#how many times can I do it in this series | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tsunodaradio · 2 days ago

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only exception ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

there are things lando doesn’t like to do, but he supposes he can make some exceptions.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.7k. ꔮ includes: tooth-rotting fluff, romance. profanity. established relationship. ꔮ commentary box: first 1-2 finish of the year, babyyy! my co-driver @norrisradio wrote an oscar version of this here ‹𝟹 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ the only exception, paramore. more time, alfie jukes. loverboy, young friend. c u girl, steve lacy. white ferrari, frank ocean. everyone adores you (at least i do), matt maltese.

LANDO DOESN’T LIKE WATCHING CARTOONS.

Or, at least, he doesn’t like watching them anymore. He’s in his mid-twenties, he’ll tell everyone. He has no reason to tune into things like The Simpsons or Wallace and Gromit. Lando thinks he has much more refined tastes nowadays, thank you very much.

It’s why he had grumbled and kicked up a fuss the first time you tried to get him to sit down for something. Your yearly rewatch of Avatar: The Last Airbender, you’d said.

He was initially resistant. It didn’t matter how many kisses you promised him, how many hours you vowed to let him game uninterrupted. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about the first couple of episodes, and you let him go with a roll of your eyes.

But then the stupid flying bison went missing, and Lando couldn’t help himself.

You liked to watch in his living room, where you could sprawl out on the couch with a bowl of crisps. That made it so much easier for him to move from one room to the other, his eyes flitting a little too long on the television screen as he refilled his water bottle or came home from a quick jog.

Lando hadn’t really tuned in for the first season— or Book 1, as you so often like to correct him— so he’s a little bit lost, but he picks up the necessary context clues. You’re so invested in it, too, despite this being your nth rewatch of your self-proclaimed comfort series.

Every now and then, Lando will linger by the door. He’ll even throw in a comment or two. A mumbled “that Ba Sing Se shit is creepy” or an offhand “fucking Zuko,” and you would respond with small sounds of approval or dissent.

And then he graduates to standing behind you on the couch, his hand on his hip and his gaze fixed firmly on the episode playing. He’s too stubborn to concede just yet that he’s invested, so you settle with this weird getup where Lando kind of just hovers until you call him out.

By the time the Fire Nation’s prince joins Team Avatar, Lando has given up on feigning disinterest.

“You’re telling me she ends up with baldie?” Lando grunts disapprovingly, his arms tightening around you.

He’s referring to Katara and Aang. You had tried to keep your teasing to the minimum, not wanting to have him revert back to his whole too-cool-for-cartoons shtick. Still, you can’t help the way your lips twitch upward as you lean into Lando’s side.

“She does,” you say absentmindedly. The Ember Island Players episode is playing, depicting some bastardized version of the main characters’ love lives. “There’s a sequel to this one where they talk about their married life a bit.”

“There’s a sequel?” Oh, you love it— Lando’s voice pitching slightly higher with enthusiasm, then his attempt to hide it by clearing his throat and repeating, voice suddenly deeper, “I mean, there’s more?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “We can binge The Legend of Korra after this one.”

Lando doesn’t say anything more. He locks right back into the Avatar episode, but you can feel that excitement thrumming through him like a current.

Alright, so— maybe Lando likes to watch some cartoons.

LANDO DOESN’T SET MORNING ALARMS.

Being jolted awake is the worst feeling in the world for him. His years of conditioning had made it easier for him to adapt his body clock to whatever he needed it to be, without the help of a phone blaring some grating tune.

He knows how to wake up at any given time. It’s one of the things you’ve teased him about, being the heavy sleeper that you are.

Nowadays, though, Lando sets two alarms.

You don’t know about them. How could you? He’s always up before you, hoping to get a run in before the sun has risen, or needing to jet off for work at absurd hours. You’re used to waking up to his empty side of the bed.

When he remembers, he leaves something. A crude doodle on a scrap of paper with a dozen x’s and o’s. A misshapen attempt at a towel animal, inspired by whichever country he had been in last.

For the most part, though, it’s the indent of his body in the mattress and the lingering scent of him in the sheets.

Here’s what you don’t know—

The first alarm is set 15 minutes before he actually has to get up. It’s set on a low vibrate, just enough to rouse Lando to consciousness.

Half-asleep, he’ll reach over to find your sleeping form. The two of you tended to toss and turn in your sleep, making it so that he’d sometimes wake up to you on the far end of the bed or facing away from him.

Whatever it is, Lando holds you. He spends the aftermath of that first alarm cuddling into you, whether it’s his chest to your back or his head buried in the top of your head. Nowadays, it’s become a habit; enough that he sometimes finds himself doing it to hotel room pillows whenever he’s off at races.

Sometimes, he spends the fifteen-minute gap waking up. Most times, he drifts back into sleep, but with the knowledge that his touch is a little more intentional now.

When his second alarm goes off, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and peel away— facing the morning with the knowledge that he has you for one more day.

LANDO DOESN’T LOSE.

He has spent his entire life competing, so it’s practically instinct at this point. When a challenge is laid out before him, he has to win. No ifs, no buts, no second-place podiums. It’s the kind of thing that bleeds into every aspect of his life— from serious things like his career, to absolutely ridiculous things like who can brush teeth faster in the morning.

“No need to pout, baby. What are you so mad about?” Lando taunts as he leans back against the couch. The Mario Kart results screen is still flashing on the television, bright and damning.

His name in first place; yours, a distant fourth.

“I’m mad because you’re a cheat,” you accuse with a dejected sniffle, your grip tightening on the controller.

Lando gasps and presses a hand to his chest. “I would never.”

“You so did.” As he expected, you’re already slamming buttons to bring the two of you back to the selection screen. “One more round.”

He purses his lips, attempting to hide the shit-eating grin threatening to break on his face. “You sure you wanna lose again?” he asks innocently.

You don’t dignify him with an answer, already selecting your character with newfound determination. Lando, for his part, grins like an absolute menace. He spins his joystick as if he’s warming up for battle, his attention divided between you and the game.

Lando doesn’t lose. But sometimes, he lets you win.

Not in a way that makes it obvious, because his ego is much too big for that. He plays it smart. He’ll take the lead for most of the race, just enough to keep you engaged, to keep your frustration bubbling. Then, right at the last second, he’ll “accidentally” mistime a drift. Maybe he’ll take a turn just a little too wide, letting you zoom past him in a blur of victory.

He does it because he likes the look on your face when you win— the way your eyes light up, the way you throw your hands in the air like you’ve just conquered the world. It’s the same way you look at him after a good race weekend when he’s standing on the podium, champagne dripping from his curls.

It’s a look he wants to keep earning, over and over again.

So when you finally cross the finish line ahead of him, when the words 1st Place appear over your character, Lando groans in exaggerated frustration, dragging a hand down his face.

“Nooo,” he whines. “I had that in the bag.”

He’s not about to earn any Oscars for his performance. He knows that much. You’re gracefully oblivious, though, and you’re grinning like this is some grand prix instead of a lazy Saturday afternoon.

“In your face, loser!” you cry, launching yourself at him in celebration.

Lando lets out an oof as you land half on his lap, half on the couch. Your arms fling around his neck. He laughs, warm and fond, and presses a quick kiss to your shoulder. “Don’t get too cocky,” he warns. “Best two out of three, twerp.”

He’ll actually try this time, he swears. But he’ll keep throwing every other match if it means seeing you smile like the game isn’t the only thing you’ve won.

LANDO DIDN’T REALLY CARE ABOUT THE MUSIC HE LISTENED TO.

His brief stint picking up DJ-ing as a hobby had proved that he cared mostly for house music, the kind of pulsing beats that made for a good night out. Other genres, though? He never really gave them much thought. He was content shuffling through whatever was trending, never attaching any particular emotion to the songs he played.

That is, until you gifted him a Spotify playlist for when he was away.

It had been a simple thing. Just a shared link and a text message that read: For long flights and hotel rooms. So you don’t forget home.

He hadn’t expected much. But then he found himself listening to it across a dozen different countries.

Your playlist became his soundtrack while stretching at the gym in Bahrain, watching the rain streak down his hotel window in Japan, lying awake with jet lag in Miami. The songs you chose weren’t just good; they were you. A mix of things he recognized from car rides with you, songs you’d hum absentmindedly while doing the dishes, melodies that reminded him of mornings tangled in bed.

And so Lando gets an idea.

He’ll make you a playlist, too.

He thinks he’s absolutely rubbish at it, thoughts. He agonizes over every song choice, wondering if it fits, if you’ll like it, if it says enough without saying too much. His Notes app is filled with half-written ideas— Do I put that one song from our first road trip? Too cheesy? What about the song that’d played at the café of our first date? Which one was that, even?

He changes the order a dozen times before finally forcing himself to stop, heart hammering as he prepares to give it to you.

It’s stupid. He’s being stupid. This isn’t some wedding proposal or anything; it’s literally just a collection of songs. He half-expects you to laugh when he presents it to you, shoving his phone into your hands with a muttered, "Made you something. It’s probably shit."

But you don’t laugh.

You scroll through the playlist slowly, taking in each title. Then, to Lando’s surprise, your eyes well up, and you blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

“Hey— hey, what’s wrong?” he panics, immediately regretting everything. “Is it that bad?”

Damn it, he’s thinking. Probably should’ve booted that one Post Malone song.

You shake your head, pressing your lips together to keep them from wobbling. “No, it’s just…” You sniffle, smiling up at him with something so unbearably soft that it makes his chest ache. “You made me a playlist.”

Lando exhales. “Well, yeah. You made me one first.”

“You made me a playlist.” You repeat the words like they mean something more, something bigger. And maybe they do.

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dunno. Guess I kinda like music now,” he says, suddenly a bit shy.

You’re on him in the next minute, the force of your kiss sending him reeling. He laughs against your mouth even as you mumble something like shutupshutupshutup. He holds your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away your happy tears, and he resolves to make you a dozen more of these little collections.

Somewhere, his phone screen is still lit, the title of the playlist staring up at the ceiling.

For when I’m home.

LANDO NEVER SAW THE APPEAL IN JOURNALS.

Pen and paper never really meant much to him. He wasn’t the type to jot things down, wasn’t one for sentimental scribbles. Nobody else probably expected it of him, either.

Which is why the media nearly combusts when, during a post-race broadcast, the camera catches Lando hunched over a spiral wirebound in the garage. He’s seen scribbling something with uncharacteristic focus, and then he’s tucking the notebook away like it’d never happened.

People on Twitter are quick to speculate. One viral tweet claims it’s Lando’s Death Note, where he’s listing the names of all the drivers he decimated at the day’s qualifying session.

By the time media obligations roll around, it becomes part of Sky Sports’ list of queries. Once the usual stuff is all ran through, the interviewer pounces on the opportunity for a more lighthearted, humanizing angle. “So, Lando, what’s in the notebook?” the reporter asks, shoving her microphone a little closer to the driver.

The Brit stiffens.

All around the world, people see the open surprise on Lando’s expression. The oh, shit moment where he seems to realize his ‘private’ moment had been put on full blast.

