#or maybe I’ll just do it because I like them

[trashytracktales]

girl hi hi hi hi i am in love with your writing 😩😩

as someone who’s terrified by getting her driver license can i request boyfriend Lando giving you driving lessons and you know, good old soft dom lando giving you INSTRUCTIONS and praising you !! You know what i mean? 🥹🥹

and ofc throwing in a lil nice smut won’t be bad idk

Maybe this way i’ll feel inspired to finally get my license

(gorgeous gorgeous girls are obsessed with cars but scared to drive 🤩)

ily T!!

Fast learner | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── First of all, you got this, babe!! Getting your license can be scary, I remember being absolutely terrified. It definitely takes time and determination, but you can do it, I promise 🤞🏻 Also, so sorry it took me AGES, but I am struggling to finish my works lately *sad sounds idk*. I hope I did this one justice though. Fingers crossed and let me know when you get that license, queen. Enjoy 🤍✨

. ݁₊ ⊹ summary ──── Lando surprises his girlfriend with a gift she can’t say no to. Despite her fear, his guidance helps her gain confidence behind the wheel. But back home, the lessons continue in a much more intimate way, as Lando makes sure she knows just how good she is at following his instructions, both on and off the track.

. ݁₊ ⊹ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ rating ──── explicit

. ݁₊ ⊹ category ──── F/M

. ݁₊ ⊹ warnings ──── 18+, driving anxiety, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, swearing, sexual metaphors & euphemisms, light choking, soft dom!Lando.

. ݁₊ ⊹ word count ──── 5.6k

. ݁₊ ⊹ date ──── Feb. 28, 2025

WHEN SHE OPENS her eyes, the first thing she notices is that his familiar heat is pressing on her from every direction. With Lando’s arm resting like a sluggish weight around her waist and his fingertips brushing the exposed flesh beneath the hem of his hoodie, which she had stolen before bed, she feels secure in the warmth they’ve created.

His nose is buried in the crook of her neck, and the second thing she notices is the quiet, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against her back, his steady breathing blending with the morning silence, and the delicate, smooth kisses he’s planting on her skin.

The girl shifts slightly, only for him to tighten his grip, pulling her closer; she smiles, understanding he is already awake.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asks Lando, his voice languid.

Her body is melting back into his embrace, Lando’s slightly aggressive curiosity making her giggle. “Nowhere.”

“Good,” he presses a tender kiss to her shoulder, then another, trailing his lips back up the curve of her neck. “Because it’s your birthday, and I get to hold you for as long as I want.”

She smiles again, her heart swelling at the way he always makes her feel like she is most important thing in the world.

“That’s exactly what you said when it was your birthday,” she reminds him. “And last Friday, when it was… just Friday.”

“Still applies, as you can see,” he speaks softly against her skin. “Happy birthday, my love.”

A mellow hum leaves her as she turns in his arms, finally opening her eyes to meet his. They’re still laced with sleep, heavy-lidded and warm, the early, weak sunlight filtering through the curtains and cascading all over his face. His hair is a mess, his cheek faintly creased from the pillow, but she thinks he’s never looked more beautiful than he does in the mornings. Mostly because no one but her knows that his eyes are incredibly clear when he opens them for the first time. Or that his hands, still asleep, do not grasp her with the same strength they do at night, but have a tenderness she knows she will never find anywhere else, except their own bed.

“Thank you, pretty boy,” she whispers, running a gentle finger over his jaw, then following the pillow marks up his cheek. Lightly, she cups his face, her thumb pressing on his dimple, making Lando grin.

He leans in to nuzzle his nose against hers before capturing her lips in a sleepy, lazy kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that lingers, tender and sweet, the kind that makes her toes curl under the blanket. His hand skims up her side, slipping beneath the hoodie, fingers brushing against warm skin as he pulls her impossibly closer.

When they part, he sighs contentedly, resting his forehead against hers. “Sorry for waking you up.”

She hums, “You can wake me up like this everyday.”

“Yeah?” Lando giggles. “I actually had half a mind to let you sleep in, but I got too excited.”

She laughs softly. “Excited for what?”

Instead of answering, Lando reaches over to the nightstand to grab a small, beautifully wrapped box. He holds it out to her, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Her brows knit together as she pushes herself up onto her elbows. For a second, she thinks he’s about to propose, but he looks way too relaxed for that, which makes her question everything she knows about her boyfriend.

“What did you do, Lando?” she asks. “I told you no gifts this year.”

He smirks, nudging the box toward her. “It is not a gift. Think of it as an... investment. Come on, just open it.”

She hesitates, much more suspicious now, casting Lando a tamed look before carefully removing the ribbon. The paper falls away, revealing a sleek black velvet box. Her heart picks up its pace as she flicks it open and finds out that inside, resting against the dark fabric, is a car key.

She blinks, confused.

The logo gleams up at her, adding to her state.

“Lan…” she stares at the key, then back at him, as if waiting for him to laugh and tell her it’s all a joke. “This is a car key.”

Lando nods, biting his lip to keep from bursting into laughter. “Your dream car’s key,” he corrects her.

Her stomach flips violently. “No way. No. Lando, no. Absolutely not,” she keeps saying, shaking her head. “That’s too much,” she adds, shoving the box toward him as if it burns to touch. “You did not buy me a car for my stupid birthday.”

Incapable to hold his laugh any further, Lando lets out a little giggle. His voice is light, but there’s nothing but sincerity in his expression when he speaks again, “It’s not stupid. I wanted to. I’ve been planning this for a while now.”

She gapes at him, her brain struggling to process. “You bought me a Porsche.”

He shrugs, reaching for her hand and intertwining his fingers with hers. “I bought you your Porsche. The exact one you’ve been obsessing since forever,” he leans in, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Don’t make me beg you to accept it. You deserve it and I can afford it, so just—”

“It’s not about deserving, Lando,” her heart swells, but panic creeps in. “I appreciate you for doing this, but I don’t even have a driver’s license. And I’m definitely not ready to get it any time soon. So please, can you take it back?”

His facial expression turns mischievous, raising a finger in the air, “Oh, no. You are ready. Which brings us to the second part of your present,” he says, tapping her nose playfully before throwing the covers off and getting up. “Get a comfy pair of shoes on. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

She looks at him warily. “Where exactly?”

Lando smirks, stretching before tugging a hoodie over his head. “Driving lessons,” he says, pointing at himself, “With me.”

Her stomach drops. “Lando, no.”

“Lando, yes,” he winks, crossing the room to where she sits on the bed, still in shock. “Baby, I know you’re terrified, but I wanna show you it’s not as scary as you think. It’ll be fun, I promise. And if not, we can stop at any time.”

Her lips part, but no words come out, only a strangled noise that makes Lando chuckle. He crouches in front of her, taking her hands in his, looking up at her. Sometimes, she thinks that the way he does it is so annoying, because she can’t say no when he gives her those puppy eyes. She realizes, looking back at him, that chances are Lando is even more excited than she is, which makes her feel a little guilty.

“Look, it’s okay to be nervous,” he says gently, pressing a kiss to her palm, “But I’ll be right there with you.”

Her chest tightens — not from anxiety this time, but from the sheer love she feels for this man, and for the way he always knows how to push her while making her feel safe.

She ends up nodding and, with that, Lando pulls her into a lingering kiss, as if sealing the promise between them.

WHEN LANDO SAID driving lessons, she thought he meant a quiet, empty parking lot somewhere in the city. Or maybe a back road with little to no traffic. What she did not expect was an entire race track at their disposal.

It’s February, and the cold still bites through the air, the kind of chill that seeps into her bones despite the heat blasting inside the car. The sky is now a heavy shade of gray, fluffy clouds stretching endlessly above the open space of the Silverstone Circuit. The grandstands stand empty, ghostly in their silence, the wind whistling through the steel framework.

Her hands tighten into fists as she stares at the massive expanse of the track. She’s been here before, sure, but she’s never seen this place so devoid of people and so lifeless. What strikes her, though, is that it doesn’t even matter, because the circuit has the same beauty — perhaps even more alluring when it’s not animated by the roar of people and the deafening sound of engines. It’s almost haunting. She can’t shake the feeling that it’s the same place where world-class drivers push their limits at blinding speeds, where Lando himself has raced countless times. And just for tooday, it belongs entirely to them.

Her heart pounds harder in her chest as she’s turning to look at him, “You got me Silverstone for my first driving lesson?”

Lando smirks, shutting the engine off. “Had to pull some strings, no biggie.” He looks back at her, his eyes gleaming with excitement under the thick, long lashes. “I didn’t want anything to distract you or to feel any external pressure. Just us, and your car.”

Her car.

She still hasn’t fully processed it. She spent the entire two-hour drive here just staring at it, running her fingers over the pristine leather seat when Lando wasn’t looking, and tracing the sleek dashboard, memorizing every detail. It smells brand new, the engine purring under his control like a well-tamed beast. But now, as he opens his door and steps out, the reality of what comes next hits her, and panic creeps up her spine once again.

She grips the seatbelt tightly, her fingers going numb, as she watches Lando walk around the car. He looks so at ease, so effortlessly confident as he gestures for her to switch places. Meanwhile, she feels like she could throw up in T minus five seconds.

“Come on, baby,” he calls, grinning as he taps the roof of the car. “Time to make you a driver.”

Yes, that sounds good. And yes, she wants this. She really does. But the moment she steps out into the cold air and faces the car from the driver’s side, the same doubt settles deep in her chest. It’s not that she’s scared of driving — well, she is. But that’s not the only reason why she postoned getting her license for so long. The simple thought makes her stomach flip, because she knows that the second she puts foot in a car, so many things can go wrong, especially if you’re afraid.

Lando notices her hesitance immediately, and his playful grin softens as he steps closer. “Hey,” he says, tilting his head. “What’s bothering you, hm? Talk to me.”

The girl exhales shakily. “I’m not sure about this, Lando. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Of course you can,” says Lando in a determined voice.

She looks at the car, then at the track ahead of them. “It’s...” her voice trails off, trying to come up with the best excuse and go back home to nestle between their warm sheets.

“It’s just tarmac, baby,” Lando’s tone is calm and reassuring. “It’s no different than any other road. Just bigger. Safer, actually.”

Her arms wrap around herself instinctively, bracing against the cold, but mostly against her own emotions. “What if I mess up?”

“Then you mess up,” he shrugs, “That’s what learning is, isn’t it?”

She knows he’s right, but the fear still lingers, coiling tight in her stomach. “And if I crash?”

“You won’t crash,” he answers with the same determination yet slightly amused, taking her by surprise, because Lando uses that voice only when he is sure of what he’s saying.

She scoffs, “Sure, how do you know that?”

Lando smiles, reaching for her hands, rubbing warmth into her fingers before bringing them up to his lips. “Because I am here.”

Ha.

She nods slowly, suddenly realizing that there’s no going back — not when Lando is so committed to show her a side of herself that even she’s not aware of. And the fact that he believes in her does something to her brain; it gives her a bit more confidence and courage. She’s seen Lando drive countless of times before. She watched him, his movements instinctive, so measured and smooth that it’s become second nature to him. Maybe she can try to replicate that to a certain degree.

For her own sake, she owes him that.

“Alright,” she manages to say, her voice much tamer than expected.

“That’s my girl,” he presses one last kiss to her knuckles before stepping back, gesturing to the driver’s seat. “Get in there.”

With a deep breath, she finally slides into the driver’s seat, and her entire body tense as she grips the steering wheel; it feels hard under her touch, yet delicate at the same time. Lando follows, settling into his place effortlessly, like this is just another normal day at the track for him.

“Okay,” Lando starts, his voice patient. “First, get comfortable. Adjust your seat, mirrors, whatever you need. Make sure you see everything and, most importantly, make sure you feel everything. All the points where your body makes contact with the car, yeah?” he watches her nodding, swallowing the lump in her throat, then adds, “There is no rush, so take your time. We’ve got plenty.”

Her movements are stiff and mechanical as she reaches for the seat adjustment; she can feel her pulse in her fingertips while she does it. Then, she places her hands on the steering wheel, feeling it firm under her grip, and she suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how tight her fingers become around it.

“Babe,” says Lando, noticing she’s still fighting on the inside. “Relax your hands. You don’t need to strangle it.”

She forces herself to loosen her grip, but her fingers still tremble slightly.

“That’s better,” Lando reaches over, placing a hand on her knee to ground her.

She inhales sharply, then exhales, trying to shake the nerves. Lando waits until she goes through everythig he’s just instructed her, without rushing or teasing at her hesitation. He’s just there, a constant presence that makes her feel more comfortable.

And then, “Think of it like when you’re on top,” he continues casually.

Her head whips toward him, eyes wide. “What?”

Lando’s expression changes, looking like he’s just mentally high-fived himself for the comparison. “When you’re on top, you’re in control,” he reminds her. “You set the pace. You decide how fast or slow you wanna go,” his fingers tighten on her thigh as he leans in slightly, his voice dipping lower. “The car will respond to everything you do. Try it. I’m here to guide you.”

“Lando.”

He keeps going, completely undeterred, “Baby, I know you know how to move. It’s all about finding that rhythm,” he says, his fingers tapping against her thigh for emphasis. “It’s literally the same thing. Smooth, steady, no sudden jerks. And when you’re ready to pick up speed…” Lando grins, his eyes darkening just slightly. “Well. You know what happens then.”

A laugh bursts from her chest, all the tension snapping like a rubber band. She slaps his arm away, her face heating at his ridiculous but so on-brand analogy. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he teases, laying back in his chair, “You’re finally breathing properly now.”

She blinks, realizing he’s right. The tightness in her chest has eased, her grip on the wheel no longer desperate. Her shoulders have dropped, her muscles loosening bit by bit. Lando sees the realization settling over her, content that he managed to put other images inside her head in order to make it easier to handle.

He chuckles, then gestures toward the track in front of them, “Alright, birthday girl. Ready to take me for a ride?”

She groans, covering her face with one hand. “You just can’t stop, can you?”

“Nope,” he says after a moment. “Foot on the brake.”

Instinctively, her foot finds the pedal, pressing down tentatively.

“Now, start the car.”

She swallows hard and reaches for the ignition button. The engine roars to life beneath her fingertips, smooth and powerful, vibrating through her entire body.

At the sound, Lando grins proudly. “There she is.” His hands go to rest on the armrest, his thumb brushing the fabric lightly. He watches carefully as she moves to adjust the mirrors with a focused look in her eyes. “Good,” he continues, his voice a soft command that she knows so well. “Now, keep the wheel steady, just like we talked about. Look ahead. Your eyes should be on the next corner, not the one you just passed.”

She nods, keeping her focus on the track.

“So, this car is rear-engined, which means most of the weight is at the back. That makes it a little trickier to handle if you throw it into a corner too fast. But,” Lando pauses, looking at her intently to assure her there’s nothings to be afraid of, “I’m here to make sure you drive it right.”

She scoffs nervously, “Is there a wrong way to drive it?”

“Plenty, actually. Relax your hold I said,” he instructs her again, “Baby, if it’s too tight, you won’t feel what the car is telling you.”

“Telling me?” she echoes, glancing at him with furrowed brows.

Lando nods, “Yeah. The car talks to you, just not with words. It tells you when it wants to rotate, when it has grip, when you need to be gentle or when you can push,” he says, gesturing toward the long straight. “Speaking of. Go on, give it some gas.”

Her heart jumps into her throat, but she listens, pressing down on the accelerator tentatively. The car responds instantly, surging forward with smooth, controlled aggression. She gasps, the force pressing her back against the seat, and Lando chuckles beside her.

“That’s it,” he praises. “A lot of power, hm?”

She lets out a breathy laugh, still nervous but slowly melting into the feeling of it all.

“Next, the corners,” Lando adds, eyes locked on the road as they approach one. “You want to brake before you turn, not while you’re turning. That’s how you keep it stable.”

She follows his words, pressing down on the brakes a little too early, but the car slows smoothly.

“Good,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Turn in,” he pauses, lips quirking into a smirk. “Like the way you move your hips when you ride me. Controlled, but with intention.”

Her foot nearly slips off the pedal. “Lando, stop that!” she squeaks, turning her head for a second, just to glare at him.

She feels the tires gripping the asphalt in a way that sends a thrill through her, despite the nerves still buzzing beneath the surface.

“I’m trying to speak your language,” he laughs, “Ease off the throttle and prepare to brake again,” Lando’s voice is smooth, “Yes, keep your foot light on the brake. Feel it?”

She does. While following his instructions, gently, she eases her foot off the gas, then applies just the right pressure to the brake, her heart racing with each turn. Lando watches her closely, but she can tell he’s holding back, not overloading her with instructions but guiding her just enough so she feels the car’s movements.

“Perfection,” he praises as she hits the apex of the corner, the car hugging the track with a controlled grace. “Accelerate again, gently. Let the car do the work for you. Don’t overthink it.”

She hesitates for a moment, her fingers adjusting their grip on the wheel, before she picks up speed, feeling the engine roaring beneath her. Despite the fear gnawing at her, there’s a strange thrill beginning to bubble inside, a sense of freedom she’s never felt before. She can feel the car responding to her, listening to her movements, exactly like Lando told her it will. Which makes her eager to go faster, to push.

But as she rounds another corner, a new wave of uncertainty floods her chest, and she glances over at her boyfriend again. “Lando, I don’t know…”

“You do,” Lando’s voice is almost a growl, “Bury your foot on the pedal. See what this car is capable of.”

Her pulse quickens, but there’s more excitement behind it now. With Lando’s words echoing in her mind, she takes a deep breath, presses her foot into the pedal, and feels the car surge beneath her. For a moment, he senses her hesitation, but then the car roars to life, and she feels the pull and the adrenaline racing through her veins. The acceleration is immediate and, before she knows it, the world outside blurs, the track stretching out before her like an endless ribbon.

To her surprise, she loves the feeling.

