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julietsf1 · 1 day ago

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A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

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You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all.

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.

You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle.

Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine.

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips.

You don’t hear it.

You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.

No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again.

Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you.

The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath. “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.

You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“It looked something like this, right?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you.

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.”

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked.

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle.

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.”

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

“Tell me to stop.”

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “Please don’t.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne.

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

#f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando x reader #lando x you #lando norris #lando norris one shot #lando norris fanfic #lando norizz #lando fluff #ln4 imagine #ln4 x reader #ln4 fic

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alchemistc · 3 days ago

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get by (with a little help from my friends)

Eddie's "Hey man." gets completely ignored when he answers the phone, which isn't entirely unusual, considering the man on the other end.

"I need you to talk me off a ledge."

Tommy sounds like he's gone three rounds already, and that's entirely possible. At this point, he's got the same steps as Buck does any time he feels like flying off the handle: phone a friend, and then another friend, and then talk to Buck about it. Eddie always likes it best when they just fucking talk to each other, but he can see the wisdom in asking for advice first. They're both reactive fucks who love each other way too much to be rational face to face, sometimes.

"Am I qualified to give advice on this subject, or is this gonna be another Spare Key Fiasco?"

Tommy chuffs from the other end of the phone. He still hates that Eddie had had a front row seat to that freakout.

"It wasn't a spare, Eddie, I had it specifically made for -."

"Yeah, that's my bad, dude, stop taking every opportunity to change the subject. What's up, man?"

There's a noise Eddie recognizes vaguely as the breathing exercises Buck had been explaining to him a few months ago. They both use them - Buck to prevent the leap to anger and defensiveness, Tommy to prevent... whatever his reactive habits are. The pair of them have been surprisingly light on details, since they got back together. Well. Surprising that Buck hasn't word vomited all of Tommy's idiosyncrasies, at some point.

It's going on a year since he's seen Tommy in person, but he can picture the exact curmudgeonly expression he's probably pulling right now. "I bought a ring, last week."

Only about a month behind Buck. They're getting better about the whole pacing thing. Eddie's been sworn to secrecy, so this is gonna be a fucking minefield to navigate.

"That's great, man. When are you gonna ask him?" Buck has a spreadsheet already. Two, actually, if you're counting the Worst Case Scenario tab Eddie'd caught a peek at when Buck shared his screen instead of ending the video call they'd been on.

That's going in the speech whether Buck likes it or not.

"You remember that ledge I was talking about?"

Of course. Of course that's what he's worried about. Of course Eddie's been dialed in to either talk him down or throw out a rope and wrangle his ass off a cliff side.

Man's stolen helicopters, evaded military and FBI and earned medals for his reckless bravery, and yet the idea of settling down with a man he loves more than the entire world and flying is rattling him enough to need backup.

"Who was your first call?"

Tommy's huff is fairly telling. Sal, then. Eddie's only met him once and he wasn't his biggest fan, but Buck loves the guy. Says sitting between the two old friends is better than watching a UFC match. He's got weird priorities, Buck does.

("They're so mean, Eddie, you'd think they were mortal enemies, but Deluca, like, gets Tommy. Do you think he'll help me with the contingency plan?")

From what Eddie can remember, they'd only reconnected about six months ago, but they'd fallen back into their aggressively combative friendship easily, according to Buck. Eddie's of the opinion that Tommy reached out to Sal Deluca specifically to combat Buck's intense positivity when he finally cottoned on to the fact that Buck considered himself a permanent fixture in Tommy's life.

"Sal told me to woman up. And swap the ring out for a leash."

Yeah. Eddie's not sold on Sal Deluca. Considering they're most likely gonna have to plan some sort of joint bachelor party across state lines sometime over the course of the next year, Eddie's going to have to woman up himself.

"Not to make everything even worse than Deluca, but what the hell are you hoping I can help with? My only proposal came about three days after the pee stick showed two lines."

Tommy blows out a breath. Not the breathing exercises, this time. Eddie can almost see the hand he's dragging down his face, nose folding and bouncing back when the hand gets to his mouth and hangs there, for a moment. "I've proposed before," he murmurs.

Well. There that is. Eddie had definitely forgotten about that little hiccup.

"I mean, it's not like you're gonna propose, sit on it for a few years, and then decide you actually don't like dick, right?"

"Your support is overwhelming," he deadpans, and the line goes quiet. For about forty seconds, Eddie stares at the time on the call tic up and up. "But no, that's not the issue."

"No offense, buddy, but I have no idea what the issue is. He's gonna say yes. It's gonna be great. He'll cry for like an hour and then for a few weeks he'll tell every random stranger he meets that his fiance is a pilot for the LAFD." If Tommy swears him to secrecy, too, he's gonna have to get creative. See if he can coordinate a joint proposal without either one of them cottoning on.

"You ever been gun shy before?" Tommy asks, in that roundabout way he has of trying to explain the thoughts inside his own head.

He tried. He failed. He hurt someone. He doesn't want to do it again.

"Yeah, but like - besides the fact that you're attracted to and in love with Buck, they're...very different people." He'd only met Abby once. Hadn't particularly cared for her, on account of the whole leaving his best friend in limbo for months, and the Making His Best Friend Act More Out Of Pocket Than Usual At A Scene.

"Both with amazing hair, though," Tommy jokes, and then groans. "I'm going to gouge my eyeballs out with a teaspoon."

"Yeah, don't do that. You think Evan Buckley's going to decipher that as 'Lets get hitched'?"

"I resent the idea that you think that I'd use those words."

"Apologies. You gonna quote a movie he's never seen?"

"It's easy to recycle when he thinks they're all my witty rejoinders."

"He knows when you're quoting something. Tommy, your whole body vibrates, and you get this deranged smile. You are many things, my friend, but subtle is not one of them."

Christ, Tommy has a type. Drawn to whatever asshole can slice him to the bone while keeping up with his brand of sardonic banter. Eddie doesn't enjoy the new knowledge that he's basically the Buck-adjacent version of Deluca.

How the hell had he ended up with the human equivalent of a socially anxious Great Dane?

There's an easy solution here. Is it a violation of the bro code to tell Tommy to just sit on it? Carry the ring around everywhere and wait til the time is right? That's not a hint, is it?

"You're trying to distract me," Tommy observes. "What do you know?"

"I know that despite the fact that the two of you could fill Michigan Stadium with your insecurities and diametrically opposed capital I issues, this is gonna work itself out in a really good way."

"Eddie."

"Tommy."

"He already bought the ring, didn't he?" There's his typical bemused sigh whenever Buck does something that he, personally, finds adorably annoying. Annoyingly adorable. Something. Eddie doesn't know; he still doesn't quite get them. They work, and that's all that really matters, at the end of the day.

Sometimes they work because Eddie, Maddie, and Sal Deluca, for some reason, can offer the right support and the right advice at the right time.

"For legal and personal reasons I'm invoking my right to remain silent."

"Are the personal reasons to do with wanting your ankles intact?"

"I might take a vow of silence, actually."

Tommy's quiet for a long, long time. Long enough that Eddie has to check and make sure the asshole hasn't hung up on him.

"Is his plan going to cause any permanent damage to county property? We've both got priors." Stealing government property, evading police and military, technically domestic terrorism. All wiped from their records because they both have main character syndrome, so exactly zero actual prior offenses.

"I don't recall saying anything about a plan."

"That vow sure has legs to stand on," Tommy muses, and Eddie has to fight the urge to blow a raspberry.

"You can ask one yes or no question that I retain the right to not answer. If it'll help you walk yourself back off that ledge."

Tommy takes long enough forming the question that Eddie gets through three of the syllabuses Chris' school is requiring him to confirm he's read. He hates this damn school, but Chris loves it.

"Should I start carrying the ring with me everywhere, or can I assume Evan will at least make it clear we have plans, when he decides he's ready?"

That's not a yes or no question.

"That's not a yes or no question."

"Should the ring be on my person at all times, yes or no?" Eddie can't tell if he's throwing the bitchy tone in for a laugh, or because he's actually annoyed. For all Eddie knows, he could still be a little prickly about the fact that he's having to seek out the competition for advice on his love life. Buck says they're over that, but sometimes Eddie's not sure.

Sometimes Buck still encourages him to lean into it a bit because apparently "The sex is mind-blowingly hot, Eddie."

"You'll probably be fine without it at work," Eddie hedges.

"Probably is not a yes or a no."

"I never told you how I was gonna answer."

Eddie hates that he knows Buck's gonna get laid tonight on the back of Tommy's frustration with Eddie.

"So. How's that cliff looking, from over there?"

Tommy's put-upon sigh is edging on overkill. "What cliff? It's plains and valleys from here."

Eddie's well aware that Tommy can dig himself trenches a mile deep just to have a ledge to jump from. He has a good feeling about this, though.

"Let him romance you, for once, dude."

That shouldn't be such a polarizing statement, for the man who's been desperate to be loved almost as much as Evan Buckley himself, but Tommy has a nasty fucking habit of shooting himself in the foot whenever Buck makes it a point to take care of Tommy back.

Tommy groans. "None of this makes it to the speech."

"Yeah, it's absolutely going in the speech, man."

#bucktommy fic #tevan fic #eddie & tommy #give me an eddie and sal rivalry #give me tommy and buck putting in WORK because it's worth it to try #give me eddie and tommy being buddies despite themselves #i'm trying to ignore the horrors the next episode is gonna give us

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sirenalpha · 3 days ago

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kingdon isn't popular just because Mel is a popular character, Langdon is conventionally attractive, the two of them get a lot of scenes together, and the actors have chemistry

their relationship is thematically relevant to the show

the pitt is about burnout in the high stress environment of an ER post-COVID and making connections, both to do the work well and to survive it

between doctors and nurses and between them and the patients and the patients to the social worker as needed

and there are connections between other pairs of people, super young Javadi is paired with mature student McKay for a while which does open Javadi's eyes to life she's been sheltered from, Javadi gets a crush on Mateo who invites her to the park at the end of the day, Dana is the first to figure out Collins' pregnancy on her own and also speaks with Javadi on her new crush, Robby and Collins come together for a deep conversation after her miscarriage and before he sends her home, Mohan helps the sickle cell patient and the mercury poisoned influencer, Santos overtly tries to make connections to the two med students and is ultimately successful with Whitaker but she also gets protective over the daughter whose mother poisoned her father with progesterone and gets another patient to open up about their suicide attempt while Javadi over identifies with the baseball kid, lots of little new connections or longer formed ones

and then there's Mel on the verge of caretaker burnout as the only one supporting her sister

and Langdon who is basically on a different planet from his wife and gets outright rejected by Robby when he asks if they're friends

both so desperate for connection, someone on their level

and they click, they're the only ones that show up excited to be there (Mel more so than Langdon but he's not nearly as dismayed as Collins by the board when they first come in), Langdon offers Mel opportunities like the crike and Terrence, and compliments her successes and checks in with her and tells her to take breaks as needed while Mel seeks him out for his opinion and keeps up with him

they are the connection in the show, they just met and they make each other better at the job, if only all the doctors and nurses could get along this well, right?

except Langdon is an addict, through Robby the show implies the job broke something in him before the cameras even showed up and what Robby sees as a betrayal from Langdon contributes in turn to Robby's collapse on his worst day, and the parallels and what ifs come out

what if Robby had been as attentive to Langdon as Langdon was to Mel? What if Robby had allowed the connection instead of rejecting Langdon? What if Mel had shown up earlier? Would she have just burned herself out faster?