He recovers quickly. Tries to evade by dodging the question with a joke. It’s obvious that the media isn’t going to give in, though, so by the time it’s a beIN SPORTS journalist posing the question, Lando can only sigh in defeat.

“It’s a gratitude journal,” he admits, half-grinning.

There’s a pause. A beat of disbelief before the interviewer laughs. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, inspired by my girlfriend waiting at home.” Lando winks straight at the camera and waves exaggeratedly. “Hi, baby!”

(You don’t find out until much later, when the clip has gone viral on TikTok. The comments are all to be expected— calling Lando a simp, claiming he’s down bad and absolutely gone. It’s equal parts amusing and mortifying.)

The interviewer chuckles. “Well, given today’s pole position, I’m guessing that’s your number one?”

Lando’s eyebrows raise. “No,” he says, his voice tinged with disbelief. As if it’s unimaginable. “I mean, pole’s great and all, but I always have the same thing at the top of my list.”

“Which is?”

“Her name.”

LANDO DOESN’T ‘GO SLOW’.

He’s not built for it.

It’s just not in his nature. Not when he spent his entire life learning how to push the limit, trim down lap times, find milliseconds where nobody else could. He thrives in speed, in the way his pulse thrums when he’s threading a car through corners, the rush of adrenaline when he crosses a finish line. He isn’t known for patience, either, or waiting, or any of those things that require taking his foot off the gas.

And yet.

“Lando,” you say amusedly, glancing at the speedometer. “Are you seriously driving below the speed limit?”

Lando doesn’t look at you. He just shrugs, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “Just being safe, baby.”

Your lips twitch, suspicious. You’re onto him, because of course you are. It’s embarrassing how obvious he’s become. In his defense, he never used to do this. Never used to ease into turns, never used to take the long route home, never used to pray for red lights and stop signs if it meant keeping you in his passenger seat a little longer.

But nowadays, he does.

“Baby,” you sing-song. “You do realize I live with you, right? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Mm,” he hums, noncommittal.

You shake your head, but the look on your face is fond. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

Lando risks a glance at you then. His heart stumbles at the sight.

You’re curled up in the passenger seat, eyes shining, hair mussed from where he’d flicked at it earlier. You look so impossibly soft in the glow of the streetlights, and he’s struck with the kind of certainty that rattles him down to the bone— that this, right here, is his favorite kind of drive.

His hand tightens over your thigh. “Guess you’re right,” he says with a laugh. “I am pretty ridiculous.”

Lando still lingers at the next red light. ⛐

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #formula one fluff #formula one x reader #formula one x you #f1 fluff #⛐ kae prix #⛐ ln4 #kind of gae of me n tara. wtvr. this is our LIFE now baby #ln i want u so bad..

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aleksatia · 22 hours ago

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Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

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cjs-writing-blog · 2 days ago

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Two Scholars

I’m not sure what to say here.

His response answers many of the questions I had, but raises several new ones.

“How does that work here?”

My first thought is a book series I read as a child, written by someone I thought was completely unaware of true magic.

“Is there some kind of…magic sport I’m not aware of?”

He gives me an odd look, like he’s never considered this as a concept.

“What? No, it’s rugby.

“You know, it’s like football, but Australian?”

This makes less sense to me than the most advanced chronodynamics lecture I’ve listened to.

“Who do you even compete against? Aren’t normal institutions forbidden from knowing our school exists?”

“Dude, you do know there are other Magic Schools, right?”

Somehow, for the first time in a full year of education into the unkowable, my mind goes completely blank.

All I can manage is the word:

“Huh?”

“You know, there’s Saint Ivan’s, Merlin’s, Balthazar’s, that one really creepy one that doesn’t technically have a name…”

My mind feels as though it’s under more strain than that time I fucked up trying to use a borrowed knowledge spell to cheat on a test.

“And they all play… rugby?”

I’ve never heard the term in my life, or that there were all these wizardry schools other than this one.

“Some version of or another, but essentially yeah.

“I can't believe you didn’t know, we had a playoff against those creepy necromancer guys just yesterday.

“Why did you think I was in the healers office with a severed arm stuck around my neck?”

I haven’t fully been giving the incident he refers to much thought, given the infirmary at the time had a student next to him whose head had been transfigured into a live chicken.

Or the fact that I’d been in there a week before with a sprained shadow.

Not to mention the sentient ecosystem in there right now receiving an earthworm transfusion.

“Well, can you say you know the finer details of what happened to the girl in the bed across from you?”

“The statue? Are you saying that was, like, a real person?”

“Well yeah, she was getting de-petrified…”

It takes a second to fully process what he said.

Once I did, it took me aback in a new way.

“…wait, did you think they had a normal, non-magical statue taking up a bed in the healer's office for some reason?”

“Well, you never know, do you? Maybe it was a prank, or got teleported somehow, or something.”

I have to bite my tongue on that not being how teleportation works.

“That’s what I mean! You never know what’s happened to someone, do you? Maybe the hand was yours somehow, or a spatial mishap, or a creature that only looks like a human arm, or…”

“Touche.

“For the record, one of the rival players ripped off his arm and brought it to life so he could strangle me with it.

“It got me sent to the healers office, but I heard the guy who did it got disqualified, so I can’t complain.”

I’m glad that that’s a disqualifying offence, if anything.

“They have a rule for this? Has it happened before, or…”

I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

“Well, technically, they just ruled it as unsanctioned contact of a non-player by throwing an animated object not technically enrolled on either team across the field, but it’s still a disqualification.”

“How is the animated arm not a player?

It sounds like what it did was meant to be to their team's advantage.”

“Then their side would have had one too many players, so their captain declared the severed arm to be unaffiliated with the team.”

“...right.”

"How did YOU get accepted by the wizard's college!?" "Athletic scholarship."

#my writing #writers on tumblr #writing prompts #magic #two scholars

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amateurenjoyer · 2 days ago

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I know the infertility stuff with Gemma has rubbed some folks the wrong way, and that's fair. These types of stories are not always handled with care and can feel as hollow as using a dead wife in order to give a man depth as a character. That said, I fear that criticism of the infertility story in Severance, or indeed criticism of the breadth of themes of fertility and parenthood in the series, has suffered as a result of gendering these ideas as being primarily explored through the women in the show. There was plenty of eye rolling when we met Gemma for real and her great trauma turned out to be the loss of her unborn child—"oh great, another woman defined by her inability to produce children!"—but this didn't come out of left field in a show that has put expectant parents, midwives, fraudulent lactation specialists, couples struggling to make ends meet for their kids, dads garage jamming with their daughters, and child laborers all on screen, not to mention the cult of Kier the Grandfather/Founder that props up the central mysteries of the show.

Parenthood, birth, and the power dynamics of progenitors and progeny all exist at the heart of Severance (right alongside love, agency, personhood, and capitalist critique), but I don't know that enough people look through this lens when thinking about the men in this show. Even when their stories explicitly touch on these themes, severed men like Petey and Irving and Mark—who, by the way, has every right to claim the same grief over the loss of their child as Gemma, though his experience is radically different as the parent who didn't carry the child—get kind of left out of the conversation.

They should not get left out of the conversation and the mpreg Kier statue in the birthing cabin was there to remind you of that.

Check under the cut for Mark Scout world's worst dad thoughts with lots more spoilers for the finale.

I don't know how many folks on Tumblr have Boomer parents, and I don't know how many of these ideas have filtered through to each generation of parents following, but I know that my Boomer mother and many (many) of my friend's parents had a whole litany of witticisms that they'd use to disempower and belittle the personhood of their kids, and they used these phrases with extreme regularity. "Because I said so," "My house, my rules," "If I were you (and thank God I'm not)," "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it," etc. Depending on tone and context, these could vary from pretty benign to legitimately threatening, but they all betrayed the same basic attitude: right now, you are not a person, and I make your decisions for you, until I say otherwise.

Boomers may have excelled at expressing this sentiment through phrasing that is worthy of shitty gas station hats and little else, but it feels as though it has been a dominant mode of parenting thought for a long time. The idea that it is the position of being a parent that confers power to someone, no matter how unearned that power truly is, is also extremely present in the outie-innie dynamic.

Mark S was straight up born from his outie's inability to actually grieve the death of his wife, his unwillingness to move forward through despair, and his complacency with his self-destructive coping mechanisms. Having lost his ability to work due to his alcoholism, Mark Scout created a whole new person who could do the work for him. He "hoped that [Mark S] would be spared the pain," but for much of the show thus far, he hasn't taken a single step to move away from that pain, be it in an effort to spare himself or his innie. This a couple in a dysfunctional marriage having a child to try and save it, only to absolutely fuck that kid up by refusing to acknowledge the reality of the situation or do anything to change it for the better. Only in this scenario the marriage is between Mark and the ghost of his wife.

Like the kid brought into such a marriage, Mark S doesn't need to know the details of his outie's life to carry his burdens. Their shared body is the exposure that ensures every hangover, every sleepless night, every pre-work weeping session, every fight with a rebound (sorry Alexa you deserve more than this title) or a family member worms its way into the innie's life. A life that is already deeply infantilized by Lumon's workplace culture more broadly, and doubly so because MDR is being babysat by step-dad Milchick while the literal Mother of the Severance Procedure goes rogue.

When he does learn the reason for his outie's severance, Mark S is compassionate, curious, and instantly willing to search for Miss Casey—not out of some deeply rooted love of Gemma that has somehow transcended the severance barrier, but out of recognition of his progenitor's personhood and pain and his desire to help a fellow innie with an unexpected connection to his own outie. How often do children make an effort to help and humanize their parents, even when they've been given very little reason to? Be it out of a sense of obligation or a misunderstanding that a parent naturally looks out for their child's best interests and so a child should do the same, many of us will go out of our way to try and understand our parents as people, at least once. Mark S does that readily, even when Helena-as-Helly pushes against the idea.

When we finally get a conversation between Mark Scout and Mark S, it begins on a disarmingly hopeful note. Mark Scout apologizes, willing to admit the world he brought Mark S into is not a sane or safe one. Things go off the rails quick when Mark Scout fails to recognize his innie has a separate person with his own motivations, and from there the conversation is steeped in patriarchal condescension and a fundamental sense of ownership. Mark Scout dismisses his innie's relationship with Helly R as an inferior, juvenile "experience," that naturally pales in comparison to the more.real, more adult life he had with Gemma, simply because the outies came first. He cannot fathom any resistance to the idea of saving Gemma, because he does not think Mark S is deserving of his own identity, desires, or agency. What claim can an innie have to such things when he doesn't even have his own body? "My house, my rules."

Mark Scout then drops the bomb that he's already started the process of reintegrating. Though he himself is not fully aware of how reintegration will actually impact their separate consciousnesses (or has seemingly forgotten what little he learned about it from Petey), Mark Scout positions it as a solution that benefits them both. Mark S challenges that assumption, and the outie is aghast that the innie fails to extend any trust his way. The trust was assumed to be there, because Mark Scout assumes authority over Mark S. "Because I said so." In the absence of more information about what reintegration really means, it sounds like Mark S will sit as a passenger in Mark Scout's life. Reintegration for the innie is not a solution, but a threat. "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it."

