#i can explain why if anyone wants to know | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

understeeringirl · 3 days ago

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The fallout

Summary: After the gala, everything is too sharp, too quiet. Lando knocks on your door like an apology, but your phone buzzes before he can speak—and the photo says it all. You ask if it’s real. He doesn’t deny it. And something inside you shatters. warnings: emotional whiplash, heartbreak, social media pressure, betrayal (photo with another girl), fever/illness, fainting, mention of changing clothes (non-sexual), emotional vulnerability, caretaking, angst that lingers like smoke word count: 4.6k series: wrong side of the camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight

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You wake up early.

Your skin smells like leftover makeup remover and lavender detergent. Your hair’s in a bun you don’t remember tying. The heels from last night sit by the door, abandoned like they knew something you didn’t.

You should feel better after a night of sleep.

You don’t.

The ache isn’t sharp. It’s quiet. Steady. A weight in your chest that hasn't moved since you told him goodnight without looking back.

You shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks and an old hoodie, scrolling through your phone half-dazed. No new texts. No voice notes.

Just his last words in the car, still stuck in your head:

“I’m going to fix this. I’ll be better. I swear.”

You’d let yourself believe it.

You almost still do.

Until the knock comes.

You’re not expecting anyone. Not this early. Not like this.

You crack the door open—and there he is.

Lando.

Hood up, dark circles under his eyes, hand shoved into the pocket of his hoodie like he doesn’t know what else to do with it.

He looks at you like he’s not sure if he should be here.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he says. “Can we talk?”

You blink at him. “Now?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

Your phone buzzes.

You glance down, thumb swiping instinctively.

And your stomach drops.

Lando Norris spotted with mystery girl hours after Silver & Black Gala.

There it is: the blurry photo. His hoodie. Her laugh. Their shadows crawling into the backseat of a car that isn’t yours.

You feel yourself freeze.

You laugh.

Because what else is there to do?

“Wow,” you say, holding the phone up between you like a prop. “They really don’t rest, do they?”

Lando’s brow furrows. “What?”

You tilt the screen toward him. “You’ve got a mystery brunette now, apparently. Tell me—should I be flattered or replaced?”

He doesn’t say anything.

His face shifts—just enough. Not horror. Not even surprise. Just… recognition. And that’s enough.

You know.

The photo was real.

You see it in the way he swallows. How he doesn’t ask what photo?, doesn’t pretend. He just looks at it.

Then looks at you.

And says nothing.

“So it’s true,” you say, voice quiet.

“No,” he blurts. “Not like that. It wasn’t—she was just—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off. “Don’t say it wasn’t anything if you were with her after everything you said to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your throat is tight now. “You just left out the part where you couldn’t wait a full day before falling back into old habits.”

“I wasn’t with her like that. I just needed—I was overwhelmed, and it wasn’t a plan—”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean—I didn’t know it was out yet.”

That’s when it hits.

“You weren’t coming to tell me,” you whisper. “You were coming to get ahead of it.”

“I wasn’t—I swear, that’s not why I came here.”

You stare at him.

He keeps talking.

“I was gonna explain, I just—I messed up, I know I did, but it wasn’t what it looked like. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You cross your arms. “But you didn’t want to be honest either.”

His expression shifts again—smaller this time. Something close to shame.

“I meant what I said in the car,” he says. “I just—fucked it all up the second I walked away.”

You nod slowly.

Then you step back.

“I think you should go.”

Lando stills. “What?”

“Please,” you add, voice hollow. “I can’t do this right now.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something—fix it, soften it, rewrite it. But you’re already closing the door.

He doesn’t stop you.

You wait until the latch clicks.

Then you sit on the floor, back to the door, and let it break.

He doesn’t move.

Not until he hears it.

The sob breaks from your chest—sharp, involuntary, too real to be swallowed. It cuts through the silence like it was meant to pierce him.

And it does.

Lando flinches.

Then his hand goes to the doorframe. Fingertips pressed there like touch might anchor him to something.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

He knocks once—soft, like an apology. “Please,” he says, barely audible. “Just open the door. Let me explain. I didn’t mean for this. I didn’t think—I just—”

Another sound from you. Quieter this time, but it wrecks him worse.

He presses his forehead to the wood.

“I’m still here,” he murmurs, as if that could fix it.

But the silence that answers is colder than anything you’ve ever said.

And so he stays.

Outside your door. Breathing too hard. Repeating your name under his breath like a prayer he doesn’t deserve.

You don’t move for a long time.

Not even when the knocking stops. Not when his voice fades into a whisper. Not when the silence on the other side of the door stretches long enough to make your chest ache.

You stay curled on the floor, breath shallow, heart cracked open and spilling into the quiet.

Eventually, you stand.

Your legs are unsteady. Your arms feel wrong at your sides. But you walk back into the kitchen anyway, like pretending everything is normal will make it so.

You don’t check the door.

You don’t want to know if he’s still out there.

Because if he is, you might open it. And if he’s not, you might break all over again.

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You make coffee with shaking hands. Half the water spills onto the counter. You leave it. Let it pool.

Your phone vibrates once. Then again.

You already know.

“Trouble in paradise?” “Norris seen with another girl after gala appearance with girlfriend.”

Your name is trending again.

Not for your work. Not for your campaign. Not for anything you did.

You’re just the girl who got left behind.

You toss the phone onto the couch and walk away from it.

You wrap yourself in a hoodie. Then a blanket. Then a silence you don’t know how to climb out of.

You sit on the edge of your bed and let the weight of it settle.

Somewhere behind you—on the other side of a very thin door—he might still be standing there.

But you don’t look.

You don’t ask.

You don’t let yourself hope.

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You don’t sleep.

Maybe an hour, curled on the couch in yesterday’s hoodie, still tasting last night’s silence. But morning still comes. Loud and merciless.

And Vogue still expects you on set.

You stare at the email again. Call time: 9:00. Stylist already en route. Location: minimalist rooftop studio in Notting Hill.

A dream job. A bucket list name. The kind of shoot you once fantasized about when you were fifteen and invisible.

You consider canceling.

You even type the message out.

i can’t come. sorry.

Then you delete it.

Because if you stay here, in this apartment, in this ache—if you give in now—you won’t come back from it.

So you move.

You shower. Dress. Pull your hair into a low clip. Apply concealer with practiced detachment. Not to look beautiful—just functional. Just untouched.

You step out of your apartment just past 8:00 a.m.

The air bites at your collarbone. The sky is bleached gray. The city hasn’t woken up yet.

But he’s still there.

Same car. Same spot. Same hoodie.

He looks like he hasn’t slept either.

His head jerks up the second he sees you. Like he’d been dozing. Or praying.

Your footsteps falter for half a second.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t even look at him properly.

You walk past the car like it’s invisible. Like he is. Like he didn’t beg on the other side of your door just hours ago.

You don’t know if he opens the window. You don’t care.

Because you slide into your stylist’s car, say “drive” before she can ask, and don’t look back once.

Not even as the street disappears behind you.

You used to look at him like he hung the stars. Like even when he was messing up, he was still yours.

Now you look at him like he’s a stranger on the street.

And fuck—maybe he is.

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You barely remember arriving.

The stylist talks the whole drive—about color palettes and silhouettes and how René (the photographer) is “a genius, but high-maintenance.” You nod, say “mhmm” at the right times. Pretend you’re listening.

But your thoughts are elsewhere.

Still parked on that street.

Still sitting in the car you didn’t look at.

Still knocking on the door you didn’t open.