Langdon and Mel are the high point so Robby and Langdon yelling at each other and trying to tear each other down and talking more at each other than to each other can be the low point

Langdon and Mel improving their relationship in future seasons, moving beyond a day one spark to having more time and experience to deepen their relationship and making each other better doctors in the process is proving the themes of the show, that you need support and connection to do the job well and survive it

so of course people want to extend that into their personal lives so Mel is not alone with her sister and Langdon isn't in a crumbling marriage so they can have connection and support and be better people in their personal lives and not just professionally

Langdon and Mel are also shown as foils to Robby and Collins who once dated and Mel's single with a sister pushing her to make a romantic connection when the connection she's made is with Langdon and Langdon seems well on the way to divorce even before the addiction reveal

and the actors have a lot of chemistry

#kingdon #the pitt #melissa king #frank langdon #I'm just tired of people acting like shipping kingdon means you don't get the show #believe it or not how the actors act is part of the meaning and interpretation of the show

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akanemnon · 18 hours ago

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Hello Akane!

I have a little question to ask, I'm sorry if someone already asked this but how do you come up with the character designs?? I just like them so much, it gives me the vibes that the character should give, that's my opinion on what should designs make feel the viewer!

Thanks and have a nice day/noon/night!

When talking about character design, 9 times out of 10 you end up talking about shape language. Certain shapes used that make up your characters evoke a general idea of who your character is.

But in the case of these characters who already HAVE established personalities, you can use these shapes to EMPHASISE these traits. OOOOOOR you can flip it on its head for something unexpected. In the end shape language is a tool.

The second ask brought up Papyrus, so let's use him as an example. When looking at his base design, he uses a mix of round and square shapes (round for his armor and skull, square for his arms, legs and teeth). Which makes sense, because if you look at these traits, most (not all) of them fit him to a T. And that is exactly what I did when translating his design in my style. The difference is that I exaggerated these shapes!

I guess that is the key to how I personally design/redesign characters. Heck, the main trio are based around this! Circle (Frisk), square (Chara) and triangle (Kris).

#ask akane #twin runes #queued post #art talk

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fyuyushia · 12 hours ago

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Have we met before? Maybe in another time I loved you, maybe you're the one that I would run to, don't know why it's all a blur. I think I know you. - "Have we met before?"

Graphite stains the pristine white sheet of paper, making a soft hum as friction allowed for writings to appear on your notebook. Music played faintly in the background, ears plugged with earphones which blasted your favorite tunes for only you to hear.

The ambient light of the library helped you focus on studying. Scanning through the contents of the math textbook you borrowed from one of the sections of the library, you eagerly skimmed through the contents, determined to learn every bit you hadn't understood about the subject.

The entrance exams for the college you were shooting for drew near, and, out of sheer love for the university, you buried your nose in the books for days on end. Frequenting the library near your home, the people by the reception began to recognize you for your visits that happened for long hours, starting from 12 pm sharp to the library's closing time.

Today wasn't much different. Like routine, you arrived at the library at 12, took out a book, a notebook, your pen, and a dream. You waste no time slaving away to the lessons, meticulously understanding each and every one in hopes of reaching your dream job and by extension, your dream life.

Your wrist moved rhythmically, jotting down notes, attempting to solve formulas by your lonesome. How much lead did you use? Last you counted it was 10, by now, you had probably spent a whole pack.

This goes here and, you grab your calculator, rechecking your answers to ensure that you did them right.

"Excuse me," interrupting you in the midst of solving a problem, was someone coming up to your table (which was stacked with books) and calling for you.

You don't notice it the first time. Only responding when he calls for you the second time, when he does the added motion of leaning down to put his face in your periphery. Snapping out of your immersion, you peer up at him and blink.

You took off one of your earbuds and sat up straight. "Yes?"

The man-you noticed was a real looker—flashed you a small smile. "Is this seat taken? Would you mind if I sat here with you?" He pauses, eyes darting towards your surroundings. "There's no other seats available, you see. I promise I won't be a bother."

"Ah, of course!" Snapping out of your daze, you caught yourself before you could fall prey to his charms and become one of his (no doubt) victims.

Pulling your scattered books closer to you to make space for the man, you urged him to sit down on the seat across you. He gratefully accepts and allows himself to sit on the non-occupied seat.

"Thank you," he says, to which you respond with a nod.

You swallow thickly, shaking your head to rid yourself of your lecherous thoughts. Shifting your focus to the problem at hand, you plug in your earphone and hit play, resuming your own business and letting him do his.

Scribbling solutions on your scratch paper, you rest your head against your free hand. The stranger settled on the space in front of you, taking out his own textbooks and studying as well.

Admittedly, your eyes would occasionally drift towards the man. You took in his dangerously charming features. A tall man with a well built physique, a mature look and an air of mystery provided by his dark choice of clothing(which, in your honest opinion, suited him well). Had it not been for the fact that he was studying the same coverage as you, you would've thought he was older by a few years.

But most importantly of all, he felt familiar, somewhat. There was this certain tug in your heart, feeling nostalgic when you caught sight of him. It was weird, you were certain that if you did encounter someone so goodlooking you would remember them well. But you didn't, and yet you felt somewhat bittersweet as you observed the man.

"I'll give you a future you deserve. Please trust me in this, I'd do everything just to make you smile."

A foreign whisper echoes in the back of your mind, overriding the music that played in the background.

Much to your chagrin, the stranger suddenly looked up from his book and met your eyes, catching you in the act of staring. He sends over a polite smile your way; you flinch and avert your gaze in turn.

You clear your throat, pretending like you weren't just caught staring at him. Growing finicky, you tighten your hold on your mechanical pencil and hastily write down your answers.

He laughs, his shoulder shaking softly as he takes in your panicked act. Though you couldn't hear it due to the loud music blaring through your earbuds, the sight of his amused grin alone had your heart racing. It wasn't often you could see such a looker out in the open, you reasoned to yourself.

Sparing one last glance at him—just to make sure he wasn't bothered with you staring—you find him still staring at you instead. You nearly jump in your seat, but managed to keep yourself still for the most part. Nonchalant, just like you wanted to be.

He points at your ear, tilting his head a bit in question. Taking notice of his gestures, you pause the music and take them off once more.

"Did you say something?"

"Ah," he repeats the motion, pointing to his ear. "Your earphones. The music's leaking out."

Your lips part in a 'o' shape.

"Oh."

Your cheeks flush, flustered by your blunder. "I-sorry, I didn't notice."

"It's fine, I was just worried about your hearing. Playing it on full volume will hurt your ears, you know?"

"Oh, oh it's fine! Thank you though, for the concern, I mean."

He gives you a shut eye smile. Idly tapping his fingers against the wooden desk, he hums. "[Band name], right?"

"I like that band too." Keeping the conversation going, he leans slightly forward in a futile attempt to get a bit closer. "The one you just played, in particular's my favorite."

His eyes narrow ever so slightly when he sees your eyes sparkle. Glad to see a kindred soul, you pushed your phone to the side and engaged in a light conversation with him.

"Really? I didn't expect to find a fellow listener so conveniently! Especially since they're more of in the lesser know side."

"Right?" He chuckles, his deep baritone making your heart experience an earth quake in real time. "I was introduced to it by a friend."

You don't miss the way his voice grows laced with a melancholic tone. "Oh? That friend of yours has good taste. They've been one of my favorites since they first debuted!"

"Debuted? That's an awfully long time." The man feigns a shocked expression. "What's your favorite song then, and why?"

Your lips parted into a smile. He was asking all the right questions, allowing you to talk to him about your fondness for the band. "Well, you see, I-"

He nods as you chatter away, lips pressed into a smile. Giving small nods and hums to let you know he was listening, you happily talk away with him your passion for the band, only pulling away when he looks at you too softly for your comfort.

"Oh! Sorry, I was talking too much, wasn't I?"

If you were to be truthfully honest, then you'd say that reason you just spouted was not the reason you stopped yapping. If you were, again, to speak truthfully, then you'd say it was mostly because of the certain way he looked at you. Yearning for something, a certain look of fondness glimmering within the irises of his grey hues. The way that he directed such soft gaze at you had your head spinning, and though you tried desperately not to fall into his trap, you found yourself charmed hook, line, and sinker.

He laughs-the sound, a pleasing melody to your ears-his head perched atop his palm. "No, not at all. By all means, do continue."

"No, no, it's fine. I've said all I wanted to say anyways." You scratched your cheek, hoping he wouldn't notice just how warm your cheeks have gotten.

The stranger hums, pausing as he feels the silence stretch and slowly envelope the two of you on its bubble once more. You part your lips, looking away from him, hesitating, wanting to talk more to the fellow fan but scared of sounding weird.

"You sure have a lot of books stacked up."

You shift your gaze towards the stack of books that rested beside you. "Oh, yes, well, I'm aiming for one of the bigger universities so I have to put in this much effort if I want to get in."

He nods, idly drumming his fingers against the table. "Which one are you trying to get into?"

You answer with your chosen university, a shy smile on your lips. The stranger lights up, donning a pleasantly surprised demeanor once he hears your answer.

"Really? That's the university I'm trying to get into as well." He laughs, "what a coincidence. Do you think it's fate?" What bullcrap.

You chuckle as well, amused by the coincidence. "So it seems. It's nice to meet a fellow soldier here."

His smile quirks up a bit higher than before. "Indeed. Say, what's your name?"

You easily tell him your name, answering with a chirp in your voice. You've gotten comfortable with this odd man, for whatever reason, he just seemed trustworthy despite a part of your head judging him harshly and betting on the fact that he was a playboy.