This whole conversation happens inside a cabin at a birthing retreat, where a statue of a pregnant man (presumably an Eagan and presumably Kier himself) watches with it's mate, wearing a sort of cartoon grimace. The camera lingers on this icon as a moment of scene setting, signalling that the audience should be seeing this as a conversation between parent and child, the elder lording their power over the younger, and the progeny rebelling against the progenitor by asserting their own humanity.

#severance #severance spoilers #severance season finale #i could write so much more about this #that's a threat #the adult child dealing with an aging parent really jumped out with this one #mark s #mark scout

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multifandomgirl08 · 2 days ago

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A Year to Celebrate [Mini Verstappen Series]

Dad!Max Verstappen x Mother!Reader (Established Relationship)

Photo Credit: Pinterest

Format: Social Media

A/N: This is the last Social Media AU I have planned for now when it comes to Mini Verstappen. More may eventually get posted.

Previous Part → Next Part Mini Verstappen Masterlist

maxverstappen1

Liked by ynverstappen, victoriaverstappen, and 294,186 others

tagged: ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 Happy Birthday, my love. Another year older, and you grow more beautiful by the day.

View all 835 comments

fan17 Why do I feel like Nico had a hand in designing Y/N's cake?

fan42 Max, please stop simping on main... we get it!

fan87 Does she age at all? Seriously, I don't think she's aged a day since we've been getting pictures of her.

maxverstappen1

Liked by ynverstappen, danielricciardo and 756,457 others

tagged: ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 Happy Anniversary, mijn leeuwin. Married for three years and together for 7. We have shared and been through so much in that time. You becoming a mom to our boys, always being able to support each other in whatever we accomplish, and loving me through everything that comes our way.

ynverstappen Love you, mijn leeuw ☺️❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

fan42 New fan here. They've only been together how long??

fan78 Wow, time really does fly by. I still remember when Max first started posting pictures of Y/N to his instagram stories.

fan17 Look at Y/N practicing her dutch!

Feb 2, 2028

ynverstappen

Liked by danielricciardo, victoriaverstappen, and 578,231 others

ynverstappen Going through this beautiful journey one last time

kimi.antonelli When you are no long Mum's youngest child... 😭

View all 452 comments

fan52 Her nails are pink. Does that mean that they're having a girl?

fan28 I would die if they are finally having a girl.

fan37 Is that Max ducking out of the first picture?

fan93 Dude, we know it’s you who got her pregnant. There’s no need to hide.

fan75 Are we just going to pretend not to see what Kimi posted as a comment? When did Max and Y/N adopt him?

July 3, 2028

maxverstappen1

Liked by sophiekumpen, charles_leclerc, sebastianvettel, and 625,095 others

maxverstappen1 I've grown up with so many amazing women in my life. From my mom, my sister, to my wife, and now my daughter. My life wouldn't be the same without these women in it.

danielricciardo Whoever owes me money, pay up! I told you all!!!

pierregasly No! You were supposed to have another boy. alex_albon Pretty sure that's not how conception works pierregasly. You can't just choose whether you have a boy or a girl. landonorris Can I mail you your winnings?? Or do you take Cash App?

View all 1,382 comments

fan38 Max is FINALLY A GIRL DAD!!!!

fan57 Confirmation that all of Max's kids have Nic/k names?

fan92 As much as I’m here for Max finally being a girl dad… Y/N finally no longer being the only woman in the house. Now that’s something I can get behind.

fan76 Sophie must be so happy to finally have a granddaughter.

fan20 I hope we get some pics of Max having a tea party with his daughter when she's older. I demand to see photos of Max staring the camera down in a tiara.

fan45 Is Max trying to beat Checo in having children as well?

Nov 20, 2028

Mini Verstappen taglist: @karmabyfernando, @barcagirly, @sachaa-ff, @iamahallucinationnn, @glow-ish, @nonsensical-nonsence, @champomiel, @gothicwidowsworld, @lighttsoutlewis, @itsalwaysgay, @minkyungseokie, @mynameisangeloflife, @ursforever129, @aundercover, @bborra, @mindless-rock, @cixrosie, @barcelonaloverf1life, @taylorslovesswifties13, @konsti081, @mellowarcadefun, @smnthnclj, @brekkers-whore, @thedecalcomania-blog, @xoscar03, @em-gvf01, @haikyuen, @shelbyteller , @geniusalpaca, @princessria127, @mysticalnightenthusiast, @green-thots, @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp, @ellelabelle, @lilypat, @dreamercrowd

#mini verstappen series #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 social media au #social media au #max verstappen x you #f1 smau

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spideyjimin · 24 hours ago

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have you ever tried this one | jjk

⤷ a bloodlines entwined extra

— pairing: werewolf!jungkook x female reader

— genre: strangers to lovers, parents-to-be au, royalty au, werewolves au, soulmates au, smut, and a tiny bit of fluff

— rating: 18+

— summary: after attending sabrina carpenter’s show, your boyfriend jungkook wants to try the juno’s position.

— words: 1,140

— warnings: strong language, swearing, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, doggy style, good old missionary, nipple play, and creampie

— author’s note: I recently went to a sabrina carpenter’s show, and it gave me a little idea for a drabble. Since i’m very close to finalizing chapter 9, i wanted to give you a little something while you wait for the next chapter. it’s not much, but it’s what i managed to do. i hope you enjoy this little extra ✨many thanks for all your constant support & for patiently waiting for the next chapter ❤️

SERIES MASTERLIST

Jungkook’s name rolls out of your tongue as he’s pounding into you at torturously slow pace. You’re on your knees, your face pressed against the bed, and with your ass in the air. How did you end up like this? Well, sabrina carpenter’s position in juno gave you and your boyfriend some ideas. Her position wasn’t something wild, just a classic doggy style, but it’s a hell of a good position.

Jungkook wants to wreck you so bad, but he also wants to torture you. He chooses the second option and has to contain himself to not harshly pound into you.

His dark orbs look down at the soft flesh of your ass, bouncing each time he slowly rolls his hips against you, and your body moving forward in tandem with his moves. The man behind you is completely mesmerized by the way his cock slips into you, his jaw slightly clenching as it’s getting harder for him to keep this slow pace.

“Fuck,” he swears, his eyes completely captivated by his dick disappearing inside you.

The sticky wetness created by both your bodies starts to leak down each time his hips roll out, a sticky mess that drives him crazier and that makes him growl.

“Harder,” you whimper. “You’re too slow, Jungkook.”

This is just too slow for you. You want him to thrust harder, faster, and deeper. Damn, you don’t want this to be slow. The full moon is happening in a couple of days, and your se drive has only been increasing. Same for Jungkook. None of you seem to be able to keep your hands to yourselves. Add to that, sabrina carpenter suggesting a sexual position on her show, and you have two horny werewolves having sex the second they get home.

“Whatever you want, sunshine,” he answers.

Hearing this cute nickname while sharing a very dirty moment seems like a huge contrast. But you’re definitely not going to complain. You adore when he calls you ‘sunshine’.

Jungkook instantly adapts his pace to your wishes, his thrusts becoming harder and deeper. At first, his hands hold your waist tighter—you’re sure that he’ll leave some small bruises—before one of his hands goes up to your breast, pinching at your nipples.

“Your breasts are getting bigger,” he whispers.

“You can thank your son for that,” you tell him.

Since the beginning of your pregnancy, your breasts have double in size. You’ve had to buy new bras as the others were now way too small. It’s something you knew before getting pregnant, but you never imagined they’d get this big.

Jungkook’s other hand moves down to your stomach, softly stroking it.

“Don’t worry, I thank him every day for that,” he whispers.

“You’re dirty,” you answer.

“But you still like me,” he presses a kiss on your back.

“How couldn’t I?” you ask as a smirk grows on his face.

The room is filled with both your moans, his hips hitting your ass and the bed creaking under you. All those erotic sounds make you feel like you’re doing some homemade porn. The title could be something like: “The werewolf king and his pregnant lady.”

Even though you very much like to be doing this doggy style, you want to see his face. You always love to see his face. So, without warning him, you push his cock out of you before laying on your back on the bed and spreading your leg wide for him. A loud groan escapes his swollen lips because of the sudden loss of friction and of the pretty view you’re offering him.

“Wanna see you,” you tell him before grabbing his cock, pushing it back into your core.

Since it all happened in seconds, Jungkook thrusts back into you without giving it much thought, quickly taking back his animalistic pace.

You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him even closer to you. His eyes roam your face while he pounds you like there’s no tomorrow.

“You look like a fucking goddess,” he says before pressing his lips against yours for a sloppy kiss.

“And you look like a damn king,” a smirk appears on your face.

“That’s because I’m the king.”

The wave of pleasure grows so intensely inside you that you start to feel overwhelmed by its power. Your boyfriend keeps hitting a certain spot that has you crying out, your walls squeezing him strongly.

He senses that you’re very close to reaching out your orgasm when you writhe and moan louder beneath him. So, in order to push you closer to the edge, his right-hand goes to your clit to torture you a bit more.

“Make a mess on my cock, sunshine,” he grunts.

You whimper while nodding, his pace becoming ever more animalistic. Your eyes lock with his as you want to be looking at him while he gives you an orgasm.

With another few hard thrusts, you’re reaching your high, your chest arching to meet his as you’re completely overwhelmed by the intensity of your orgasm. You cry his name as your face contorts in pure delight.

You’re clenching so tightly around him, your arousal dripping around his cock and creating an even bigger mess. He keeps thrusting into you, desperate to reach his own high as fast as possible which doesn’t take long because of the sight of you coming under him.

His hot seed fills your cunt, making you moan at the contact of it with your insides. With harsh thrusts, he pushes his cum deep inside you while moaning like a savage. Your walls keep clenching around him to milk him completely dry before he collapses next to you in bed.

For a moment, none of you speaks as you’re trying to catch your breath.

“If I wasn’t already pregnant, I guess I would have been tonight,” your face turns to look at him.

He gets closer to you, his large hand resting on your stomach. His eyes look up at you while a bright smile appears on his face.

“Sabrina gave me wild thoughts tonight,” he confesses.

“Me too,” you smile at him. “And the effect of the moon doesn’t help too,” you add.

“Indeed,” he replies. “It’s so damn hard to resist you as the full moon gets closer.”

“Well, I have a solution for you,” your fingers move on his cheeks. “Don’t resist.”

“If I do that, we’d be making love every two seconds,” he laughs. “But I’m a king and you’re a teacher. People rely on us.”

A giggle escapes your lips.

“You’re too wild, Jungkook.”

“Not my fault that you’re a hot and sexy mamma,” he winks at you.

“And you’re a hot and sexy dad,” you reply.

You place your head on his chest, his hands now wrapping around your body before you slowly both fall asleep.