By the time you reach the set, you’ve layered enough professionalism over the pain to pass as functional. You let the makeup artist do her thing. Foundation, highlighter, something dewy and radiant. The irony stings.

Your first look is an oversized blazer and nothing else. Slicked-back hair. Red lip. Bare legs and bare arms and not a single inch of armor.

René claps his hands. “Perfect. She’s giving heartbreak and ambition.’”

You hold your pose.

You don’t react.

Because if you laugh, you’ll cry.

And if you cry, the mascara will run.

And if the mascara runs, it’ll be in every single frame.

You stretch your neck. Shift your weight. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The camera clicks. And clicks. And clicks.

You disappear into the rhythm.

It’s almost peaceful—being someone else for a while. Someone quiet and powerful and untouchable. Someone with nothing to lose.

“Gorgeous,” René says. “Again. Let’s get the heel tilt. Think: vengeance but couture.”

You do.

You think about the fact that he’s still out there.

You think about the passenger seat. The other girl. The trending tag under your name.

You think about the voice note he never answered.

The kiss he didn’t give you.

The silence he left you in.

Click.

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You’re not sure how long you shoot for—an hour, maybe two—before they call for a break.

You step off set. Someone hands you a robe. You take it.

You sit in the corner of the studio, knees pulled to your chest, the robe draped over your silver mini dress. Your phone’s in your lap, buzzing again.

You finally check it.

And you freeze.

Because the first picture from the shoot is already on Instagram. Vogue posted a behind-the-scenes shot. You in the chair. High ponytail. Jaw sharp.

And the comments are flooding in.

“She looks unreal.” “He fumbled so hard omg.” “That’s how you respond to heartbreak—booked and busy.” “Miss girl said: your loss.”

You blink.

Your eyes sting, but you don’t cry.

Not this time.

You just press your lips together, set your phone down, and get back up.

Because the camera's ready again.

And so are you.

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The rest of the shoot blurs.

Outfit changes. Highlighter touch-ups. A half-lunch you don’t touch.

René calls you a revelation. The creative director calls you perfect for the September issue. Your stylist whispers they’re obsessed with you like it’s a secret.

You smile. You nod.

But it doesn’t feel like victory.

Not when you step into the car again and realize you’ve gone almost eight hours without thinking about yourself. Not you as a person. Just you as a product. A face. A muse.

The silence is deafening now.

Your phone buzzes in your hand as your driver takes a turn back toward the flat.

JAMES 🥂 Just saw your Vogue post. you look like you could end lives.

You let out the smallest breath of a laugh.

Then another buzz.

Also, you okay? No pressure to answer. Just thinking about you.

You blink hard.

Not because of the message. But because it feels like the first one all day that saw you and not the headlines.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard.

You type, delete, retype.

you: i’m holding it together. just barely.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Then:

That counts. Proud of you.

You close your eyes. Let the words sit in your chest for a second.

It’s not the same as him—not even close.

But it’s something.

And right now, something is all you have.

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The sun is setting by the time you get back.

The city glows in that soft, gold-edged way it does when the world feels too quiet. You thank the driver. Step out in your oversized blazer and heels that have long since stopped hurting.

And then you see it.

His car.

Still there.

Same spot.

You stop on the sidewalk. For just a second.

His head is tipped forward, resting on the steering wheel. Like he passed out or gave up or both.

Your chest tightens. Everything inside you goes tense and messy and sharp.

You want to scream. Or knock on the window. Or pretend none of this is happening.

Instead, you walk past him. Again.

But this time, your hands are shaking.

You make it up the stairs. Unlock the door. Step inside.

Then lean back against it. Close your eyes.

You should be used to this by now—the emotional whiplash, the exhaustion, the endless cycle of pretending you’re fine. But something about today makes it worse.

It's late. Your limbs are heavy. Your thoughts are slow.

You drop your keys. Bend to pick them up. Sway a little when you stand.

Something’s wrong.

The apartment is cold. You shiver.

You make it to the bathroom. Brush off the nausea. Strip down, change into one of Lando’s shirts, the softest one, the one you stole months ago and never gave back.

You crawl onto the couch.

The world tilts sideways.

You close your eyes.

You don't remember falling asleep.

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You wake up to sunlight stabbing through the blinds.

Your skin feels too hot. Your breath catches in your throat like you swallowed smoke in your sleep. You blink slowly, lashes sticking together, your face damp with sweat. Everything aches.

Your stomach turns when you shift.

You’re still on the couch. Wrapped in that throw blanket that never feels warm enough. Your dress is gone—thank god—and replaced by an old tee. You don’t remember changing. Maybe you didn’t.

Your mouth is dry. Your heartbeat is loud. There’s a chill in your fingers even though the rest of you feels like you’re burning.

You sit up too fast.

Bad idea.

The room swims. You press a hand to your forehead, to your chest, trying to steady your breathing.

There’s a distant thought in the back of your head—you need water. medicine. help. But it’s buried under the fuzz of fever and pride.

You swing your legs off the couch and try to stand.

The floor tilts. Your knees buckle.

You catch yourself on the edge of the coffee table and sink to the ground with a sharp gasp. Your hand knocks your phone off the cushion. It hits the floor face-down.

You drag it toward you. The screen lights up.

10:48 AM

One missed call—from your manager.

Three unread texts. Not from Lando.

You blink slowly. Cold sweat drips down your back.

You try to stand again.

This time, your legs give out completely. Your shoulder hits the floor first, then your hip. You groan, curling into yourself on instinct.

You lay there for a while. Minutes, maybe more. The carpet is scratchy. The sunlight is too bright. Your heart won’t calm down.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Steady. Familiar.

Him.

You try to yell go away, but all that comes out is a dry, broken wheeze. You try to crawl toward the hallway, but your limbs feel like wet sandbags, impossible to move.

The knock comes again.

You shut your eyes. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll leave. Maybe if you don’t move, you’ll float out of your body and escape this entire nightmare of a week.

But you feel his presence hit the room like a storm.

Your body is soaked in sweat. Everything aches. Your head is pounding so loudly it drowns out the soft knocking at the door.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

You try to lift your head. It takes everything. A muscle at a time.

You manage to roll onto your side. Your arm twitches out toward the coffee table, reaching for your phone—or maybe for air—but your fingers don’t quite close.

The knocking gets louder.

You try to speak. Nothing comes.

And then—

A key turns in the lock.

You hear the door creak open. Footsteps.

Then:

“No—no, no, no—fuck—”

It’s Lando.

And he’s running.

You can’t lift your head anymore. Your eyelids are too heavy. But you feel hands on your back, your shoulder, your face.

“Hey,” he says, frantic. “Hey—can you hear me?”

You try to answer. Nothing.

“Shit. Okay. Okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You’re lifted into his arms, and it’s like your whole body sighs. Like your bones have given up.

You don’t even feel the tears until they’re soaking your skin.

Not yours.

His.

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You wake up slow, your head pounding like it’s been filled with smoke. Your throat aches. Your skin is on fire.

The light in the room is soft—dimmed. Not morning anymore, but not quite night either. Your skin sticks to the sheets, the air smells faintly like lemon and something antiseptic, and your mouth is painfully dry.

You try to sit up.

Big mistake.

Pain blooms in your chest and your stomach clenches. A soft groan escapes you before you can stop it.

There’s movement to your left.

Then his voice. Quiet. Raspy. Right there.

“Hey. Hey, no—don’t move. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You blink.

He’s beside you in a second, hand hovering just above your arm like he’s scared to touch you without permission, eyes bloodshot from no sleep and maybe crying. A damp cloth in his hand.

It takes a moment before you realize whose hoodie you’re wearing.