"What's yours?"

The man—you now learned had the name of Jinwoo—answered. He offered a hand, you accept it and give it a short shake.

"Best of luck to us, the name's Sung Jinwoo."

And, like a lock falling apart, the gates to a knowledge kept hidden opened slightly. Brief glimpses of a past you couldn't recognize living through in flashed against your eyes.

Gates, hunters, and most importantly, Sung Jinwoo.

Short flashes of whispered confessions, wordless exchanges of affection-the once blurry figure suddenly painted Jinwoo's features, giving you both a name and a face.

You tentatively pulled away, retracting your arms from his hold.

His quirks up a brow then curls it in worry. "Is something wrong?"

Your brows crease, conflicted. What was that just now? It felt like the memories were yours but it also felt like it wasn't. You never lived through such a life, only met him now.

"No, nothing's wrong! Just that..." You trail off, hesitant to ask. "It feels like... Have we met before?"

The man, Jinwoo, freezes at your words. For a moment, you could see a glimpse of pure shock written on his face. His lips parted slightly, and his eyes widened just a smidge before returning to its usual pokerface.

Your cheeks flush when silence overtakes the two of you. You scramble to correct things, worried that he might have seen you as a creep or that you were flirting with him.

"Oh! Uhm, nevermind-that sounded weird right? I didn't mean it in that way I just-"

"We have."

"No no I'm sorry I-" you stop. "We have? When?"

Jinwoo recovers from his initial surprise. Tilting his head a bit to the side, he conjures up a teasing smile. "Want to know when?"

You swallow thickly, trying to not mind the fact that he looked so pretty doing that-making that particular face.

"Yes, if you'd be willing to tell me."

Crossing his arms and resting them against the table, he leans closer to you.

"Then, first, can I have your number?"

Pt.2 in the making... I should really focus on capture target series but attention span go brr hehe

#ᯓᡣ𐭩fyuyu's works #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #solo leveling x reader #manhwa x reader #sung jinwoo x y/n #sung jinwoo x you

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deepspacedarling · 2 days ago

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HIYAA, so i saw your post abt getting into an argument with the LAD boys and was wondering if you could maybe do an extended version of everything but it ends in fluff? Obviously you don’t do all the boys, you can choose who you want to write it for. Thats alll BYYEEE

Making Up with the LADS Boys

Warning: None

AN: I was hoping someone would ask for this. Angst always makes me sad and if no one asked for this I was going to have to take matters into my own hands and write you guys making up.

Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb

Pt 1. How the LADS Boys Argue with You

Xavier

He still doesn't understand why you're upset with him. He still thinks he's right. But he acknowledges that he upset you and he wants to fix that. He loves you so much and you mean the world to him.

He might go to Jeremiah and ask for a second opinion to see if he's actually in the wrong. Whether he was or wasn't, he'll ask how he can make you feel better and resolve the issue.

He doesn't like going to bed angry with you. He'll spend the whole night figuring this out with you if he has to. Once the matter is resolved and you're both snuggled up close again together, he feels like everything is finally okay again.

Zayne

You guys don't go more than a day after the argument without him trying to come to you and resolve the issue. He doesn't like being upset with you and he knows that you feel the same. You're both calm rational adults. You can figure this out together.

Now that he's had a moment to calm down, he thinks over and over again about what he needs to say to you. He's got a whole script in his head to tell you how sorry he is and get his initial thoughts from the fight across without upsetting you. That all kind of goes out the window when you two start talking and he starts to flounder.

He's not the best with his words. He'll stumble during the conversation but he's earnest in his want to find a compromise with you. You two will get past this, he'll make sure of it.

Rafayel

Poor Thomas has to listen to him complain about your argument for HOURS. When Thomas finally tells him to go fix it, he grumbles and goes home. He'll come slinking into the house and you'll both eye each other warily to see if one of you is going to start arguing again before eventually he sighs and sits down. He's not getting up until this is fixed or you hurt his feeling again.

He'll apologize for hurting your feelings. He always tends to go for the jugular when he's upset and he knows that it hurts you when he acts like that. He didn't mean what he said but he knows it hurt you anyway so he's sorry.

He'll make sure repeatedly that you're not still upset with him after you both find a compromise. He doesn't want you to leave him so he'll do what he must to keep you even if that means admitting he was wrong.

Sylus

Initially, he'll try to buy your happiness back. Of course you'll stop being mad if he gets you that new car you wanted or that diamond necklace you were looking at. But then he realizes it isn't working and he has to shift gears.

He'll sit you down and listen to what you have to say. There's a long moment afterwards of him just thinking. He's not really the type of give in unless he's getting something out of it. He'll carefully maneuver the conversation so that you can find a happy medium. He's not willing to start a fight again but he's not willing to just give in either.

Once it's all said and done, he's happy with the result. He wants you to stay with him so he'll play nice even if it means he doesn't 100% get what he wants. What you want is important to to keep your relationship healthy.

Caleb

He'll do anything to get you to stop being angry with him. You don't understand. His brain is already conjuring up ideas of you leaving him. Of him coming home and your things are gone and he never sees you again.

He's much more receptive to your point of view once he's scared himself enough. He's still not 100% on board with your side of the argument but he's willing to compromise if it means you stay with him.

Once you've smiled at him and found a happy medium, he can finally breath again. You're going to stay with him. He's going to be okay. He needs to make sure that this argument never happens again. He'll do what he has to to ensure it doesn't.

Requests are Open!

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mr-tony-stark · 1 day ago

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Tony shrugged. “It’s okay if you’re nervous. That happens sometimes. I’m just trying to set your mind at ease. It’ll be okay.” He took Clint’s hand. “And even if it’s terrible and everything goes wrong and we’re hounded, and our photos get splashed everywhere and everyone’s saying terrible things, we’re gonna be okay. Right? Because it’s a couple of days and none of their opinions matter,” he said, looking into Clint’s eyes. It was half question half statement. He couldn’t say for sure that’s how Clint felt, but honestly, if Tony’s fans opinion of Clint was important and affected him, there really wasn’t much that Tony could do about it, and it might be a sign this wasn’t ultimately going to work. But Clint had kept reassuring him that it would, so he stated it as fact in the hope that it was. “And if you really hate it, then next time I go, you can just hang out here and do your thing. It won’t be the end of the world.”

Tony shook his head. “No. I’m good. Thank you though.”

Clint smiled and nodded a bit wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “I don’t mean to be nervous. I’m just not used to it is all,” he spoke and nodded a bit. “Either way I can’t wait for New York pizza,” he spoke and smirks a little as he finished his coffee.

“You want any more food, baby?” He spoke gently and brushed his nose against Tony’s cheek humming happily.

#norabarnes143 #tony x clint #hooking up

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bonefall · 3 days ago

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I've seen your discourse about holstein.

Pun not intended, but is there any other cow races you've beef with ? And what do you think of the limousine, if you've any opinion on it.

The Limousine is mid.

Solid-colored cow that used to be a great working breed that could also be good meat at the end of its life, but has been intensively bred for the past century to be nothing but food.

They're a really common meat breed in the modern day, but they're only "good" because of modern fertilizers and grain feeding. France is actually the most nature-depleted country in Europe, and the """improvement""" of breeds like the Limousine is one of the reasons why it's so bad there.

My cow endorsements are for hardy, environmentally low-impact breeds which are well adapted to the regions they live in. I also personally give points for unique traits and genes, interesting patterning, and intelligence. Limousines have none of these.

I can't hate them like I do some other breeds, though. They're healthy, grow fast, and they produce good meat. I simply don't have many good things to say about them. Lame.

A different breed I DO have beef with though? Belgian Blues.

They took a perfectly good cow with a gorgeous blue coat and turned it into something out of Akira. Through INTENSE inbreeding, a gene for double muscling has been forced into this breed, turning them into these stomach-churning FurAffinity rejects.

You may have seen them called "super cows," but I think they're more like Frankenstein's Monster. They were literally created in a lab, in the 1950s, at an artificial insemination center. Their "myostatin" gene is broken, so their skeletal muscles grow to double the size that they should be.

The good news is that, thankfully, these animals don't seem to be in any chronic pain. Myostatin-related muscle hypertrophy in humans does not hurt, nor lead to secondary health problems. It's been studied in lots of animals, too, and they seem to be able to live healthy lives.

The bad news is;

They are UNABLE to give birth on their own and need c-sections to have calves.

Their necks are so stiff that bulls can have a hard time turning their heads.

Some calves are born with tongues so large they can't suckle.

The myostatin gene prevents them from developing good fat distribution, so they freeze to death easily.

Their skin is thinner than usual, too, so they're susceptible to parasites

They're bad grazers and need supplemental feed, so they have a larger impact on the environment.

Btw, as a comparison, here is what the original dual purpose Belgian Blue is supposed to look like.

We had a GOOD COW going, BELGIUM! It was BLUE! We had all the MILK AND MEAT WE NEEDED. And you just had to go and BLOW IT UP. YOU AND YOUR PRIDE AND YOUR EGO.

Luckily, modern Belgian Blues are not economically viable. The fact they need so much medical care and maintenance makes them more of a "status symbol" breed than one that will actually get adopted on a wide scale. THANKFULLY we're not working against market forces for this one.

But I think we need to go further. I think people who breed or advocate for modern Belgian Blues should have tomatoes thrown at them. I yearn for a world where every time one of those double-muscled beasts is shown at a livestock event, the audience loudly cringes.

I am pro-bullying but ONLY for Belgian Blue breeders. That is my beef.

#cow lore detour #cows #cattle

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cecilyv · 2 hours ago

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@liminalmemories21 and I wrote a little 8.15 - Lab Rats coda, buck/tommy.

Tommy hears Evan say, "Dad?" and just for a second he thinks that somehow, against all odds, it's Bobby standing there. He stands up so fast the chair tips over as he goes for the door.

The bubble of hope pops abruptly when Evan says, "What are you doing here?"

"Your sister called,” a voice he doesn't recognize says.

And well, fuck. There's just no way this ends well.

He rights the chair, squeezing the top slat, letting the wood bite into his hands. Evan was barely holding it together as it was, only really doing so by the skin of his teeth, by being the force of nature that he can be – focusing on his team, his family -- not on himself, or on. Or on Bobby. He asked me to, Evan told him through a sob, after, even as Tommy could see him try to push down the loss, to keep it off his face. Bobby did know his boy – worked best when given a direct plan of action.