#bts #bts fanfic #bts imagine #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagine #bts smut #jungkook smut #bts fluff #jungkook fluff #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bloodlines entwined: have you ever tried this one #bloodlines entwined #spideyjimin

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peachylynnie · 2 days ago

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when you have a crush on a fictional character

word count: 200-300 per lead contains: lads men x reader, established relationship, headcanons on crack, jealousy (they have beef with a fictional character), some plushies were harmed in the making of this post, lots of manga spoilers, cursing, violence, and links to images/videos (so you know what the characters look like) a/n: i had so much fun making this. it's ironic too since THEY'RE fictional. listen, it was either this or ur kpop bias (im missing taehyung like a mf). again, bc these are headcanons, i'm not saying i'm right. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! tagged: @vvintqz (another xavier headcanon) lads masterlist

xavier

gojo satoru from jujutsu kaisen (manga spoilers below)

thought you would enjoy the series since the two of you watch a lot of anime together

but now he regrets suggesting it.

he regrets mentioning the manga too

since the damned character wears a fucking compression shirt in the manga

he swears if he hears the words "my glorious blue eyed king" leave your mouth one more time

he's going to slice your gojo plushie into a million pieces with his sword (he thinks shoving it under the bed is already too much of a mercy)

why are there so many "no lube, no protection" comments under every gojo instagram post?

why are you liking every single one of them?! (you like them bc it's funny, but he is NOT amused)

will glare at you so hard if you ask him to cosplay

would honestly rather cosplay lumiere

this man is scowling whenever gojo appears on the screen

arms crossed, lips pouted, hand reaching for the sword type shit

turned off the TV when that one breathing scene came on (i had to link it)

jumped for joy when he died though lmao

never has he ever been so happy to see a literal body cut in half

you're just sitting there mortified while he's all sunshine and rainbows

he wants to find the author and give him a big hug

xavier 🤝 gege #1 gojo haters

zayne

sakusa kiyoomi from haikyuu (manga spoilers below)

he honestly doesn't know how to react at first

a volleyball player who acts like a jerk, has less than TWO minutes of screentime, and wears NEON attire? (he respects his obsession with hygiene though)

actually questions you at one point

"is that your type?" "do you want me to be like that?" "are you into volleyball players?"

you have to explain it's not like that at all, you just think he's cool

that assures him a bit

but when you start reading the manga

his worries return ten-fold

not only because the character appears more

but because the character doesn't wear neon anymore and has compression sleeves (that's HIS thing)

frowns when he looms over your shoulder

and sees you screenshot EVERY PANEL he appears in (is this a thing or am i the only one)

gets so confused as to why you're referring to the character as omi whenever you call your friend who's an atsumu girlie (i'm an osamu girlie)

he's half grateful the msby black jackals (he begrudgingly learned the team name from you) haven't been animated yet

his face is priceless when he walks into the shared bedroom

and sees a sakusa plushie there

wants to freeze it with his evol

instead he just awkwardly picks it up and makes it face the wall (he doesn't want to see you upset)

rafayel

brant from wuthering waves

"YOU LIKE A PIRATE WHEN THERE'S A WHOLE MERMAN RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU?!"

he's so sulky and petty about it

bashes the character whenever he has the chance

"he's a pirate, i bet he smells bad."

"ew, why does he talk like that?"

"he can summon a giant anchor? big deal. i can summon an entire ocean."

you find this situation really funny

since the whole reason you like brant in the first place is BECAUSE he reminds you of rafayel

it's the theatrical mannerisms and flashy outfits (the sea too)

but you don't tell him that (he'll probably act more offended anyway)

whenever he catches you playing the game

he sighs dramatically and falls on the couch

head on your lap and trying to distract you from the game

"replaced by a stinky pirate, how could this be?"

"can't believe you're playing a game when there's a hot, rideable fishie right in front of you"

he's flabbergasted when you reach for your wallet

"wait, IT'S A GACHA GAME?!"

cue him running around with your wallet and you chasing after him

"no way, cutie. last time you spent like fifty dollars on identity v for some skin."

when you try to correct him that it was for a danganronpa collab (and that it was less than fifty dollars)

he snatches your phone

now he's running with both your wallet and your phone in hand

sylus

yomi from gokurakugai (manga spoilers below)

listen

you started the manga because the character LOOKS LIKE him (just hair down)

he has silver hair, red eyes, and composed mannerisms

literally when you see the panel of him appearing with a jacket hanging from his shoulders along with some slacks shoes

you have to sigh because

you are NOT beating the allegations

the "i have a type" allegations

sylus is honestly amused

see he would actually READ the manga

not even online

he would buy physical copies of it

and have it in your bookshelf

since he knows how much you HATE the pop-up ads on the website you use to read

also because he wants to see what you're so excited about

so imagine your face when you walk into your shared bedroom

and see your boyfriend in all of his gorgeous glory

wearing his signature bathrobe

a wine glass in one hand and...

THE MANGA IN ANOTHER?!

THE ONE WHERE YOMI IS ON THE COVER TOO?!

he chuckles at your dumbfounded expression before standing up and walking towards you (the manga's still in his hand btw)

"what's wrong, sweetie? i thought you liked this series, given how much you've searched for this character on pinterest."

you gulp when he pins his hand on the wall

"would you like me to wear my hair down?"

caleb

chrollo lucilfer from hunter x hunter (manga spoilers below)

see the other guys are...relatively grateful these characters are fictional

this guy actually WISHES this bastard of a character was real

why?

so he can plummet him into the ground

because why are you squealing every time this pale, grown ass man with a tattoo on his forehead and an open fur coat appears on the screen???

here's the thing

caleb was excited to start this show with you since he heard it's good

and it is!

he loves the nen system, has a soft spot for killua, and would honestly kill for gon

but now, whenever you suggest watching the show, he's grumbling and insisting you guys watch something else

he would rather die than tell you this

but one time

he slicked his hair back in front of the mirror to see if he looks like him (oh the aura loss)

he also read the manga

but only to see how often chrollo appears so he can be prepared

was excited for the hisoka vs. chrollo fight (since he's hoping the latter dies)

actually enjoyed it too since both characters used their abilities so creatively

threw his phone when hisoka lost

and punched your chrollo plushie with his metal arm

you made him buy you another one

a/n: not me exposing all of my fictional crushes. here are some other characters i considered: seba natsuki, kei uzuki (sakamoto days), levi ackerman (aot), phainon (hsr), yoru (gokurakugai), beom tae ha (tears on a withered flower), theo lapileon (my in laws are obsessed with me), shinso hitoshi, dabi (bnha), choso kamo (jjk) (my beloved), and reigen arataka (mp 100) (solely for shits and giggles).

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aliciastarkeyy · 3 days ago

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Fools gold

Summary ᯓ★ uncool, typically ‘nerdy’ and unseen by most, your life on the island is pretty simple. Until Rafe Cameron begins to pay attention to you.

Warnings ᯓ★ swearing, the motions of a ‘bet’ being made, wagers, fake love, one sided love, fighting, eventual smut. ! not proofread !

Authors note ᯓ★ title is inspired by ‘Fools Gold’, specifically the version by Niall Horan ♡ this will be a series, hopefully! I don’t want to cram everything into one part ✮⋆˙

Word count ᯓ★ 4,867

part2⟡ part3⟡ part4⟡

Ruth’s bookshop goes unnoticed by many who pass on the boardwalk of figure eight. The quiet, quaint little shop filled to the brim with all different genres, so much so that some are piled on the floor- is a beautiful place to work.

You love it. There’s plants in any places that they would fit, soft Melodic music fluttering around.

And the smell. Gods, you loved the smell. This place is your version of heaven, and the fact that you get paid to organise the books, read them, and serve the occasional customer as they come and go is amazing.

Willow, the bookshop cat, a tiny tabby, is also an extra. She makes for great company when it stretches hours between customers, or when Ruth isn’t in the shop- which admittedly, isn’t often anymore. She leaves you alone to run the shop most of the time, off spending time with her family.

You don’t mind spending most of your time here. After college, a gruelling four years studying literature in California, you welcomed the salty sea air of Outer Banks with open arms. A break, you’d called it.

But since you’d started working in the bookshop, the break had become a little more… permanent. To the displeasure of your parents of course.

‘You can’t work in a bookshop for the rest of your life,” or ‘I spent all my money on your degree and this is what you do with it?’

Your parents weren’t exactly the best, or the most supportive. Years upon years of them barely paying attention to you, shoving you into the arms of a nanny and trying to buy you off with expensive things, college tuition included, did them no favours.

Maybe this was you rebelling. A big ‘fuck you’ to your mom and dad, for feeling like you only existed to them when it was beneficial. Here’s what I’m going to do with my degree: nothing.

Today is an exceptionally slow day, aircon on full blast as willow rolls around on the counter looking for love. You’re nose deep in a book about nature cycles, patting the cat every so often as she rolls her head to the side for your scratches.

You reckon you’ve had around five customers, and the slowness on days like this sometimes makes you wonder how Ruth keeps the shop going. It serves as a gentle reminder that she’s rich, just like your own parents, when she stops by the shop sometimes, adorned in expensive clothing and accessories.

Sometimes you wish she were your mother. She’s always super nice to you, acting in ways your own mother couldn’t.

The bell above the door chimes as it opens and you perk up, eyes over the edge of the book. Willow hips off the counter to see what’s happening, rubbing up against some of the shelves. You see nothing but a tall mess of brown locks disappear behind one of the shelves, and you let your eyes fall back to your book.

If they need you, they’ll ask. The book you’re reading is getting particularly interesting, anyway. You can hear the slight patter of willows feet following whoever is in the store, and they’re getting closer to the counter.

“S’cuse me,” A voice interrupts your reading. It sounds oddly familiar, and you bookmark your page before placing your own book on the counter. A smile traces your lips at the sight of the books placed on the counter.

As long as the lemon trees grow and The Nightingale. Two utterly moving books, ones that had made you cry. A little.

A glance up at their purchaser has you doing a slight double take internally. The guy stood in front of you- of whom you knew you recognised, briefly, now you think about it, is Rafe Cameron.

He was in your year in school for most of the high school life until he suddenly just stopped turning up. And as you look at him now, he looks exactly as you remember. Floppy curtain bangs, piercing blue eyes that you’re sure you’d caught across the canteen a few times- kakis and a polo with a fleece.

Same guy. He grins lopsidedly, head slightly tilting to the left. “Done observing me? Can I pay for my books?”

Your cheeks nod and you grasp for the books, turning them over and fumbling with the scanner. You sure as hell weren’t one to judge but these did not seem like his type of book.

To be honest, he looked like he’d never read a book in his entire life. The memories of being sat in the library and listening to countless tutors trying to teach him simple scholarly lessons flashes for a second as you scan the second book, and you conclude. These are not Rafe Cameron books.

“Your total is fifteen dollars today,” you reply, letting the sentence linger in the air as he searches for his wallet. He picks a twenty dollar bill out, crisp as the day it was printed, and places it on the counter.

“Keep the change,” you nod and push the twenty into the cash register, watching as he picks up his books and begins to walk away. Just like that. One of your weirder experiences with a former class mate, but you’d take the short interaction over a stupendously awkward one anyday.