Yours must’ve been soaked. You remember flashes—your body on fire, your limbs too heavy, the sound of your own breathing going shallow.

And then him.

You remember arms. Hands. Fear.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then the fury hits—thick and immediate.

You try to push yourself up. Fail.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Your voice comes out broken, cracked and low, but it’s the most force you can muster.

He leans forward, trying to help, but you bat his hand away—weakly.

“I’m serious,” you say, every syllable dry and angry. “Why are you here?”

"You were passed out. I tried calling and you didn’t answer, and then I—"

“So you just used your key?” You scoff, breath catching in your throat. “That’s rich. You don’t text back, you disappear for days, and now suddenly you care enough to break in?”

“I didn’t break in,” he says. His voice is too soft. “I knocked. You didn’t answer. I heard something—then I found you on the floor.”

You laugh, bitter. “Hero complex looks good on you.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”

You look at him hard, even through the haze in your vision. “Don’t what? Call you out?”

“No,” he says. “Don’t act like I don’t care.”

“You’ve spent weeks proving otherwise.”

He closes his eyes for half a second, like he’s trying to breathe through it.

“You think I wanted any of this?” he says. “You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“You did.” Your voice breaks on it. “You hurt me anyway.”

He looks down. At his hands. At the cloth he’d been using to cool your fevered skin. His grip tightens like he wants to squeeze the guilt out of it.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” he says. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. But when I saw you—on the floor like that—none of that mattered. I just wanted you to be okay.”

You press your eyes shut. You hate how he says it. Like it’s tender. Like it means something.

Like it changes anything.

“You don’t get to do this,” you whisper. “You don’t get to check out, hurt me, lie by omission, and then show up and pretend like you didn’t shatter everything in the process.”

“I know,” he says. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

You open your eyes again. “You should be.”

A long silence.

You’re trembling under the blanket now, not just from fever.

“Did you—” you pause, swallowing the humiliation. “Did you change me?”

He nods, hesitating. “Just your shirt . You were drenched in sweat. I didn’t look. I swear I didn’t. I just—”

“I know.” You shake your head faintly. “I know you didn’t. That’s not—”

You sigh. It’s too much.

Your hands find the blanket, gripping it tight.

“I hate that it’s still you,” you whisper.

He looks up sharply.

“I hate that no matter how bad you fuck it up, no matter how much this hurts, it’s still you.”

He doesn’t breathe for a second.

Then he reaches for your hand.

You don’t pull away.

But you don’t grip back either.

And that feels more honest than anything either of you have said in weeks.

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The fever comes in waves after that.

One minute, you’re curled into the pillows, too weak to lift your arms. The next, you’re half-sitting up, cursing under your breath because the room won’t stop spinning.

He stays.

Through all of it.

You try to argue again—tell him to leave, that you don’t want him here—but your body won’t let you finish the sentence. You think at one point you actually pass out mid-insult.

He catches you. Every time.

Cool cloths. Sips of water. The soft sound of him whispering “It’s okay, I’ve got you” when your hands won’t stop shaking.

It should comfort you.

It doesn’t.

Because all you can think about—through the nausea, the sweat, the fog—is that he only came back after the damage was done.

After the photos.

After the trending hashtags.

After you curled up on the floor and broke into pieces he never even looked at.

You drift in and out, time slipping sideways. He stays on the edge of the bed, watching you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again. You want to tell him he already made you disappear once.

Instead, you sleep.

When you wake next, it’s dark. The fever’s broken, but your throat is on fire and your whole body aches like you’ve been hit by something bigger than the flu.

Lando is still there.

On the floor this time. Slumped against the dresser, hoodie pulled up, arms crossed over his chest.

You stare at him. He’s sleeping, barely. Twitchy and restless, mouth pressed into a tight line like he’s fighting demons even now.

You almost call his name.

You don’t.

Instead, you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, close your eyes again, and wish you were someone else. Somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn't find you.

You dream of cameras.

Of flashes and shouting and empty passenger seats.

Of his voice saying your name like it still belongs to him.

You wake up choking on it.

And still—he’s there.

Just like always.

Just like never.

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#understeeringirl logs #f1 x reader #f1 #lando fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando x reader #f1 fanfic #formula 1 #lando norris fanfic

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m-robinavitch · 8 hours ago

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May I have #19 with Jack!

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Trope: Love at first sight

I’ve posted a snippet of this before but this is my take on how Jack and is wife from in passing., silent., and wet. meet!

“Who is that?” Walsh had asked while walking next to Abbot- hearing the commotion going on and seeing what she assumed was a civilian on top of a patient giving compressions. She was giving an update on the MVC patient from last night when an incoming trauma was announced.

“I think that's my future wife,” Jack mumbled, watching how you took point- strong voice and calling shots. You definitely weren’t a civilian. He was enamored- in love at first fucking sight of the way you held your hand up to pause Jesse from getting the defibrillator ready after you finally found an irregular pulse.

“Who is this and why are you on my patient?” You heard someone comment- taking Jesse’s hand so he can help you off said patient. All you wanted to do after your shift was grab some pizza and sleep for the entire day you had off. But of course you saw the man sway in front of you while standing in line to grab your order- before he even hit the ground you ran up to him before he could add concussion to his list of injuries. You jumped in the ambulance with him, telling the medics to take you to PTMC where you’ve been an intern for a few months already. You explained the situation- how you were in the scene and the attending held his hand up in front of you. You knew him- some asshole that liked to throw rank around but not listen to anyone who wasn’t an attending or a man.

“I’m an intern sir- I-“

“An intern?” He sneered, “Well move aside little lady and let me work.” He physically pushed you away, grabbing his stethoscope while Jesse hooked the monitors onto the patient and gave you a look that told you to not say anything. But-

“Actually we got it from here Dr. Chase,” you turned, eyeing the man who stepped into trauma bay 2. You had seen him in passing, the lead attending on the night shift, Dr. Abbot. Strong arms with salt and pepper hair, snarky comments and a smile that made your knees weak. “That is if our intern wants to keep working on her patient?” Jack hated Chase. Misogynistic asshat who should have retired to the golf courses years ago. And maybe he was so taken by those mere seconds of seeing you but Jack wanted to know how he missed out on you. And eagerly you smiled- nodding and reaching in your backpack for your stethoscope, somehow having so much energy again after a 10 hour shift.

Turns out it was a seizure. The man had a blockage and when he seized it stopped his heart along with it. You were right to stop Jesse from shocking his heart, that would’ve caused more harm than good. And Dr. Abbot praised you for it. You listened and watched the monitors and even mentioned how when the man fell he didn’t grab his chest but jolted for a moment. It was hours later and you were exhausted but you found yourself on the roof with the attending you just met, laughing along with him about Dr. Chase and sharing the pizza he DoorDashed up to the roof- an extra $10 but worth it because you both got your fix. And- you got some time with Jack. He was funny and gorgeous and you’ve only known him a few hours but as you watch the stars light up the sky on what started out as a shit morning yesterday-

“Do you wanna go out with me?” He asks, hazel eyes twinkling with the moon. He only met you a few hours ago but dammit if Jack isn’t a man smitten with a smart, beautiful woman who talks as much shit as he does.

“Yeah- yeah I do. Lunch date?” You ask while nodding, smiling because somehow even if you’ve spent the last few hours with him you don’t want this to end.

“Fuck it- breakfast date. The sooner the better baby.”