Tommy scrunches his nose against the tears that threaten to fall again, to clog his throat. Wipes away the one that escapes and squares his shoulders to face whatever the fuck is happening in the doorway.

Wonders what on god's green earth Maddie had been thinking. Although, to be fair, he's going to go out on a limb and assume she didn't think their parents would get on a plane and fly to California to land just in time for the funeral.

Texts Chim / 🚨Phillip and Margaret are here🚨/

Gets a string of texts in response judging by the way his phone is buzzing in his back pocket, and he can't look at any of them because Evan and his parents have come around the corner and Even is saying awkwardly, "Mom, Dad, you remember Tommy." And then when neither one of them says anything, even more awkwardly, "You met him at Maddie's wedding."

Philip shakes his hand reluctantly, good WASP manners too ingrained to be actively rude enough not to.

Margaret looks at Evan. "I didn't realize you had company. Your sister didn't say."

Evan shrugs, doesn't answer. Doesn't explain.

Which, actually, Tommy wouldn't have minded a little bit of explanation, just so that he knows where he stands. Because he'd taken Evan home after the lab, after Bobby died. Nobody had questioned it. He hasn't left since. Evan hasn't asked him to, and he hasn't offered. Eddie's flight is due to land in an hour. He's not sure what happens after that. Although if Phillip and Margaret are here – for what? – having Eddie as back up might be for the best. That’s a devil he knows.

Tommy blinks and Evan is making coffee, and handing his mother a slice of coffee cake on a plate with a napkin - because given an awkward social situation, Evan, he learned the last time they tried this, will default to the polite rules of society to get through it. He doesn’t wonder where the coffee cake came from, because he'd discovered when he snooped around for breakfast ingredients that ill-fated morning that the only thing in Evan’s freezer is baked goods.

He takes the moment to check his texts, discovers that if Maddie had known their parents might show up that she hadn't told Chim. His / 😱 ‼️ / makes Tommy snort.

He checks to see if anyone needs him for anything, and then texts Eddie. As far as he knows Eddie's still pissed at him for breaking up with Evan, doesn't know if Evan told him about the hook up the other week, or the way that he'd said he was jealous of Eddie, can't imagine that's improved Eddie's opinion of him if he did. But – man deserves to be warned about the clusterfuck he's about to walk into.

/ Phillip and Margaret are here /

gets / 👀/ from Eddie, and then / why? / and then / like this day could get any fucking worse /

He’d only met them the once, in passing, nearly a year ago now, but he’s heard about them plenty - from Chim, from Eddie, and haltingly from Evan. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have the full story of whatever it is, but he knows enough to know that adding them to the mix is not going to help Evan get through this day. He’d never really worried about it before, because he’d met Athena, Bobby – the important people.

He comes back into the kitchen to hear Evan saying, “You should go to Maddie’s, I’m sure she needs the help.”

And Evan’s mother waves a hand, saying, “We talked to her yesterday, she’s fine.” And then leaning in to put a hand on Evan’s arm, and he can see from across the room how surprised Evan is by that, and how much he doesn’t know what to do with it. Adds another mental note to the list of things he knows about the Buckley parents.

Thinks Margaret kind of missed Evan’s point. Maddie may be fine, but Chim’s not. Might be nice if her mother volunteered to give Maddie some extra space to support her husband, since she flew all the way here. He’s still not sure why the Buckley parents are here.

They don’t really have time to dig into it; they have a funeral to get to.

****************

The funeral is awful. Everyone in their dress uniforms. The pomp. The circumstance. The weight of the loss literally on their shoulders. Staring at the back of Chim’s head, having to put one foot in front of the other, maintaining composure when all he wants is to hold Evan and shield him from everyone and everything. Instead, on a city street -- a funeral march. Step. Step. Step.

The only time he and Evan have been in sync since they split six months ago and it’s to bear the burden of the first man to ever really give them a shot. To believe in them.

The brass gives a speech. Athena had asked Evan if he wanted to speak, and he’d shaken his head. “I can’t.”

He agrees. Has a fierce need to let Evan keep his grief private, not for public consumption.

After the funeral he hears Evan say, "We're going to Bobby and Athena's," and his heart fucking breaks at the way Evan's voice cracks halfway through Bobby's name. But then he's continuing, "for the wake." He hesitates. "Do you want me to call you an uber, or something?"

"Oh," Margaret says, and she sounds clearly surprised. "We thought we'd go with you."

It startles Evan into honesty. "Why?"

"To pay our respects. He was your captain. I know he meant a lot to you." Which is nice, until she adds, "That's what people do, Evan."

The way she says his name grates on Tommy's last nerve. He wants to say, 'no, people don't fly across the country to crash a funeral. People write a nice card. People know when to stay in their lane'. Almost says it, when Evan looks at him. But, whatever is going on between them, shutting Evan’s parents down probably isn’t his place. Is tempted to look around for Eddie, who might be able to get away with it.

Margaret looks torn, and Maddie – bless her – says, "I'm sure Jee’d like a last bit of one-on-one time with her grandma before the new baby comes."

"I thought Mrs. Lee was watching Jee this afternoon," Margaret says, proving that she is in fact totally incapable of reading a room. Even Phillip looks a little abashed.

He loses track of Philip and Margaret for a while at the wake. More people than he expected come up to offer him their condolences, like he has a right to grieve Bobby as much as Eddie, and Hen, and Chim, and Evan.

Finds them again when he hears Margaret asking Evan if he’s ready to leave. Like she expects her claim on his time to supercede anything else. LIke Bobby’s fucking funeral.

Turns in time to catch Evan’s absolutely blank look. “I’m staying.”

Margaret looks taken aback. “Oh, well, should we meet you for dinner somewhere?”

Evan shakes his head, looks impatient for the first time. “No.” For a second Tommy thinks he’s going to leave it at that, and wants to applaud, but Evan seems to realize how blunt that is, or maybe the look of disapproval on Philip’s face clues him in. Either way he says, “I’m going to stay, help clean up after everyone leaves.”

Margaret’s face tightens, and he wants to shake her, ask what she thought was going to happen here. They’d flown out for the funeral, so on some level they understand how important Bobby had been to Evan. Just not apparently on any kind of level that lets them empathize with his grief.

He doesn’t know where they go, but he does see Margaret and Phillip leave, stopping to talk to Athena before they do. Has no idea what they say to her, but she looks faintly surprised by it.

Margaret and Phillip are at Evan’s new house, Eddie’s old house, when they finally all get home. They’ve made dinner. Like any of them have an appetite, like they hadn’t just put away a semi-truck load of leftovers from the wake -- everyone tries to feed grief, like if you fill up on food, the sadness won’t have anywhere to go.

Reins it in. They made dinner. That was kind of them. One less thing for Evan and Eddie to have to think about. He eyes the casserole that Margeret puts on the table. It’s bland, but inoffensive. Suspects that Evan could make it better. Catches Eddie’s eye and has to stifle a snort when it is very clear that Eddie is thinking the same thing. Whatever grievances Eddie has with him – and Tommy’s prepared to admit they’re mostly merited – they’re on hold for however long Evan’s parents are here.

Dinner conversation starts with polite anodyne conversation about the funeral, how big the turnout was, how nice everyone was at the wake.

It moves on to Phillip saying, “The house is – different. We didn’t know you’d moved.”

Evan picks at his food and just says, “It wasn’t that long ago.”

Eddie takes the fall. “I moved back to Texas. Evan took over my lease.”

Philip nods. “Maddie hadn’t mentioned that.”

That brings Evan’s head up a little, “Oh, um, yeah.” Then he frowns a little. “Why would she?”

Margaret gives a brittle laugh. “Well, it’s not as if you tell us anything. If we didn’t talk to Maddie we wouldn’t know anything at all about your life.”

Tommy bites back the urge to suggest that maybe there’s something they could infer from that.

Margaret looks at where Evan’s plate is still more than half full. “You’re not eating.” Evan looks at his plate. “Sorry. I’m not very hungry.”

Margaret’s lips purse, and he silently dares her to say something. She doesn’t. Looks around the living room instead. “I like this. It’s much more grown up than your old apartment.”

Tommy winces and concentrates on his food.

Evan’s eyes flick around. “Yeah. I guess.”

Her lips purse again. “Evan, we’re trying.”

Evan looks blank. Eddie sends Tommy an alarmed look and mouths ‘oh shit’ at him.

Philip clears his throat. “We came all this way. Your mother made you dinner. I know you don’t call. But, is it too much to ask that you talk to us when we’re here?”

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Evan mutters. And Tommy would bet a lot that he doesn’t realize he’d said that out loud, knows from experience that when you back Evan into a corner he lashes out. Wonders how on earth Evan’s parents don’t seem to know this.

Margaret’s face is a perfect picture of frozen devastation, and he’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t making Evan’s loss all about her. Wasn’t making a bad day exponentially worse.

There’s a knock on the door, and they all look around — doesn’t know who it could be, they’re all here.

Evan gets up to answer it, Tommy sips his wine to have something to do with his hands. Eddie twirls his fork mindlessly in the mess of noodles on this plate.

“May?” He hears and then, “are you okay? Is Athena— I can grab my coat—“

“No, no, we’re—“ something garbled, and then “not fine but –” A pause and then “I talked to Mom and we wanted you to have this.” There’s the sound of Evan taking a stumbling step back into the wall.

“I can’t, May, that’s for family, that’s for Athena — for you, for—“ and Tommy can’t bear to hear his voice breaking, cracking, gets up and leans into the hallway to see Evan clutching a flag.

Bobby’s flag.

“It is for family,” May’s voice is steady, despite the tears running down her face. “Mom said she had their house. His medals. She had what she needed and she wanted you—“ May gulps. “He would have wanted his son to have this.”

Behind him, Tommy hears two chairs being pushed back and whips around.

“You need to go,” he hears himself saying before he even realizes he’s going to. He hadn’t said anything earlier, wasn’t sure if it was his place, but he wants to try and preempt whatever they’re going to say now.

“Evan,” Margaret says, warning and entreaty, looking over Tommy’s shoulder. He feels Evan behind him, turns slightly and can see May standing awkwardly, shifting her feet like she’s not sure she should be seeing this. He understands; isn’t sure he wants to witness this either.

Evan just shakes his head. “Tommy’s right.”

Phillip stands up, arm around his wife’s waist, staring at Tommy. “He’s here. He’s not family. Maddie said you broke up.” Pauses and then digs the knife in. “She said he broke up with you. That you were devastated.”

And Evan looks at him like it's the first time he's really registered that Tommy's still there, that he hasn't left. And Tommy holds his breath, waiting to see what Evan will say, if he'll finally ask him to leave.