Next time he speaks, Lando’s words sound like a whisper over the roar of the engine, “That’s it, baby,” his eyes sparkle with approval, and she can hear the pride in his voice all over again. “You did it!”

THERE IS A faint smell of leftover takeout that lingers in the air, blending with the sweet vanilla of the birthday muffins he insisted on getting as dessert. There will be a cake and they’ll get to properly celebrate with her friends at the end of the week but, until then, her birthday was a success, topped with adrenaline and excitement, which she never thought she would ever enjoy.

Now, she stands by the full-length closet mirror, running a brush through her hair, the weight of the day settling into her body. It was terrifying yet thrilling in ways she hadn’t expected. What surprises her even more is her sudden desire to get back in the driver’s seat. She’s slowly realizing how addictive the feeling she experienced on the track is, and even though she knows that driving around the city won’t compare to what Lando offered her today, she feels — perhaps for the first time in her life — ready to take that step.

Lando moves behind her right after she puts the brush down, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his chest against her back.

“So, when can I drive again?” he hears her asking in a teasing voice, though there’s a genuine spark of nervousness behind it.

He smirks against the curve of her neck, lips barely brushing her skin. “You can give me another ride now, since you insist,” Lando suggests, his voice dripping with smugness.

She rolls her eyes and, twisting in his hold, she faces him, her hands sliding up his chest, fingertips tracing the contours of his collarbones. “Sounds good, but aren’t you afraid that too much control will get to my head?”

“Not at all.”

Lando steps forward, kissing her with enough force to show her that he means every word. His hands are now everywhere — on her hips, up and down her back, in her hair, then gripping her thighs as he lifts her effortlessly. She lets a surprised gasp into his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist as he presses her back against the mirror. It’s hard against her skin, a stark contrast to the softness rolling off him in waves.

Her fingers end up tangling in his soft curls, tugging just enough to make Lando groan, a sound she’s never learned how to properly react to, since it drives her wild every single time she hears it. He tastes like the vanilla from the muffin that they shared earlier, so sweet and sinful.

When he comes back to his senses, Lando brushes his nose against hers, his voice hushed but firm, “I’m so proud of you, you know that?” he asks in a whispered voice. “You’re gonna do great.”

A shiver runs down her spine, not just from his words but from the unwavering belief behind them. Lando has always been her greatest cheerleader, the one who never let her doubt herself, even when she wanted to.

Her exhale is soft as a baby’s breath, fueled by the praise that sets her skin ablaze. “Lando,” she whispers, wrapping her arms tighter around his neck.

He chuckles, the sound of it full of want. “Right here, baby. What do you need?”

She can’t use her words at the moment. Instead, she just presses herself closer to him, silently telling him what she needs. And Lando gets the message loud and clear. With a firm grip, he walks them toward the bed, her body flush against his.

Clothes come off in a frenzy: her shirt lifted over her head, his sweatpants kicked away, her underwear dragged down her thighs in a rush. His lips are on her skin the entire time, trailing fire along her collarbones, down the valley between her breasts and over the curve of her stomach.

When she’s bare beneath him, he pulls back, drinking her in.

“Want on top?” asks Lando, a little smirk hanging in the corner of his mouth.

The girl shakes her head, “You first,” she teases, already breathless.

He doesn’t answer, but runs a hand down his face before gripping her thighs and flipping her onto her stomach. She gasps as he positions himself behind her, big hands spreading across her waist. Lando’s fingers flex, gripping her like she belongs to him in ways neither of them can describe, but both agree on.

Gently, he presses a kiss to her shoulder blade, then another, before dragging his teeth along her heated skin. “Let me show you how high confidence can get you, baby.”

And then, he pushes inside.

A muffled moan spills from her lips, her back arching hard into him as he bottoms out, filling her completely. He presses his lips in a thin line at the feeling, at the way she welcomes him so perfectly, clenching around him like she was made for this. It’s hard to keep quiet, yet he wants to give himself the priviledge of being able to feel her like this a little longer.

“God, you feel so good,” he mumbles, his hands sliding up to her shoulders, fingers curling around them.

“Move then,” she orders, managing to get a chuckle out of him.

Lando’s thrusts are calculated at first, dragging along every sensitive spot inside her, pulling sounds out of her that go straight to his cock. But then he shifts, picking up speed, pounding into her with a precision that leaves her gasping further more.

Before she knows it, she’s drowning in all of it. The feeling of him, the way he takes control, and how patient he is with her.

“Lando,” she whines, voice muffled against the sheets.

“I know, baby,” he breathes, bending over her, pressing a hand to the pillow beside her head. “Just take it.”

He switches between teasing strokes and deep, hard thrusts, keeping her on edge, making her feel every inch of is length. The air around them is charged, filled with the scent of skin and something intoxicatingly sweet. Heat clings to them, heavy and thick, as if the room itself is suddenly caught in the same fever they are.

When he feels her tightening around him way too soon, Lando doesn’t hesitate to flip her onto her back again, eyes locked onto hers as he slides home once more. She whimpers at the quick change, at the way he goes so deep in this new position, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him even closer. Lando whimpers, dropping his forehead to hers, breath ragged against her lips.

“Look at you,” he can barely speak, “So. Good.”

She shivers at the praise, nails raking down his back, grounding herself in the heat of his skin. He watches her, pupils blown wide, drinking in every expression that flits across her face, from the parted lips and the way her brows knit together as pleasure overwhelms her, to the sheer need burning in her gaze. It’s almost too much for him, but the desire to see her crumbling for him like that is stronger.

The roll of his hips, every stretch, and every inch of him pressing into her it’s enough to send shudders through her body. He feels her everywhere: surrounding him, clinging to him like she’s planning to never let him go. And fuck, he never wants her to.

His hands roam her body, admiring every soft dip of her skin. One traces the swell of her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple before his lips follow, dragging warm, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, her neck, and anywhere he can reach. She tilts her head back, offering more of herself to him, and he groans against her skin, nipping at her pulse just to feel the way she gasps.

“Harder,” she breathes in such wrecked manner that sends a bolt of heat straight through him.

His body tenses for a split second before a sudden hunger flickers in his eyes. No hesitation. No teasing. Just a low, guttural curse as he grips her hips and thrusts into her with purpose, each snap of his hips punishing in the best way possible.

“That good for you?” he rasps, voice tight with control, but his pace says he’s barely holding on. She nods, but it’s not enough for him. Lando grips her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Let me hear you.”

“Yes,” she moans, voice breaking as he drives into her harder. “Yes, you feel so good, baby. Don’t stop...”

Lando finds the strength to smile at her, watching her slowly coming undone beneath him, her body arching, legs tightening around his waist. “Won’t,” he assures her, “You take it so well, it drives me crazy,” he groans, his hand sliding between them, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling, teasing.

Her legs start trembling around his waist, and he knows she’s close. He can feel it in the way her body is betraying her, spasming around him, the way her breaths grow uneven, and how her hands tighten in his hair as if anchoring herself to him.

“Mhm,” he hums, his forehead pressed to hers. “Ready to come with me, love?”

She doesn’t have time to answer as she moans his name, a cry lost in their furtive kiss, just as her body tightens around him, pulling him over the edge right with her. His repetitive moans are maddening as he spills inside her, hips jerking, hands gripping her with a force that’s going to leave marks.

After that, he refuses to move. They just breathe, chests colliding against each other, bodies pressed so tightly together that it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Then, Lando tilts his head, pressing another lazy kiss to her lips before whispering against them. “Best student I’ve ever had.”

She laughs, smacking his shoulder, but she doesn’t deny it.

A shiver rolls down Lando’s spine as he pulls out, his body thrumming with aftershocks, oversensitive but still craving her. His eyes flutter shut for a second at the feeling — she’s still so tight, greedily clenching around nothing, the evidence of their release slick between them, a mess they should deal with but won’t. Not yet.

His cock, still heavy and slick, rests between them, twitching slightly as he leans down to kiss her again. It’s slow, languid, an extension of the pleasure still simmering in the air between them. His lips move against hers with a practiced ease, his body pressing into her as if he’s trying to mold them into one.

Then, his hand finds her neck. He squeezes lightly, just enough to make her breath hitch; his smirk against her lips is pure sin.

“Get on top,” he orders, voice thick with something commanding. His hands find her hips again, thumbs stroking the heated skin there. “I want you to reproduce every single thing I explained to you at the circuit today. Show me what you learned,” he provokes her, eyes dark with challenge.

She bites the inside of her cheek, chest burning at the way he looks at her — his lips parted, eyes filled with lust —, fueling her desire to show off.

Slowly, she sinks down onto him, gasping at the way he stretches her as if he wasn’t inside her not even two minutes ago. She lifts herself before easing back down, soon finding a rhythm that makes him curse under his breath.

“Keep your grip firm,” Lando instructs, trailing his fingers up her spine. “Don’t be afraid to push a little harder.”

She presses her hands to his chest and moves faster, earning a deep, satisfied moan from him.

“Fuck,” Lando swears under his breath, eyes flickering between her face and the way she moves on top of him. “Such a fast learner.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[bunni-v1]

Working on a jealous PV fic (ty 🃏 nonnie i’ll make out w u) but I do it see anyone capitalize on how jealous he really is. Like he’s got serious issues, it’s just that he’s quiet about them 💀

He’s quite literally the perfect partner, there’s no reason for him to have any doubts. And he doesn’t have any doubts about YOU, it’s just… he gets annoyed when other cookies take up your time. Especially if it’s someone more… mmm…. respectable? Like another ancient or someone well respected.

He sees the way you interact with them and he feels… funny. You’re different around them, more open in a way. You have inside jokes that he doesn’t understand, you whisper little secrets in their ears and giggle about it after. He feels left out, and he longs to have that kind of connection to you.

It manifests as little twitches in his expression, never changing from that warm smile, but shifting slightly. No one can pick up on it, not even you. The only cookies even slightly able to tell are the ancients, and that’s only because of their time spent with him. It’s just a quiet lingering feeling that he doesn’t like to acknowledge, but eventually it’ll rear it’s ugly head.

Maybe a cookie tells you a joke and you laugh too hard or a friendly touch lingers a second too long. Whatever it is, it tips him over the edge and he has to place himself between you and the offending party.

He never interrupts your conversations with others, never. But this time he comes up beside you and there is something about him that makes both you and your friend falter in conversation. He insists you continue, but both of you are able to catch that somethings just off… You more than the other cookie, seeing as he has an iron clad grip around your waist.

The conversation doesn’t last much longer after that. You want to know the worst thing about it though, Pure Vanilla is humble about it all. If you corner him and ask him what that was about he admits it!

“Perhaps I was a bit… jealous…” in that stupidly adorable voice of his.

He’s not proud of himself, but he admits it to you willingly. Sweet thing that he is.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes

Note: It's hump day, my dudes.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You don’t see Bucky at all the next day. His motorcycle is gone when you leave for work and when you come back. You assume he has his own work to do, or some running around. He did just move in. You try not to take it personally but you are disappointed. 

This is a lot more fun than all those other times. You’re not as stressed, not as insecure. Maybe it’s because you’re not hoping for more. Because you took a page out of Angelique’s book and stopped caring. One way or another, you’re going to get rid of your v-card. It doesn’t have to be special, it just has to happen. 

On your day off, you decide to get rid of the prickly weeds around the front porch. It's the perfect opportunity for you to show off your shortest shorts and blast some tunes while you’re at it. You put on your rose gold headphone and the best of girly pop. 

You smell coffee but don’t see your neighbour. You don’t want to be too obvious. You get down on your knees and pull-on the dollar store gardening gloves. You’re not good at any of this but these damn plants keep scratching your ankles. 

Before long, your alternative motives drift away as you wrestle with roots. You yank free a particularly stubborn weed and send up a cloud of dandelion fluff. You sneeze into the back of the glove. A shadow passes over you and a gentle tap lands on your shoulder. 

You squeak and drop the leaves. You pull off your headphones and twist to look up at Bucky. Your shoulder tingles where he touched. It’s hard to think someone like him can be so soft. 

“I’m headed into town...” he crosses his arms, the cleft in his chin deepening as he mulls his words, “you said you wanted to test out the motorcycle...” 

“Oh really!” You exclaim as you look up at him. You focus on his face, even as you’re innately aware of how close your are to something else. “Oh, Bucky, that’s so awesome. I’ve been so excited for this.” You gather up the compost bag and he offers his hand. He hauls you up to your feet and reluctantly let go. “I’ve been so patient.” 

He hums, “you can’t wear those. You’ll get burned.” 

He looks down at your shorts. You giggle. You pull off your gloves and clutch them together. “I’ll get changed. I have the perfect pants!” 

He just nods. 

“I’ll wait,” he assures and points over his shoulder. 

You grin and spin to rush away, headphones bouncing around your neck. You dump the gloves and bag on the porch and clatter through the door. You stop to wipe the dirt off your knees and strip off your shorts before you get to the bedroom. 

You search out the fake leather leggings with all the fake zippers. The sun won’t be kind but you don’t mind. You slip into them and find a strappy red top with a bandana style cut at the hem. The bejeweled letters across the front read ‘sinful’. It’s cheesy but you love it. 

You find a pair of sunglasses with thick black cat eyes and trade your sandals for leather booties. You hook your purse across your body as you come out with a jangle of your keys. You zip those away with your phone as you come down the stair. 

Your chest jiggles with each step as your upper tummy peeks out beneath the fabric. Bucky looks over and arches a brow. You approach as he takes a helmet from the handlebar. 

“Found a spare,” he offers. 

You take it and thank him. His eyes skitter between you and the bike. You giggle and tap your heels in excitement. You're genuinely amped up for this. 

“It’s so cool!” You say, “oh, will you take a picture of me with the bike?” 

He squints and his cheek dimples. He shrugs, “sure.” 

“Amazing,” you unzip the small crossbody pouch, “here.” 

You unlock your phone, your background a picture of you, Angelique, and another friend, Tracy, your backscreen. You bring up the camera and hand it over. 

“Oh, can I get on or?” You face the motorcycle. 

“Sure, be careful.” 

You put the helmet on and let the straps hang loose. First you pose in front of it and cock your hip. He aims the lens, your flowery blue and purple case looks dainty in his large tattooed hands. Then you cautiously approach. He comes closer and puts his hand under your elbow to help you onto the backseat. You notice the backrest that wasn’t there before and the shining new chrome bolts that hold it on. 

You straddle it as he backs up. You stick your tongue out for another picture. Then you smile and give a peace sign. 

He lowers the phone and nears, offering it to you. You snag his forearm, “and a selfie? Together.” 

He twitches. “I don’t much like pictures.” 

“Just a memory. Promise, I won’t show anyone.” 

He growls and shows his palms, “what... what do you want me to do.” 

“Here, turn,” you direct him, “put your arm around me and get in frame.” 

You flip the camera and extend your arms. He moves stiffly and hovers his arm over your shoulders. He smells like oaky cologne. You smile as he growls at his own reflection in the phone. You lean into him and watch his features calm then snap the photo. 

“So cute,” you exclaim. “That’s my new wallpaper.” You tap on the three dots and quickly replace the pic of you and your girls, “see.” 

“Huh?” He stands straight. 

“Everyone’s going to think I’m so badass. I mean, I’m not, but they’ll think I am,” you chime. “Oh, uh,” the straps tickle your neck as you put your phone away, “Bucky, I’m so dumb. Can you help?” 

You pinch the straps and flick your lashes at him. He exhales again. You stare at the front of his plain black tee. It clings to his muscles and squeezes his thick biceps. He takes the straps and loops one through the metal ring. His fingertips brush your throat and chin. 

He slowly tugs it snug and his hands freeze. He stares at them and his gaze slowly crawls up to your lips. The air turns stolid around you. He winces and puts his hand on the helmet, wiggling it to test it. 

“Good to go,” he drags his hand off and turns his back to you.  

He grabs the other helmet and pulls it on over his hair. He slides on his sunglasses before he straddles the bike in front of you. He grips the handlebars and takes it off the stand, kicking it back as he easily supports the heavy beast of a bike. His strength is felt in the shifting axel. 

“Gotta hang on unless you want road burn,” he says over his shoulder. “Gonna be loud.” 

“I can handle it,” you assure him as you lean in and wrap your arms around his middle.  

You feel his stomach clench. He turns the key then brings his hand back to turn the throttle, making the bike roar. He walks it back and angles it down the street. He gets it rolling then puts his feet up, zipping off through a tunnel of wind. 

You let out a gleeful holler. The rush is unlike anything you felt. Your heart is pumping and your veins are on fire. You hug him tighter and laugh raucously. 

He stops at a sign and plants his boots, “you okay?” He calls over his shoulder. 

“I’m perfect. I’m-- I’m in heaven!” You answer and wiggle in the seat. 

He takes off again. You squeal and cling to him. You watch the smear of the buildings, trees, and pavement. You feel like you’re flying. Not to mention, you’re vibrating. You feel your leggings getting wet. This is more than fun, it’s fucking hot. 

At last, he stops and quiets the beast. You look around the plaza as he kicks down the stand. He waits and signals you off first with the tilt of his head. You get off and he follows. 

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says. “Boring stuff.” 

You look over at the organic shop sign. You laugh, “are you buying gluten free granola?” 

“Something like that,” he almost smiles. Almost. 

“Hang onto that,” he taps the helmet. 

You unloop the straps and hang it from your elbow, “yes--” you have to stop yourself from saying daddy. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or serious at this point. “Sir.” 

He eyes you then scoffs, “alright, then, doll, let’s go.” 

His cheek ticks and he looks away. He turns his back to you quickly and beckons you with his hands. You follow. 

“Doll,” you say. 

“Sorry--” he begins. 

“I like it. It’s cute! Like a Barbie, right?” 

He sniffs and opens the door of the shop, “sure, something like that.” 

Or a sex doll? You think to yourself. You nearly dance through the door. This is an amazing day. 