#trope tuesday #lexi answers life’s questions #my random typings #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x female reader #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x you

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wolfstarsjegulus · 2 days ago

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golden boy pt2 (can be read as a stand alone) - word count: 675

@into-the-jeggyverse

prompt: walk

tw: implied SA (not detailed)

Regulus saw the signs immediately. To everyone else, James Potter is an outgoing ray of sunshine that never tires; everyone wants him. Regulus is the only one who can tell when James’ shoulders start to slack, when the light in his eyes dim, and he begins to get fidgety, meaning that he’s overwhelmed.

James, of course, is too polite to tell people no and just walk away, so often Regulus intervenes. On the outside looking in, he probably looks like a cold, controlling boyfriend, but frankly, Regulus couldn’t care less what people thought of him; he just wanted James to be okay.

Regulus made his way over to James and whispered in his ear, “Why don’t we go for a walk?”

James visibly lit up at this with a nod of his head; Regulus led them out of the portrait hole, and they began to wander out of the castle towards the grounds.

Neither had brought a jumper, but it was only the early days of autumn, so nights weren’t too cold just yet.

“Thank you for that, I mean,” James said as he took hold of Regulus’ hand.

“It’s alright, I prefer spending time like this anyway,” Regulus responded, and they continued their slow walk. “What were they even talking about back there? I noticed you started to get uncomfortable when the conversation shifted.”

“Ah yeah, they were, um- well, they started talking about sex, you know, with their partners,” James stammered. “They were asking me these questions that I didn’t know how to answer. That I couldn’t answer, I guess.”

They slowed to a stop so that Regulus could turn to look at James, who was beginning to get teary-eyed.

“Hey,” Regulus said softly, putting his hand on James’ cheek, a gesture he knows brings him comfort. “It’s none of their business, okay? You don’t owe anyone anything, including me.”

“I just get so worried that I’m- I don’t know,” James struggles, “that I’m robbing you of something or not being able to provide something that you need. I’ve had sex with so many people, except you, the one person I’m actually in love with. I’m your boyfriend, I should be- I don’t know.”

“You shouldn’t be anything but yourself,” Regulus affirms. “Just because we haven’t had sex doesn’t mean you don’t love me. It means that you felt safe enough to choose.

“I love you because you’re the sun in my sometimes very dark world. I love you because you understand me better than anyone and you never judge. I love you for you, not for your body or what you think you should give me, okay? Sex is great, sure, but I don’t need it. I could go the rest of our lives holding your hand, not even kissing, and I’d be the happiest I could ever imagine.”

At this, James pulls Regulus into a tight embrace and burrows his head into Regulus’ shoulder, “Thank you.”

“Could I ask you something?” Regulus says a little bit later as they begin to make their way back to the castle, “How did you figure it out? That you didn’t have those feelings?”

“I’m not sure, I think I always knew something was off,” James explained. “I guess I started to notice in my fourth year when other guys were talking about girls but like, in sexual ways, and I knew I didn’t want that side of it.”

“Like when I met you, I knew I liked you, but all I wanted to do was hold your hand and talk for hours. And then, well, during those hookups, I never exactly enjoyed myself, but I also never wanted to be there in the first place, so.”

“We should talk about that at some point,” Regulus said softly.

“Not yet,” James whispered.

“When you’re ready,” Regulus replied, wrapping his arm around James as they continued to walk, “and for the record, I do enjoy holding your hand and talking for hours.”

They laughed as they made their way to James’ dorm to do just that.

#jegulus #jegulus microfic #jegulus fic #james potter #asexual james potter #asexual #asexuality #regulus black #marauders #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #jegulus fanfiction

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galatially · 3 days ago

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"There's literally a blood b —"

"Could you please not interrupt?" She tossed her blonde-tipped locs over her shoulder, her brows knitted in frustration. "As I was saying, we've lived for a few millennia and we can bring you either pleasure or pain."

You turned towards one of the other vampires, a flat look on your face. "Is she always like this?"

They snorted. "Honestly, she seems to be especially spirited this evening." They leaned in closer, a secretive smile on their lips. "If I can be candid, I believe she's enamored with you."

"Dom!" The leader bared her fangs. "I am not enamored with a human! I'm simply trying to explain why we've chosen her as our feed!"

Dom pointed with their thumb over their shoulder. "She's been trying to explain to us that there's a blood bank across the street. Which, as I've been saying for at least a hundred years now, is a safer and less conspicuous way to feed."

"But — "

"And I've also told you that monologuing went out of vogue over two centuries ago, Kendall."

Kendall's cheeks puffed out. "It seems you've forgotten that I'm the leader of the coven, Dominique. And while your suggestions have been — "

"Correct."

" — more of the times, our old ways are still sufficient." She tipped her chin to you. "You suggested the blood bank because you're afraid, yes?"

"I figured you'd want to make less of a scene," you offered. "I don't know if you know but there's a bunch of lobbyists that are gunning for the hunt and extinction of vampires. Said there's been too many attacks lately. I figured you'd want to make less of a scene," you offered.

"Told you so," Dom said.

Kendall threw her a flat look.

"Can we just figure out whether we're eating fresh or not?" a redheaded vampire groaned from beside you. "I'm fucking starving!"

Kendall sighed and waved her hands to her coven. "Go on."

The other vampires were gone in a blink. You looked to Kendall, her brown eyes on you.

"You're not going to go eat?"

She lifted a shoulder. "I'm older than most of my coven, save for Dom. Because of my age, I don't need to feed as often." She took a step towards you. "You're truly not afraid of us?"

"Why should I be? As far as I'm concerned, vamps are just trying to survive same as anybody else. Like, yeah, you're dangerous, but so is anyone."

"I can't tell if you're being considerate or just stupid."

You frowned. "Rude."

You--on a late night jog--find yourself surrounded by a group of vampires, prepared to devour you. As the leader monologues, you desperately try to inform her that you are right across the street from a blood bank. She is not listening.

#kendra posts #writing-prompts-s

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factual-fantasy · 1 day ago

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Hi again factsy! I see in your intro thingy, you have a discord, but it's temporarily closed, why?

Imma be honest, its because my server has gotten too big to manage on my own. And if I were to reopen it, I would I need moderators.

I would need moderators for basically everything- filtering through people who come into the server, making sure people follow the rules, someone who can manage the server while I'm asleep or away for the day, someone who can explain to me how to do all the techy stuff- etc, etc.

But of course there's problems with that. I have absolutely no money to pay anyone to do this service for me. let alone multiple people. Plus, I would have no way of knowing who I could trust. How do I know someone isn't trying to get hired as my moderator so they can just blast NSFW all over the server or something like that- I don't know my way around the internet and people like that.

Another option is potentially some IRL friends of mine could moderate it for me. But I wouldn't want them to moderate my server without payment. I also want to try and keep my personal life and my fanbase separated, I wouldn't want people knowing who my friends are..

So not knowing who to trust, not being able to pay anyone, AND not allowing my friends through the gate has left me at a stalemate. I can manage the server the way it is and the folks in there are all really chill. So for now it is just like, a special VIP club of people who were able to slip into the server before I closed it.

I have no idea if I'm gonna reopen it again or if I ever could. But hey if it makes you feel any better, anything that you could have gotten in my server is now available elsewhere.

I used my discord server to post sneak peaks of my artwork, well now all of that is exclusive to my Ko-fi, which is still open. It also served as a place where people could casually chat with me. But that's also what DMs and ask boxes are for on tumblr- I don't mind people randomly messaging me to say hi and what not.

I guess I could have talked about this sooner, but it never really crossed my mind. This ask is what prompted me I think.