“Have a nice day,” you call out as he reaches the door, and he hesitates. Your fingers furl around the hard cover of your book as he turns and you immediately regret saying anything. Fuck customer service.

“Yeah, I think I will.” The door bell chimes as he steps out into the heat of the boardwalk, and you’re confused as ever. Certainly an interaction at least.

Ruth messages you at about three o’clock asking how many customers you’ve had. When you respond with six, she tells you close up shop and go and enjoy your day.

How ironic, considering the rest of your day that you’d planned consisted of going home and curling up in bed for a nice nap. You wrap up closing, leaving the till draw in the safe and locking the back room. Willow meanders by the front door, knowing exactly what time it is.

Usually, she’ll follow you all the way home, almost like she’s making sure you get home safe, before wandering off to presumably join her friends. When you open up on a morning she’s sat on the front step of the shop, waiting to be let in and fed.

She meows at you as you do your final once over of the shop, before joining her at the door and crouching down to her.

A scratching behind her ears makes her purr. “You’re excited to go see your friends, huh?” Her eyes glint as if agreeing and you laugh to yourself, standing straight and opening the door. Willow filters out onto the path. You flip the open sign around to say closed and grasp your keys, shutting the door and locking it.

An exasperated sigh leaves someone behind you. You turn, pulling the key out of the lock.

Rafe Cameron. He’s got that cheesy grin on his face again, books held under one arm as the other is reaching back, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Closing?” He asks, as if it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world. You quirk an eyebrow, jingling the keys in your hand.

“Yeah. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. Returning them already?” You query, causing him to laugh, breathily.

“Uhhhh, no actually, I just forgot one,” his arm falls to his side, waiting. Like you’ll open the store for him again just for one book.

“What, those two very complex and thick books won’t still you over until tomorrow?” The annunciation on the words makes him flinch, despite his best efforts to not show so. You see.

“Okay, okay, no need. They’re actually not for me, they’re for my sister,” he tuts, looking to the side, down the board walk. “You know, it doesn’t matter, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He turns. Slowly. Like he’s waiting.

“Okay! Bye,” willow meows as you begin to walk in the opposite direction towards your house, and you hear him stutter.

“What? You’ll won’t even open back up for one book?” He sounds incredulous. It makes you giggle, dropping the shop keys into your bag. You glance over your shoulder, to see him a few feet from you, obviously having moved.

“No. It’s not worth the effort of reopening everything. You can come back tomorrow.” Your hands reach up to readjust your toe bag strap on your shoulder, setting a slow pace down the board walk with willow. She pads inbetween your legs, purring and rubbing up against each leg.

Your house is empty when you arrive home. No surprise there. The high ceilings and white marble of the front foyer mimic something of a liminal space, to you at least. There’s pictures on the wall, the few that your parents had taken with you and of you to make the place feel more homey.

It was far from. Since you grew out of the age of needing a nanny, it was mostly just you in the house. The occasional times your parents would be home, they’d be in their bedroom sleeping, or in their offices working.

There was no family here. Your room, in your opinion, was the only room of the house to have any life, any character. Most of the walls were lined with bookshelves, of course, and your messy bed that you hadn’t made this morning sat in the center of the room. There’s two big bay windows right across from the bed, overlooking the beach and ocean that had convinced your parents to buy the house in the first place. It’s a mixture of greens, all walls and carpets and beddings- the only colour in the house.

It was your space. You drop your bag into your desk chair, huffing a strand of hair out of your face as you loosen it from the claw clip you’d had it in all day. Sinking into your bed, it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep.

The days evens play back in your mind as you drift off.

Your phone rings again and despite your best efforts to silence it, the noise does not cease. A groan falls from your lips as you lift your head from the pillow, hands grasping around the edges of your phone, eyes squinting to adjust to the brightness of the screen.

Maysilee.

She’s ringing, for what feels like the fiftieth time, and you roll your eyes before swiping to answer and bringing your phone to your ear.

“Hiiiiii! What’re you doing right now?” Her sweet, high pitched voice trails through the phone and you pull it away from your ear for a second, before bringing it back.

“I was asleep,” her tut is immediate. Despite being your best friend, the two of you could not be anymore different. She liked parties and shopping and looking like she belonged in money all the time and you liked books, sleeping and pretending you didn’t exist to the world.

“Why sleep when you can come to my house for this get together?”

“Maysi, no. You know I don’t like stuff like that.” A tut again.

“Cmon, you never come! It’s only a few people I promise.” You can hear her manicured nails tapping against a glassy surface of some sort, and that she’s in one of those moods where she won’t take no for an answer.

If you did say no, she’d turn up at your house. That’s just the type of person she is.

“May…”

“Look, no ifs or buts. You don’t even have to drink. Just come and hang out with me.”

You weigh out your options. If you say no, you’re going. If you say yes, you’re going. It’s a lose- lose on your end no matter what.

Reluctantly, you sit up in bed, checking the time on your phone before bringing it back to your ear. “Okay, sure. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

The squeal she makes is enough to shatter glass. “Finally! See you soon babe, love you.” She hangs up almost immediately, giving you no time to change your mind.

Half an hour from now would be seven. Clambering out of bed in the same clothes you fell asleep in, you trudge over to your closet. You weren’t exactly the type to be flashy with your clothes. Or revealing. The most you’d wear is a skirt, but even then it’s a decent length and you have tights on.

You opt for a brown sweater and black skirt, knowing if you turn up in anything else Maysi will be directing your straight to her own closet and forcing you to change.

Once you’re changed, you re clip your hair up and out of your face before slipping into your shoes that you usually wear, a pair of Mary Jane’s. It’s now fifteen minutes until you said you’d show up, and you debate changing your mind and just not going at all.

Maysi would kill you. Like she knows you all too well, a text from her pings on your phone reminding you to turn up or else. A threat. A promise of threatening actions.

Maysilee is not someone to fuck with. The air is slightly colder when you step out of your front door, a breeze sweeping through the trees and bushes that adorn your front garden.

You’re suddenly thankful that Maysi lives a few houses down. When you arrive, there’s a few more cars outside than you expected and a ‘few’ people lingering out on the front garden.

A little get together. You should have known.

Maysi’s house is warm. In the sense that she has lots and lots of family memories around, and the house looks like it’s lived in. It makes you envious. Maysi greets you in the foyer, pulling you through her house to the kitchen, the island in the middle simply stacked to the brim with different types of alcohol.

“Now, I know you said no drinks, but how about one?” She grins at you and beckons towards the extensive array of drinks.

“Maysi, no. I’ll just have some lemonade or something.”

“Boo. You’re boring. You’re lucky I love you though.” She boops your nose with one manicured nail, arm wrapping around your shoulder as she leads you to the soft drinks section of the island.

One lemonade later and an abandonment by Maysilee, you find yourself out in the back garden. There’s a lot less people out here than in the front garden and the house itself, the conversation quiet and mulling along the same level as the best of the music in the house.

You know this garden like the back of your hand, Maysi’s mum loving her garden like a child. It’s full of flowers, and ornaments, and you know there’s a secret little seating area hidden behind the gazebo that you can’t see thanks to the wall of trees.

It makes a perfect place to hide out until it’s an acceptable time to go home.

“I’m telling you man, she’s gonna go right for it. He’s got this irresistible charm with women,” a male voice, slightly chopped through the trees. The guy is stood in the gazebo, and you can see the top of another head stood close by.

It feels wrong to eavesdrop, but you’re not really, if you think about it. They’re having a conversation in a public space and you just so happen to be nearby. And interested.

“Nah man, I don’t think so. From what he’s told me about today, she’s got some wit about her. I don’t reckon she’ll fall so fast.” The other guy responds. You wonder what, or who, they’re talking about.

“You reckon? Well, we know what I’ve bet on,” poor girl. Whoever these guys were, and the mystery third guy who seemed to be playing with some poor girls feelings- you felt bad.

Another third voice calls the two guys away from the gazebo and you wrinkle your nose as they begin yelling, quietening as they further away from the gazebo.

The stars are out tonight. It’s easy to see them here when there’s no light pollution, and they’re beautiful. Having lots of time to read books means you’re quite clued in on a lot of things, and constellations are no exception.

“Pretty cool aren’t they?” You recognise the voice. Rafe stands at the edge of the little seating area, looking upwards too. He’s dressed in jeans and a simple brown shirt, hair seemingly groomed into neat side bangs instead of the unruly ones you’d seen him in earlier.

You take a sip of your lemonade. “They’re not so bad, I suppose.”

Rafe smiles, hands finding home in his front pockets. “Say, do you know any names of those… star configurations?”

You splutter on your lemonade. “Star configurations?”

“Yeah, can’t remember the word.” He quips, moving to one of the seats near your own.

“Constellations, That’s what they’re called.”

“Yeah right. That word. Do you know any?” He grins, pulling a bottle of beer from seemingly thin air.

You point upwards, at a set of stars that look slightly like a sand timer. “That one that looks like a sand timer is Orion. Named after the hunter from Greek mythology.” Rafe leans towards your side slightly, looking for the area you’re pointing towards. A small ‘ohhh’ escapes his lips when he notices it.

“Cassiopeia is that weird ‘W’ looking one. Named after the mother of Andromeda.” You point towards another.

Rafe nods. “Guess you’ve got a lot of free time in that book shop huh?”

You blush, a little. You’re thankful for the guise of nighttime to hide the fact that you’re blushing to begin with.

“Yeah, I guess.”

He takes a swig from his bottle, slightly turning towards you. You notice how much closer he’s really got, and shuffle back on your seat.

“So what’re you doing here? Doesn’t really seem like your kind of place,” you scoff. If only. Why else would you be sat outside on your own?

“It’s not. Maysilee forced me to come.”

“Ah. Makes sense, she’s a.. character, that one.”

A snort slips from you and you cover your mouth of sheer embarrassment. Rafe chuckles, one hand rubbing up and down his thigh.

“You’re half telling me, she’s my best friend. I get that twenty four seven.”

“My condolences.” Rafe expresses, holding a hand over his heart. It makes you giggle, hiding it behind a sip of your lemonade.

“Thanks Rafe, but don’t you have better places to be?”

“No better place than the present.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure those books aren’t for you?”

Rafe raises his hands like he’s been caught. “Got me. Just trying to impress the pretty lady at the bookshop.”

Your heart stutters. Stops, if you must. Your cheeks heat again, and you’re sure if you couldn’t feel the thrum of your pulse in your neck you’d be dead.

You don’t know what to say.

The awkwardness of the situation has you pulling at the cuffs of your jumper, lemonade cup long forgotten on the seat next to you. Like he can sense your discomfort, Rafe backtracks.

“Sorry, sorry. Too forward. I won’t take it back though, cos’ it’s true.” He stands from the seat, chugging the rest of his beer. From where he’s stood now, you can see the glint in his eyes.

Like there’s something else there. The same glint you used to see when you’d catch his eye in high school. When he was doing something he shouldn’t be.

“See you tomorrow, bookshop.” The pet name grates the back of your throat. You’re stuck the suspended silence of the downhill run of the end of the conversation even when you reach your own home, and your room.