He enters behind you. You radiate to the rack of plant-based candies. They are all so colourful. He sidles along to the bin of trail mix. He takes a paper bag and dumps a scoop inside. 

“They have any with M&Ms?” You shuffle up next to him. He grunts. “Kidding.” 

“Good food,” he mutters. “Nice place.” 

“I’ve never been before,” you say. “You’re not vegan? That pie I made had real meat?” 

He snorts and shakes his head, “nah, just... try to appreciate the small things, these days.” 

“Right. Well, it’s a really cool place—oh, cookies!” 

You brush by him and snag up a box of the vanilla glazed shortbread. They look delicious. You turn to him and grin as you show him. 

“Small things, right?” You bounce back toward him. 

He stares at you a moment, “yeah.” He nods and folds over the top of the paper bag. “There’s... there’s a bar around the corner.” 

“Oh, a bar?” You chirp. “How about I buy you a round? For the ride?” 

“Mm, I was just gonna run over and deal with... talk to a friend.” He browses as he speaks. “Thought you could wait with the motorcycle.” 

“Oh,” you deflate, “whatever you like.” 

“Or... you can sit for a drink. Won’t be long,” he shrugs. 

“Bucky, I’m all yours. I’ll do whatever you want.” 

He coughs and grabs a loaf of ten grain. 

“One drink,” he grits out. 

👙

You buy your cookies and Bucky his small haul of groceries. He fits it all in his saddle bags as you watch. He comes around and points you around the other side of the plaza. He walks beside you. As you think about how you must look together, you get all fluttery. 

You’re tempted to grab his hand but you don’t want to spoil all your progress. After all, he invited you. And now he’s taking you for a drink. Sort of. 

He holds the door at the bar for you, greeting the bouncer with familiarity. You look around the dim space. It’s just after noon, there’s not too many people there. He points you to a table. 

“What do you drink?” He asks. 

“Do you think they have appletinis?” You ask. He blinks. You laugh at him. “Joking, I’ll have a light beer. Any brand.” 

“Right, doll, coming right up.” 

You sit and watch him go. He talks to the bar tender and points to the table. Then he walks up around the curve of the bar and into the backroom. You narrow your eyes curiously. Huh. 

The bartender pulls a tap and pours the pint. He brings it to you. “Miss.” He retreats as if he’s afraid of you. Before you can even thank him. 

You pull the tall glass close as condensation hazes along the outside. You taste the thin layer of foam. It’s a bit tangy. You peer around listlessly. This isn’t very exciting. 

This isn’t the typical sports bar. There's a pool table and a dartboard but no TVs for the games. There’s leather jackets and skull emblems and a few disarmed guns on wooden plaques. 

There’s a thunk from the back of the bar then the slam of a door. You peer over as Bucky emerges and stops at the bar. Without a word, the bartender pours him a dark glass of liquor. He grabs it and marches over to you. He sits and sighs. 

“Had to hit the restroom,” he says. 

“No worries,” you make yourself drink the beer. Wheaty. 

“You make up your mind?” He asks. 

“Hmm,” you wipe foam from your lip. 

“About the motorcycle. Still want one?” 

“I definitely want one!” You grin. He brushes his fingertips over his knuckles. They’re reddened. Is one of them split? Were they like that before? 

“It’s an investment. Those new ones are... well, if you’re looking for a vintage model, I know some people. I could do any bodywork you need,” he offers. 

“Really? Oh, Bucky, you’re so sweet!” You chime. 

His mouth slants, curving at one corner. He takes a swig of his drink. 

“Not really, doll,” he rests his chin in his hand. “But for you, I’ll try.” 

[rafesweetie]

rafe is precious about his car.

it’s one of his less admirable traits, but he spends way too much money on his benz and there is no way he’ll let anyone get it dirty.

it’s light blue and sleek, and inside it’s leather and pristine. he’s had it for seven months and it still has that new car smell. maybe it’s because of the lack of fast food he lets in his car. either way, his car is pristine and he will not let someone like you, his girlfriend, mess it up.

there’s a few times where he has to reiterate some of his rules for you. the first rule? no feet on the seat.

it’s a rule you cannot seem to get through your head, as much as you try. it’s just comfy to have your knees to your chest as you sit and relax.

getting in the car after a late night at topper’s house party, your knees find your way to your chest so your chin can rest of them and you can shut your eyes after a tiring and busy night. as you put your feet up, rafe grabs your ankle and yanks your leg down.

“ow, rafe!” you whine.

“c’mon, you knew that was coming. no feet on the seat,” was his answer, reiterating his rule.

“what if i take off my shoes?” you offer, just wanting to rest comfortably on the drive home.

“no.” he repeats. “no feet, baby,” you sigh.

“my feet are clean,”

“stop arguing, not gonna work,”

so with that, you slump in the seat, choosing to be content sitting normally, with his big hand on your thigh.

the second rule is no food in the car. it’s a simple rule, one you obey most of the time. unless the two of you are in the car for a while.

“oh, rafe, there’s a chick-fil-a,” you point out during a road trip with him. “can we go through the drive thru?”

“fuck no,” he responds, driving straight past it.

“but raaafe, i’m hungry!” you complain.

“hey, i can turn around and we can eat in,”

you shake your head. “no, rafe, got these in,” you point to the heatless curlers in your hair. “can’t go in public with these,”

“shit,” he sighs. “no food, then,”

“why can’t we just go through the drive thru and you can make an exception?”

“no.”

you groan and he keeps driving. it’s a cruel thing to keep your girlfriend from eating, but he doesn’t trust you (or anyone) not to make a mess. so it’s worth it for him.

the third and final major rule is that you don’t control the music. every single part of his life is integrated with you, he’s bent his lifestyle for you, so the one thing he gets that’s still fully masculine and him, is his music.

every now and then you’ll make a request, and he might play it. but for the most part, he’s listening to rap and r&b music — future, carti, kendrick, don toliver, drake.

he’ll listen to a request if it’s out of the three ‘girly’ artists you like. that includes sza, lana del rey, and tate mcrae. he only started to warm up to taylor swift when you played him ‘end game’ and the version of ‘bad blood’ featuring kendrick. he likes only a few lana songs, which are the ones with a$ap, quavo, and the weeknd.

if you happen to request someone not his speed, he’s not gonna listen, in any circumstance.

“ray, can i have the phone to play a song?” you ask gently, reaching for his phone. he grabs your wrist.

“woah, woah. uhhhh, it depends, baby,” he stops you. “who you gonna play?”

“was gonna play some sabrina or gracie,”

“no, don’t like ‘em.”

“raaaafe,” you whine. “you’ve literally gone to sabrina’s concert with me!”

“that was just so we could do her position for that one song,”

you sigh, slumping in the leather seat. “fine.”

he pats your thigh to cheer you up. “hey, c’mon, tell you what — i’ll play that lana song we both like. what’s it called again?”

“groupie love?” you perk up a bit.

“yeah,”

“okay!”

he turns the song on, turning it up loudly. his fingers drum to the beat on your thigh, as you perk up and listen too.

rafe’s precious about his benz, but it’s okay to you — because maybe if you’re good, you’ll be bent over in the backseat after the drive.

[galaxymagitech]

Ah, permission to ramble. I choose to take this at face value and rambled…a lot. Bear with me, I’m not really sure how to articulate this one.

Dick is a peacemaker in the family, but he’s not a peacekeeper. There’s a distinction there that a lot of people miss. They’ll portray him as either constantly fighting Bruce and holding grudges or completely just bowing to Bruce’s every whim.

Dick will fight with Bruce. He’ll stand up for himself or his siblings. But then his anger drains away like water in a colander, leaving him empty. He’s quick to fight, but pathologically quick to forgive. As soon as the fight is over, it just sort of drifts away.

I feel like Dick’s relationship with Bruce very much has a rhythm to it—high tide and low tide and then high tide again and then low tide again. A sort of inevitability that they’re both very aware of. And Dick doesn’t really stay mad at Bruce. He keeps leaving, but when he returns, it’s to help, with his previous grievances forgotten and unaddressed. Even after Bruce hit him over Jason’s death, he comes back without mentioning it to help. He fought Bruce over what he did to Jason, but was still there talking to Bruce as he pulled away and basically made Dick and Barbara the heads of the family. The strange thing is that Dick can hold grudges. But when it comes to Bruce, all that sort of just washes away. The tides again.

Why? Well, I have a theory about that. To some degree it’s subconscious, but people do have some control over their emotions. And staying mad often makes things really hard. For two reasons:

Sometimes, Dick’s relationship with Bruce is good. He doesn’t want to “ruin” it by focusing on Bruce’s past actions—ie: he wants to take advantage of what he knows will be temporary. And also, if Dick is too angry to enjoy the highs, then all he has left are the lows. So in order to get anything positive from interacting with Bruce, Dick has to push away his (100% valid) anger.

People don’t like when you’re angry at them. If Dick lets on that he’s still upset about something that Bruce considers to be in the past, let alone brings it up, the fragile success will be destroyed. And then it’ll be Dick’s fault for breaking the peace. So Dick needs to get really good at letting things go, or else he’ll just send things careening back into a fight, because Bruce leaves everything unresolved.

I’m not saying Dick is making an actual conscious calculation in his head where he goes “I need to stop being angry or else Bruce will hit me again.” But in general, I think that within the constraint of him not really being able to leave Bruce’s orbit, he developed the defense mechanism of pushing this away.

Over time, this becomes so ingrained that Dick literally can’t stay mad at Bruce.

I didn’t experience abuse, but after growing up constantly arguing with my mom I have trouble staying mad at people for any length of time—especially people who have said something hurtful to me. I will continue to act completely normally immediately after a really bad screaming match. Literally, tear tracks still on my face, back to normal interaction, what’s for dinner, here I’ll unload the dishwasher, etc. I’m not even pretending, I just. Literally don’t care anymore. My brain just whisks everything I’m upset about away and I can’t think about it while interacting with the person. Sometimes, depending on the situation, I can think about it at other times. But not when that person is in front of me. Something in my brain won’t let me.

And maybe it’s projection, but I feel like this matches up really well with Dick’s actions. He genuinely can’t stay mad at Bruce because he doesn’t let himself think of those grievances. All the horrible things Bruce has done to him are sectioned off into times when he’s fighting Bruce and forgotten when he’s on good terms with Bruce.

So in the context of therapy, he will genuinely believe it when he recants what he said about Bruce being awful. Because he’ll be calm (and maybe a bit numb) and look back at himself from a week ago and it’ll just be utterly incomprehensible. Why was he so mad anyway? It’s not a big deal. Whatever. It’s fine. He and Bruce are on great terms, no hard feelings! (He can’t have hard feelings, they’ve all just disappeared, and he’s glad of it, because Bruce made a joke during patrol today and that wouldn’t have happened if Dick was refusing to speak to him over something dumb.)

So, yeah. Dick’s anger at Bruce burns hot and then snuffs itself out. He would spend a therapy session crying about the abuse, and then come back the next week being like “oh that me wasn’t in his right mind, ignore it, I’m fine lol” and truly believe what he’s saying.

Oh. And in terms of disregarding his own feelings and believing that he’s completely unreliable when angry? Yeah, Bruce definitely taught him that. Whether through emotional abuse and repeated invalidation, Bruce saying that Dick is too angry for his opinions to have any weight, or just Batman constantly repeating that emotions make you too irrational. But I think Dick would consider anything he says when he’s angry to just be him acting irrationally. He could break down in therapy and say that Bruce is abusive and then just go “oh I was throwing words out there because I was upset, don’t trust whatever I said, Bruce definitely didn’t abuse me.” And then react completely calmly when the therapist asks him if each anecdote actually happened. Yes, Bruce hit him. Yes, Bruce spied on him. Yes, Bruce said that. But it’s all fine, what are you even talking about?

And I think the therapizing himself is a way to sort of skate over that gap in his emotions, because he doesn’t want to confront the fact that his brain is covering up large chunks of memory. So he doesn’t a brief analysis, thinks he’s dug into his brain fully, and then presents this “photocopy” Dick Grayson to the therapist. In his mind, he’s being completely honest. But by simply presenting everything to the therapist in the way he’s determined to be most truthful, he obscures all the messed-up thoughts that led him to that conclusion. It’s why you don’t have the overseers oversee themselves—they may produce a full report and believe it’s completely honest, but they’ll miss the things they don’t want to see.

So if Dick Grayson is going to successfully have therapy, then he should probably actually explain events instead of just presenting his self-psychoanalysis.

I think we all know that each and every one of the Batkids is on the verge of falling apart, constantly, just under the surface.

But I think there's something special about Dick Grayson when you think about him like this. Because generally, I think everyone expects the other batkids to be deranged and unstable, but Dick's general presentation to the outside world is as an easygoing dude. He probably seems like the most normal of the bunch.

But beyond even that, I think Dick thinks he's perfectly fine. Bro goes through life, constantly on the verge of breaking down, his mind consistently picking apart every single thing and every single person in his life, not really trusting anyone, and never really sleeping, and he's just like "Yeah, this is how life works."

Then he looks at all his siblings, and he's like, "Damn, look at how screwed up they are :(" and meanwhile he's 100% the worst of the bunch.

Barbara and Wally are the only people who are privy to this, I think.

[andy-15-07]

Could you please write a pedro pascal x reader, where the reader has the flu/fever and she's acting like she's fine and Pedro takes care of her even if he's a terrible cook? 🥺

Flu Season with Pedro

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 654| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Pedro had been watching you like a hawk all day.

It started when you woke up with a slight sniffle, your forehead warm to the touch, but you brushed it off, claiming it was nothing. He wasn’t buying it.

“You’re sick,” Pedro stated firmly, arms crossed as he leaned against the kitchen counter.

“I’m fine,” you replied, waving a dismissive hand as you sipped on some lukewarm tea.

Pedro narrowed his eyes. “You’re literally sweating and shivering at the same time. That’s not fine, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, attempting to stand up and make your way to the couch, but the moment you did, your vision blurred, and you wobbled slightly. Pedro was by your side in an instant, steady hands on your waist.

“See? Not fine,” he murmured, his brows knitting together in concern.

You sighed, leaning into him just a little, your body betraying you. “Okay… maybe a tiny bit not fine.”

Pedro let out a soft chuckle and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “C’mon, let’s get you back to bed.”

You groaned. “Nooo, I wanna be on the couch. I’ll be bored in bed.”

“You’ll be bored wherever you are because you feel like shit,” he pointed out. “At least let me make you something to eat.”

That made you perk up, but not for the reason he’d hoped. “Oh no,” you said, deadpan. “Pedro, last time you ‘cooked,’ you almost set the kitchen on fire.”

Pedro scoffed, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. “That was one time.”

“It was last week.”

“Details,” he muttered, guiding you toward the couch anyway. “Now, sit. I’m making you soup.”

You opened your mouth to protest but gave up. Your body was too exhausted to argue, and honestly, the thought of him fussing over you was kind of sweet.

From your spot on the couch, you watched as Pedro banged around in the kitchen, muttering to himself. He read the back of the soup can like it held ancient secrets, turned the stove on with the careful precision of a bomb expert, and nearly dropped the pot twice. You couldn’t help but laugh, weak as it was.

“This is very stressful,” he called out. “How do people just… cook?”

“Some would argue that soup from a can isn’t really cooking.”

Pedro shot you a playful glare before dramatically stirring the contents of the pot. “You’re lucky I love you,” he grumbled.

You smiled, watching him struggle but knowing his heart was in the right place. “I know.”

Eventually, after a few more mishaps (including but not limited to nearly adding sugar instead of salt), Pedro approached you with a steaming bowl of soup. He sat beside you, carefully blowing on a spoonful before holding it up to your lips.

“Alright, open up,” he instructed.

You quirked an eyebrow. “Pedro, I can feed myself.”

“Oh, I know,” he said with a smirk. “But I’m already in caretaker mode. Let me have this.”

You sighed dramatically before obliging, letting him feed you. The soup was… well, edible. Barely. But the way he was looking at you, all warm brown eyes and soft smiles, made it taste a little better.

After a few spoonfuls, you leaned back against him, exhaustion creeping in. Pedro immediately wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“You know,” he murmured against your hair, “I hate seeing you sick.”

You nestled closer, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. “I know. But you taking care of me almost makes it worth it.”

Pedro chuckled, his chest vibrating against your back. “Almost?”

You hummed sleepily. “If the soup was better, maybe.”

“Rude,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “Go to sleep, troublemaker.”

You closed your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips. With Pedro holding you, whispering soft reassurances, you let yourself drift off, knowing you were in the best hands.

[justladders]

The only reason I like something without reblogging it is because I wanted to save it to look at it later. And if I ever reblog without any kind of comment or tag it's because I forgot.

There’s a friend of mine where, after our DnD sessions, they’ll individually ask people’s opinions on how they role-played their character. Now, they’re really good, and we tell them that all the time, but when they ask, no matter if you say it was good or bad, they ask why you think that (and if you’re alright with sharing why). They don’t argue that you misunderstood something about their performance, they just listen, and prompt further if you leave something vague. The only type of comments they’ll make about your opinion is that you phrased something about your answer really well, like in a way that tickled their brain.

When one of the other members of the group asked why they wanted to know the details, they basically responded, “Well, you need an outside opinion when you do creative stuff. And not just ‘it’s good or bad’ because you can’t do anything with that. People are normally quick to point out when they dislike something, but won’t bother to comment when it’s something they like, so if you all like what I did, I want to know why. Maybe I did something that I thought would be interpreted a certain way, but it ended up coming off differently. Even if that different way was still good, I want to know why it was good, why it didn’t come off how I thought, and I’ll never know if no one says anything.”

They’re very good at DnD. They understand the game balance really well, are even making their own adjustments and QoL to the game for their own campaign, and always make and play characters that everyone ends up loving. And we tell them that they do a good job with stuff they make.