I hope all of this made sense, I am a little liquid brain this morning, have a good day👋👋

#my response #long post #idk if its THAT long but tagging just to be safe #don't wanna annoy anyone with a wall of text on their dash

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fake-married-my-dead-fiance · 1 day ago

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Cdramas (historical and fantasy set in the "past") are interesting from a writing perspective to me because they seem to want to gloss over the history of polygamy, or at least make the male lead a one woman guy, but they have to justify that in some way. They also have to answer the question of why he isn't married already if he's in his 20s (he usually is, or older). For me, this can be handled well or poorly.

On the handled well, Lost You Forever convinced me with Tushan Jing (amazing he wants to marry anyone, the fact that close family betrayed him is key too), 4th male lead (so forgettable, but clearly gay and marrying a princess would fulfill all the political ambitions so the deal of only her is valid), and Vampiric Snake Boy (pushes everyone away, on a suicide mission, also not human). Cang Xuan, despite loving one woman, was married to many because of politics, which also felt real (their all being older works since they're very long-lived). Love Like the Galaxy worked because Ling Biyu was openly defiant of social conventions and single-minded in everything. Perfect Match worked particularly well because 1. they were (mostly) dealing with a class lower than nobility that wouldn't have as many political marriages and 2. especially the 4th husband had a very legitimate and active reason for not marrying at all but also not wanting additional women (his sister's murder because of him being a just judge, more women is just more kidnapping targets). The Demon Hunter's Romance worked on the same level, active threat and previous loss of family members.

On the other hand, you've got the male lead in The Prisoner of Beauty, for example, who is very devoted/dutiful to his family, the only direct heir, and yet... why is he not already married? Like sure, he doesn't want to marry that cousin, but you'd think grandma would have arranged something by now, especially since he is often at war. Blossom and The Double don't even try to explain as far as I remember, despite those men also being the only legitimate heir and very high social class. They'd probably be picking up random political marriages and married before the drama started.

And the, "But he loves her too much!" works if he's an abused shelter pet like the male leads in Love of the Divine Tree or Till the End of the Moon who imprinted on the only person who was nice to them, but for other dramas I'm not always sold.

I don't know the actual statistics on marriage age or percentage of the male population in the nobility/royalty who had extra wives in historic China (I've heard that only one emperor didn't have concubines), but the fact that you can feel the writers trying to justify it gives the impression that monogamous couples and late marriages were the outliers, not unheard of but not common either. It's interesting to watch the writers try to make men who fit both modern and historical ideals in this way, and where it's more or less convincing. Some of the time it really does just feel like modern values pasted on someone with long hair and robes.

#cdramas #lost you forever #love of the divine tree #till the end of the moon #perfect match #the demon hunter's romance

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russellius · 2 days ago

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George Russell has just climbed out of a Mercedes-Benz W196, which won the British Grand Prix in 1955 and is valued at £55million. Once, it would have been Lewis Hamilton representing Mercedes at a celebration of their motorsport heritage. Now it is Russell, stepping into those shoes on and off the track.

The flimsy old leather helmet he tries on may not quite fit but there is a sense of the old-fashioned about Russell, as though he could have driven in that era. The idea of doing so came to mind as he traversed part of the old Aintree circuit.

“I just can’t comprehend that those guys raced that car up to 180 miles an hour, sat on 200 litres of fuel, no seat belts, barely a helmet,” he tells The Times. “If you bump into anyone, basically your legs are off. We’re not naive to the fact that the sport [now] is dangerous. You crash at 220 miles an hour and it doesn’t matter how safe the cars are, the body can only take so much.

“But 99 per cent of the time you should walk away relatively unscathed, whereas back then, knowing that if you made a mistake, that could be your life. Thinking how you push those boundaries is pretty unique.”

At Silverstone, where Russell will attempt to secure his first home grand prix win this weekend, the sense of history is everywhere. Some tracks he visits over the course of a Formula 1 season are “soulless”, he admits. Not here.

“It’s so fast and flowing, the commitment you need to have when you go through Copse, Maggots and Becketts, now we go through that corner at 185 miles an hour, it’s immense — coupled with the fact that the fans are purists and love the sport. When you see others who love the sport you love in the same regard, it makes it feel extra special,” he adds.

Unsurprisingly, this grand prix is one that would mean the most to Russell to win. He first went to a race here in 2009, standing on the outside of Copse. He watched Sebastian Vettel on pole and knew that was his future aim. Last year he qualified on pole but hopes of converting that into a victory on the Sunday were abruptly ended by a water leak which caused him to retire on lap 34. Hamilton, his then team-mate, claimed an emotional victory, ending a 945-day wait for a win.

In motorsport, he knows there is very little room for sentiment. The relationships between drivers and their fathers are often very complex and for Russell and his dad, Steve, it was no different.

“I never saw my dad Monday to Friday because he was working, he’d leave before I woke up,” he says. “I was in bed by the time he got back. At the weekends, unless we won, the relationship with him was quite tough, because he was so hard on me. For probably five to ten years of my life our relationship wasn’t great, but you don’t really comprehend why. You don’t understand the context.

“He only wanted the best for me but if he saw that I wasn’t giving it my all, no wonder he was getting stressed and angry at me, because he was sacrificing his whole time to give me this opportunity.

“My father was my mechanic, my driver-coach. My mother wrote down all of these set-ups and the lap times of every single track . . .” Russell pauses, taking out his phone to show The Times a page of his mother’s notebook.

“This is from 2009,” he explains. “She would write down: the first heat 2.15pm, the engine, the carburetor, the sprocket, the weather, the track conditions. We would have over 40 weekends a year.”

The notebook was discovered as his parents went back to a circuit in Wales, Glan Y Gors, 15 years later. They were with Russell’s nephew, who is just beginning his karting journey.

In 2014 Russell had won the British Formula 4 championship and was nominated for the McLaren Autosport BRDC (British Racing Drivers’ Club) award. He won it after the rules for the competition had to be changed to allow him to compete, because he was so young. There was zero interest from Formula 1 teams at that stage, and his dad warned him he needed to find a way forward because the money had ran out.

Eventually it was Toto Wolff and Mercedes who secured his future, after Russell had emailed the Mercedes team principal and then later showed him a PowerPoint presentation listing the reasons he could be a success for the team in the future.

Now 27, Russell and Wolff have reached another crossroads in their respective careers. The British driver’s contract runs out at the end of the season and as yet a new one hasn’t been presented to him. Wolff has admitted to discussions with the four-times world champion Max Verstappen.

“From my side, I know I’ll be on the grid next year in Formula 1 — I’m not concerned at all,” Russell, who joined Mercedes from Williams in 2022, says. “Why wouldn’t any team want Verstappen in their race seat? But, ultimately, in F1 there are two race seats for every team, and then each team would have to decide which driver they put to one side.

“I’m performing to the best I’ve ever performed in Formula 1. If that’s the route they decide to go down with signing one of the greatest of all time, I’m confident I’d be his team-mate.”

Russell has good reason to think he could compete, pointing out that Hamilton was at a similar stage of his career when he became his team-mate three years ago. In that debut season the younger man outscored the seven-times world champion by 35 points.

As of yet, Mercedes have not provided Russell with a car to challenge for a world title. He jokes that he reminds Lando Norris and Alex Albon that he bettered them both in Formula 2 to claim the title and there is a sense he is simply waiting for the opportunity to show his full potential on the grandest stage.

This weekend would not be a bad time to do so — in a Mercedes that seems to love the great British summer, performing best in temperatures when Wolff is required to wear a pullover.

#george russell #*m #f1 #british gp 2025 #gbr25 #25 #q

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askerror87 · 15 hours ago

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Okay I know this is pedantic but Ramb isn’t British just for the sake of it- there’s a really important reason for that that actually says a lot about him as a character and why he ended up like this. I was going to write this out in the replies but I realized that this was going to need a visual aid.