Instead he says, "He's here because he always shows up when I need him, and because he's willing to keep trying even when we both fuck it up."

The ‘unlike you’ goes unsaid. But, Tommy's pretty sure people from three counties over heard it loud and clear.

Evan’s on a roll now, all the things he’s been holding back all day coming out now that the dam’s been broken. “He tried to save Bobby twice, risked his life for Bobby. Risked jail for him. And you? You didn’t even — “ he chokes up.

“Funerals are for everyone else. Wakes are for family,” May says unexpectedly. “Evan was Bobby’s son. He gets to decide whoever else he wants to have here.” She holds Evan’s gaze when he looks at her, and after a moment he nods. Reaches out for Tommy’s hand, holding it hard.

“I buried my-, my father today. I’d like you to leave.” Margaret and Phillip are frozen by the dining room table. Evan unbends enough to say. “I’ll call you before you fly home.”

May looks cooly at Margaret and Phillip, every inch Athena’s daughter. “I have an uber outside, we can drop you wherever.”

Later, in bed, he’s curled around Evan. “He was supposed to be here,” barely aloud, just a whisper of a breath. “He was going to stand up for me, tie my tie and—“ Evan’s voice breaks and he lets out a single, wracking sob, his back shaking.

“He taught you,” he says to Evan, to himself. “He taught you what you need to know. To do. To be who you are.”

“I never told him,” Evan chokes out, “that I loved him, that he was my—“

“He knew,” Tommy whispers into his shoulder blades. “He knew.”

“He told me he didn’t have to worry.” Evan rolls over and pins him with a stare, the light of the moon just reflecting off the white of his eyes. “That you were good people. Don’t make him a liar.” Tommy swallows hard, holds his gaze as much as he wants to look down, away, anywhere but at Evan, tear-stained cheeks shimmering in the blue light. “He was a lot of things, but never a liar.”

“I won’t.” It breaks out of him, cracks open his chest and crawls out, like the baby in Alien, leaves him bleeding and open - would give everything to make the lie true.

“You did,” and there it is, Tommy wishes he could take it back, could live up to Bobby’s estimation of him. He wants to be that man. For Bobby. For Evan.

He can’t lie again, “I did.” Looks between them. “I won’t again.” Evan’s lashes shadow his cheeks, like he doesn’t want to look to see if Tommy is lying. He brushes tear off of Evan’s cheek, admits, “I’m really bad at it. Leaving you. I can’t — I can’t stay away. Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t,” Evan says finally. “I never did.”

“Okay. Then I won’t.” It’s a promise to Evan. To Bobby. To himself.

#911 fic #buck/tommy #911 spoilers #episode coda #8.15 lab rats

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nathanbatemanfucker · 2 days ago

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She Blooms At Night

summary: fanboy’s crush on you comes to a head when you let your hair down post success– yours does too.

pairing: mickey ‘fanboy’ garcia x f!reader (call sign is juniper)

contents: suggestive language, pining, yearning, alcohol mention & consumption, bar/club hopping, PDA/kissing (truly making out)

wc: 1,621

an: after seeing SEVERAL fan edits with danny’s characters to dandelion by ariana grande i couldn’t stop thinking about scandalizing sweet baby mickey on the dance floor!! (mickey being shy & respectful is just MY take on his characterization, if you don’t agree that’s okay friend 🫶🏾)

danny ramirez character masterlist

Every single one of them had warned him. Phoenix, Rooster, Bob, Coyote—even Hangman, who usually only cared about himself. They had all warned him from the moment you walked on the scene.

It makes Mickey wonder how poorly he was doing at hiding his crush on you.

At the end of the day, the only person’s opinion that mattered was yours. For the time being, it seemed you decidedly had no opinion—or maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as obvious as the others claimed he was.

“You’re in trouble now,” Phoenix whispered in his ear as they all celebrated on the flight deck.

“He’s gonna live up to his name tonight,” Coyote quipped, clapping Mickey on the shoulder.

“Guys, knock it off,” Bob said, giving Mickey an apologetic smile. He knew what it felt like to be the butt of the joke and wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone.

Hangman ignored the scolding, wagging both of his eyebrows. “Ultimate Fanboy—loading.”

“Shut up,” Mickey murmured, his eyes flickering around on the lookout for you just in case.

And pop up you do, weaving through the throng of celebrating pilots and support staff. Your presence cuts through all the noise like a sunbeam, bright and impossible to ignore.

“Holy shit, we did it,” you yell as you join the group, scooping Phoenix into a hug.

“Juniper, how are we celebrating tonight?” Hangman asks, eyes never leaving Mickey’s.

“You know exactly how we’re celebrating. Everybody’s letting their hair down tonight—even Fanboy here,” you say, reaching up to run your fingers over the short bristle of his buzz cut.

Mickey nearly stops breathing, his chest hitching. The touch is fleeting, but it strikes him, energy flowing through him like a live wire. It takes everything in him not to lean into it, not to chase the feeling of your fingers against his scalp.

He swallows roughly, gives you the best smile he can manage, and makes an excuse about congratulating Rooster before you can notice the heat rising in his face.

—

The celebration had started at the Hard Deck, uniforms still in place, the familiarity of the bar keeping everything at a reasonable simmer. Mickey did his best to mingle with everyone but you, his eyes drifting over to you every once and a while.

“It wouldn’t kill you to talk to her, would it?” Phoenix asks him over the music.”

“Kill no, but I don’t wanna make a fool of myself.”

“That would be hard— she likes you, Mick. You’re just too enamored with her to see that.”

“I’m not into taking risks, you know that. Here, I’ll go get us another round,” He grabs her nearly empty mug and starts towards the bar, effectively ending their conversation.

The last thing he needs is to get his hopes up.

But, the second he stepped into the club later that night, every bit of self-restraint dissolved.

He doesn’t know when or where you had enough time to change into this number, but you’re going to be the death of him.

Your hair is down, framing your face in a way that makes his stomach drop. The dress—if it can even be called that—clings to you like shimmering silver raindrops, catching the club’s flashing lights with your every move. It’s a little see-through. Stops halfway down your thighs.

Mickey nearly chokes on his drink.

It’s Phoenix who nudges him, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “Don’t pass out, Fanboy.”

“I’m not gonna pass out,” he grumbles, staring down into his beer.

You make your way from the bar to join the two of them at the table. “Hey, where are the other boys?”

Phoenix nods towards the dance floor— Rooster, Hangman, and Coyote all have at least one girl on their arm, dancing under the colorful lights.

“Bob?”

“He said it wasn’t his scene,” Mickey shouts over the drum of the bass.

“Well do you wanna dance with me, Mickey?”

You’ve never called him that before. You’re always strictly professional and focused on the task at hand. He’s never seen you stray, never seen you distracted…or so relaxed. Your shoulders which are usually up to your ears are down, glowing with some sort of body oil.

It’s over for him; he feels turned to goo, unable to turn you down.

“I— uh, sure. Are you sure, because I—“

You cut him off with a laugh, grabbing his hand. “C’mon, Fanboy, it’s just a dance. Unless you’re scared?”

He swallows hard. “Not scared.”

“Good.”

Before whisking him away, you assure Phoenix that you’ll bring him back after a dance or two.

“Don’t mind me,” she calls after you two, a knowing grin on her face.

You guide him through the crowd effortlessly, moving to the rhythm of the bassline that thrums through the floor and straight into his chest. His hand is clammy, but he grips yours firmly, not wanting to mess up this moment.

Dancing with you is…it’s a problem.

You move like you were made for this—the music, the energy, the way your body fits so seamlessly against his. Every sway, every shift of your hips sends a fresh wave of heat through him. And then your hands are on his shoulders, skimming down his arms before slipping around his neck, pulling him in just a little closer.

His heart is pounding. You have to hear it, have to know how you’re affecting him this way. With how close you’ve guided him, he has no choice but to hold on to you tightly, his hands fitting like gloves around your hips.

As he grows more comfortable, you decide to test him.

Your hands skim up his arms, slow and deliberate, until they slip around his neck again. You press in just a little closer, tilting your head up to meet his eyes, your mouth curved into something dangerously close to a smirk.

“You know,” you murmur, “I think I like this side of you, Fanboy.”

He’s struggling to breathe. “What—what side?”

Your fingers toy with the short hairs at the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. “The one that actually touches me instead of staring from across the room.”

Mickey swears under his breath, tightening his grip on your waist. You knew. You knew the whole time, and you’re having fun with it.

“I don’t—” His words cut off as you shift, your body rolling right against him. His jaw clenches. “Jesus, Juniper.”

Your laugh is warm and breathless. “Relax, Mickey. I don’t bite.”

But there’s a glint in your eye that says you could— that you would if he asked nicely enough.

The song shifts, the beat deepening, a low pulse of bass and heat. His fingers are caressing your waist with need. With urgency. His body finds the rhythm of yours like it’s second nature, a push and pull, a slow unraveling.

It’s intoxicating and dangerous, it’s got him thinking his dreams don’t have to just be dreams. They could be reality.

You can see his resolve crumbling— his breath grows quicker, eyes hazy with obsession.

Just when you think he’s about to combust, you lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Kiss me, Mickey.”

His heart drops into his stomach. Are you— could you be serious? Is he dreaming? Did he die on the mission and wake up in the afterlife to what he’s wanted since the first time he laid eyes on you?

No. You’re too real beneath his fingertips. Too warm and soft, the smell of your perfume somehow cutting through the alcohol and sweat of everyone else.

It’s the way you look at him that makes him sure this is truly happening. Eyes glittering with mischief, you have to know what you’re doing to him. The way you whisper it, like a secret, like you’re letting him have the control when really, you’re running this whole damn show.

He hesitates. Not because he doesn’t want it—he wants it, god, he needs it—but because this is you. And this feels like something bigger than just the heat of the moment. This isn't just a kiss with some girl in a club; its you.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers tightening ever so slightly at the nape of his neck. Your expression softens—not teasing or challenging. Just waiting, hope glowing in your eyes.

That glimmer of hope is all it takes.

Mickey leans in, closing the space between you with a kiss that’s hesitant at first—soft, searching. But when you respond, when you sigh with relief against his lips and press closer, he melts.

Any teasing energy you had left fades away now. All that’s left is you, your hands cupping his jaw, your body pressing flush against his as you kiss him slow and deep and unhurried like you’ve got all the time in the world.

Somewhere in the background, there’s a sharp whistle.