Though, in their words, “Things can always be better, and it can only be better if someone’s willing to say something.”

[sturniololuvz]

Ok, feel free to ignore this if its super weird, but I was thinking; could you maybe write about the sturniolos sister, who just got her first boyfriend and like one night all three of them + her are sitting on the couch watching a show or doing their own thing or wtv, and she just randomly says something like, "what do I do if he asks me to give him head?" and all of them turn to her and are just like "...what?" Idk if this makes sense😭

omgggg yes lmaooooo

“Wait… WHAT?!”

Sturniolos x sister

The four of them were sprawled out on the couch, half-watching a random show that none of them were really paying attention to. It was one of those rare peaceful nights—no filming, no drama, just them hanging out as siblings.

Nick was on his phone, Matt was mindlessly scrolling through Netflix, and Chris was lying across the couch with his hood up, staring at the ceiling. Y/N sat between them, casually munching on a bag of chips.

And then, out of nowhere, she spoke.

“What do I do if he asks me to give him head?”

The entire room froze.

Nick’s thumb stopped scrolling. Matt’s eyes slowly lifted from the TV. Chris’s head snapped toward her so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash.

“…WHAT?”

Y/N blinked at them, completely unfazed. “What? It’s a serious question.”

Chris sat up instantly, looking personally offended. “NO, THE HELL IT’S NOT.”

Matt’s face was blank, like his brain was buffering. “Why are you asking that? Who is asking that? WHO IS THIS ABOUT?”

Nick just rubbed his temples, already feeling a headache forming. “Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

She sighed, throwing a chip at Chris. “Relax, it’s not that deep.”

Chris dodged the chip, eyes wide. “NOT THAT DEEP? NOT THAT DEEP? YES, IT IS.”

Matt leaned forward, his hands clasped together like he was about to have the most serious discussion of his life. “Start from the beginning. Who is asking you for head?”

Y/N groaned. “No one yet, I’m just saying if it happens, what do I do?”

Chris pointed at her. “You say no. That’s what you do.”

Nick scoffed. “Or you break up with him because why is he even asking that?!”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, you guys are so dramatic.”

Chris threw his hands in the air. “We’re dramatic?! You just blindsided us with the most insane question of all time!”

Matt exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Y/N. Are you seriously thinking about doing that?”

Y/N shifted awkwardly. “I mean… I don’t know. I just—thought I should be prepared in case it comes up.”

Chris looked physically ill. “In case it comes up—EW, WHY WOULD YOU WORD IT LIKE THAT?”

Nick groaned. “Oh my God, I wanna die.”

Matt shook his head aggressively. “No. Nope. We’re not doing this. We’re not having this conversation.”

Chris crossed his arms. “Absolutely not. You’re too young for this.”

Y/N scoffed. “I’m sixteen.”

Nick shot her a glare. “And you’re still too young for this conversation.”

Chris pointed at her. “You are a child. My baby sister. You are NOT putting—”

“OKAY, WE GET IT,” Y/N cut him off, throwing a pillow at him.

Matt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, if a guy ever pressures you into doing something you’re not sure about, he’s not the right guy. Simple as that.”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, and if he ever makes you uncomfortable, you tell us.”

Chris cracked his knuckles. “And then we kill him.”

Y/N gave him a deadpan look. “You’re not killing my boyfriend, Chris.”

Chris huffed. “Well, if he asks you for head, then maybe I will.”

Matt shook his head. “Alright, enough. This is officially the worst conversation I’ve ever had.”

Nick groaned, tossing his phone onto the table. “I need to bleach my brain.”

Chris shuddered. “I need therapy.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Next time, I’ll just Google it.”

Chris gasped so dramatically you’d think she just threatened his life. “ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

Matt sighed. “I’m going to bed. This night is ruined.”

Nick stood up, shaking his head. “Same. I literally cannot process what just happened.”

Chris pointed at Y/N as he stood. “You—stay away from Google. And boys. And everything.”

Y/N smirked. “Can I at least—”

“NO!” All three of them shouted in unison before leaving the room.

Y/N just laughed, grabbing another chip.

Honestly? Totally worth it.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Dream (Dean Winchester x female reader)

You love Dean when he’s awake, but there’s just something about him when he’s sleeping.

Read it on AO3

My 2024 Kinktober series

Rated E. 1.2k words. Consensual somnophilia. Sleeping Dean. That's it, really.

You agreed on this a long time ago, but it still feels illicit every time you do it.

The case done, you catch up with some old girlfriends from college who live close by. They think you’re a traveling saleswoman, maybe part of a pyramid scheme, but the small lie doesn’t hinder the fun you have. While you dress up before the evening, tight jeans, breasts pushed up, Dean watches you intently.

“You’re gonna have a hard time keeping the local Neanderthals off you,” he says and you grin while you apply lipstick in the mirror.

“I have my ways,” you say, smacking your lips together, then looking at Dean in the reflection. He chuckles a little, but his look tells you he would prefer to bend you over something right now to you going out. Too bad your hair is already done, or you might let him. Later.

You get up, grab your bag, run a hand through your hair and Dean walks up to you. One arm goes around you and he looks at you like you’re a snack he can’t wait to get between his teeth.

“Have fun now,” he says and then inclines his head. “Just not too much fun.” You wink at him, give him a small kiss, then run your thumb over his lips to wipe off the lipstick there.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” you say and look into his eyes. “I’ll try not to wake you.” You see the second Dean registers what you say. He nods slowly, a smile playing on his lips.

The evening is full of drinks that are too sugary and that perfect mix of scandalous gossiping and soul-searching deep talk. You show the girls a picture of Dean and one of them, your former roommate, shakes her head.

“I would buy five of him, even if he wasn’t on sale,” she says, clicking her tongue. You grin.

“Believe me,” you say, taking a sip from your drink and playfully running your tongue over the top of your straw. “You don’t need five of him. One does everything you need him to.” The other women squeal and then suddenly you’re dancing, hugging each other, and there’s one or two Neanderthals but you couldn’t care less about them.

 It’s extra hard being quiet when you come back to the motel, because you’re a little tipsy. You unlock the door, sneak in. Bag goes on the floor, shoes are carefully kicked off. Then you look up.

Your eyes are still adjusting to the darkness but you can see Dean’s shape in the bed, sheets tangled between his legs. You bite your lip. Your jacket goes too and then you are crawling onto the bed, trying to move as carefully as possible.

That was one big challenge when this all started – Dean has the instincts of a hawk, so one worry was if he would actually stay asleep long enough for it to work. You got lucky, though. Apparently, your sounds and actions don’t register to his subconscious brain as threatening.

You just look down at him for a second. God, he’s beautiful, especially like this. Puffy lips slightly parted, long lashes resting on his skin. Unguarded, like he’s a living thing that could actually get hurt and not the god of war that appears once daylight breaks. It makes love and a good host of arousal run through you.

Then you extend your hand, and with the gentlest of touches, lay it on his crotch, over the boxershorts he wears to sleep. Small circles, that’s how you start.

Dean’s responsive as all hell. It’s one of the things you always liked about him. How all you need to do is to bend over, pretend to pick something up, look back at him and he’s ready to go.

It’s the same now, and after only a few seconds, you can start to feel him respond, his cock slowly hardening, growing, until it strains in his shorts. Your other hand pulls the waistband down slowly while you reach in and take him out. Perfection, you think as you lean forward on your elbows, and start licking at him. Curved and with soft skin and a pink head.

You nibble at that head now, spreading a little bit of saliva on it. Dean, all of Dean, twitches in his sleep, and you wonder what he’s dreaming. Wonder if maybe you can turn one of his frequent nightmares into a good dream.

You hear the side of his face hit the pillow when you take him deep for the first time. He tastes salty and slightly musky, and you would like to bottle him up if you could. You bob your head up and down, slowly, but go deep each time, the head of Dean’s cock tickling the back of your throat. You actually close your eyes at the feeling of him, because you are just that much of a lost cause.

He’s making some wonderful noises in his sleep so you speed up, letting more spit collect in your mouth to ease the passage. The sounds your mouth makes make you clench and for a moment you think to stop, to instead get naked and ride Dean. But you don’t want to stop, and you can be patient.

Dean whimpers a little, a light sound deep in his throat that he wouldn’t be caught dead making during his waking hours, and it’s enough to make your eyes flutter open, because you know what will happen next. You live for this part. You keep going, and soon you can feel the twitch that’s telling you he’s about to come.

Without moving your mouth off him or stopping your movement, you bring your hand to Dean’s arm, gently scratch your nails along the skin there.

The feeling along with the budding orgasm help bring him into wakefulness just as you feel his balls tighten. It’s not easy from the position you’re in but you just manage to look up at him.

You know Dean’s awake though when he twists his hands into the sheets, desperately fumbling for anything to hold on to, his hips bucking up and you make eye contact just before he shoots down your throat.

Beautiful, desperate whines leave him as his stomach muscles contract, sounds he would be much too controlled to make otherwise. You wish you could drink them down along with his come, you catch yourself thinking, and nearly roll your eyes at yourself.

You finally move off him, hand lazily pumping him a few more times while Dean catches his breath. His chest is rising and falling, and he looks so perfectly broken that you want to touch yourself just to how he looks right now. Guard down, spent, no pretense. Just the perfection that is him.

You wipe your hand across your mouth, then crawl up to him and snuggle against his side. His hand pats your arm, uncoordinated.

“Fuck,” he says and you grin. You bury your face against his neck and settle down to wait.

Dean is extra generous on nights like this. He’ll take care of you, filthily and thoroughly, in a little bit. But just now, this is all you want, all you need. To know that Dean has let go, and that you were the cause of it.

You grin to yourself. It’s gonna be a long night.

[aspenmissing]

Hi there~ First off, just wanna say I absolutely love your writing — I have notifications set up so I can read everything you post! ❤️

Second, I��d love to submit a request for something a little specific. Please feel free to ignore it if you aren’t feeling it! Apologies for the incoming ramble as well. Just wanted to give a little context. 😅

I am, unfortunately, highly genetically predisposed to cancer — most of my family members have developed some type of it. My luck of the draw has been skin cancer, which is luckily something that’s highly treatable and mostly preventable. The good thing is that I’m a goth introvert who doesn’t mind avoiding the sun, so I haven’t gotten a positive diagnosis yet! (Little wins, lol.)

That being said, I’ve had to have several abnormal moles fully removed as preventative care. And while I’m grateful that doing so catches the issue before it fully develops and spreads, each surgery requires several stitches and leaves some fairly big and ugly scars. Most have been on my back, out of my sight. But this last removal was on my chest, and seeing it has definitely been a blow to my self confidence and body image. There’s a high likelihood that the next one will be on my face, too.

I was hoping I could maybe read something about Arcane characters reassuring a self-conscious reader over their medical scars? Something along the lines of telling them they’re still beautiful and loved? I would enjoy reading any characters you feel open to writing, but my favorites are Jayce, Viktor, and Silco.

If anything, thanks for reading my long message! You’re amazing at what you do. ❤️

ᴍᴀʀᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ || 4135 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴄᴏɴꜱᴄɪᴏᴜꜱ, ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ, ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴡᴇʟʟ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ɪ'ᴍ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴍʙʟɪɴɢ (ᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ). ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴏɴ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ɪꜱ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ꜱᴀʏꜱ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ, ᴀʀᴇ ᴀꜱꜱʜᴏʟᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ

JAYCE

The candlelight flickered softly in the dimly lit bedroom, casting golden hues over the walls as the sound of rain pattered gently against the windowpane. You sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing over the scars that lined your arms—silent reminders of surgeries, of painful recoveries, of the battle your body had waged against illness. The faint, raised lines told a story of resilience, but in moments like these, they only reminded you of what had been taken.

You hated how your mind spiraled in these moments, how the weight of insecurity wrapped around your chest like a vice. You had tried to push past it, to pretend that you didn't care. But some days were harder than others.

Jayce noticed, of course he did. He always did.

"Y/N?" His voice was gentle, laced with concern as he approached, kneeling in front of you. His large hands found yours, warm and grounding. "Talk to me."

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "It’s nothing," you murmured, eyes fixated on the floor.

Jayce wasn’t having it. He carefully loosened your fingers from their grip around your wrist, his gaze following the scars you tried to hide. He traced them lightly, his touch reverent rather than hesitant. There was no pity in his expression—only warmth, only love.

"You don’t have to pretend with me," he said softly. "I see you, Y/N. Every part of you. And I love you."

Your throat tightened at his words, emotions welling up before you could stop them. "They make me feel…less," you admitted in a whisper. "Like I’ll never be beautiful again. Like my body is ruined."

Jayce exhaled softly, shaking his head as his hands came to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing gently against your skin. "No, Y/N. You're not ‘less’ because of them. They don’t take anything away from you. If anything, they show how strong you are. How much you've been through. They’re a part of you, but they don’t define you. And they sure as hell don’t make you any less beautiful."

Your breath hitched as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss against each mark with slow, deliberate care. His lips whispered love into every line, every faded wound, as if willing away your pain with every gentle touch.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "I see someone who has fought battles I can only imagine. Someone who faced fear, pain, and uncertainty and still found the strength to keep going. That’s beauty, Y/N. That’s the kind of beauty that never fades."

Your chest ached at his words, the tightness loosening as warmth flooded in its place. "But what if I never feel that way about myself?" you asked, voice small.

Jayce smiled softly, resting his forehead against yours. "Then I'll remind you. Every single day, for as long as it takes."

A shaky breath escaped you, the weight in your chest easing as you let yourself lean into his touch. Jayce had always had a way of making you feel safe, seen—loved.

"You really mean that?" your voice wavered, and he chuckled softly, his grip on you tightening just slightly as if anchoring you to the truth in his words.

"With everything I have."

You closed your eyes, letting his warmth surround you, letting yourself believe him. Because with Jayce, love was never anything less than whole.

VIKTOR

The sun hung high over Piltover, casting shimmering waves of heat along the stone streets. The city bustled with life, citizens fanning themselves with delicate lace and folded paper as they sought respite from the sweltering day. Even in the Academy, where thick walls and towering shelves provided some relief, the air remained heavy.

Viktor leaned against his cane as he wiped the sweat from his brow, sighing before looking over at you. His sharp eyes lingered on the long sleeves covering your arms, fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin despite the oppressive warmth.

"You must be boiling in that," he remarked, voice light but laced with concern.

You forced a small smile, gripping your sleeve as if to hold it in place. "I'm fine. Just… comfortable like this."

Viktor frowned, his sharp mind already piecing things together. He had noticed it before—how you flinched when someone brushed against your arm, how you tugged at your sleeves when passing reflective surfaces. He knew all too well the silent battles fought in the mirror, the way old wounds whispered insecurities long after they had healed.

His gaze softened as he exhaled, shifting his weight to lean closer. His cane tapped against the floor with each slow step before he settled beside you. His fingers, calloused from hours of invention, brushed against your wrist—a silent request rather than a demand.

"May I?"

You hesitated. Even with him—even with Viktor, who bore his own scars, who knew pain as intimately as you did—the thought of revealing them made your stomach twist. But his touch was patient, steady, warm. Slowly, you let go of your sleeve.

The fabric slid down, exposing the scars beneath. Jagged, uneven lines stretched across your skin—some faded to a soft silver, others still pink, as if whispering the pain they once held. These were not simple scrapes or childhood accidents. No, they were the remnants of something deeper. Something medical.

Viktor's gaze traced over them, not in horror or pity, but in reverence.

"How did this happen?" His voice was quiet, careful, as though he feared pushing too hard.

You swallowed, the memory thick on your tongue. "I was sick. When I was younger. There were… surgeries. Treatments. Some of them worked, some of them didn’t. These—" You glanced down at your arms, tracing one of the scars yourself. "These are what’s left of it."

Viktor was silent for a moment, his golden eyes studying every inch of the marks you had spent years hiding. Then, without hesitation, he reached for your hand, threading his fingers with yours.

"You are not hiding something ugly," he murmured, voice thick with emotion. "These marks, they tell stories of what you have endured. They are part of you. And I love every part of you."

Your throat tightened. "But—"

"No," he interrupted gently, his eyes meeting yours with unwavering certainty. "I know what it is to feel like your body betrays you. To think others might see weakness where you feel strength. But you are not weak. You are…" His fingers curled over yours, holding you steady. "You are breathtaking."

You blinked, feeling the sting of unshed tears. "You really think that?"

Viktor exhaled a soft chuckle, his thumb running absentmindedly over your knuckles. "Of course I do. Do you think I would love you any less because of these?" He motioned toward your arm. "I have scars too, you know."

You looked at him then, really looked. At the way he carried himself, the way he leaned on his cane, the way his own body bore the marks of battles fought—not with swords, but with time and toil. You had always admired him for his mind, his relentless drive, but in this moment, you saw him as something more. Someone who understood.

"You don't have to cover yourself for my sake," he continued, squeezing your hand. "Not ever."

A warm breeze drifted through the open window, shifting the light against the room's walls. You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the summer heat. Maybe, just maybe, you could start believing him.

And as Viktor leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to one of your scars, you felt, for the first time in a long while, something like peace.

JAYVIK

The dim light from the bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the room as you stood in front of the mirror, clad only in your underwear. Your fingers traced over the scars, following the paths left behind by each removed mole. Your back, your arms, your stomach—all bore evidence of battles fought before they could begin. Rationally, you knew they were victories, but each one felt like a reminder of something stolen from you. The thought of more, especially on your face, sent a shiver down your spine, an uneasy weight settling in your chest.

You let out a slow breath, willing yourself to see past the imperfections your mind magnified, but it was difficult. The scars were a testament to resilience, to survival, and yet, all you could feel was loss. The soft hum of the night filled the space around you, the quiet almost suffocating as you stood there, trapped in your own thoughts.