Most of the Plugboys we see in Chapter 2 are not only visibly supposed to remind you of a cat, but they are distinctly designed off of the Type B outlet that most Americans would be familiar with.

(Obviously, we see a variety of expressions from them throughout the game, which seem to primarily take inspiration from Type A, B, G, and possibly I outlets)

Ramb, however, is designed to be Like the Chapter Two Plugboys But Different BECAUSE he isn’t an American Outlet.

He’s a Type K power strip that Kris and Azzy stole from the Library.

Type Ks are distinct because of the roundness of their first two prongs and the semi-circle curvature of the third, giving them that signature ‘smile’ that Type Bs inherently lack because of how their plugs are shaped. They are also, as you may have guessed, very much European.

Ramb isn’t British and a Dog just for the sake of it- he’s Designed Like That because while Type Bs and Type Ks are visually very similar, they are inherently incompatible. You can’t put a European plug into an American outlet and vice versa for a variety of reasons, primarily because you will probably fry the thing you’re trying to plug in. To explain this as simply as possible, British plugs are created in such a way where they include their own fuse (which is why the head is so big). Inherently, they are simply a more powerful and superior device because of how they are made. He’s also very portable because of this- power strips are supposed to allow you to Put More Things In Them.

As you can imagine, though… this is only the case if there’s actually something FOR THEM TO PLUG INTO. Whoever ordered Ramb (possibly Miss Boom) accidentally bought the wrong type of power strip. That’s also probably why no one from the Cyber World ever said anything about him- why he was never missed by anyone.

We see this foreshadowed by the Spamton Sweepstakes and its 2025 update. What’s the URL allowing us to access the greenroom page? /ramb. And yet, all traces of him are missing in it… beyond the door that Ramb guards for Kris stating plainly that ‘No one will shed a tear for him.’

Almost like he no longer served a purpose, no? Almost like he vanished without a trace???

He's supposed to be a shopkeeper but that job was delegated to a vending machine because Tenna didn’t want him handling POINTs. He's supposed to work the green room but he quit. He's supposed to be in the computer lab but no one noticed or cared that he went missing- nobody mentioned him in Chapter 2, nobody mentions him after you go to your Castle Town in Chapter 4. He has all the markings of a secret boss, talking about freedom, chaos, and remarking about big shots, and facilitates play via a game (games are supposed to be fun, don't let it feel like a job, okay?). AND YET-

He doesn’t give you a shadow crystal. No, that’s for the REAL secret boss. He doesn’t give you an item. That’s for the other REAL secret boss.

Something, SOMEONE, meant to be extremely helpful deprived of a use.

Jesus Christ is Toby good at making characters.

Deltarune is great because I never thought we'd get a character even more confusing than like Spamton and Seam and shit and yet even above all the baffling things happening in chapters 3 and 4 This fucking guy still takes the crown for me

#chroama don’t look #deltarune #deltarune chapter 3 #delrarune chapter 3 spoilers #Ramb #deltarune ramb #don’t look max is talking about that plug again

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wlwsoccerfics · 2 days ago

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Een bruiloft en een puppy(BethMeadXVivMiedemaXKidReader)

A/N: Last one of my short Fics to celebrate 400 followers.

Summary: during your mommies Wedding a stray Dog made an entrance & now you have lots of fun with your two fur siblings.

Your mommies wedding was amazing. All your aunties were there. You loved every second of it. What you loved Most was when you and Myle were playing with a ball on the grass since it was an outside wedding and all of the sudden a stray puppy walked over. That was two weeks ago and she didn't belong to anyone so that's how you and Myle got a sister. You were allowed to Name her so she was named Mimi now. You thought Myle and Mimi sounded adorable together.

"Mama? Mommy? Myle, Mimi and myself Go into the Pool?" You asked gently. Smiling at them.

"after you had breakfast we for sure can go outside into the Garden." Your Mommy said. You nodded your head softly.

"okay..." You replied and sighed softly.

"liefje? You know you have to eat sweet Girl!" Your Mama told you.

"but i am not really hungry!" You admitted.

"i know. But you need to eat at least a little. You need the Energy!" Your Mama stated

"especially cause you didn't eat your Dinner Last night either!" Your Mami let you know.

"but Myle and Mimi eat with me? Cause i feed them some of my Chicken at your wedding. And they both liked it!" You said and think that's actually why Mimi liked you so much and wanted to become your fur Sister.

"is that so?" Your Mommy wanted to know. Smiling softly.

"yes!" You replied with a giggle. "It was my favorite Thing at your wedding!" You explained. "And you two getting married of course! liked that alot!" You added on. Both dogs barked in agreement.

"Ik ben blij dat je ook van dat deel van de bruiloft hebt genoten." Your Mama said. ( well I am glad you enjoyed that part of the wedding too. )

"Echt waar." You said softly. Smiling at your Mama. ( It's the truth. )

"but let me guess your actual favorite Thing at the Wedding was that Mimi found her way to us that day?" Your Mommy asked. You nodded your head eagerly.

"yes Mommy! That's right!" You answered. Giggling softly.

"i could tell by how excited you looked when she showed up!" Your Mommy replied and kissed the top of your head before kissing Myle and Mimi on the heads as well. Then she moved over to kiss your Mama.

"No Mama! You can't kiss our Mommy! That's our Mommy!" You stated and looked all serious. Pointing between Myle, Mimi and yourself.

"excuse me y/n Bailey Miedema-Mead! That's my wife! I married her cause i want to kiss her all the time!" Your Mama said playfully and started tickling your stomach, which had you giggling like crazy and your für Sisters barking. Yor Mama was laughing as well.

"i only joked Mama!" You announced.

The five of you had breakfast before you Hit the Kiddy Pool with Myle and Mimi on your Yard. It was such a lovely day. And your little Family sure felt complete. That was until your Mommies adopted two Kids. A newborn and a two years old. Your new amazing siblings Mara & Baby Hannes. You loved them so much and you helped alot cause you were 6 years old already when they joined your Family. Myle and Mimi loved them as well.

#woso x reader #woso fic #arsenal women x reader #beth mead x reader #viv miedema x reader #viv miedema x beth mead x toddler reader

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honey-and-sweetdreams · 2 days ago

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Supernatural.

A Jinu X Reader songfic.

Pt.1!

'Take Me to Church.'

My lover's got humor,

She's the giggle at a funeral.

The moment he saw you, his heart stopped. You weren't fighting him- fighting them.

You were walking through the crowd of demons as the Huntr/x blades clashed, steps certain.

Walking directly to him.

He's confused. You don't look at them like they're any danger at all. You look at him.. like he's worth being saved.

Knows everybody's disapproval,

I should've worshipped her sooner.

You watch, as the demons' patterns shimmer in the dim light. The way they fight.

They're.. defending themselves. Maybe not literally, but their eyes? They're tormented, and they know it better than anyone.

No one wants this war, and you have the courage to walk like it.

That is..

Until "Your Idol" replaces "Golden."

If the heavens ever did speak,

He's the last true mouthpiece.

You hum the song as it tops the charts. The boys are gaining traction, and yet, it's all a facade.

The illusion of normalcy.

You send a postcard to Jinu.

'May I have this dance with you?'

Every Sunday's getting more bleak,

A fresh poison each week.

He stares at the card. You're reaching out to him, but why? Why him, and why now? You've seen the patterns, you've seen the worst parts of him, and you're still.. trying?

He groans, kicking back onto bed.