Sleep does not come so easy tonight.

Authors note pt2 ᯓ★ phew ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆ really enjoyed writing this, did it in one sitting. Hoping to churn this series out I have so much planned pls let me know what you think/ if you like mwah ꩜⋆

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heretherebeturtles-comic · 2 days ago

Note

⭐ for the ask game. 😄

Here There Be - Director's Commentary

Chapter 1 - Part 2 (pages 5-9)

aka I had a dream about the turtles being hurt/sad/scared limping through a sewer being chased by something and it made me sad so I decided to inflict it on everyone else ( owo)b

MINI-SHELLDON!!! Donnie and SHELLY are completely running offline at the moment. Despite being disconnected from his larger mental server, the little guy is doing a good job scouting ahead and building a rough map for the turtles.

Pizza Rat <3

Page 5 - Panel 5 is where I first experimented with the painting style for the comic. I wanted a watercolour look, but a thicker paint look comes more naturally to me. Finding the right colour to fit the vibe took some time. I was originally going for a more sickly colour, but there is a lot to be said about the struggle of putting characters with green skin in a green environment.

Mikey walks ahead alone, impatient, pulling them forward. Leo supports a struggling Raph; by no fault of their own, the two dictate the slow progress forward. Donnie drifts behind, disconnected. Or maybe they are just walking in a sewer ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

In the movie, Leo wears his swords over his right shoulder, but here he has them at his hip and out of the way so Raph’s arm can rest over his shoulders. This is only partially because I kept forgetting to draw the weapons.

THIS PANEL ^^^ made me feel dizzy while I was working on it >:( I'm not quite satisfied with the final effect here, but I'm not really sure how I could have done it differently? I look forward to solving that puzzle someday with more experience.

Page 8 - The page where I felt bad \( T^T)/ what kind of monster would hurt them like this? Raph is trying his best to not worry his siblings, but oh buddy... Anyway, do you know how scary it is when your older sibling is injured? You can know that they are human and capable of being hurt, but that doesn't stop how earth shattering it can feel to see them fighting tears and down for the count. (my older sibling I know you just followed this blog, don't even worry about it, ilyyy)

In the series we see that they are all capable of lifting super heavy objects, Mikey in particular is comically strong, so the struggle here isn't being unable to lift Raph up, but in trying to support him while he struggles to stay upright despite his injuries.

I prefer stories where the characters get equal attention and screentime. Each and every turtle is going through multiple things the same time even if it's not stated outright, don't even worry about it :)

Page 9 - OH boy, some of the faces on this page are so rough and off model, but redoing the first chapter is the comic killer. Returning to improve the beginning of a story is an endless cycle of perfectionism and the reason many web comics and fanfics end. Plus! I think its cool to be able to look back and see the progress! To watch page by page as a comic artist's skills grow over time!

My storytelling style, while frequently lighthearted and silly, is a bit more down to earth than ROTTMNT's usual high comedy tone. I'm glad folks seem to be vibing with it so far!

#HTB-TMNT ⭐️ Directors Commentary #htb-tmnt #i loooove using visuals to imply stuff :)#third and last ask/post of the night

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friendlynaborhooddisapointment · 2 days ago

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trying to write a oneshot where billy gets a phone (his neighbour in the condemned building he squats in gives it to him after she gets a new one) and then ends up starting a tictok account as Captain Marvel. he starts it cuz a tictok abt him got viral so he makes one to repy to it but then gets attached to the app a little (cuz he's like 12) and just continues to make them.

but suddenly i forgot about all tictok trends i could have him do . the only ones i remember are the "pass the phone to someone who" (gonna have him pass it to batman and then batman shits on him for filming a tictok in the watchtower) and the smash or pass cake. WHAT OTHER TRENDS CAN I HAVE THIS GUY DOOOO PLEASEEEEE.

things i want him to do with this acc:

when he sees ppl in shitty situations (abusive), he comments on them being like want me to beat them up for you? (? something along those lines)

dueting dance tictoks and failing really badly

making a video abt all the stray animals he visits (damian becomes an avid follower and fan after this one) and it becomes a series

an info dumb video about tigers

suspiciously helpful life hack videos that are sometimes borderline illegal

maybe a video where he goes around and interviews homeless people with stuff like hey whats ur favorite food? and supper mundane questions- want this to lead to a whole bunch of videos of Cap picking fights with people on the internet over the dignity and rights of homeless people

has a series of 'rate this parking lot' type videos but of different roof tops

Superman pissed him off so he starts a collection of interrupting and finishing Superman's fights for him (oh sorry was this your fight? rip ig u dont have to worry abt him now, see you later!) what did superman do? bro idk ill figure it out

a video taking abt the best websites to download music from for his mp3 player since a comment asks abt it when it shows up in a video (it becomes v obvious that he is broke as fuck in this video and thats all the comments focus on)

billy dueting with fanart and fan edits freaking out being like wow these r so cool!!! (he ignores all the gooner stuff eyes close do not see)

doing tictok dances with some of the homeless of facwet

ends up making a video on resources in facwet for homeless people (since some people ask for it) but they are all kinda unofficial or just survival tips, and also him dunking on some of the official ones that are kinda shady (weirdly personal advice for someone who is probably not homeless? is the vibe)

makes a video complaining abt how because of how popular it has become to pay with everything by card most people dont carry around change anymore, and because of that homeless people get a lot less money then they used too

videos where random citizens call out to him and ask questions or ask him to do random stuff (most of them start off with him about to do a video on something else then derails)

some of the JL ask to do join him on some of the tictoks so a few collabs wth them.

'how many times can i film batman without him noticing me' it gets to 2 because batman was to busy to tell him to stop both times. it ends with batman lecturing him on filming in the tower again

thats all i got for him to do. idk if i will actually write this so feel free to steal it to make your own fanfic (actually please do i hate writing). but i think it would be funny for this perceived adult to make half brainrot type content that feels weirdly natural. also the weird little hints he accidentally leaves abt his civilian life that is very concerning to everyone. no one can tell if he's a million years old or born yesterday lol.

also Captain Marvel and Superman beef pre identity reveal means everything to me. ALSO THE CAPTAIN CHILLING WITH THE HOMELESS AND BEING ACAB MEANS EVERYTHING TO ME and thats like half the reason why i want this to exist.

#billy batson #fic idea #fic prompt #shazam #captian marvel #facwet #batman #justice league #superman #homeless billy batson

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nyxanarchy · 2 days ago

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SOTR SPOILERS

anyway. Back to my obsession.

-Thinking about Tam Amber and Carmine Clerk "not again". All the covey singers are dead (THEIR SONGBIRDS). Maude Ivory, Lucy Gray, Lenore Dove. All of them are dead, and the coveys don't sing anymore. That is why Katniss knows only two of their song. The only survivors are musicians. (I feel like this has to mean something, but maybe I'm just crazy.)

-Thinking about Clerk Carmine, that we know is the fiddler in the Odair's wedding, playing alone. (thinking also about Haymitch seeing him play. Did he talk to him? Did they ever talk about Lenore Dove? Did Carmine Clerk forgive him? Maybe he never blamed him at all.)

-I wonder if at the end of the war Carmine Clerk was able to talk with others coveys, maybe from other districts (because they were travelers, maybe they were separated before the war)

-Barb Azure. We don't know anything about her. She vanished from the narrative. Is she Burdock's mother? That would explain his connection to Lenore Dove and why Burdock knows the covey's song (ofc he could also have learned it from Lenore Dove, even tho I would argue it's weird that Katniss seems to have Maude Ivory's exact skill for remembering music). But what happened to her? She is not dead, because if she was, she would have been probably buried next to the other girls. (MY SHAYLAS) [Also I feel like it's significant that the singers are the first to die.] If she is Burdock's mother I wonder what happened to the girl she was seeing. Was she forced to marry, to keep her secret? Or maybe she was bi and she fell in love with a man? But then why doesn't Burdock have a covey name? (even tho it's not lost on me the fact that Everdeen is really similar to Evergreen) Maybe because she thought it was starting to be dangerous? I also read a theory that Burdock is the niece of her girlfriend. That would make her his aunt, and would explain why he hasn't a covey name. I need more lore, I'm going insane.

-Snow is definitely the culprit of their music getting banned. He really wanted to destroy them, all because of Lucy Gray. She really did a number on him, he is still obsessed after all this time. Pathetic little man.

-Also can we talk about the fact that in 40 years he was able to make Panem homophobic again?

-Beete wife and second son?? They are dead right? I don't remember them, I will reread the series soon, but I feel like I would remember if they were alive. So Snow kept his wife and his second son alive, to keep him doing what he wanted, just to kill them after some time?

-Wyatt makes my heart bleed. I love him so much, every time he talks I feel like I'm gonna cry. Imagine knowing your father will accept bets on you. Also during the reaping some of his family said something along the lines of "you brought him bad luck" (I read it in Italian so I don't know the exact sentence) Does that mean someone already bet he was going to be reaped? That honestly kills me.

-I also kinda like WyattxMaysilee. I feel like I'm alone in this. But also I think she could also be a lipstick lesbian. I'm conflicted. This is not really important, just some thoughts.

-Thinking about all the tries it must have taken the rebels to finally win. How many mockinjays died in their arenas, because it was just not the right time? They tried, but they couldn't. And no one knows what happened. I hope that in the future schools of Panem they will talk about all of them.

-The boy who created sparks waiting for the girl on fire. Inconsolable.

-Please Suzanne give us Annie's game because after this book I believe wholeheartedly that she tried to destroy her arena and went mad because they tortured her.

-Haymitch having to hit Asterid with a stone. UGH. This book makes me sick to my stomach to a concerning degree.

-Also haymitch being closed in a bird cage?????? This will haunt me.

-Merrilee. In the original series she is always in bed. She has the drugs to sleep. I feel like her illness is just depression. I always thought about it but I think this is confirmation.

#thg sotr #sotr spoilers #sunrise on the reaping spoilers #covey #sunrise on the reaping #haymitch abernathy #katniss everdeen #maysilee donner #lenore dove baird #maude ivory baird #lucy gray baird #barb azure #clerk carmine #tam amber #president snow #wyatt callow #annie cresta

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one-sunny · 2 days ago

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Taking the Hit

Portgas D. Ace x F!Reader drabble

Summary: The battle of Marineford ended with Ace alive and you fighting for your life. With a healing devil fruit ability, it only made sense for you to take the hit instead. Now, Ace is left to agonize over the events as he waits for you to wake up. Marineford rewrite. Angst. Ace is beating himself up and other descriptions of anxiety. Desc. of violence and near death experiences. Reader is the one hurt.

Ace sits on the cold floor, knees to his chest, hands pushed back into his hair. He had run out of tears but anxiety still squeezes at his throat. Accusations fire off in his mind, going in rounds and coming back with even more heat each time. The racing thoughts are accompanied by flickers of fire- flames he has to quickly extinguish on his chest and shoulders.

He had already been scolded by the surgeon of death once for this.

Deep in the ocean within the confines of the Polar Tang, Ace waits with his heart in his throat for the people he cares for the most in the world to get out of surgery. A surgery that shouldn’t even be happening on injuries that he caused. It was all his fault.