The quiet click of the door and the familiar creak of the floorboards pulled you from your thoughts. Viktor entered first, his gaze immediately finding yours in the reflection. He approached with careful steps, resting his cane against the dresser before standing behind you. Jayce followed moments later, his larger frame warm and solid as he moved to your side, his presence an immediate comfort.

Neither of them spoke at first. Instead, Viktor’s fingers brushed against yours, coaxing them away from your scars. His golden eyes, always sharp and filled with thought, softened as they roamed over you. Jayce’s hands found your shoulders, rubbing gentle circles before one slid down to rest over your heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his palm.

“You’re doing it again,” Viktor murmured, his voice thick with warmth. “Worrying about things that do not lessen you in the slightest.” His breath was gentle against your neck, the weight of his words sinking into your skin.

Jayce hummed in agreement, his lips pressing to your temple. “He’s right, you know. You’re still the same incredible woman we love.” His voice carried certainty, a deep warmth that settled into your bones.

Your throat tightened. “I just… I don’t feel like myself,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I look at them, all I see is—”

Viktor silenced you with a kiss to your shoulder, his lips gentle against the scarred skin, his hands coming to rest on your arms, grounding you. “Strength,” he interrupted, firm but kind. “Proof that you are fighting, that you are winning.” His hands ran down your arms in slow, reverent strokes, a silent reminder that every mark was something he cherished.

Jayce followed his lead, dipping his head to press a kiss over a mark on your collarbone, lingering there as if to soak in every part of you. “Do you think so little of us that we would see anything less?” His voice was almost teasing, but the seriousness in his gaze as he pulled back told you just how much he meant it.

Your breath hitched as their hands and lips continued to trace the places you had been so self-conscious about. Viktor kissed the curve of your spine, the scars dotting your back like constellations only they could read, a map of survival painted across your skin.

Jayce knelt, pressing reverent kisses along your thigh, your knee, your calf, his hands stroking up and down your legs in slow, soothing patterns. Their touch wasn’t just reassurance—it was worship, devotion, an unspoken promise that they would always love you, no matter what.

Viktor’s voice was a whisper against your skin, a warmth that seeped into you. “Your scars are not imperfections, můj drahý. They are simply another part of you—one we cherish as much as the rest.” (My Dear)

Jayce stood again, his strong arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest as Viktor followed suit until you were enveloped in them, in their warmth, their certainty, their unwavering love. You felt the steady beat of their hearts against you, solid and real.

“We love you,” Jayce murmured into your hair, his lips brushing against your forehead. “All of you.”

And, for the first time since seeing your reflection, you believed them.

And maybe, just maybe, you could begin to love yourself the way they did.

VANDER

The warm, amber glow of the Last Drop cast soft shadows across the wooden walls, the scent of ale and faint smoke lingering in the air. It was a slow evening, and Vander relished the rare moment of quiet. He leaned against the counter, polishing a glass absently, his sharp blue eyes flicking over to where you sat by the fireplace, lost in thought.

Your fingers ghosted over the scar tracing down your cheek, a mark left behind from one of your many mole removals—an act of precaution, but still a reminder of battles fought against your own body. You weren’t new to scars. The ones beneath your clothes, hidden from view, told their own stories. But this one, out in the open for all to see, felt different. It made you different.

Your thoughts were pulled away when a small voice piped up.

“Why does your face have that line?” Powder, ever curious, tilted her head, her large, expressive eyes locked onto you. She had no malice in her question, only genuine wonder. Still, your stomach tightened as you lowered your hand from your face.

“Powder,” Vander warned gently, setting the glass down, but you shook your head. You knew the child meant no harm.

“It’s... a scar,” you answered softly, forcing a small smile. “Something that had to be done to keep me safe.”

“Oh.” Powder considered this for a moment, then her little face scrunched up in thought. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

Vi, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her sister, eyed you with a look far too knowing for someone her age. “Does it bother you?”

You hesitated, caught between wanting to reassure the girls and the raw honesty of your own insecurities. “Sometimes,” you admitted, looking away. “People stare.”

A warm, heavy hand settled over yours, grounding you. You hadn’t even noticed Vander moving, but there he was, standing beside you with that steady, reassuring presence that always made you feel safe.

“Let ‘em stare,” he rumbled, his voice firm but gentle. “What do they know? You’ve got more strength in you than they could dream of.”

Your throat tightened at his words, but you let him continue.

He knelt slightly to catch your gaze, his hand lifting to brush his knuckles tenderly along the length of your scar. “You think this changes how I see you? How much I love you?” His voice dropped to something meant only for you. “Nothing could.”

Your eyes stung with unshed tears. He always had a way of saying exactly what you needed to hear, as if he could read your heart without you speaking a word.

Powder grinned suddenly, hopping up onto the chair beside you. “I think it makes you look cool! Like you fought a beast and won.”

Vi nodded in agreement. “Yeah, like a warrior.”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, the tightness in your chest easing. You glanced up at Vander, who was already watching you with a soft smile, his thumb now idly tracing circles on the back of your hand.

“See?” he murmured. “Even the kids know what I do.”

You sighed, leaning slightly into his warmth. Maybe he was right. Maybe, just maybe, there was nothing about you that needed to be hidden.

Vander pressed a lingering kiss to your temple before pulling you into his arms, wrapping you in an embrace that made the world outside seem small and insignificant. His arms around you were solid, unyielding, a fortress you could always retreat into. You let yourself relax against him, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, smoke, and the faintest hint of ale.

“I don’t get why people would stare,” Powder mused, tilting her head again. “It’s just a part of you. Like how I’ve got freckles.”

Vi smirked. “Or how Vander’s got that big ol’ beard.”

Vander let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. “That so? My beard’s just a part of me, huh?”

The girls giggled, and you couldn’t help but join in, the sound light and unburdened. The fire crackled, casting a comforting warmth over the room, and for the first time in a long while, you felt at ease.

Vander squeezed your hand again, a silent promise that no matter what, you would always have a place here. With him. With them.

Because in their eyes—in Vander’s eyes—you were already enough.

SILCO

The dim lantern light flickered against the water-stained walls of his office. The scent of cigar smoke and whiskey clung to the air, mingling with the sharper tang of chemicals from the Shimmer vials stacked along the desk. Silco sat in his leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, mismatched eyes tracing over you as you stood near the edge of the room—hesitant, withdrawn, guarded.

He noticed, of course. Silco always noticed.

His sharp gaze flickered to the pile of your discarded clothing, then back to you, wrapped in one of his silk sheets, clinging to the fabric like armor. You should have been glowing in the dim light, reveling in the aftermath of passion, but instead… there was a weight in your eyes. A flicker of something you tried to hide.

"You’re thinking too much." His voice was smooth, laced with authority.

You swallowed, gripping the sheet tighter, the fabric bunched between your fingers. Don’t do this. Don’t ruin the moment. But still, you couldn't shake the creeping insecurity wrapping around your mind.

His gaze narrowed. "Come here."

You hesitated. Silco was not a man you disobeyed, but…

"Now, darling" he coaxed, his voice lower, dangerous—yet still patient.

Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, the sheet slipping lower with each movement, baring more of your skin—and the scars that littered it. Marks of past removals, of flesh cut away in the name of preservation. You’d long since stopped counting them, but they were there, a roadmap of battles fought against something lurking beneath your skin.

You watched as Silco’s expression darkened—not with disgust, but with something deeper. Something possessive.

The scarred side of his face twitched as he exhaled, long fingers reaching for your wrist, tugging you forward until you stood between his legs, so close you could smell the whiskey on his breath.

"Let me see," he murmured, gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin, over every line, every imperfection. Devouring. Reverent.

You flinched, moving to pull away, but his grip tightened—not painful, just firm.

"Don’t hide from me," he commanded, his voice almost a whisper. "I want to see all of you."

Your lips parted, your breath uneven. "They’re—"

"Beautiful," Silco interrupted, his other hand moving to trace the scar that ran across your collarbone, fingertips feather-light. "Like maps carved into flesh. Like proof that you still stand despite what tried to consume you."

Your throat tightened, emotion welling up. "You don’t have to say that."

Silco scoffed, lips twitching in amusement. "You think me a liar, darling?"

His hand slid lower, ghosting over your ribs, then your waist, fingers tracing each mark with the kind of reverence usually reserved for worship.

"You speak as if I don’t understand," he murmured, tilting his head, his own scar catching the lantern light. "As if I don’t know what it is to be reshaped by pain."

Your breath hitched when he leaned forward, lips brushing against the line of a particularly deep scar along your stomach. Heat pooled low in your belly, your skin prickling under his attention.

"Yet here you are," he continued, voice dropping, turning molten. "Still mine. Still exquisite."

A shiver rolled through you, his touch no longer gentle but possessive, demanding. Fingers sliding over bare skin, tracing the dips of your hips, the curve of your thighs.

"You think this makes you less desirable?" he rasped, eyes flicking up, dark and hungry. "Then let me remind you—properly."

His fingers hooked into the silk, pulling it away, leaving you bare before him. You gasped, but before you could protest, his lips pressed to your scars, his tongue following, slow and deliberate.

Silco had never seen flaws. Only devotion to be carved into flesh.

And he would spend all night proving it.

MEL

Golden candlelight flickered across the opulent room, painting warmth across silk sheets and marble floors. Mel lay beside you, her golden skin glowing beneath the soft light, her dark eyes tracing over you with a gaze so intense it felt like a caress. You couldn’t meet it.

You had turned away, arms curled around yourself, fingers ghosting over the ridges of scars that marred your skin. Old reminders—each one a moment of caution, of necessity. But reminders, too, that you were not like her.

Mel Medarda was exquisite. A painting given breath, carved from gold and power. There was not a single imperfection on her. And you—

"You are quiet tonight," she murmured, reaching out. Her fingertips brushed your shoulder, featherlight, before trailing down your back. Her touch followed the path of your scars, tracing them with the kind of reverence you couldn't understand.

You shivered but said nothing.

"You think I do not see you, don’t you?" Mel's voice was soft, carrying the weight of understanding.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. "It’s not that. It’s just..." You exhaled. "When I look at you, I see someone so perfect, so untouchable. And then I look at myself, and all I see are—" You hesitated, unable to say the word aloud.

Mel didn’t let you. Instead, she shifted, pressing closer until her warmth enveloped you. "Strength," she whispered against your shoulder. "I see strength. I see resilience. I see a body that has carried you through more than anyone should ever have to endure. And that is beautiful."

Your breath hitched as she tilted your chin up, finally making you meet her gaze. Her expression was tender, but there was steel in her eyes—fierce and unwavering.

"Do you know what true beauty is, my love?" She traced the curve of your jaw, her thumb brushing over your cheek with aching gentleness. "It is not flawlessness. It is not perfection. It is the way someone endures and still dares to love, to be loved. And you, my darling, are beautiful beyond measure."

You felt your throat tighten, something inside you cracking open at her words.

Mel smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering as if she could pour all her devotion into you. "You do not need to compare yourself to me, because I have already decided—there is no one else in this world who could be more perfect for me than you."

A shaky breath left your lips, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe her.

Mel moved then, slipping from the bed with the grace of royalty. You watched as she walked towards her ornate vanity, reaching for something small and delicate. When she returned, her hands held a tiny jar of gold pigment, its surface shimmering beneath the candlelight.

"What is that?" you asked, puzzled as she settled beside you again.

"A tradition," she murmured, dipping two fingers into the rich, golden paint. "In my home, we do not discard things that are broken. We mend them with gold. We honour the cracks, because they tell a story of resilience."

Slowly, carefully, she touched your skin. The cool paint met the warmth of your scars, her fingers tracing each one with deliberate reverence. She painted along the ridges, following the paths they carved across your body like rivers of history.

She worked in silence, her expression focused, yet soft with affection. The gold shimmered as it dried, a gilded map of the battles you had fought and survived.

When she was done, she leaned back, admiring her work with a quiet satisfaction. "Now," she whispered, cupping your cheek, "you are even more radiant than before."

You looked down at yourself, at the way the gold caught the light, transforming each scar into something beautiful, something cherished. The weight of self-consciousness did not vanish entirely—but it shifted, just enough.

"You always do this," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion.

Mel arched an elegant brow. "Do what?"

"Turn the things I hate into something precious."

Her lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. "That’s because they already are."

You exhaled a soft laugh, letting your forehead rest against hers. And when Mel kissed you next, slow and deep, you let yourself be loved. Scars and all.

And this time, you let yourself believe you were worthy of it.

[scary-grace]

¹¹⁵⁾ “you’re drunk, honey.” for the three word prompts!

Thank you for the prompt! I originally wasn't sure which direction to go with it, but then I had an idea for a follow-up on one of the Valentine's Day prompts, and I kind of ran with it. As usual, if it's not your speed, let me know and I'll come up with a different one! Post-canon, 3k, angst trending fluff. A follow-up to memory garden.

begin again

You never met Shigaraki Tomura, but you bring flowers to his death site every Valentine's Day. This year you bring them on his birthday, too.

“You’re drunk, honey.” The bartender slides your card back across the counter to you, and you look down at it like you’ve never seen it before. Sure, it belongs to you. You remember handing it over and opening a tab – and ordering way too many drinks for your public-servant salary – but it feels like you were watching from the backseat while it happens. A lot of things feel like that lately. “It’s time to head home.”

Your heart sinks. “It’s only nine,” you protest. “I can’t go home.”

“Yes, you can.” The bartender sets down a receipt for you to sign. Her eyes look kind, you think, but she’s not budging. “It’s time for you to go home, because it’s time for me to go home, and the kid who’s coming up next shift isn’t going to cut you off like he’s supposed to.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll tip him and bat your eyes and he’ll do whatever you want,” the bartender says, and sighs. “He’s a real bleeding heart. Can’t resist a pretty girl having a bad night.”

You’re not pretty, and it’s not a bad night. It’s the latest in a month and a half of them, nights where you can’t sleep unless you take sleeping pills and you have nightmares unless you drink. If you’re being rational about it, you can admit that it’s been coming on for a while. But if you’re being honest, you know for a fact that it started on Valentine’s Day this year, when you brought flowers to Shigaraki Tomura’s death site and imagined that you heard his voice.

You don’t know what went wrong with your quirk, but ever since Valentine’s Day and your visit to Japan’s loneliest death site, your ability to cope with the things you see through your quirk has collapsed. Every new death site you walk over triggers more than just a flashback – it cues up every similar vision, a whole flood of last moments that no one was ever meant to see. It’s not just what you see at work. There are death sites all across Japan, and you could wander into one at any moment. Once you do, you can’t avoid seeing it, and once it’s inside your head, it never leaves.

And it all starts and ends with the last few seconds of Shigaraki’s life, something you can never unsee, something you can barely live with when you remember it. Maybe that’s why you’re so fixated on the fool’s hope your mind cooked up the last time you were at the death site. Your wish that it wasn’t too late, your hallucination’s response that it might not be. You’re only so fixated because you’ve convinced yourself that there’s something you can do.

You let the bartender usher you out onto the street, into a cold spring night. “You’ll go home, right?” she says to you. “All the other bartenders on this street are my friends. They’ll tell me if you show up.”

“I’ll go home.” You can’t face dragging yourself into another bar, dealing with another question about why the long face, seeing the wide eyes when you flash your ID and your forensics badge falls out of your wallet, hearing the questions about your job. “You’re right. I’m drunk.”

“That’s the spirit.” The bartender pats you on the shoulder, then flinches. “Honey –”

“What?”

“My quirk –” she starts, but you can stop listening after that. This happens every so often, when you run across somebody with a sensing quirk, and they react to you the way you must react when you step into a death site by accident. “Do you need help?”

“No,” you say. The only thing you can think of that would help is if you didn’t have your quirk anymore, and even though there are legal ways to do it, the government will never sign off. Your quirk makes things easier for them, and that’s what matters. “I just need some sleep.”

Sleep. Right. You’ll go home and try to sleep, and the sleeping pills will kick in just strongly enough to keep you from waking up out of whatever nightmare you have, and then you’ll wake up in the morning and go to work and do it all over again. Why not? You’ve got nothing better to do.

You mess with your phone while you wait for the train, flicking through your messages and apps, looking for something to distract yourself. Something catches in your head every time you swipe through, but it takes you a while to figure out what it is. Today’s date, April 4th. There’s something important about April 4th, isn’t there? It’s an unlucky day for anything, really. An unlucky day for everybody in Japan, you remember everyone saying in the early years, because it’s the day Shigaraki Tomura was born.

It’s his birthday. He was born the same year as you were, so it would be his twenty-ninth. You wonder how many times he ever got a birthday party, or a present, or even somebody to sing him the stupid birthday song. You used to hate people singing the birthday song to you. You’d get all warm and your face would turn red and you’d usually cry. You can’t go to Shigaraki’s death site and sing him the birthday song. But maybe you can do what you did on Valentine’s Day. A few flowers won’t hurt anything.

Finding flowers at 10pm is harder than you thought it would be. Most convenience stores are sold out of what they had, and you’re not bringing him fake flowers. By the time you actually find a bucket of flowers, old and starting to wilt, you’re this close to missing the last train out. You hadn’t thought you were all that drunk, but the more time you spend stumbling around, the more you start feeling the alcohol. It’s a good thing you took the bucket the flowers came in, too. After you’ve dropped them on Shigaraki’s death site, you can use it to throw up in.

You know this won’t fix anything. Shigaraki wouldn’t have wanted flowers to begin with, not on Valentine’s Day or on his birthday, and he’s been dead for eight years. This is for you more than it is for him, just something to do so you don’t feel useless, helpless. But you always feel like that. Red Cap isn’t a heroic quirk, in spite of what the police tell you about how much it helps them. It’ll never save anyone. It only activates in the first place when it’s already too late.