He wants to go, but for one of those rare times, he has no idea what is coming.

'Do you really think she won't kill you where you stand?' His mind whispers, and his nails make moon shaped indents in his palms. 'Please. You know what you deserve.'

And maybe he does. But what does he want?

We were born sick,

You heard them say it.

He shows the card to the tiger. It nuzzles into the letters.

Huh.

It trusts you? Then maybe, just maybe, he might give you a visit. He might want to trust you, as well.

My church offers no absolutes,

She tells me, "worship in the bedroom"

"Cute PJ'S." He remarks, and you chuckle. "You came. I didn't expect that."

"Why did you ask for this?" He asks, almost nervously. His awkwardness.. is a surprising change from his stage persona.

"I don't want to fight someone if I have the nagging doubt that something deeper is going on." You explain, carefully. "I now have that doubt."

"What?" He chuckles, dryly. "But I'm-"

"A demon." He flinches. "I'm aware. But is that enough reason? A legend told throughout the centuries, forever unrepealed? Is that enough to carve a blade?"

"You don't know what I've done." He hisses, like he's striving to convince himself he's unredeemable.

"Then tell me, and let me make that decision on my own accord."

The only heaven I'll be sent to,

Is when I'm alone with you.

I was born sick, but I love it,

Command me to be well

You listen, as he strums his bipa, the tunes flowing of their own accord. The moon is low, and so is the sound. You inch closer to listen, and his fingers almost halt.

"You're.. a good audience." The words are bitter, too bitter for such a gentle tune.

You have half a mind to ask him what he's planning, but you know it's only going to cause this moment to flicker away.

And that's too soon, for now.

Take me to church,

I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies,

I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

He knows you're protecting him, not asking enough questions. He knows what you're doing.. you're letting him be Jinu, not a demon. He's opening up, and it's vulnerable.

'It's as if the past days of reassuring myself that it was okay are meaningless.' Invisible wounds, increasing endlessly.

And it terrifies him, because he knows what's going to happen. You're going to be just another-

Wait.

The voices. They're gone.

Your head lands on his shoulder, a soft hum as you settle in.

It's late, and he should go. But he doesn't.

Offer me that deathless death,

Oh good God, let me give you my life

No masters or kings when the ritual begins

The stadium's turned purple.

Huntr/x has disbanded.

He finds you in the crowd, eyes glazed. He didn't know what you were, when you met. An angel, maybe?

Turns out you were just another mortal, after all.

His line chokes up his resolve, even further. You look at him like everyone else does. Like he's just another demon, and you're under his spell.

Forget the fact that he's under yours, from the moment you looked at him like he was worth more.

"You know I'm the only one who loves your sins." Except, when he sings it, he knows you were the only one who meant it.

#jinu kpop demon hunters #jinu x reader #jinu kdh #kpdh #jinu kpdh #kpop demon hunters

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reginalusus · 1 day ago

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Hi! So this is me just being curious, so I don't mean to bother you at all! But your AUs and art have got me in a headlock atm lol!

But I was wondering if you could go into anymore detail about Gilda and Harvey's relationship? I know they got divorced, but I know there are a ton of different versions of their relationship. (Like Two Face doesn't like her, or treats her bad, etc. Etc.) And I was just wondering what your version was ☺️

No one bothers me with asks about my AU, this is impossible. I will just dump my history for them here...

Harvey nor Twos treats Gilda poorly. Twos might be a bit rough around the edges, blunt and standoffish - and yes, perhaps rude because he deems her a 'distraction' from their justicial vocation - but he does love her, just not in the same way Harvey does. Neither of them would lay a finger on her.

Gilda and Bruce knew each other initially (Bruce likes art, Gilda is an artist, handshake meme), and they had a little something-something going on before Bruce introduced Gilda to Harvey (secret polycule meeting).

Gilda just clicked with Harvey better (he's much more gentlemanly and passionate than Bruce, and I think Gilda is a sucker for that, and Harvey has secret dimples when he smiles, who could resist?). Also helps that they take an interest in each other's passions and try to indulge in it. Harvey will draw terrible little doodles for her. Gilda will try to speak Latin and fail.

Their marriage was very Gomez and Morticia-esque, very elegant and romantic, they had each other's backs. Bruce was also with them from time to time, and it was fun and sultry and teeheehoohoohehe.

However. Some tensions quickly built between them because Bruce Wayne is kind of a fucking asshole when it comes to romantic/intimate relationships.

Other than that, the marriage was wonderful and beautiful...

Until Gilda found out she couldn't conceive and the stress of the DA position started to gnaw on Harvey and Twos began to perk his dastardly little head up to help him cope.

So obviously that came with headaches, sudden bouts of rage and questionable actions within the job. Much like how Hugo Strange explains in Arkham City, Gilda rightfully became a bit frightened when Harvey would start talking to himself, smashing things, forgetting things that happened days prior, taking a lot of painkillers etc.

Although, Gilda quietly admits to herself that it's very attractive to see Harvey suddenly beat the shit out of some abuser who he was supposed to prosecute (she imagines it's Chris).

She and Bruce obviously supported Harvey when he secretly began therapy, but after the attack everything crumbled. Harvey organized the divorce promptly to protect her, not that he wanted to do it at all. Hence why he still calls her from time to time on burner phones that I mentioned in the other post.

But she being the wife of the former DA who almost freed Gotham of its crime plague AND the wife of the man (or... men, rather) who is going to be one of the most powerful Crime Lords in the city is not a good mark to have over anyone's head. The implications are terrifying and Harvey knows how this world works better than anyone. So it had to end.

At this point, Gilda is very aware of Scarv and has spoken to him briefly over the aforementioned burner calls. Not that she needs the calls to know he's there; she can see it whenever her ex-husband is on the news - how he stands and walks differently from Harvey, how he emotes differently from Harvey, how his eyes have a different glint in them... it's her husband, but it's not.

It pains her a little to hear Scarv's voice because sometimes she swears it's Chris speaking to her.

Still, she never stopped loving him, and he hasn't stopped loving her. It's just not the same anymore.

Uhhh, I don't know if I've shared this part in the fic before (I probably have) but this is how it is, basically:

#I rambled longer than I planned. SORRY.#two-dads au #gilda dent #reginareplies

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brandonmassa2 · 2 days ago

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Just what type of taking pictures are you referring to? You mean a selfie? And I don’t freakin know, your type of taking pictures would have to be observed during the during part of your camera show. I can’t help but wonder what you really wanted when you posted that peculiar question. You could have also just straight up asked for a compliment, but you seemingly tried to be subtextual.

What comes from having the adoration of complete strangers? You would never trust a stranger with your things, but you’ll give them free rein to wreak havoc like the repugnant trolls they are. Let me explain. Communicating with a known liar is pointless. What could even be gained from listening to lies? Nothing. Information like numbers and math is an exact science that can’t afford mistakes.

Changing one number or even one decimal can have drastic effects that many people don’t know think about what is referred to as the butterfly effect. A small puff of air, can set a chain of events in motion that can ultimately lead to cataclysmic geopolitical consequences. And I’m sure there are examples of this in history that we’ll obviously never know about. But it’s fun to philosophize and wonder about because cause and effect is all encompassing. Why something is is my favorite question to postulate internally. Reason and logic are foundational in my cognitive constitution. I was built to feel what my beloved is feeling. I have empathy oozing out of me. When I was a teenager, I would go to the movies when my mom went to the gym, and I only remember one special night that I went to see “The Green Mile,” about an innocent death row inmate who has an ability to… well he would literally draw the pain and sickness into his hands or his mouth, and afterwords, he lays down from exhaustion and coughs up a cloud of flying insects. Sorry I can be a tangential writer. If you’re actually still reading this, I do want to continue talking about my heart. I found it very difficult to watch it in several scenes, I have never liked seeing anyone in pain, so I damn sure don’t wanna watch executions. The storyline was extremely interesting and had my full attention, because although this is fiction, it does contain many hard truths…. Hard truths that aren’t axiomatic or even talked about anymore.