Images flash in his mind like a strobing light, and your screams echo above all else to make him claw at his scalp. It was driving him mad. Not knowing was making it worse. Being kicked out of the operating room nearly made him combust but the bear- something Ace couldn’t even question given the situation- assured him that his captain could handle it. That Ace could leave his girl and his little brother and close friend in the surgeon of deaths capable hands.

His eyes squeeze shut and that only makes things worse.

He can see your face.

Your labored breaths.

The life draining despite the red glow of power illuminating from your hands…

Ace had been quick. He was in place to protect his brother from his own bullheadedness. Unfortunately for him, you were right behind. All of your energy put into throwing yourself into Ace and taking his place.

A desperate scream.

He isn’t even sure if it had come from you or him. But he watches in horror as you drop to your knees before him and Luffy, on the cusp of dying right before their eyes. For the first time ever, Ace yelled at you. Truly yelled at you.

Because now, there was a gaping hole in your chest where it should have been his.

“Why would you do that?” The tears are flowing freely. Emotions storm and spark. Anger. Hurt. Desperation.

“Ease-“ You choke on your words. “Easier ta heal m-m’ self.” He can see your blood stained hands pressing into the wound, your eyes closed, and palms glowing.

There were many times where you had explained your healing devil fruit powers to Ace, but it was a concept that he never fully grasped. You were a healer, he knew that very well, as you often fussed over and took care of any bump or bruises he ended up with.

But you could also heal yourself. Once, after having taken a bullet for a crew mate, you had explained that it was far easier to heal yourself than others. Sure, you felt the pain, but the effects were gone soon after. While the power was a blessing, Ace often cursed it for how reckless it made you. Protecting others was a top priority. Taking the hit so others don’t have to endure the pain.

And now you’re here. With his little brother and close friend in the same operating room after helping Ace save you.

After putting you all in danger.

The metal door swings open and Ace is on his feet in an instant. Law maintains his usual stoic demeanor, but the eye bags are a little bit deeper after such a long series of surgeries.

“I did everything I possibly could.”

Anger sparks within Ace at the carelessness about him. “What does that mean?”

“We’ll just have to wait and see. They all took on a lot more damage than most could survive.” Law speaks in an even, tired voice. “Even with her healing powers,” He glances down at the white towel he dries his hands on. “There’s no guarantee she will survive.”

Agony.

Ace nearly collapses on the spot.

The next few days are a blur. Jinbe is the first to recover, steadily regaining his strength and joining Ace in looming over the two of you. Ace doesn’t even leave your side until Luffy wakes- fists flying and screaming bloody murder. Still in fight or flight mode.

Even when a feast is prepared by the Snake Princess herself for his little brother, he remains rooted in place. He had no interest in the isle of women or even the food they had to offer. Not when you were still hooked up to so many tubes in that bed.

Ace squeezes at your hand for the millionth time that day, arms folded on the side of the bed, and head leaning on top of them. He rambles on with his daily list of apologies and mixes in countless reason he was in love with you. Why he needed you. Why he wishes it was him in that bed.

His eyes squeeze shut to his daily horror show that played on repeat any time he closed his eyes. “You’re so stubborn.” He huffs out, lips grazing over your fingers as he speaks. “Should be me.” A shaky breath leaves him as his lips press into your skin.

That’s when he hears it. A grunt. A muttering sound that didn’t even form real words, but they didn’t have to.

His heart soars.

Ace shoots up straight to look at you as your nose scrunches up and your eyes squeeze tight. Your eyes flickering open is like a shot of adrenaline right through him and he has to hold himself back from tugging you into his chest.

His brain short circuits as he grabs your hand once again, delighted at the feeling of you weakly squeezing back.

Calling for Law was the next step, the doctor checking you over now that you were awake. He rambles on about the recovery process, warning you from using any healing ability before you regain your strength, before leaving the two of you alone.

Ace looks at you with all the love and adoration in his gaze. For the first time in days, you’re able to gaze back at him. Weakly, a hand reaches out to him and he’s leaning over the bed to allow it to fall against his cheek. He places a hand over yours to prolong the touch, leaning into with eyes squeezed shut, and for the first time he doesn’t see the vision of you bleeding out on the battle field. No, now all he sees is your eyes finally opening.

“Ace.” Your voice is scratchy and dry.

Tears prick in his eyes at the sound of his own name coming out of your mouth. “Yeah, doll?”

“ ‘M glad I did it.”

His brows pull together as the words hang in the air. Then he laughs. It’s breathy and unfamiliar after the days he has endured. “What?”

“You said it should have been you.” You beckon him closer and he follows. “But i’m glad it wasn’t.” A smile pulls to your cracked lips. “I would never want to live in a world without Portgas D. Ace. Because you deserve to be alive.” Your forehead leans against his as he chokes back a sob. “I’d do it a thousand times over if it meant keeping you safe because i’m so in love with you.”

And that effectively breaks him.

“Say it again.” He pleads as he hesitantly embraces you, careful not to cause anymore harm. “Please.”

“I love you.” You repeat as your eyes well up in tears. “I’m so in love with you.” Leaning into his embrace felt like all of the relief that you needed. “I love you so much.”

“I love you.” Ace sobs freely into your arms.

#yeah so this is actually canon and ace is fine #(i scream as they drag me away in a straitjacket)#header: the scream (e. munch)#portgas d ace #portgas ace x you #portgas ace one shot #portgas d ace x you #portgas ace x reader #portgas d ace one shot #portgas d ace x reader #portgas ace #one-fics

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witherby · 1 day ago

Note

(same anon) mouse!!! sorgy!!

Okay! Strange influx of mutilation-based hypotheticals I've been receiving lately, but okay!

This is not canon to the main Flittermouse series!

What would your family + Kon do if you lost an eye?

⚠️ vague description of injury, loss of an eyeball ⚠️

Masterlist is Here!

Bruce:

Get you a doctor and try to keep you as chill as possible. This man has trained himself not to panic in terrible situations and he is going to stay so very calm and cool and collected, so that you feel like he's got this under control.

"Hi, honey. I can see we've got a bit of a problem on our hands. Don't freak out — I'm gonna figure this out for you, alright? Keep that eye — the socket — keep the eyelids closed. Yes, great. Press this towel gently to your face and hold it there. I'm taking you to the hospital. Are you — okay, and the shock has set in. It's alright. I'm right here. It's okay."

Hal:

Try not to pass out. There's just a socket where your eyeball should be. That's insane. He's calling Bruce for help and not looking at you. He's actually quite frightened that you ended up this way and the guilt at his initial, improper reaction is gonna tear him apart later.

"Oh my god?? What happened!! No don't tell me, we have to get you help first. Holy shit. How did you lose a whole — gag — eye? NO don't tell me!! It's okay, Mousey, it's fine! Deep breaths, don't pass out. You look like you're gonna pass out. Me?? I'm not gonna pass — hrk — I'm good I'm good. How is the whole thing gone like that!? NO DON'T TELL ME. BRUCE ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE —"

Alfred:

Following a similar procedure as Bruce. Keeping himself calm so that you'll try to be calm, while he's getting you help.

"I've actually seen something similar to this happen before. I'm former British Intelligence, there is very little that's new to me, my darling Flittermouse. Come, let me administer a pain killer and then escort you to my car. I'm sure that smarts quite a bit. Watch your step — forgive the poor choice of words. I have you, dear. Let's get you to the emergency room and get that taken care of. All you have to do is stay awake."

Dick:

Almost passed out, not gonna lie. There's a hole in your head that isn't supposed to be there. It's fucking horrifying. Only his years and years of training help him keep his cool enough to get you to the emergency room, but after that he's breaking down and crying.

Jason:

Takes you to the ER but he's asking you as many questions as possible before you succumb to shock.

"What happened? Who did this? What do you remember? Are you hurt anywhere else?"

After you're in the doctors' hands, he's chasing leads so he can kill the bastard that cost you an eye.

Tim:

He's freaked. Worse than Hal even. I think he deserves a big character flaw so he'd actually be incredibly squeamish. Can't do the gorey shit at all. Like, can't breathe, can't look at you, can't-do-anything-except-have-a-panic-attack kind of freaked. His panic feeds into your panic until you're both uselessly crying into a phone calling 9-1-1. It works, and help comes, but boy he does not have control of the situation.

Damian:

At this point, you're old enough that Damian is in the middle of his doctorate program and residency, if not already done with it. He's doing a fantastic job treating the wound and making sure you don't get hurt worse or it gets infected, before he can't do anything more without surgery and takes you to the hospital.

Medical jargon flies out of his mouth when he talks to coworkers and seamlessly guides you through the corridors to the correct area, communicating what you need and having them prep a surgical team.

In-between it all, he's not giving you meaningless platitudes but he is telling you that everything is going to be fine. You'll likely have some bad depth perception for a long time, but this isn't the end of anything. You can go to culinary school. You can apply for a business license. You can keep dating the alien half-breed idiot. You'll just do all of that with one less eyeball. And the person who did it will die, but you don't need to bother yourself with that. It's fine.

+ Conner:

You'll be flown to the hospital in 0.2 seconds. He's not asking questions, he's not making any phone calls, he's just taking action. He gets you help, he tells you he'll be right back, and then he goes and alerts your family as to what happened.

Now that the most important bits are done, he's using his powers to get a lil freaky. He knows what you smell like, so he's tracing back your blood to try and find your missing eyeball so he can kill whoever took it. No questions asked. Sorry, you don't get to hurt his mate and also survive the next 24 hours. It's just not happening. Don't blubber, don't bargain, don't try to explain yourself. Just die.

After his errands are done, he isn't leaving your side again.

#el speaks #littlest wayne au #batfam x reader #batlantern #bruce wayne #jason todd #damian wayne #hal jordan #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #gn reader #conner kent #conner kent x reader #kon el x reader

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vbecker10 · 20 hours ago

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Hi Neighbor (Part 2)

Part 3 (in progress)

Summary: You try to help Bucky find his runaway cat then spend the afternoon getting closer then you thought you would. Bucky starts to open up to you about not being able to sleep in a bed and all the things he's never done for himself before.

A/N: This is going to be a multi-part series with a bit of a slow burn between you and your hot new neighbor. I'm not sure how many parts yet but I already have the ending all figured out 💚 I hope you all like it!

"Cute cat," you both look down and smile as his pet comes slowly towards you.

"Alpine, go back inside," he orders gently but the cat ignores him, rubbing against your ankle until you bend down to scratch behind his ears.

"Alpine?" you ask. "That's an interesting name."

"Thats what they called him at the shelter," he answers. The moment Bucky takes his eyes off his cat to look at you, Alpine takes off down the steps towards the sidewalk.

"Alpine!" Bucky calls as he runs barefoot down the sidewalk after him.

"Oh shit," you swear, following Bucky to see if you can help.

That's a really fast cat, you think as you jog down the sidewalk then cross the street behind Bucky. The super soldier clearly isn't putting in any effort as he gets further ahead of you and closer to his runaway pet. Alpine crosses another street and Bucky looks both ways briefly then follows him.