“Fanboy’s really living up to his name,” Hangman yells loud enough for probably the entire dancefloor to hear.

There's cheering, whooping but it can't hold his attention, not with you in his arms and the ghost of your taste in his lips.

Mickey should care. He should be embarrassed.

He can’t find it in himself to do either when you grin against his lips, sliding your hands down his chest before tugging him back in for another kiss—deeper, more insistent. It’s sensual, the way your tongue brushes against his.

And he realizes in that moment he would do anything you asked him.

He’s gone for you. Utterly, completely gone.

Judging by how you pull him even closer, how your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt and skim across the skin of his torso like you need to touch more of him—

You’re gone for him too.

lmk if you’d like to be on the danny ramirez characters taglist!

sfw danny taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct , @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @peacefangirl

#mickey fanboy garcia #mickey garcia #mickey fanboy garica x reader #mickey garcia x reader #mickey fanboy garcia x f!reader #mickey garcia x f!reader #mickey garcia x fem!reader #mickey garcia fanfiction #mickey fanboy garcia fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #x reader #arson writes

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notaaronsroommate · 1 day ago

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also, it's a bit of an outdated idea that the sole reason China has continued to be THE place for US companies to offshore is "labor costs." That's absolutely part of it, especially with things like the S.E.Z.'s But the other thing is, modern day manufacturing in China uses some degree of planning and state capacity to build effectively a whole major city around one industry to reduce various incidental costs and make the whole thing more efficient. Now, one could argue if this is desirable, as it will likely run into the same economic hurdles as soviet heavy industry did before this. BUT, if you can ignore environmental and human costs AND you can force industries to cooperate and centralize things, you can make the FUCK out of some steel on the heavy industry end and some rugged electronics at the consumer goods end. And like, this isn't meant as an anti China screed, it's not like american and european industrialists aren't building blighted doom factory cities just out of the goodness of their hearts. If there were more tools for forcing cooperation, and industry could be more consolidated, they would do this instantly. But they'd rather squeeze profit individually than make a hyper efficient megacity for building radios. But yeah, overall, this idea that China is beating our ass because they can horsewhip peasants to assemble simpsons merch is an outdated view. At least of their big manufacturers. there's absolutely still those industry towns that are using 1950s era injection molding machines to make cheap junk for american drop shippers and drug store toy aisles. Like, there are great success stories in Chinese industrial production but it is still a low trust society with plenty of unscrupulous suppliers, however there is an effort to crack down on adulteration and just all the bullshit over the last decade or so. If people are looking for something akin to China's industrial situation in 2008ish you're looking to Vietnam, which has in my opinion been trying to be China but cheaper for offshorers. I don't know as much about that though. still. sucks that it went this way. Uncle Ho didn't die for this shit man.

The US is the world’s second largest manufacturing power, followed by Germany and Japan (whose labor laws are stronger than ours). The idea that having a manufacturing industry is incompatible with labor and environmental laws has always been a right-wing canard

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muttoncon · 2 days ago

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so there’s this new EMT. his name is tim, he’s 27, and — in frank’s opinion — fucking weird. nobody else seems to think so, he’s asked a few of the nurses how they feel about him and he always gets a “he seems nice” or “he’s good at his job” (or “why do you care?”). it gets on frank’s nerves. nobody ever seems to see what he sees. especially mel.

tim is just always… hovering. how the fuck he seems to always be around the corner, talking to mel, without getting fired is a mystery. his coworkers don’t seem to care. they just let him buzz around the ED like an annoying fly. a fly that never leaves mel the hell alone. what crazier is that mel let’s him do it. she’s obviously busy, she’s an R2, but she still takes the time to laugh at his (probably shitty) jokes. there’s other doctors he could talk to. like whitaker. but no. tim has to talk to mel.

frank thinks he’s been doing a good job about keeping his mouth shut about it. he knows he’s highly opinionated and that mel can figure out that tim isn’t the kind of guy she needs to be hanging out with, but he can’t help it when she bring him up in the car on their way to work.

they’d been discussing where they’d like to get dinner after their shift, when mel mentions a new thai place.

“tim told me about it! he said it’s really good and that he thinks i’d like it.”

and how the fuck would tim know that? franks thinks, and then mistakenly says out loud. this opens up the floodgates and frank can’t stop himself from voicing all the reasons why he thinks tim is just not right. it lasts all the way until he’s parked and it’s only then that frank turns to look at mel, who’s been quiet the whole time.

he finds her sitting tensely, hands clenched in her lap, glaring down at her shoes. it’s only then that frank thinks he might’ve fucked up a little bit. because mel just unbuckles her seatbelt, opens the car door, picks up her bag, and leaves frank scrambling to catch up with her. he’s panting by the time he gets to her in the locker room.

“mel, what’s wrong? look i know he’s nice to you-“

he’s cut off by her slamming her locker door. it attracts a few stares from other people dropping off their things or packing up. now she’s glaring at him (he hates that he still finds her so pretty even when it looks like she wants to bust his teeth in).

“i’m not an idiot, frank. don’t talk to me like i’m naive, like you have any right to tell me who i can and can’t talk to.”

and then she’s gone. he’s left leaning against his locker feeling faintly ill and before regret can wash over him, his male brain kicks into gear, telling him: “she’s just overreacting. by the end of the day, she’ll realize you’re right.”

hours go by and frank is starting to get antsy. mel has glued herself to robby and santos’ hips, the two people he actively avoids. she won’t look at him, if he starts walking towards her, she suddenly has a patient she needs to check on. everyone’s thrown off by it and for some reason, they all decide that it’s frank’s fault. so now everyone is a little peeved at him.

when there’s finally a lull, he plans on seeking mel out again but is stopped by collins’ hand on his shoulder.

“join me for a break?”

the grip she has on him tells him that he doesn’t really have a choice.

she leads him to the ambulance bay, not exactly a secret location, but it’s away from prying eyes. he can already feel sweat beading at his forehead when heather stands in front on him, arms crossed, looking at him like how abby looks at the kids when they do some stupid shit.

“care to explain how mel — sweet mel that didn’t even get mad at that patient that groped her — has been in such a bad mood that she actually snapped at robby? and then had to go to the bathroom to cry because she felt so bad?”

so maybe frank fucked up a little bit. heather patiently listens as he explains the morning, his (completely normal and justified) opinion on tim, and how mel reacted to the whole thing. when he’s finished, heather sighs and uncrosses her arms.

“frank, you’re jealous. you don’t like that another man is showing mel attention and she might like that attention.“

shit.

he hadn’t considered that.

everything sort of hits him like a freight train after that. heather, damn her, just smirks and pats him on the arm before leaving him to stew. he doesn’t get very far before his pager beeps and he doesn’t get a real moment to think until his shift ends. frank only sees the top of mel’s head during end of shift debrief and doesn’t catch her in the locker room. as he walks to his car he considers calling her when he sees her sitting on the trunk, leaning back onto her hands and looking up at the sky.

the flickering light pole shouldn’t make her look so beautiful.

his shoe crunching an errant rock has her looking at him as he walks to stand in front of her. she’s still very obviously not happy with him, but now she just looks sad. he doesn’t know what to say so he just stares at her until she gets the hint that he’s too much of a pussy to start the conversation.

“do you really think tim is weird because he’s been flirting with me? that it’s weird for a man to be interested in me? is that how you think of me? i’m a grown woman, frank. i’ve had sex, i’ve gotten drunk, i can swear, i can rent a car. men can be attracted to me.”

he drops his backpack onto the ground and anxiously puts his hands in his hair, blowing air out of his mouth before he finally steels himself enough to respond.

“i know. i know you’re an adult. you’re one of — if not the — smartest people i know. i just— i—“ she’s looking into his eyes, his damned soul, with those beautiful round eyes and he feels his composure start to fizzle away, “i got jealous. i don’t like when he talks to you because then i don’t get to. he’s better than me and i hate that. i hate that he’s got the fucking balls that i don’t to actually show you that he’s interested. i want him gone so you just pay attention to me.”

and if he didn’t feel like a douchebag before, he does now. mel is just gaping at him and frank starts to get scared when he sees her eyes start to water. hopping off the trunk, he stands absolutely still as she softly grabs the hands in his hair and holds them between the two of them.

“i’m always paying attention to you. i liked having someone flirt with me, but i didn’t flirt back. i didn’t want to. not when it wasn’t you.”

one of them moved first, he's not sure who, but they meet in the middle. mel on her toes and frank bending down. their kiss is soft and sweet, delicate. frank wants more, but mel's lips are quivering a little so he moves back instead. he sees a small tear roll down her cheek but shes smiling. she sees the fear in his eyes and starts to giggle.

"today has been so stressful and now im so happy. i'm crying because i'm so relieved! i'm also so tired, can we get takeout?"

frank agrees. he's tired too, the stress of mel being mad at him washed out of him with their kiss and now all he wants to do is cuddle with her on the couch. so that's what they do. they get in the car, hold hands the whole time, only breaking apart when they get to frank's apartment and then joining again on the couch.

frank is asleep by the time heather texts him a simple "you're welcome"

#the pitt #kingdon #mel king #frank langdon #melissa king #heather collins #this got away from me #anyways enjoy #i fell asleep thinking about writing this last night #ignore any and all mistakes #this was fully a brain dump

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sukugo · 3 days ago

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question!! if tumblr does go down, where are you guys going to? or at least where are u most active outside tumblr?

#ive stopped using everything except tumblr and so i do need to think of where to go in case it's gone. so i guess i'd like opinions on where #f.txt #the reality is i know that if tumblr does disappear overnight i'll go and show signs of life on twitter #but idk twitter's life expectancy isn't looking very good vdfshfjf #i mean. it'll keep going but i know it's just going to keep getting worse #i know a lot of people have gone to bsky and if u have what's ur opinion on it? is it good? and do u like it #personally i never really got too interested bc it just feels like twitter 2.0 #like interface and all that wise. it's just a copy of twitter from what i've seen. and i suppose it'll still be like short text post based #? havent actually used it so idk #at the end of the day i just wish there was smth else like tumblr. with the same posting and personaliztion capabilities #there's just nothing like tumblr 😭😭 i love the way it works a LOTTTTT. it's good it's honestly really good.#the people in charge just keep fucking it up for no reason 😭#the personalization options!!!! the incredible tagging system. being able to make sideblogs.#i want to make 2k posts about the thematic significance of gojo being a bottom. i wanna post 30 gojo images in the same post #i love having a desktop theme!! i love being able to change my blog's colors and everything. i love the countless post editing abilities.#I LOVE!!!!! THE TAGGING SYSTEM!!!!!!!!!!#i know a lot of people say that tumblr search doesn't work and while i do think it has its issues i think t's a sentiment born of not reall #understanding how it works. bc if u do. it's so easy to find what u're looking for #i guess the little issues earlier today made me realize that uh. yeah this site might actually be dying #and that fuck i should really export my blog OTL #but from what ive seen the export will take. a while.#and also think of where to go but.....nothing is tumblr 😭

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solrabi · 12 hours ago

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Lucid Submission - chapter 5

(feudal lord!sukuna x reader)

synopsis:

The fearsome demon king, Sukuna Ryomen, is reborn as an immortal human man as punishment for ruining the balance of good and evil in the divine realm.