You’re used to the battlefield being empty when you visit, but you’re not used to making your way across it in the dark, and you stumble into death site after death site, reeling from flashback after flashback. Just because Shigaraki’s death was the worst one you’ve ever felt, anywhere, doesn’t mean that the other deaths that happened here weren’t terrible all on their own. By the time you reach Shigaraki’s death site, you’re close to tears, frustrated and embarrassed and shivering in the windy spring night. The sooner you drop the flowers, the sooner you can go home.

But once you’re poised at the edge of Shigaraki’s death site, you find yourself in the same spot as last time – sure you should say something, totally lost for words. For lack of anything better to do, you start dropping flowers, hoping you’ll come up with something. “Happy birthday,” you start, as you scatter anemones, hyacinths, daffodils. “I didn’t remember until late and I had to get flowers at the convenience store. That’s why they’re, uh – like that.”

Wilted. Dying. You glance down at the death site, but the flowers have vanished completely. Have they always done that? You scatter more, watching closely this time as they melt away into the earth. “I haven’t been able to sleep since the last time I came here,” you say. You hear the same thing you always hear in your head: So what? He sounds different in your head than he did out loud. “And maybe I only wish I could save you so I could save myself. But saving you wouldn’t take away what I saw. All the things I’ve seen. So maybe it’s too late for both of us.”

You’re down to the last few flowers. You drop them one at a time. Rain lily, lilac, crocus, all of them vanishing the moment they touch the earth. You wonder what will happen if you touch it, if you’ll vanish, too. Right now, when you’re drunk and exhausted and teetering on the edge of tears, it doesn’t feel like it would be the worst thing in the world.

You set the last flower, a white rose, down on the spot where Shigaraki Tomura died, and it vanishes beneath your fingers – and in the same moment, a hand erupts from beneath the ground and seizes your wrist in an iron grip.

You recoil on instinct, and the hand tightens its hold enough to make your bones creak. Its palm is rough, its fingernails ragged, its index and middle fingers completely gone. You know whose hand this is. Anyone who watched the news or opened a newspaper knows whose hand it is. It’s impossible. You came here and lost your mind completely. You must have, because a man who’s been dead for eight years is holding onto your wrist.

You aren’t vanishing the way the flowers did. He’s not trying to pull you under. His hand is shaking from the force of his grip, but he’s holding on, nothing more. That doesn’t mean you can’t feel it – the strain of another adult’s bodyweight against your arm and wrist, thrashing and straining, twitching in spasms that threaten to dislocate your shoulder. You look at Shigaraki’s fingers, locked around your wrist hard enough to bruise, and see that his fingernails are going blue.

He’s suffocating. He’s alive down there – somehow – and he’s suffocating. Hundreds of questions flood through your mind, questions about how this happened, about why this happened, about whether it’s your fault that the Symbol of Fear has returned. Hundreds of questions, and none of them matter. Drunk and worn through as you are, you know what this comes down to. No one saved Shigaraki Tomura when it mattered. It’s not some lost child down there; it’s a villain, someone who did terrible things, someone who almost broke the country in two. When you said you wished you could save him, you didn’t mean that lost child – you meant the adult, the one who died in hopelessness and loneliness and fury and pain. You said you’d save him. Are you going to?

It’s not a question. You twist your hand in Shigaraki’s grip, wrap your fingers around his wrist in return, and pull with all your strength.

He comes up choking on dirt, struggling to cough around the earth that still encases his chest, and you yank harder, pulling his shoulders free. Shigaraki’s other hand breaks the surface, scrabbling at the dirt – why isn’t he using his quirk? – before pressing flat and pushing downwards. With that, you’re able to free him to his ribcage, to his waist, and Shigaraki coughs, clods of dirt spilling from his dry lips. He’s still coughing as you pull him free the rest of the way. One final heave that almost topples you backwards into another death site, and Shigaraki Tomura is doubled over on his knees in the dirt, taking deep, ragged breaths of air.

He’s shaking. He’s still holding your wrist. His other arm wraps tightly around himself, as if that will help, and when he speaks, his voice rattles. “Cold –”

No kidding. It’s April, the temperatures still drop to freezing overnight, and he’s naked. You pull your hand free of his and start unbuttoning your coat. Some part of you that’s still sane in the face of all of this points out that you’re drunk enough to struggle with regulating your body temperature, that you could freeze yourself, and you ignore it. Shigaraki Tomura startles when you drape your coat around his shoulders. His head snaps up, and his crimson gaze locks onto yours.

You remember the light of madness in his eyes, as visible in a still photo as it was on a live feed. It’s gone. You knew it would be, because it was missing when he died, and if a person’s conscious in their last moments, they’re exposed, missing every mask they’ve worn and every truth they’ve hidden from. You’ve thought, more than once, that you’ve known the dead whose death sites you walked over better than anybody else. You’ve thought about how sick that was. You felt it when you were talking to Spinner, and it made you want to scream.

Shigaraki tries to speak, coughs into his fist and tries again. “You meant it.”

“I – yeah.” You don’t like that you had to think about it. You don’t like what it says about you that you hesitated for even a second. “I don’t understand. How are you – here?”

“I never left,” Shigaraki says, and your stomach lurches. “I don’t know how I’m – back.”

You don’t either. You don’t have a clue. Even the most overpowered awakening of your quirk wouldn’t give you the ability to raise the dead. And it’s not hard to imagine that someone who spent their life in as much misery as Shigaraki did might have mixed feelings about coming back. “Are you mad about it?”

Shigaraki thinks it over. His face is more expressive than you thought it would be, and you see the answer settle into him before he speaks. “No.”

He’s alive, and he’s not mad at you for being somehow involved in bringing him back. Now that you’ve settled that, you have a problem. Or ten problems. Or five million problems, because you didn’t just help resurrect somebody who’s been dead for eight years – you brought back the Symbol of Fear, someone instantly recognizable, somebody whose mere appearance struck terror into people’s hearts. What are you going to do?

A moment later, Shigaraki asks the question himself. “What happens next?”

“Um –” If you’d thought there was any chance you weren’t hallucinating, you’d probably have come up with a plan for what to do next. “How do you feel?”

“Cold,” Shigaraki says. You nod. “Hungry. Thirsty.”

Clothes, then food, then water. Or water, then food. That feels doable, as long as you start with clothes. Where are you going to get clothes for him? It’s not like there’s a convenience store around. For that, you’ll have to get him back to the city, which means you have to get him on the train – how did this even happen? How did you go from leaving flowers for Shigaraki Tomura once a year to literally pulling him out of the ground? This can’t be happening. This is insane.

“Hey,” Shigaraki says, and you snap out of it. “You can go.”

“What?”

“This isn’t what you signed up for. And I can make it on my own.” Shigaraki draws your coat tighter still around his shoulders. “I’ll keep this, though. It’s still warm.”

It’s warm because you were wearing it. Shigaraki’s here because you took his hand. You saved him, sure – for what? It wasn’t just anger and pain you felt when you first crossed Shigaraki’s death site, it was loneliness. Loneliness like you’ve never felt anywhere, from any other flashback, a kind of loneliness that can’t be fixed by giving someone a hand up. Saving someone means more than just helping them up when they fall. It’s about figuring out why they fell down. It’s making sure it doesn’t happen again.

Besides, you can’t just turn a supervillain loose to wander the countryside. You have a responsibility here – to him, to everybody, and to yourself, because for once, it’s not too late. Just this once, you can use the awful things your quirk shows you to do something good. “You can keep the coat,” you say to Shigaraki. “But you’re coming with me.”

You’re unsteady as you get to your feet, but Shigaraki’s worse. You have to catch him to stop him from falling face-first into the dirt, and even once he has his feet under him, he can barely stand. You duck under his arm to support him and he stiffens. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” you say. You sounded way too sincere about it. He’s going to laugh. “If you fall you’ll get mud all over my coat.”

Shigaraki scoffs quietly, his voice still roughened from the dirt. The sooner you find some water for him, the better. He doesn’t try to pull away from you, so you start the long, slow shuffle back across the battlefield. You remember to grab the bucket just in time. It could be evidence, although what it would be evidence of, you have absolutely no idea. No one is going to believe this. You barely believe it, and you watched it happen.

Crossing the field is its usual nightmare, made worse by the fact that Shigaraki’s slowing you down, but unlike when you crossed before, you’re not holding back tears. You’re still drunk. Your head is still full of things you’ll never be able to unsee, and you’ll still have nightmares tonight. The only thing that’s changed is having something you can do. You never realized how much that could matter until now.

“You only come back once a year,” Shigaraki says as the two of you near the edge of the field. “It hasn’t been a year yet.”

“I had to,” you say. “It’s your birthday.”

That doesn’t explain anything. You know what the Shigaraki you always imagined would say to that: So what? The real Shigaraki, the one that’s naked except for your coat and stumbling along at your side, is quiet until you’re at the road, the lights of the train station visible in the distance. “I’ve had worse ones.”

tag list: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @cryptidfuckerofficial @lvtuss @issaortiz @evilcookie5 @deadhands69 @shigarakislaughter @minniessskii

[lologoinsolo]

Cats and Their Men Masterlist, Part 5, Part 6

You can’t seem to think without debating over what you said to Kyle. Needless to say, you feel like you got in your head over it. Maybe he meant it and it wasn’t a pity ask or maybe it was. You don’t know. Kyle doesn’t seem like the type to do that to a lady. He’s sweet, and genuinely funny and handsome and kind an—

“Dude,” Jess comes from the grooming salon as you bang your head against the reception table. You were cold calling but your mind had other ideas. “You look like shit.” Normally you’re more focused on your work but it’s just Kyle, Kyle, Kyle— Remember what you said to Kyle?

Sighing defeatedly, “gee, thanks.” Hitting your head again and again on the firm table. Your forehead throbs when you finally give it rest. “I feel like shit.” You’ve been a zombie at work, you don’t speak much about your home life. You try to keep that separate from the job because you don’t want to drag it in here. It’s not your fault that a stupidly handsome man with an equally stupidly charming smile looked at you the way he did. So why do you feel so hung up about it?

“So…” She asks after a moment of far too much silence. “How’s the calling going?”

“Oh, it’s going.” Groaning softly, “not many people are answering. Some said they wanted to come in but not for today.” Some even started bitching about their previous grooms but you muted them until they finished and still asked if they wanted to come in for an appointment. Funnily enough, they said no.

“Surprised it’s slow for a Saturday.” One of the pains of a grooming salon is that it’ll be filled with clients or it’ll be deader than a western movie scene of a tumbleweed blowing in the wind. “You wanna leave early today?” Nudging you a little as she asks maybe to brighten you up. You’ve been a little cloud of gloom and the other groomers are getting worried.

You think it over, maybe you can ask Connor to let you take a shift on the floor? They still haven’t hired anyone but it would be nice to get home earlier than you usually do. Kyle hasn’t come back… maybe you did fuck yourself over. Wouldn’t be the first time you shot yourself in the foot. His warm brown eyes flashes through your mind's eye and you stand up quickly. Jess quirks a brow and you give a weak nod, “yeah… yeah, I’ll clock out.”

“Alright, clean up and get going.”

She leaves you to your thoughts, cleaning up some kennels and hurriedly clocking out before one of the groomers can even ask you to bathe one of their dogs. Heading straight for the breakroom and shoving your hoodie back on. Rubbing over your face again when you see your reflection. You do look tired. Why does this bother me so much? Walking out and stuffing your wallet and keys into your hoodies pocket. “Oh wait,” you bite your lip slightly, a man’s voice can be heard milling over the different litters the store sell. The Scottish notes to his voice barely heard when you think about those cats around your apartment that you’ve been feeding. “I could to buy another bag.” Blame your grandma for your love of cats, that woman is THE old cat lady and you love that for her.

You waltz down the familiar aisle, looking from the 25 pound bag to the 50 pound bag… It might be best to get the smaller one since you ride the bus but the big one would feed the cats longer. “hmm, alright,” you go for the heavier one after weighing your options. Heaving it onto your shoulders, you wobble a bit when you bend back too far. Shit… Shit! Your world starts to flip and you’re bracing for a hard fall.

“Woah!” A hand settles heavy on your back and steadies you. “Ye need help, lass?” Sparkling blue eyes look down at you. He doesn’t even wait for an answer as he pulls it over his shoulder with ease.

“You— hey!” He doesn’t let you take it from him even when you try to reach for it. In fact, he steps back towards his cart that pokes out from behind him. “I can handle it.” You’re just tired and sluggish, you can lug those things in your sleep.

“Nearly took a tumble,” he winks and you get a better look at him as your lips purse. He’s handsome in a charming, farmer boy way. His hair’s cut into a mohawk and you’d make fun of it if it didn’t actually fit his appearance. There’s a jagged pink scar that’s hard not to notice on his face, your stomach churns at what he must’ve gone through to survive that. The other thing that worries you is that he’s wearing no jacket or hoodie and his face, arms, and hands look like he’s been run through a human sized blender.

“I’m— are you okay?” You point to his arms first and he looks down. He grins something wild and you take the tiniest step back.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “this one just needed some convincing.” You tilt to the side and nearly squeal when he pulls his cart to his side. A bundled up cat in a thick, dark blue jacket is nestled over some litter bags. Orange fur poking out to the fluffiest extent and what’s something of a coincidence… The cat looks like they got an orange looking mohawk of their own. “Bugger didnae want to be caught.”

You blink once and then twice, “oh… oh?!” He laughs a little when it starts to make sense on those cuts of his. The cat doesn’t look like they’d do that from where you’re standing though. They’re sitting quietly in the jacket save for the tiniest flicker of its orange fluffy tail. Slowly blinking their eyes as if the noises from your conversation has woken them up. “They did that?” Gesturing to him once more, “really?”

He nods, doesn’t seem strained at all with how he still holds your bag of cat food. “He’s been around my house for the longest. Took a lot of convincing to grab him.” And you can see the effects of that convincing. Poor, little guy he must’ve tried so hard escape the Scot’s arms from how beat up the man looks. Wait… Scot?

“Johnny?” You blurt and his shoulders tense. His smile drops, the blue of his eyes switches to something sharp. “I— sorry, are you Johnny?” Stammering a little as he eyes you up and down.

His eyes squint and he stands a little more in front of his cart, blocking your view of his cat. “Aye, that’s me,” his accent thicker and just a bit on edge. “Have we met?” No… no you have not and he knows that.

“No, I— uh, Kyle? Are you friends with Kyle and John?” Stammering out your words.

It starts to click in his head and whatever tense moment that was there is gone immediately. “Bonnie?!” You flinch at his boom, “I ken who ye are,” puzzles all connecting finally in his head now, “boys been yappin’ about ye, was wonderin’ when I’d met this cashier of theirs.” Boys? Plural? Theirs? “Can ye help me, lass? I’ve an idea on how to take care of my boy but m’not against asking for help. Been told ye ken what yer doin’.”

The complete 180 is a whiplash, he acted like you were gonna hurt him. Like you could, all the men you’ve been meeting recently look like they can easily hold themselves alone in a fight. “Yeah,” shuffling around, the boys he mentioned are probably the three you’ve met already. Small world… “I can help you out. I don’t mind.” You smile and he returns it happily, granted you are off the clock but… you have a feeling he’ll need some pointers. Damn your heart of hearts. “I can hold tha—“

“Nonsense,” waving his hand with a shrug of his shoulder when try once more to grab the bag. “I’d never let a bonnie thing like ye lift anything heavy. S’what these are for, yeah?” He flexes his arms and you try to not ogle at the muscles. “Mind pushing the cart though?” You nod and step closer to push. His cat seems to not even care at all about the movement. Just sits and stares, calm as can be despite the terror he must’ve caused Johnny.

“He’s a pretty fluffy cat, I’d recommend a good comb.” Cats can get matted and knotted despite being self-groomers, you’ve seen some get groomed at the salon. Usually longhair cats like this one. His paws are big, ears pointed more, “I think your boys a maine coon cat.” The lion’s mane also helps in your thought process. “At least he could be?”

“I think so too,” Johnny looks positively happy in his capture. He worked hard to catch and chase. “He’s been eating what I’ve been leaving out, I checked for a collar but found none.” Though… you doubt he’d care about that from the way he’s speaking. “Guess he’s all mine, Kyle owes me money.” You perk up at the mention of Kyle.

“Poor lad, seemed sad the other day.”

You deflate a little, looking away and you miss the knowing look that Johnny gives you. “Yeah…” you mutter and leave the cart to pull items for his cat. If you had his number then maybe you could talk to him. Or maybe you wouldn’t… “here,” you come back with a cat bed and some toys. You’ve yet to figure out what to say to Kyle when— if. If he comes back. You hope he comes back.

“Careful, hen,” Johnny says worriedly as you put your hand in the cart. Johnny makes a move to grab your arm but it’s too late, your hands already placing the toys down in the cart. There’s a brief pause before his cat tilts his head and moves to sniff as best as he can despite being burrito’d in the jacket. “Oh?” His eyes widened slightly, “I see how it is, hmm? Ye scratch me up but allow the pretty lass to be near ye.” Turning rather green with jealousy as you laugh at his envious expression. To add insult to injury you pet his boy some more and he purrs. Loudly.

“Well…” you pet away at the purring cat, rubbing from his nose to the top of his head. His ears flickering when you thumb over his head to then scratch at his chin. “You did chase him.” Cooing down at the baby, not an ounce of spiciness in those big eyes of his. “Poor boy, you were just scared? Weren’t you?” Baby talking the cat as if he can understand you. “Big scary man came grabbing at you, poor baby.” You’d probably freak out too if Johnny came after you… the man looks like he can definitely toss you around.

“It was for his own good,” Johnny rolls his eyes with indifference. “I couldnae leave ‘im out in the cold.” You flick through the cat’s tufts of hair on the top of his head. Standing them up so it looks more like a mohawk to match his dad’s hairstyle. “He’s too smart, tried to box’im but he ken what I was doin’.” There’s a growing of a smile on his face as he watches you. Can’t be bothered to stay displeased, not with how sweetly you are eing towards his cat. He’s starting to understand the appeal.

