want.”

He grinned, cheeks still damp. “Yeah. I might.”

“Then I’ll be ready.”

We curled up again, this time with him holding me like he needed to make sure I was real. And I let him. Because he did need it. And I didn’t mind.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? Loving someone like Joe someone who had been burned and bruised by love meant being gentle where others hadn’t been. It meant repeating yourself, proving yourself, standing firm in the face of every doubt his past had drilled into him.

And I would.

As many times as he needed.

Forever, if it came to that.

Because when someone like Joseph Quinn gives you his heart, all battered and unsure you don’t just take it.

You protect it.

You prove it’s safe with you.

And that’s exactly what I planned to do.

Some mornings are soft by default. You wake up to sunlight creeping through the curtains, the kind that paints the duvet golden. There's the weight of him next to me, always warm even when it’s cold out. Sometimes he sleeps on his stomach, arms stretched above his head like a starfish. Other times he’s tucked in close, his leg hooked around mine, mouth slightly open.

But this morning felt... still.

Not peaceful. Just still.

I blinked awake, the way you do when your body knows something's off before your brain catches up. The bed beside me was still half-full, but it was obvious Joe hadn’t been sleeping. He was sitting up, back against the headboard, his phone in his hand. His brows were drawn, his jaw tight. His thumb kept swiping, but the look on his face made it clear nothing he was seeing was doing him any good.

“Hey,” I murmured, voice hoarse with sleep, reaching out to touch his arm. “What’s wrong?”

He flinched a little not away from me, just like I’d pulled him out of something deep. He looked down at me, guilt flashing across his features like he’d been caught red-handed.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, voice low.

“You didn’t. What are you looking at?”

He hesitated, thumb locking his screen before placing the phone facedown on his lap. “Just... the usual shit. Some tagged posts. A few threads.”

My stomach sank. I didn’t have to ask what kind of threads. I knew the tone of voice he used when he’d been reading things he shouldn’t have. Not because he didn’t have the right, but because they never gave him anything helpful. Just noise. Cruel, unfiltered noise.

“What did they say?” I asked gently, pushing myself up so I could sit beside him.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking away. “That I’ve gone quiet. That I’m boring now. That I’m losing it. That I don’t look the way I used to.”

I waited.

He hesitated. “That you’re with me for status. Or because I’m ‘safe’. Or because you’re settling. That I’m lucky you haven’t left.”

My chest ached.

It had been years. Years of love and laughter, of slow Sundays and shared meals and stolen kisses backstage. Years of healing and growing and building. And for the most part, Joe was steady now. More confident in who he was. More at home in his own skin.

But healing isn’t a straight line.

Sometimes, it loops back around when you least expect it.

And today, it had.

He glanced at me, eyes glassy. “I thought I was past this,” he whispered. “I thought I didn’t need it anymore. The reassurance.”

I reached for his hand, lacing my fingers through his.

“You’re allowed to need it,” I said softly. “There’s no expiry date on needing to be reminded you’re loved.”

His shoulders dropped a little. He leaned his head against mine.

“Still feel stupid, though.”

“You’re not,” I said firmly, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. “You’re human. And humans bruise. Even when they’re healing.”

He didn’t say anything, but I felt his grip tighten ever so slightly.

So I told him again. New words, because love isn’t static. It grows, shifts, expands. And there were so many more reasons now.

“I love you,” I began, voice soft but steady. “I love the way you talk about your work. Not for the fame, not for the clout. But because it matters to you. You care so deeply, Joe. About everything. About everyone.”

He stayed quiet, but his head tilted slightly, listening.

“I love the way you read not just scripts, but books, articles, anything that makes you think. I love how you send me links at 2am with things like ‘this made me think of you.’ I love how you listen. How you really listen, even when you’re exhausted.”

He sniffed, and I looked up to find tears in his eyes again. Softer this time. Quiet.

“I love how you are with my family. How you remember everyone’s birthday, and how you let my dad ramble about old films you’ve never seen. I love how you fold my clothes when you think I won’t notice. I love how you always make sure there’s oat milk in the fridge.”

He gave a small laugh at that, wiping at his eyes.

“I love your voice in the morning, all gravelly and confused. I love the way you still get nervous before interviews, but do them anyway. I love your hands, and your heart, and the way you still look at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to you even when you’ve just read comments that try to convince you I’m not.”

By now, his chin had tilted slightly, eyes locked on mine. Vulnerable. Open. Listening.

“You’ve worked so hard to love yourself again,” I whispered, resting my hand over his chest. “And you don’t have to do that alone. You never did. I’ll carry it with you. Every time. If your brain gets loud, I’ll talk louder. If your past comes knocking, I’ll be at the door with you.”

He blinked rapidly, tears slipping silently down his cheeks. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You loved me,” I said simply. “You let me love you. You showed up even when it was hard.”

He leaned forward then, and I caught him in my arms. He held on tightly, like the words had cracked something open in him and now he just needed to be held while it settled.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against my neck. “I really thought I was doing better.”

“You are,” I murmured. “But you’re still allowed to wobble. You’re allowed to have moments. You’re allowed to ask.”

He exhaled shakily.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not. You never have been.”

I pulled back gently, hands cupping his face.

“You never have to pretend you’re fine when you’re not. Not with me. If you need reminding if you need reassurance ask. No shame. No guilt. I’ll say it as many times as you need.”

He smiled then, tear-streaked but sincere. “Even if it’s three times before breakfast?”

“Especially if it’s three times before breakfast.”

A quiet laugh left him. The tension in his shoulders eased. And I knew he’d be okay again soon. Not fixed not perfectly pieced together. But okay. Safe. Loved.

We sat there in the golden quiet for a while longer. The phone stayed face-down. The world could wait.

He had what he needed right here.

And so did I.