To lift his curse and return to his original form, Sukuna must complete the condition bestowed upon him by the deities.

However, it requires him to have a child with the street thief who stole his coin pouch.

fanfic masterlist

chapter warning: light descriptions of stalking and trafficking

“You cannot possibly expect me to read this. I just started learning how to read simple words a week ago!” you whined as you stared down at the words Sukuna had written down on your practice paper—a whole sentence.

Your journey to literacy was fast and progressive, and it was astonishing to your husband how quickly you were picking up new words. Of course, you weren’t as pliant with him as he wanted you to be, but he could tell you enjoyed learning because you were a little less snippy than usual.

“Just try. I promise to reward you handsomely if you can read past at least three words.” His offer only makes you want to throw the pot of ink across the table and onto his pristine white robes.

“You’ll reward me? I am not a dog that you can simply train!” Your knuckles are white and taut when your grip tightens around the horsehair brush your husband had bought you a week ago. Still, you try. The flame of determination eats away at the tinder made of idle desire.

“I…lo–this letter makes no sense–love…I cannot read past this,” you huff in frustration as you glare at your husband. A part of you felt like he gave you such challenges for his amusement, to see if a woman was truly worth the effort of literacy.

But he doesn’t grin or break out into jeering laughter. Instead, he pulls the writing brush out of your grip and places it on the desk. “When I struggle with something, I always step away and meditate. It helps me calm my mind.” His voice is firm and genuine.

“I find meditating quite dull,” you quip, but Sukuna says nothing to rebuke or refute your opinion.

“That is the point. It is to rest your mind from the constant barrage of thoughts. Now, close your eyes.”

When you don’t listen to him, he cocks a brow and stares at you disapprovingly until you do.

“Focus on nothing but my voice.”

“A little difficult not to. I cannot see anyth–”

“And stay silent.”

You open your mouth to say something, but close it again. The sooner you listen to him, the sooner this idiocy ends. His voice is deep and rich. You can feel it reverberate in your chest as he guides you on how many deep breaths you need to take. Had the man not forced you to marry him, you would’ve let yourself fall into his seduction.

“Ready? Now try again.”

You try to reread the sentence, trying to make sense of the puzzle of carefully constructed ink strokes drying on the sheet. Sukuna’s handwriting was much smoother than your jagged edges and ink blots.

“Don’t think about the words. Look at the letters first.”

You do as he says and slowly drawl out the words.

“I lo–love my husband.” Your initial excitement of overcoming your obstacle fades away when you realize what you had just exclaimed out loud.

Sukuna smirked and folded his arms, staring at you with the kind of intensity only a warrior who had won a battle could have.

“You imbecile!” you cried out. “I am done studying for the day,” you huff as you stomp out of his office, heading to his room for some much-needed rest.

It was your only escape from him. At least, when you were asleep, you had no consciousness about your surroundings and could not feel him dauntingly enter the room and slide himself next to you under the blanket.

You figured that if you couldn’t sneak out of the estate with him around all the time, you could manipulate him into disliking you by playing into every stereotype of your social class.

Alas, your husband has been too composed, to say the least, like a brick wall against the harsh winter wind.

You have tried every trick in the book to drive him away, to make him realize that street vermin like you do not make good wives of lords. But he only ignores you and pulls you even closer to him when he snores at night.

You’ve chewed with your mouth open, making sure his eyes catch the grotesque sight of what was once firm tofu on a bed of steaming rice. Much to your surprise, he simply tuts that you are not eating enough and places more food into your bowl, uncaring that it is not a part of table manners protocol for his social standing.

You twist your mouth in uncanny ways when you yawn in the morning so you can remind him of your uncouth upbringing, but he ignores you and heads to the courtyard to exercise with his bodyguards. Nobara rolls her eyes when she tells you he has seen much worse.

You even chuff after slamming your cup of tea down, the back of your hand messily wiping away excess liquid that may drip out of the corners of your mouth, but again, your efforts are in vain–Sukuna asks Uraume to steep more tea leaves and fetch some snacks for you.

Sukuna Ryomen is determined to get what he wants, no matter how obscene you try to act.

The next morning, you wake up to an unexpectedly empty room, with no traces of your husband besides the rumpled blankets and faint warmth of his body on the tatami mat. Nobara is standing guard outside as usual, so you slide the door open to ask her where your husband is.

“Lord Sukuna and Uraume are getting ready for a day-long business trip. They are in the courtyard at this moment. Would you like to see them before they leave?”

Your heart leaps at the thought of being (almost) alone at the estate. Once Megumi and Yuuji would leave for school, you could distract Nobara and make a run for it if luck was on your side.

If you ran fast enough, you could make it to the outskirts of Seion by noon.

The hammering in your chest grows. You just had to make sure that he was actually leaving. You needed that reassurance.

“Yes.”

But first, you get dressed up. You cursed yourself for following the ways of the rich, but Sukuna had gotten you habituated to his way of life. And before you knew it, you ensured your hair looked kempt.

The courtyard didn’t look any different than it usually did, except for the extra heap of snow that had taken a seat on the large cherry tree in the middle. That wasn’t enough to cloak Sukuna’s large body and the striking red stripe across Uraume’s hair.

Sukuna immediately turns away from Uraume when he sees you enter the courtyard. Even though Megumi and Yuuji are much more muscular than you will ever be, Sukuna’s height and build tower over them with no effort. His slight slouch has nothing on Megumi when he straightens up his spine.

You wonder why he needs bodyguards at all.

“I am going to a neighboring town for some work. I will be back tomorrow afternoon.”

He waits for your reply, seeking approval in at least a lone syllable.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of getting what he wants, only nodding and looking away from his face as soon as you are done with him, but his shadow over you doesn’t move. He stays eerily still—a predator scoping its prey. The courtyard falls silent, the ambient shuffling of Uraume’s footsteps as he packs necessities for the trip stops, and Yuuji and Megumi quit talking to each other. Nobara stands a few steps behind you as usual.

Your mind goes quiet too, until you feel the brush of cold lips against the top of your forehead. It’s quick, like a tiny snowflake that melts as soon as it lands on your warm palm. Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you stare up at your husband in disbelief.

“I–”

“You won’t be alone for too long,” he murmurs as he brushes a hand down your scalp. Your mind does not let you forget how he lightly squeezes the nape of your neck before swiftly leaving the estate with Uraume tailing after him.

Megumi, the less expressive one of Sukuna’s bodyguards, stands with his jaw hanging open, and Yuuji’s eyebrows are near his hairline.

Your throat finally lets you express your embarrassment, but you relieve yourself of it by yelling at Yuuji and Megumi. “Quit gawking and head to the school!”

Not that you were ever of refined nature, but you wouldn’t say your nature is childish—it’s just that Sukuna Ryomen brings out the worst in you.

A kiss on the forehead.

He expresses his feelings towards you like he actually respects you; if he did, then he wouldn’t be holding you hostage and trying to feed you a false story.

Nobara sits beside you in silence, save for the ‘shink’ her knife makes every time she sharpens it. Its blade glistens magnificently as you stare at it in envy. You’d much rather have that in your hand than a writing brush. The words on the paper mock you, stating something you’d never admit.

But you control yourself from snatching the weapon away from your attendant and stashing it in your pocket. You dip the brush in the plate of ink and practice your words. Under the right circumstances, education was as much a weapon as a knife.

Both you and Nobara look up when you hear faint shuffling outside the estate’s walls. It wasn’t hard to miss because the shoji doors to the courtyard were open, letting the light winter breeze in.

“That sounded too loud. I will see if anything is amiss. Do not leave or I will tie you up to a post,” Nobara warns as she sheaths her knife and stands up. You simply wave her off.

“Go ahead, I’m much too weak to escape your clutches anyway.”

Nobara stares at you momentarily before shuffling out the shoji door to where the sound came from, which seems to be from the area behind the estate.

A few minutes pass, and you don’t hear Nobara’s feet thumping in the snow. You peer out the door and look around. Still no sign of her anywhere.

‘Now’s your chance,’ your desire to be free whispers to you. The sound grows louder till it’s all you can hear. The estate's main entrance was shut tight as soon as Yuuji and Megumi had left to teach.

The heavy doors are taunting. All you can do now is climb the courtyard walls. With careful steps, you take your shoes off and tread on the snow, an icy chill shooting up your leg as soon as your socks become wet. You tread as fast and stealthily as you can, hoping that Nobara doesn’t hear the sound of your clothes ruffling.

You had already planned your escape. Once you’re far enough, you’ll sell your outer robes and use that money to travel along the Tokaido Road to Kyoto.

With the motivation and hope of a thousand soldiers, you hopped so your hands could reach over the gabled walls. The edges dug into your fingers, but the pain was worth the hope of freedom. The smooth walls made it hard for your feet to push you forward, so all you could do was rely on the strength of your hands, which, to your dismay, wasn’t much, but it was better than before.

You were grateful that you were at least leaving with a full belly. You wouldn’t have to worry about food for at least a day, enough to be far enough from Seion.

“I didn’t see anything when I checked–Have you lost your mind?” Nobara yells out from behind you. You make the mistake of looking behind and slipping down, the underside of your bicep dragging against the sharp edge of the wall.

You hiss as you land on your bottom, pain shooting up your hips as the snow dampens your clothes.

Nobara wastes no time hauling you by your good arm and dragging you to a post. “Nobara, please, I’m begging you, do not do this,” you plead as she ignores you, ripping a piece of fabric from her clothes to tie your hands to the post in Sukuna’s office.

“You will stay until Lord Sukuna returns. I will get water to clean your wounds,” she says curtly. Her voice has no anger, just a hint of annoyance, like you’ve inconvenienced her. Your voice is scratched raw as you call out to her to be freed. You hope with deep desperation that she will take pity at the sight of a helpless woman, maybe just this once, and let you go.