You feel eyes on you and you lock eyes with him once you look up. He doesn’t turn from you even as you pull back. The cat doesn’t seem happy about the loss of pets when he tries yet fails to get out of the jacket. “I,” clearing away at your throat and that makes him blink finally. “Well… how did you get him?” A bit curious but it falters when Johnny grins wolfishly. “Oh no, what did you do?”

“Built him a cat house with one of those nice heaters. Only,” he leans closer like he’s telling you a secret, “I made it to where it would shut once he stepped in.” Rolling his shoulder slightly once he stands straight so the bag sits better. “Hardest part was getting him settled cause once I managed to get’em out of it. He ran all around the house knocking things over.” He chuckles, “had to wrap my jacket ‘round him. Clawed me up good.” — ouch! Aw ye stupid wee man! M’tryna help ye, stop bitin’! No, John, m’fine. Finally got my boy.— “He seems calm,” those blue eyes of his squint, “for now.”

Snorting a laugh, “yeah, he does. Just shaken up.” Pivoting on your heel, “come on, need to get you some more things for him. Hope you don’t mind?” He’s already got the litter and the litter box, even has the cat food.

“Not one bit, lass, not one bit.”

You take him around the store to grab what’s needed. His cat is snoozing the entire time, only waking up when a bump gets hit or you laugh a little too hard from Johnny’s jokes. Turns out, the Scot really is bad at naming things. “Firewatch is not a name, Johnny.”

“Ye sound like John.” He muses, cocking a brow at you.

“It’s the truth.” Saying it like a judge’s final answer on a case.

“An Cheddars any be’ter?” Tilting his head down, he’s long since put your bag of cat food in his cart. He would’ve held it longer had you not pestered him so. He liked how flustered you became when he asked if you’re always so worried or if it’s just for him. “Startin’ to think ye donnae ken how to give names.”

“Hey,” looking highly upset that he’d doubt your superior naming abilities. “I can name a cat, you just don’t like any of the names I’ve mentioned.” You’ve both listed off names. Cheddar, Bomb, Apollo, Firestick, Jackie, Blaze, Riley— now that on one, he seemed vehemently against. You don’t know why and he refused to give his reasonings behind it. “What about… Oliver?” He goes to say something but pauses once he chews on it.

“Hmmm,” he looks from your and then downwards, “Oliver, huh? Better than Riley that’s for sure.” Somewhere a big man in a mask that sneezes, “alright,” Johnny concedes, “I like it.”

“Could call him Ol’ Riley for short?” Wiggling your brows.

“Oh, now ye are pushing yer luck, lass.” Pushing the cart to the front to get to paying for everything you told him he’d need. He doesn’t mind the price, pays for it without doubting your knowledge. Even pays for the cat food that you planned on buying much to your surprise. He simply smiled when you tried to offer him your discounts, “s’fine, hen. Least I could do since yer not workin’.” Your cheeks warm a little, those butterflies start fluttering around once more.

“Okay, but, next time?” God, will there be one? “I’m paying for you.” Not taking a no for an answer on the matter.

“S’bad manners if I let ye pay for me, hen.” shaking his head once he walks with you to the exit. “Do ye need help taking this to yer car?”

“What? Oh,” shaking your head no, “I uh,” thinking of a quick excuse. “I need to talk to my manager, gott speak with him on somethings.”

“Ye want me to stay then?” His arms cross as he offers, “I can load it up for ye once yer done.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Coming close and petting Oliver one final time, you reach right for the big bag but Johnny’s hand wraps around your wrist gently to stopping you.

“Ye sure?” You take in a quick gasp, he’s nearly at your side. He’s warm, like a furnace, burns hot even when there’s a chill outside. “S’pretty heavy.”

“Y-Yeah,” tugging back from his grasp, “I’m sure,” you pick it up and he helps settle it on your shoulders. Distributing the weight for you so you don’t have to. “You should get home. It’s too cold out to not be wearing a jacket.”

“Donnae worry yer pretty head, lass.” His hand lands on his hip as he watches to make sure there’s not a wobble to your legs. “I’ll see ye?” Though it doesn’t sound like a question, sounds more like he knows he will sooner rather than later.

“Okay,” watching as he finally leaves to load up his car. You hide in the grooming salon till you think he’s gone and then make the trek up to your bus’s stop. Plopping the bag down and you sit to take a deep breath. There’s sweat on your brow despite the cold but your bus should be coming any minute now. Wiping at your brow, you pick up your phone to look on tiktok to pass the time. Once you hear the hiss of the bus stopping you heave the cat bag up and over your shoulders. Trudging along inside and sitting back in your usual spot.

You don’t notice the pair of eyes thats been watching you from a distance. Taking note of your exhaustion from where he observes you, “hm...” He leaves once your bus gets on moving down its route. It takes you straight home as always.

[freyito]

hello hello!!! may i order an idia flavored curry rice plz?? blinks cutely) ty!!

✭ pairing(s): idia shroud x gn reader

★ in which: idia is WAY too confident that he can out miku you.

✩ curry rice black forest cake w/ idia shroud!

✦ entry for my 1k follower event, Freyito's Maid Cafe! check out the link to figure out how to send an order!!

✧ a/n: ykw anon. im so glad you changed your mind because this gave me SUCH a banger idea that i couldnt go to sleep cause i was writing it out in my head. teehee :)

🗒 cw: gn reader, ffxiv sneak, just embarrassed idia :3, not proofread

✎ wc: 2.7k

ᴘᴜʀᴇ ᴇᴠɪʟ | ꜰʀᴇʏɪᴛᴏ'ꜱ ᴍᴀɪᴅ ᴄᴀꜰᴇ !

It was late at night, and you had been on call with Idia. He was grinding out materials for some new transmog that had dropped in his game, and cursing the drop rates. You, on the other hand, were grinding out Project Diva Mega Mix for no particular reason. You had just made up your mind that you wanted to full combo some extra songs, and now you were hellbent on doing so. Plus, it provided some nice background music for Idia and his grind sesh.

By now, you had two songs finished and full cleared (albeit, with 97% accuracy), and you were working on your third, Sweet Devil. You already had four failed runs, your hands were starting to cramp a bit, and Idia’s smart remarks weren’t helping you. Not to mention, you always found the mvs distracting. Too much happening in the background while you were trying to focus on the notes.

You slump back in your chair with a huff as you watch the small word ‘safe’ pop up and interrupt your combo. You watch for just a moment as the symbols fly past on the screen, a barrage of ‘miss’es following shortly after. You finally exit the mv, balling your hands into a fist and then stretching out your fingers.

“I thought you were, like, a god at rhythm games,” Idia chides. You can hear the smile through his mic.

“Well sometimes it takes a couple tries,” You sigh, shaking your head. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure it does,” He chuckles. When you look at his stream, he’s finished up running maps and his character is now toiling away by the marketboard. “I bet I could do it.”

You raise your eyebrow, though he can’t see it. “Hm, what’s the stakes?”

“We need stakes?”

“You’re insulting my integrity as a rhythm game player. I want there to be a deal.”

A silence follows your voice, but you can hear him shift back in his chair. “Okay. What do you want to bet, then?”

Hm. You yourself don’t know exactly what you want if you win. Maybe you could get some gil off of him in game, but that didn’t feel like enough. You look around your room, before spotting something rather intriguing. It was a forgotten purchase, a pastel pink maid dress. It was rather cheap material, but still served its function. You were sure if you looked for them, you’d find the rest of the pieces…

“Loser wears a maid dress,” You declare triumphantly. “I got one in my closet.”

“... I, uh, don’t wanna ask why you have that,” He mumbles, “But I guess I accept. It’d be pretty nice to see you in a maid dress, heh…”

“Don’t act like you’ve already won. You haven’t even opened the game yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, just lemme put this up on the marketboard and I’ll get on the game…”

You lean back, content to wait and give your hands a bit of a break. You can’t help but smirk at not only making Idia eat his words, but seeing him in a maid dress would make you… quite happy, to say the least. The light pink would pair well with his hair and– you have to stop yourself there. You’d rather not distract yourself any further, nor allow yourself to get cocky. You can’t get ahead of yourself, or else you risk losing perhaps the most precious award you could ever have. 

“Okay. I’m on. Which song was it again?” Idia finally speaks up. When you look back at his stream, he’s ended it.

“Sweet Devil– Hey, you should stream your screen,” You point out, tabbing back into your game.

“I’m getting to itttt,” He drags the last letter, like it was too much work, as if he had not streamed his games every time you two called.

You watch as the ‘stream has ended’ switches to his screen, scrolling through the songs before landing on sweet devil. He changes difficulties to extreme, then waits for a moment, like he’s expecting you to say something. You decide to mess with him a little bit, staying silent a little longer.

“I’m waiting,” He groans, and you can almost hear his eyes roll. “I know you’re watching. I heard the little viewer noise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” You chuckle, “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Idia doesn’t even grace you with a ‘go’, or anything of the sort, simply starting the song, following your words. You scramble to tab back into the game, quickly selecting the song. 

The song and mv start up, and soon after the notes come in. You do your best to focus, to try and block out the MV, the bright pink lights of Miku’s room and Miku herself made it hard to follow the notes, especially with how fast they were. Still, you find your rhythm relatively easily, considering you knew the song and charting by heart. Normally, you’d be super conscious about the progress bar beneath the screen, checking to make sure you were well above the ‘excellent’, marker. However, you were too determined to focus. And unfortunately, that would be too much of a distraction. You don't even focus on if your hits are 'good' or 'excellent'.

The hold notes scare you the most, considering you always end up slipping up on them, somehow. Either that, or you don’t hold them for long enough and panic when you can just press the other buttons on your keyboard. You tell yourself, over and over again, in your mind, that you can just use the other set of keys. You have to. You can’t risk allowing Idia to have any sort of edge on you.

Three minutes feels like five, or even ten. Idia has been far too quiet during this, not even muttering something under his breath. You feel grateful for a moment, if you heard anything on his side, you’d probably mess up. Maybe you could mess him up. Yes. No. Ugh, if you did, you’d probably mess yourself up, too. And if you had messed him up, he’d complain and call for a redo. You would rather never play this song again, to be honest.

Just as your fingers start to tingle– a result of adrenaline, for some reason–, the word ‘success’ comes up. Behind the notes, Miku turns her little devil tail into a spear and throws it as a planet. You do your best not to celebrate too early, still having to go through with the last couple seconds of the song. You were just happy to have nailed the challenge time, more than happy. 

After the last couple of notes, you’re able to lean back and relax. For a moment. When the ‘clear’ screen comes up, you feel your heart jump at the percentage. 101.53%. You look over at Idia’s stream and can’t help but laugh. 99.07%.

“No,” He utters weakly, with an agony in his voice you have never heard before. He doesn’t say anything else.

“Yes,” You feel maniacal, an odd elation spreading through your chest. You don’t even exit the game, hopping out of your chair. “You stay right there.”

You pull the dress from your closet, listening to Idia frantically call for Ortho from your headphones. The rest of what he says is unintelligible, given the distance between you and your headphones as you rummage through drawers to find the rest of the costume. You find the cuffs, stockings, and even a headband with cat ears. It’s a little bent, but you’d fix it on the way.

Hurriedly, you stuffed the costume into a bag, grabbing your phone and turning on the flashlight. Slinging the bag over your shoulder and rushing out of your house. You keep your flashlight pointed at the ground so you don’t trip, running as fast as you can to the Hall of Mirrors. Like it is a high-stakes situation, time is precious. If you can’t make it to Ignihyde’s dorms soon, then you will never see Idia in a maid dress, even if you won the bet.

The minute you reach the Hall of Mirrors, you practically throw yourself through Ignihyde’s mirrors, scrambling through the halls with harsh breaths. Your heavy footsteps echo through the halls as you make your way up the steps and to Idia’s room, clutching the strap of your bag. Ortho is there, in front of Idia’s door, opening it just a crack.

Seeing you, the boy lights up, smiling at you from underneath his mask. “Oh, hey, Idia. They’re here!”

“Nooo!” Idia squeals, and you can what him scrambling from his chair to close the door.

You shove your foot into the crack of the door just as Idia tries to open it. He uses more force than he means to, squeeze your foot slightly. You don’t emote, despite how much it hurts. Which scares Idia. But you don’t care. You won the bet. And he needs to pay up. Ortho stares blankly, trying to figure out what has Idia acting this way, before scolding his brother.

“That’s mean! You shouldn’t try to shut your partner out, especially like that!” 

Idia shrinks back a little. It’s clear that Ortho doesn’t know what has you on such a warpath, and you are quite happy with that. Finally, you smile a little, opening the door with your other hand. 

“Ortho…” Idia murmurs, turning his gaze away from you and his brother. “We’re gonna, uhm, game all night. Just us two. So, uh, you should get some sleep.”

He sounds utterly defeated, and Ortho remains none the wiser as to what you were about to subject poor Idia too.

“Huh? But you called me here?” Ortho tilts his head, raising an eyebrow.

“I-I didn’t mean it– er, It was a mistake,” 

“... Okay! I’ll leave you two be. Have fun!”

And with that, Ortho hovers away, happy to leave his brother in your hands. By then, Idia knows he’s lost. You take a step in, handing him the bag with the dress and accessories in it. You don’t even speak to him, feeling a bit too giddy about your win, and prize.

“Uhm… can you at least stay out there, while I get changed?” His voice is shy, understandably so. 

“If you lock yourself in there, I’ll get Ortho to break it down,” You place your hands on your hips, in an attempt to seem confident.

“He wouldn’t do that.”

He’s right, you were well aware that your threat was kind of empty. But there’s no way you were going to let him get away.

“Then I’ll get those Heartslabyul first years to kick the door down.”

He lets out a small ‘eep’ at this, frowning. “Okay, okay, I won’t lock the door. Fine. You win.”

He doesn’t allow you any time to reply, taking the back and closing the door all too quickly. You can hear him shuffling about and the clothes rustling, and you feel your stomach flip-flop with nerves. You fidget with your hands and turn your back to the door, pretending like you actually didn’t care all that much so that Idia could get dressed faster, like that would work. You cross your arms, tapping your fingers against your biceps while you wait.

After a while, you hear the door crack behind you, and you turn around way too excitedly. He barely peeks through, giving you a look akin to a pleading puppy. He didn’t open the door all the way, insistent that you had to slip in through the crack, in case any one else would look out and see him. He’d rather save himself the embarrassment.

Finally squeezing through the door, he shuts it quickly. You, on the other hand, are greeted with a sight. His entire face is red, the tips of his hair flickering a bright pink as he looks away in embarrassment. The dress is a little short for him, so he clutches to the hem of the skirt and pulls it down a little. The pink worked well with his hair and his skin, just like you thought. It’s cliche, one of the dresses that was copy pasted from all those maid animes and what not. But still, you think it fit well.

“This is so cheap,” Idia complains, tilting his head up. “Okay. I dressed up. Can you go now so I can get back in my pajamas?”

You realize he’s missing something. The cat ears.

“No. No, I’m not leaving until you put the cat ears on.” You state simply, looking around for where they are.

He grimaces, deflating even more. “Please no. I think I might die. Actually, I’m going to die. Right now.”

“I won the bet fair and square, it’s not my fault. Where are they, Idia.” You speak with such a stern voice, it almost scares him. He finally, hesitantly, points to his chair, his grimace deepening as he looks back at you. “Put. Them. On.”

He groans, turning around and grabbing the cat ears. He gives you one last look, begging you to just let him go. Maybe you’re being a little too sadistic, but c’mon, Idia in a maid dress. That’s it. You plan to make the most of it. Slowly, he lifts the headband over his head, then lowers it down. Now you have your own Idia cat maid in front of you. You can’t help but smile, absolutely jubilant to see this poor man wearing such a cute dress.

“Okay. Can you go now, please,” He pleads once more, bringing a hand up to his face.

“Can I at least take a picture?” You hold up your phone.

“N-no! Please, no. I’m already at my lowest point, don’t have to kick me while I’m down…”

“Okay, okay,” You decide to finally allow him some mercy, “I won’t. But… I don’t think this image is ever leaving my head any time soon.”

He sighs and shakes his head, avoiding your gaze. But he doesn’t reply. Well, that won’t do. You decide to come up with a quick excuse to stay.

“Well, I ran all the way here, in the dark, it’d suck if you sent me back,” You try to play it cool, tilting your head a little and looking up through your lashes at him. This earns you a deeper blush.

“Stop it,” He huffs, turning his head. Met with his set up, he realizes you two are technically still on call. And he finds his way out. “Your pc is on, you know.”

“Huh.”

“It’s on. You’re still in call.” He points to his monitor.

Your blind blanks for a minute, before you panic a little. You would like to stay and see if you can get him to stay in the maid dress for a little longer, but at the same time, you’d rather not blow out the power supply of your pc. That thing is too damn expensive. And you love it too much.

“Okay. Bye.” You huff briskly, turning on your heels and waiting for the door open before running back down to the mirror that connected the Ignihyde dorms to the Hall of Mirrors.

Idia yelps as the door slides open fully, stepping back and pressing himself against the wall so no one would see. Like anyone else was up at this time. He listens to you rush down the hallway, before letting out a breath. Once the door is shut all the way, he’s quick to wriggle out of the dress, throwing the cat ears, cuffs, and stockings (which ended up ripping a bit) to the corner of his room.

Almost breaking the zipper, he yanks it down on the back of his dress and throws it alongside the scattered recipes, before staring intently at it. Why couldn’t you have just waited for him to undress and take it back? He didn’t want these god forsaken items here. In his room. That reminded him of you. That’s like the cheesiest romantic thing couples do! And in this fashion, perhaps even cringey! He wants to burn it, so bad. Or throw it out. But what if someone somehow finds it in the trash? And then they link it back to him? That’d be the worst scenario. The absolute worst.