Tears have long been overlooked, ignored and rejected in masculine society for fear of looking weak. I don’t care what people think, but it’s still my first inclination to hide or reject the tears coming out of my eyes. But crying is so clean! So cathartic. So necessary for my mental health. It’s so pleasurable to contemplate the beauty and wonder of something during the course of a cry. Btw I’m a grown ass man, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only guy of my kind. I was different from every guy I’ve ever known or known of. My DNA contains a masculine foundation, but as I grew up, I began to notice stark differences in the ways I thought, and the way all guys think. Diametrical differences too. Especially with respect to the dynamic of approaching women, or the subject of women. Every single guy I’ve ever known swears he is smarter than his wife. Or can drive better. Or can make better decisions. Handling money is the one that gets me because it’s so obvious yet it is so ignored. My dad spent money to his hearts content, and never solicited so much as a damn opinion. My poor mother struggled hard to give my brother and I a good life and she wanted so bad to be able to leave me the house that I grew up in, but it was in foreclosure before she died. Wells Fargo sued me sideways after she died leaving the house to me. Some of my family screwed me out of all my current possessions, my car, my laptop, and a bookcase full of family pictures. My mother had a 150,000 dollar life insurance that she split between Cameron and I. My aunt tried to say that my mother was mistaken in telling me about her policy. Mistaken. The exact word she used. I found it insulting to her intelligence. My mother was the sweetest most patient level headed person who made it her mission to volunteer for as much shit as possible, volunteering me all too often. Special Olympics has been a big part of my life since grade school. I would go help coach or set up when they had practice, and it never stopped either, it was year round, whatever sport is current and in the summer, I would volunteer full time for the entire summer. I remember I hated my mom for making me go, but the swimming coach was insanely hot. And I’m not even sure where I was at with my sexuality at that point, but I lived to watch him with his shirt off. Maybe that’s where my nipple fetish came from. His areolas were huge! I started noticing guys with their shirts off in my middle school locker room and then when I got to Leon High School, its gym was 50 years old when they had communal showers. Seeing other guys naked in 9th grade pretty much meant that I was bi-curious? Sex with same sex partners is pleasurable on a level that is unique. Notice I did not say better. Women are my number one. They all know that. But the societal condemnation for gayness can be switched and turned on its head, increasing pleasure for gay guys or bi guys because the “forbidden” nature of sucking another guy’s dick, is the same as any sexual philosophy. If something is forbidden, you want it more, and you feel it more when you do consider it. The fact that it’s “wrong” and not supposed to be done is most of the allure! Well not most. I really enjoy giving oral sex… getting it is tricky, cause first things first, DO NOT suck or press at all on my testes. I’m extremely sensitive in that area and I will be open minded but giving me head is something you’re going to have to request, because my hands and my mouth will never tire. And I want to be the one touching. I want to be the one dry dragging my lips on your… while we watch a documentary and pause it to have discussions, and advocating debates about current events.

To love me, you must love to learn.

To love me, you must love love and hate hate.

The thing about tipping points… only visible in retrospect. Random?

Guys is this type of taking pictures good?

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anghraine · 1 day ago

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Thinking about it, I feel like fandom can handle romantic relationships that are very sweet and respectful and intimate and loving and devoted and heartwarming. And sometimes it can handle "romantic" relationships that are intense and obsessive and fucked-up and enthralled in a sort of "these people shouldn't inflict themselves on anyone else" way; the former tends to lean into a soft, psychologically healthy tenderness and the latter towards a harsh, distinctly unsentimental edge.

But quite a few of my favorite ships are, IMO, both of these at once. They're wildly sentimental and tender and sweet and devoted with each other and genuinely think the world of each other's merits and are so intensely mutually obsessed that it seems like the welfare, presence, or sometimes mere thought of their beloved utterly eclipses the opinions and existence of every other person alive. They adore each other to a degree that can be genuinely callous to others around them, they say and do fucked-up shit either for one another or out of their feelings for each other, but so tenderly that you're like "wait, did that just happen for real- !"

Anyway, this is very much how I feel about Kirk/Spock, especially in TOS. I've seen the occasional unsentimental fucked-up take on them, and I've seen lots about their relationship as a model of psychological wellness and healthy relationship goals, and I'm like... hmm, to me their dynamic is fucked-up and tenderly sentimental and endearing! It's a false dichotomy!

I mean, they seethe with jealousy at the slightest hint of not being the center of each other's lives. They run roughshod over Bones over and over, or just ignore his and everyone's presence (except each other's) on a regular basis in just about every episode, to the point that he frequently looks like he's longing for an escape route—or he actually has one and just nopes out while they're communing across the bridge or whatever the fuck. Their pining has a body count.

Spock torches his principles for Kirk on numerous occasions (e.g. urging Kirk to murder the Horta, wiping Rayna from his memory...), while Kirk is brutally cold and menacing to anyone who looks the wrong way at Spock. Spock responds to entirely valid ethical questions about jeopardizing hundreds of people's lives for a slim chance at saving Kirk with "I need not explain my rationale to you or any other member of this crew." When told in another incident that searching for Kirk with the detail he's ordered would take literal years, he replies, "Then the sooner you begin, the better." In yet another episode, Spock avoids eating or sleeping for two months in his focus on rescuing him. Meanwhile, in the same season, when Kirk thinks Miranda Jones isn't really putting maximum effort into saving Spock, he launches into this calculated but genuinely-felt screed:

What are you doing about it? … The other half [of Spock] is human. Far more human than you, apparently … If you don’t reach him soon, he’ll die. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? … You want him to die. What did you do to him on the bridge? Did you make him forget to put the visor over his eyes? … You know your rival, don’t you? You couldn’t keep him from making a mind-link with Kollos, something you couldn’t do yourself! With my words, I’ll make you hear such ugliness as Spock saw when he looked at Kollos with his naked eyes! The ugliness is within you! … Spock saw Kollos, and for that he must die … The smell of hatred, the stench of jealousy permeates you. Why don’t you strangle him while he lies there?

Miranda quite understandably says, "You're insane."

Very very famously, there's an entire episode that involves various people telling Kirk he can't immolate his career/life for Spock and him going "watch me." A season before, he throws every procedure and regulation in the book at Starfleet to delay departure long enough to save Spock's landing party when the stakes are swaths of people dying from the plague while the cure is on the Enterprise. In S3, Spock all but tells Starfleet to go fuck themselves when they command him not to rescue Kirk and he promptly defies orders and starts nerve-pinching everyone in his path.

This isn't even exhaustive, lol. They're just like that all the time.

#the flagrant flirting is delightful but they get up to /so/ much more gay shit than that #occasionally i see someone complain that k/s fic depicts them as unbelievably maudlin and codependent for the professionals they are #'they're caring but not clingy and needy and possessive!!! they couldn't do their jobs if they were!!'#and it's like ... um. have you seen tos though.#but even beyond them. destroy the heartwarming vs fucked up false dichotomy!!! modern fans can have it all <3 #anghraine babbles #deep blogging #otp: closer than anyone in the universe #star peace #c: who do i have to be #c: i object to intellect without discipline #star trek: the original series #general fanwank #shipping #long post

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