Breathing heavily, you start to slow down dramatically after the fifth or sixth street, I think I need to start doing more cardio. And that cat needs a leash, holy crap.

You watch Bucky, almost two blocks ahead of you finally slow down as Alpine turns off the sidewalk and hides under a bush. You give up on running completely, leaning over to rest your hands on your knees while you catch your breath. Wiping a bit of sweat off your forehead, you barely hear Bucky over your pounding heartbeat. When you look up, he's standing in front of you looking just as calm as he had before the chase.

Smiling in victory, he holds Alpine close to his chest with his metal arm. The feisty little feline hasn't given up yet though, he's still struggling to get free.

"Did you say something?" you stand up straighter, hoping he won't notice that your very obviously dying.

"I asked if you were okay?" he says and you can tell he's trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, yeah," you nod, forcing a wide smile. "Totally fine," you give him a thumbs up. "I love running."

He can't help but chuckle as he starts to walk back towards your apartments, "Yeah, that doesn't sound like a lie at all. Don't worry, I'll walk slow so you can keep you."

"Oh, that was mean," you laugh and he smirks.

You shake your head in response to the show you're watching as you finish folding the laundry. Just as you place the last piece of clothing in a drawer your doorbell rings. With an annoyed sigh, you grab your phone and check the video from your camera app. I'm not talking to one more person trying to sell me something, you think as it loads.

"Holy crap," you say outloud then walk quickly to the door. "Hi," you open it and smile at Bucky. "Your little fur ball escape again already?"

He shakes his head and chuckles, "Not yet. He isn't going anywhere for the moment and I think he's pretty angry with me about it. He needed a bath and then I had to put him in his crate cause he decided to test out his claws on my arm."

"Oooh, the metal one I hope," you cringe.

"Yeah, thankfully," he smiles then gets a bit more serious. "I've only had him for a month so we're still getting used to each other. He hasn't been this upset since I first brought him home from the shelter. I don't think he likes new places."

"Probably not," you agree. "But he'll get used to it here, he just needs a little time to adjust and you seem really good with him."

"I'm trying," he sighs and looks down for a moment to folded menu in his hand. "Anyways," Bucky changes the subject abruptly and smiles again. "I was going to order some Thai food and I was wondering if you wanted any, you know as a thank you for helping me find him."

"I'm not sure I really helped very much," you tell him, cringing internally when you think about how you nearly died trying to keep up with Bucky. "And I think he escaped cause of me in the first place."

"At least you tried," he smiles and you know he remembers you dying as well. He adds, "Just between us, he's a really smart cat and I think he was planning that escape since last night."

"You sure?" you ask. You're hopeful he won't change his mind but you are afraid to seem too eager to accept his offer.

"Absolutely," he nods which makes you smile and relax.

"I'm still unpacking so don't judge me too much," he says from a few steps ahead of you as you follow him up to his apartment.

You smirk, "Oh, I'm definitely going to judge you."

He smiles at your response and explains, "I'm waiting on some furniture to come in but the living room is mostly set up."

"Yeah, I noticed you didn't get a bed delivered," you say when you reach the top of the stairs and he turns to look at you. "Okay that sounded stalker-ish," you giggle nervously. "I have a camera on my door and it sends me a video anytime there's motion so if someone walks by or you open your front door I get a notification."

"Ahh," he nods in understanding. "Slightly less stalker-ish then."

You blush awkwardly, "Yeah, slightly."

"You're right though, no bed yet," he says as he walks towards the kitchen.

"So you're sleeping on the couch?" you continue to follow him through the apartment.

"I've slept in worse places," he shrugs and you bite your lip because you have no idea what to say to that. The two of you become silent, both of you ignoring his comment.

Bucky opens the fridge, "I didn't get to go grocery shopping yet so I've got water and beer."

You laugh and peak around him, "Is that really all that's in there?"

"Yep," he nods proudly. "Actually the beer isn't even mine, Sam brought it over last night when he was helping setup my TV and forgot it."

"Water is good," you tell him. "I'm going grocery shopping tonight, want to come?" The words leave your mouth before your brain can even process them. Seriously, shut up. He's a grown man, he doesn't need you to take him shopping and- your thoughts are cut off by his quick answer.

"Sure," he agrees. "Sam told me I was an idiot for getting a bike and not a car, mostly cause I'm not sure how to carry groceries and stuff on it yet."

"I think the bike was a good idea, you look pretty good on it," the words bypass your brain and you fight the urge to literally cover your mouth with your hand.

He smirks when he makes eye contact with you, "Thanks." You look away quickly, staring at your feet as you blush and clear your throat.

He pulls out the pitcher of water and opens the cabinet near the sink. A giggle escapes you when you see six identical black mugs arranged neatly on the middle shelf. Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, "What's so funny?"

"All of your mugs say Stark Industries on them," you point out. He chuckles and nods as he takes two glasses down and places them on the counter. "Wait, did you steal them from work?" you ask unable to stop giggling.

"No, of course not," he says defensively. "Steve did," he adds with a shrug.

"Shut up! Captain America stole them?" you gasp in surprise.

"Steve's literally the reason we were always in trouble as kids. He's done way worse then pocket a few mugs," he chuckles and hands you a glass of water. He pausesadd if he's thinking and adds, "He's still getting me in trouble actually."

"Wait, really?" you ask, not quite believing him.

He walks to the couch and you follow him while he talks, "Really. He even taught me how to steal cars."

"No!" you laugh, "That wasn't in the museum."

"I'm sure it wasn't," Bucky doesn't seem surprised. "It's all part of the image of Captain America, they needed him to be perfect. Always following orders, not breaking any rules," he smiles, "Pretty much the opposite of Steve."

"That's a shame, he's a lot more interesting now," you take a sip of water.

"I'll tell him you think so," he chuckles then his attention shifts to the sound of the doorbell.

You look around the still unfinished living room, smiling when you see a faded picture of him and Steve in their Army uniforms from the 40s sitting on the windowsill. He looks damn good in that uniform, you think. Not quite as good as he did when he opened the door with almost nothing on this morning of course. Oh my god, stop, he's sitting right here, you yell at yourself for your rouge thoughts.

You shift on his couch while he unpacks the food, your thoughts shifting. This is a pretty small couch for such a big guy to be sleeping on it. How does he even fit? He's gotta be a foot taller than it is long. It's at that moment that you notice a blanket folded in the corner of the room and look up at him while he unpacks the food.

"Bucky, are you sleeping on the floor?" you can't stop yourself from asking. His jaw clenches and he doesn't answer, pulling the last container out of the paper bag. "There's no way you fit on this couch," you add even though you know you should drop it. "You're too tall."

"It's not a big deal," he shrugs and picks up the remote in his metal hand, hoping to end the conversation quickly.

You put your hand on his forearm and the vibranium plates shift under your fingers causing you pull your hand back. "Sorry," you apologize knowing you've completely overstepped. You shift away from him further to give him space.

He's quiet for a moment, the sound of a random show playing in the background. "Beds are too soft," he says, his eyes drifting towards the blanket.

"Did you even buy one?" you ask but you're pretty sure you know the answer.

He shakes his head, "No. I will, probably just so the room doesn't look weird but I don't think I'll use it."

Maybe not for sleeping, your brain tries to make a joke but thankfully you don't let it slip out. This definitely isn't the time for that.

You sit quietly and wait, thankful when he starts talking again. "Once in a while, I'll fall asleep on the couch when I'm watching TV but I can't seem to last the night. I don't know... I'm just not used to being comfortable I guess. It feels weird, almost like it's wrong. I'm not sure how to explain it but I can't even use a pillow most of the time."

"Have you talked to anyone about this?" you ask him, feeling more worried about him as the conversation continues.

"Steve knows," Bucky answers with a light nod. "I don't think he gets it though."

"Oh, I meant like a therapist..." you stop yourself, "I'm sorry this is none of my business."

"No it's okay," he says but you can tell he's uncomfortable. He flexes his hand, the metal whirling as it recalibrates and the plates shift. "I've been avoiding the one SHIELD set up for me to talk to."

"Why?" you ask, not meaning to push but you're too concerned about him to just drop the subject.

"I'm not ready to uh..." he pauses and you can see he's really trying to think of the right word. "Trauma dump, that's what the kids call it now right?"

You can't help but laugh lightly at how sincere his question is, "Yeah, that's what the youngsters call it."

"Don't make fun," he smiles for the first time since you brought up his sleeping habits.

"I'm not," you promise. "Who's teaching you slang anyways?"

He chuckles, "Peter." You shrug having no idea who that is. "Peter Parker," he says as if that should help but you still look at him blankly. "He's umm..." he stops himself, "He's a high schooler who's interning for Stark. Smart kid from Queens, way too much energy though."

You giggle, "So you went straight to the source huh?"

"Just trying to catch up," he opens the container of food closest to him.

"How's that going for you?" you help him open the other one.

"Most of what he says makes very little sense," he laughs. "I think he's messing with me a lot."

You smirk and agree, "He might be. I know I would."

"I have no doubt you would," he says as he divides one of the containers between your plates.

You watch him smile as he focuses on the food but your eyes drift back to the blanket tucked away in the corner. "Bucky," you clear your throat a little and he looks up at you. "Try not to put off the therapist for too long okay?" He nods and you add, "And if you ever wanna talk I'm around. I'm pretty good at just listening."

"Thanks Y/N, I really appreciate that," Bucky hands you your plate. "You know," he smiles, "If you keep offering to help me with things, I'm going to start thinking you like being around me or something."

You shake your head, not willing to admit you've got a serious crush on him that inky seems to be getting worse. "I actually just want to hang out with you to get closer to Alpine."

"Ahh, I knew it," he laughs as he sits back on the couch with a smirk.

You follow Bucky to the kitchen, throwing out the garbage while he places the dishes in the sink. "Not gonna use the dishwasher?" you ask him.

"Oh," he looks over at the appliance then you. "Um... I haven't figured that one out yet."

"Add that to the list of stuff I need to teach you," you joke.

He chuckles and grabs a pad off the fridge, placing it on the counter next to you with a pen. "Go ahead," Bucky says.

"You're ridiculous," you roll your eyes but take the cap off the pen. "So we've got a lot of horrible adult things. Using a dishwasher, going grocery shopping, doing laundry-"

"I actually don't mind laundry," he interrupts you.

"Seriously?" you look at him surprised.

"Yeah, it's so easy now. You put the clothes in one machine, push a few buttons and come back when it's clean. Then you've got a whole separate machine to dry them," he explains. You laugh at how cute he is when he's excited and he continues talking. "You have no idea how annoying laundry was back then," he says seriously. "I had to boil the water, use a washboard which is an absolute nightmare and you had to do it on a nice day so you could spread it all out on the clothesline."

"You're so old," you cover your mouth, laughing at the thought of Bucky bent over a washboard.

"Ow," he pretends to pout but he chuckles when he makes a friendly threat. "He nice to me or I'll tell Alpine you prefer dogs."

You gasp, "You wouldn't!"

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