“Please, think of how I feel as a woman!”

Nobara scoffs as she walks in with supplies to clean your wound. She sits down next to you and dabs at your wound with a wet cloth, your blood bleeding into the white cloth. You hiss, looking away from the amount of blood that has seeped. A small part of you was glad that you could have your wound cleaned by someone else. Had you seen all that blood after slipping out of the estate, you would have surely fallen unconscious before you could even reach the outskirts of the town.

“Please–”

“Enough! I don’t want to hear your incessant whining. I do not regard myself as a woman. I am a demon before anything else,” Nobara reprimands you as if she is speaking to a child. The slight frown on her face and her constant huffing make you feel like your complaints are simply entering one ear and leaving out the other.

“You…too? Has Sukuna Ryomen brainwashed everyone in this estate?

Nobara glares at you, biting the inside of her cheek before shaking her head and cleaning up your wound. “We all came to the mortal realm with him. We are loyal to no one but our King.”

Of course, a lunatic like Sukuna Ryomen would only hire nutjobs like him.

“Why?” Nobara asks without looking up at you.

“Hm?”

“Why are you so keen on running away? Before you came here, you wore dirty clothes and had an empty belly. Why do you wish to leave even after Lord Sukuna has shown you so much kindness?”

“Holding someone captive is not kindness. I do not wish to be forced into doing anyone’s bidding. Especially a man’s,” you answer with a firm voice. You may be a former thief, but you had pride in your beliefs–the only thing you could never lose.

“But why? Why do you ache for freedom so much, even when it means losing all sense of security?”

You don’t know how to answer her. For the first time in a while, you feel like someone has dug deep into your heart to see what you truly keep to yourself. Nobara pokes the sod like something might sprout but ultimately, it’s up to you to unsheath your trust.

So you tell her. You aren’t sure why, maybe it was because she was a woman like you or because it was the first time someone had asked you about what happened all those months ago, but you tell her.

“I do not believe in yokai or demons. The men I’ve met have done much worse. It is much more terrifying than any folktale or legend I have heard,” you begin.

You tell her how you’ve been on the run from a particular man.

“I had found a job as a cook in a brothel a few towns away from here. He was a regular there, often sleeping with different women. I always found that repulsive about him, but the way he talked to me was gentle. Like I was some sort of delicate flower that he wanted to protect.” Nobara’s expression stays apathetic, the only signs of life coming from her were the sounds of her breathing and her wrapping a bandage around your arm.

“I foolishly fell for his tricks and ended up being…bedded by him. He said he wanted to marry me because I was the loveliest of all the women there. I thought that was true until I overheard his two lackeys raving on and on about how all three of them were planning on selling me to some old lord in Utsonomiya.”

Your heart hammered against your chest as your mind revisited that night. How that man had just taken your virtue, and then you had immediately been faced with his true colors. The image of his sleeping face only made you long for revenge. If only you were smart enough to have driven a dagger deep into his chest.

You felt like you could still feel the humidity as you listened to the two men gossip about you as you hid behind a tree, their voices bouncing in your skull like a warning.

“So I did what I could to save myself. He was sleeping in my quarters, so I stole his belongings and ran as fast as possible. I had no idea where I was going, but all I knew was that nothing good would come out of it if I stayed or hid. Men like them are like hunters–once they catch your scent, they will stop at nothing to get you.”

At this point, you could feel Nobara’s presence fading away. You were pulled out of the room and placed into a dark void, running but seeing no hope for any light. Blinded, you relied on your instincts.

“I tried taking odd jobs here and there, but it was never enough. Those scums had found me once–that man had been telling people that I was his wife who ran away.” Nobara froze as soon as those words left your mouth, realization slowly settling in the pit of her stomach, guilt clawing at its lining.

“I was lucky enough to escape before they could get to me, and from then on, I had to make sure that I wouldn’t leave any trace, so I had to resort to stealing and hiding. I have seen them in the neighboring towns of Seion. At this point, they only want to hunt me out of spite,” you bitterly say. Even now, you sometimes feel a strange chill that compels you to look behind your shoulder.

Silence ensues. You and Nobara only stare at the falling snow in front of you. The snow had quickly covered the spot you had fallen onto, only a white film visible over the area, like it was trying to hide traces of you.

You feel conflicted. A part of you is glad that you are met with silence because it is much better than receiving pitiful comments, but another part of you is irate because you want some acknowledgement that you did not deserve what happened to you.

“And to think that the humans believe that they are inherently well-natured,” Nobara mumbled as she untied you from the post. “Do not run away. I will be by your side to make sure of it.”

Your eyes brim with warm tears. At least someone knew you were wronged. The world was not so cruel as to abandon you to at least minimal companionship, no matter how unconventional.

—

Meanwhile, somewhere in the middle of a forest, Uraume cannot catch up to Sukuna’s large steps.

“I hate human–huff–bodies so much.”

Sukuna chuckles to himself as he takes yet another powerfully long step. “This is the most I’ve heard you speak during this hike. I must say it is oddly refreshing.”

Though Sukuna cannot see Uraume’s face, he knows the man well enough to be aware that he is probably looking to the side in annoyance.

“Well, I believe that you will be–huff–happy to know that I wish to strike up a conversation with you.”

“Speak your mind, Uraume.”

“Will you tell your wife how you will obtain the marble?”

Sukuna stops immediately, turning around to stare at his servant. Back when he was the King of demons, Sukuna never second-guessed his decisions. The only job Uraume really had was to enforce Sukuna’s orders and regulations. Nothing more, nothing less. But ever since he turned into a human, Sukuna often pondered about how much he relied on Uraume to guide him in the mortal realm.

“What do you think I should do?” Sukuna replies with a question, annoyed by how unsure he feels about the situation.

“She is your wife, and it is your curse. You tell me.”

“I…do not want to tell her. We do not know what will happen with the child once it is here, and nor do I think she will want to bed me if she knows what our child would signify.” Sukuna is not sure why this is his answer. It makes his heart lurch, and he is not sure why the idea of hiding something so grave troubles him.

“That is betrayal, is it not?” Sukuna only feels secure in Uraume’s presence because the younger demon never judges him. His comments of refutation only help him find newer perspectives, which humans require to judge a situation properly.

The question of humanity versus demonhood arises again–is it right for him to think like a human being, or should he think like a demon to go back to where he belongs?

“And when have our kind ever cared about something like that?” Sukuna simply answered.

“Just so you know, Yuuji, Megumi, Nobara, and I wish to leave the mortal realm as soon as the marble arrives.”

“Why are you telling me something I already know?” Sukuna snapped as he handed Uraume a piece of dried fish from his pack. The younger demon grabbed the fish with both hands before sitting on a tree stump to rest.

“I am just reminding you.”

—

The journey to the brothel was gruelling, but being instantly greeted with a shot of sake rejuvenates the spirits of Sukuna and Uraume.

Now a married man, Sukuna stays stern as ever when a woman with carefully done hair wraps an arm around his elbow. More women gathered around the two men, fawning over how handsome Sukuna was.

Which was no lie–though his stature was intimidating, Sukuna made it look appealing, a sharply angled jawline with a straight nose, and plush lips made him look like every woman’s dream man.

If only Sukuna thought the same way about himself. He felt like he had lost himself when he had first woken up to see that his human form lacked his tattoos–the markings that showed he was a powerful demon.

Sukuna pulled out a red pouch filled with coins. The jingle caught the women's attention as their heads immediately moved in its direction. “The one who will lead me to Gojo Satoru will be rewarded handsomely,” Sukuna announced, back stiff, trying to show as least amount of interest as possible. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to act that way; you hadn’t even asked him to commit to you as a partner.

A woman giggles as she pulls Sukuna to one of the rooms. “Allow me, sir.”

She insists that she enter the room with him, but Sukuna quickly dismisses her, only placing the pouch of coins in her hand and pushing her away by her shoulders. He beckoned Uraume over, and the white-haired man scurried over, away from the women who had begun to flirt with him.

When he enters the room, he sees exactly what he was expecting–a dashing young man with two women by his side. They giggle as he whispers something under his breath when he sees Sukuna enter the room.

“You seem lost, my friend,” Gojo Satoru jests. He pours himself green tea and takes a sip, chuffing loudly once he finishes, unbothered to play into false politeness. They were in a place of lust and debauchery after all.

“I am not. You are Gojo Satoru, are you not?” Sukuna asks.

“What is it to you? Do you owe me money?” Gojo’s unserious yet aloof nature irritates Sukuna, but he had not gone through the effort of travelling through the thick snow to go back with nothing.

“My name is Sukuna Ryomen. I am a lord in Seion. I wish to learn how to make a woman like me enough to bed me,” Sukuna cuts through the nonsense like a sword cutting through tall weeds. The only objective is to reach the other side of the field.

Gojo Satoru bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach as his face turns rubicund, mouth agape. The women gasp before staring at Gojo with knowing smirks. They snicker quietly, and Uraume sighs at the sight. Sukuna understands his frustration but does not physically mirror it.

“Oh, you are serious about this,” Gojo says after catching his breath and noticing that Sukuna’s face was stone-cold serious. “You are a tall and strong man. You must be blind if you do not see all the women outside this room who want nothing but your body,” he continues.

“Well, this is about a particular woman–my wife. She does not like me. I have been told that you know the art of love and seduction. Teach me your ways.” Embarrassment–it’s the only word that flashes through Sukuna’s mind when he looks at Gojo’s smirking face.

“Since you are being so polite, I will help you. But, my advice does not come for free–give me the man standing with you, and what you wish to know shall be yours.”

Uraume immediately stands behind Sukuna to shield himself. “I will give you anything else,” Sukuna quickly says. How does one trade a human for secrets?

“Fine. I am a lord just like you, so I wish to have one–no, two of your ports,” Gojo says with two fingers out. The women next to him nod at his demand like he is sane.

Sukuna internally grimaces at the sight. Human greed is so grotesque, yet it is often seen in its rawest form–husbands who leave nothing but fish bones for their wives during dinner, children who steal sweets from others, men who bed many women because they do not try to become likable, lords who collect too much tax in the name of the Emporer’s new regulations.

“I accept,” Sukuna answers. Letting go of material goods was not a new practice for him, especially now that he would leave the mortal realm anyway. Hopefully, within a year’s time, if he followed Gojo’s advice well enough.

“This woman must be very special to you if you are willing to give up something so important. Have a seat, we have much to discuss.”

Sukuna could only ball his hands into fists to accept whatever the man would spew out of his mouth.

----

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