He continues to stare at it for a minute, before reaching for his pajamas that were hanging off the back of his chair. Fine. He’ll leave the stupid costume alone for now. Perhaps it’d come in handy one day. Give you a taste of your own medicine… or something.

© freyito, 2025 | maid cafe event | maid cafe masterlist | masterlist | queue | kofi | discord server | strawpage | star header by roseschoices , dividers by cafekitsune , headers by yours truly

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[kathlare]

uncharted waters

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie grapples with a late period and mounting anxiety, unsure if she's pregnant.

Wordcount: 2.3 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

February 22nd, 2025 - Los Angeles, CA

The Los Angeles sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Amelie’s bedroom, casting soft golden light across the bed she hadn’t moved from in the last hour. Her phone lay on the nightstand, face down, ignored. She had been staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on her stomach, the other anxiously twisting the edge of the blanket between her fingers.

Her period was late. Almost two weeks late.

At first, she had convinced herself it was stress. She had been traveling, working nonstop, barely sleeping. It had to be stress. But then the nausea started, creeping in during the mornings, lingering throughout the day. At first, she thought it was food poisoning or jet lag, but when it didn’t go away, something inside her started to spiral.

She wasn’t ready for this. They weren’t ready for this.

Her stomach twisted, and she groaned, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes before blindly reaching for her phone. Her fingers shook as she scrolled through her contacts, hovering over Lando’s name. She wanted to call him, tell him everything, hear his voice, let him calm her down like he always did. But he was in Bahrain, starting pre-season testing, and she knew if she called him sounding even slightly off, he’d worry. He’d want to fly back immediately, and she could not deal with that right now. Not until she knew for sure.

Instead, she scrolled further, her pulse hammering in her throat as she tapped on Chandler’s name.

—Ames?— Chandler answered on the first ring, her voice groggy. Amelie glanced at the clock—barely past nine. Right. Chandler wasn’t a morning person.

—I need you to do something for me,— Amelie blurted, ignoring the way her throat felt tight, how her skin felt too hot despite the chill in the room.

A pause. Then, —Are you okay?—

—I just need you to go to the store for me.— Her fingers curled around the blanket, gripping it so tightly her knuckles ached.

—What kind of store?— Chandler asked, but Amelie could already hear the shift in her tone—the sharpness, the alertness of someone waking up fast because they knew something was wrong.

Amelie swallowed hard, exhaling shakily before whispering, —A pharmacy.—

—Ames…— Chandler’s voice softened, the teasing edge she usually carried replaced by concern.

—I just need you to do it. Please,— Amelie whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

The silence stretched between them, the weight of what she was asking settling into the space. Amelie squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else.

—Okay,— Chandler finally said, gentle but firm. —I’ll be there soon.—

Amelie barely mumbled a thank you before hanging up. She let the phone slip from her fingers, pressing both hands against her face as she tried to steady herself. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating.

She had spent the last few days pretending she wasn’t panicking. She had told herself over and over that it was nothing, that she was being ridiculous. But last night, lying awake in bed, she had started counting the days again. And the numbers weren’t adding up.

Lando had always been careful. They had always been careful. But nothing was foolproof, and the idea that maybe—maybe—one time had been enough sent her spiraling.

She could feel the anxiety clawing at her ribs, a relentless pressure that made it impossible to think straight. If she was pregnant—if she really was—what the fuck were they going to do?

She and Lando had talked about the future before, in a vague, dreamy kind of way. Kids were always a someday thing, far down the line when they had done everything they wanted to do first. When his racing career had settled. When she had the time to breathe between projects.

Not now. Not when everything was moving so fast.

Her stomach twisted again, but this time it had nothing to do with nausea.

She barely noticed when Chandler arrived, only realizing it when her bedroom door creaked open.

—I brought, like, five different kinds because I wasn’t sure which one was the best,— Chandler announced, setting a paper bag down on the bed beside her.

Amelie sat up slowly, her limbs feeling like lead.

—Thanks.—

Chandler hesitated before sitting down next to her, her expression careful.

—Are you okay?— Chandler asked quietly.

Amelie let out a sharp, humorless laugh, running a hand through her hair. —No. Not really.—

Chandler sighed, shifting closer so their shoulders touched. —Do you want me to stay while you take it?—

Amelie hesitated. She wanted to say no, to pretend she was strong enough to do this alone. But the truth was, her hands were already shaking, and she didn’t trust herself not to throw up before she even managed to take the test.

—Yeah,— she whispered. —Please.—

Chandler nodded and reached for the bag, pulling out the boxes and reading through the instructions. —Alright, let’s do this. Pee on the stick, wait five minutes, and then either freak out or breathe again.— She shot Amelie a wry smile, but her eyes were soft.

Amelie exhaled slowly, nodding before dragging herself to the bathroom. The moment she was alone, the walls felt like they were closing in.

She stared at the test in her hand, heart hammering so hard it echoed in her ears.

She could picture it too clearly—Lando’s face if she told him. The way his eyes would widen, his brows pulling together, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. He loved her. She knew that. But they were still young, still figuring things out. Would he be scared? Would he resent her?

Would she resent herself?

Her breath came in short gasps, her pulse erratic. She gripped the sink, forcing herself to inhale through her nose, out through her mouth.

She had to do this. There was no going back now.

With shaky hands, she did what she had to do and placed the test on the counter, stepping away from it like it might explode. Five minutes. Five minutes felt like an eternity. She clenched her hands into fists, pressing them against her thighs, trying to steady herself.

Her mind ran wild.

What if it was positive?

Would they keep it? Could they keep it?

Lando was in the middle of his career, still climbing, still proving himself. And her—God, she wasn’t ready to be a mother. She barely knew how to take care of herself most days. There were still so many things she wanted to do, so many places to go, so much of her life she hadn’t figured out yet.

Her chest tightened as a new wave of nausea hit her, but she didn’t know if it was from the anxiety or something else.

She felt like she was drowning in the unknown.

Chandler knocked softly. —You good in there?—

No. Absolutely not.

—Yeah.— Her voice was hoarse, but she didn’t trust herself to say more.

—How much time left?— Chandler asked, quieter this time.

Amelie swallowed, glancing at the timer on her phone. Two minutes.

Two minutes and she’d know. Two minutes and everything could change.

She leaned against the counter, gripping the edge as she forced herself to breathe. She wished Lando were here. Wished she could crawl into his arms and let him tell her it was all going to be okay. Because if there was one thing about Lando, it was that he never let her spiral too far before pulling her back. He’d joke, make her laugh, hold her tight, remind her that no matter what happened, they’d figure it out.

But he wasn’t here. And she didn’t even know if she wanted to tell him.

Her phone buzzed against the counter, and she flinched. Lando. Speak of the devil.

Lan🧡: Morning, baby. Hope you slept well. Call me when you wake up xx

She exhaled shakily, staring at the message for too long. Her fingers twitched, itching to reply, but she couldn’t. Not yet.

Not until she knew.

A long, slow beep rang from her phone. The timer.

Her heart stopped.

For a moment, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Chandler knocked again, voice hesitant. —Ames?—

Amelie forced herself forward, one foot in front of the other, her fingers icy cold as she reached for the test.

Negative.

She blinked, staring at the little screen, waiting for the result to change, for the universe to play some kind of trick on her. But it didn’t. It stayed the same.

Negative.

Her breath left her in a shuddering rush, her knees nearly buckling.

She wasn’t pregnant.

She wasn’t pregnant.

The relief should have hit her all at once, should have made her sag with the weight of it, but instead, something inside her twisted, something she didn’t want to name. Her throat ached, her vision blurred.

She wasn’t pregnant.

But then why did she feel like crying?

She opened the door, and Chandler took one look at her face before pulling her into a hug.

—It’s negative,— Amelie whispered, her voice breaking.

Chandler exhaled against her hair. —Oh, honey.—

Amelie let out a shaky laugh, swiping at her eyes. —I don’t even know if I’m happy or not. I feel so fucking stupid.—

—You’re not stupid.— Chandler pulled back just enough to look at her. —You were scared. And that’s okay. It’s a lot.—

Amelie nodded, chewing on her lip.

—Did you want it to be positive?— Chandler asked, gentle but curious.

Amelie hesitated.

—No,— she said, but the word didn’t come as easily as she thought it would.

Chandler gave her a knowing look. —It’s okay if you don’t know how to feel. Just because you weren’t ready doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have been a thing.—

Amelie swallowed hard, nodding as she wiped at her damp cheeks. She wasn’t ready. She knew that. But some part of her—a tiny, stupid part—had still felt something at the thought of it.

She wasn’t even sure what that something was.

Chandler squeezed her hand. —You wanna lie down for a bit? Or do you need a distraction?—

Amelie let out a weak laugh. —I don’t even know.—

—Okay. Well, you’re not gonna sit here and spiral. Let’s eat something. I’ll make you food.—

—You don’t know how to cook,— Amelie pointed out, her voice hoarse.

—Fine. I’ll order something and pretend I cooked it. Same thing.—

That got a real laugh out of Amelie, even if it was quiet.

She let Chandler pull her into the kitchen, let her talk about the most ridiculous things to keep her from thinking too much. And for a little while, it worked. But the moment Amelie was left alone, her mind wandered.

By the time the afternoon sun slanted across the floor, her chest felt hollow with exhaustion.

And then, as if he could sense it from halfway across the world, Lando called.

She stared at her phone for a moment before swiping to answer.

—Hey,— she said, trying to sound normal.

—Hey, baby.— His voice was warm, a little raspy like he’d just woken up from a nap. —Tried calling earlier. You alright? You’ve been a little… I don’t know. Off?—

Amelie closed her eyes, pressing her fingers against her temple. Of course he’d noticed. He always did.

—Yeah, just tired. Been feeling a little sick lately.—

Lando hummed. —Still? Thought you said it was just jet lag.—

She hesitated. —Yeah. Probably. Nothing serious.—

—Ames.— His voice softened in a way that made her stomach twist. —What’s going on?—

She swallowed hard. She could brush it off. She should brush it off. But the weight in her chest was too much.

—Lan, I…— Her throat tightened, and before she could stop herself, her voice broke.

Silence. Then a sharp inhale.

—Hey, hey,— he said quickly, his voice urgent now. —What’s wrong? Talk to me, love.—

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers to her lips to keep the sob from escaping, but it didn’t work. A shuddering breath rattled out of her.

—Amelie, you’re scaring me.—

—I thought I was pregnant,— she whispered.

Lando’s sharp inhale was immediate.

—I just took a test. It’s negative.— She let out a wet laugh, wiping at her face even as the tears kept coming. —I don’t know why I’m crying. I should be relieved. I am relieved. But also… I don’t know, Lan. I don’t fucking know.—

Lando was silent for a moment, his breathing uneven through the speaker. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than she had ever heard it.

—Oh, baby.—

That was all it took to break her completely. She covered her mouth, another sob escaping.

—Why am I like this? Why does my brain have to make everything so fucking complicated?—

—Because it’s big, Ames. It’s not just something you brush off.—

—But we’re not ready,— she said desperately, like she was trying to convince herself. —We have so much shit going on. You’re in the middle of your career, I’m still working so much, we’re so young. It would’ve been… it would’ve been bad. Right?—

Lando hesitated. —It would’ve been… hard. But not bad.—

She blinked. —What?—

—Not bad,— he repeated, voice steady. —Hard, yeah. Probably fucking terrifying. But, Ames, if it had been positive, we would’ve figured it out. We always do.—

Her breath hitched.

—And yeah, we’re young. We have a lot of things we still wanna do. But that doesn’t mean we’d be bad at it. It doesn’t mean we wouldn’t be good.—

Her heart squeezed.

—I just…— She took a shaky breath. —I didn’t wanna tell you. I was scared you’d freak out. I mean, you love kids, but you’re still racing and, fuck, Lando, I just didn’t know how you’d react.—

Lando let out a breath, a mix of exasperation and affection.

—Ames. I’m not gonna pretend I wouldn’t have panicked at first. But I wouldn’t have left you to deal with it alone. I’d have been right there, okay?—

Her chin wobbled.

—You’re mine, love. You think I wouldn’t do whatever it takes to make sure we’re okay?—

—Lan.— Her voice broke again.

—I wish I was there with you.— His voice was rough. —I fucking hate that you had to go through this alone.—

—I wasn’t alone. Chandler was here.—

Lando let out a small laugh. —Alright, fair. Chandler’s good. But she’s not me.—

—No, she’s not you,— Amelie murmured.

There was a pause before Lando spoke again, quieter this time.

—Did you… did you want it to be positive?—

She hesitated.

—No. But also… I don’t know.—

—Okay.—

—Okay?—

—Yeah.— He exhaled. —It’s okay not to know, baby. It’s okay to be scared, even if it wasn’t what you wanted. It’s a big thing. It means something.—

Her eyes burned again.

—But for the record,— Lando continued, —whenever that day comes, whether it’s years from now or whenever, you’re gonna be fucking incredible, Ames. And I’ll be right there with you. Always.—

She let out a watery laugh. —You’d be a menace as a dad.—

Lando snorted. —You mean fun as a dad.—

—Menace.—

—Well, if our kid gets my chaos and your attitude, we’re fucked either way.—

That actually made her laugh, a real one this time.

Lando hummed. —There’s my girl. Missed your laugh.—

She wiped at her face, her heart aching in that stupid, overwhelming way it always did when it came to him.

—I miss you,— she whispered.

—I miss you too, love. So much.—

Silence stretched between them, not awkward or heavy, just there. A quiet understanding.

—Maybe we shouldn’t have sex for a while,— Amelie joked, her voice still a little shaky.

Lando’s response was immediate and dramatic. —What? Absolutely not! That’s a terrible idea. Who even are you?—

She laughed, a genuine, warm sound that filled the space between them. —Someone who just had a mini-freakout about potentially being pregnant, Lan. Maybe we should take it easy.—

—Take it easy?— He scoffed, the sound laced with playful disbelief. —Ames, we’re like, the most sexually compatible people I know. Taking it easy is not in our vocabulary.—

—Oh, shut up,— she said, rolling her eyes despite him not being able to see her. —We’re ridiculous.—

—Ridiculously perfect,— he corrected, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. —And ridiculously horny. Let’s be honest.—

Amelie blushed, even though she knew he was just trying to make her laugh. —You’re incorrigible.—

—And you love it,— he countered, the playful grin practically audible in his voice. —Besides, you’d miss my… enthusiasm.—

—Enthusiasm?— she repeated, her voice laced with playful skepticism. —Is that what we’re calling it now?—

—What else would we call it?— he asked, feigning innocence. —My unwavering dedication to your pleasure?—

She let out a snort. —You’re impossible.—

—But I’m your impossible,— he said, his voice softening again. —And I’m not going anywhere, Ames. Not through this, not through anything. We’ll figure it out, whatever it is. Always.—

Amelie felt a wave of warmth spread through her, chasing away the last lingering shadows of her anxiety.

—I know,— she whispered. —I know you will.—

—Good. Now, tell me about your day. Did you eat anything other than Chandler’s questionable cooking skills?—

She chuckled, recounting the rest of her day, the small details, the little moments that made up her life. He listened intently, his responses peppered with teasing remarks and genuine concern.

As they talked, the weight in her chest began to lift, replaced by a sense of calm she hadn’t felt in days. Lando had that effect on her. Always had. Even from thousands of miles away, he could make her feel like everything was going to be okay.

—You know,— she said, interrupting his story about a particularly frustrating testing session, —I really do miss you.—

—I know, baby. I miss you too. More than you know.— His voice was soft, vulnerable. —I’ll be back before you know it. Then we can… you know… make up for lost time.—

She laughed, the sound light and carefree. —You’re unbelievable.—

—Unbelievably in love with you,— he countered, his voice earnest. —And unbelievably ready to see you again.—

—Me too, Lan,— she whispered, her eyes drifting closed. —Me too.—

They talked for another hour, the conversation drifting from lighthearted banter to whispered confessions. By the time they finally hung up, the sun had set in Los Angeles, casting long shadows across her bedroom.

Amelie lay in bed, a soft smile playing on her lips. She still felt a little raw, a little shaken, but the anxiety had receded, replaced by a sense of peace.

She wasn’t ready for a baby. Not yet. But she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that when the time came, she and Lando would face it together. They would figure it out, just like they always did.

And maybe, just maybe, they’d even be good at it.

She drifted off to sleep, the sound of Lando’s laughter echoing in her ears, a comforting reminder that no matter what happened, they had each other. And that, she realized, was more than enough.

[delicateperspective]

I really appreciate this post because it touches on something I’ve experienced firsthand. I’ll admit, I was hesitant to engage with the fandom for a long time. I didn’t get involved with the online discourse until I finally broke down and made this Tumblr, and even now, I actively avoid Twitter and Reddit because it’s just… a lot.

When I first started digging into things, I had so many questions and doubts. At first, I’d see clips and “proof” that were taken way out of context, and once I tracked down the full interviews or videos, I realized some of those moments weren’t as strong as they were made out to be. But in doing that, I’d stumble across other things that didn’t make sense in the official narrative. And that’s how it started for me—a little doubt here, a little curiosity there.

For a while, my brain was doing mental gymnastics, trying to make sense of everything. I thought, “Okay, so Harry was obviously really into Louis, but maybe it wasn’t reciprocated.” Then I’d see videos of Louis being so overly fond of Harry that it completely blew that out of the water. Next, I thought, “Well, maybe they were just best friends who looked at each other like that,” but then came the overtly sexual moments that made that impossible to believe. Finally, I thought, “Okay, maybe it was just a band thing and it’s over now.” But then the solo lyrics started matching up so much that I couldn’t ignore it.

At every step of that journey, I could have stopped. I could have stayed at any one of those stages and convinced myself that was the answer. And honestly? Without some weird hyperfocus and a natural tendency to question everything, I probably would have stopped.

But here’s the thing: interacting with the Larrie fandom was initially terrifying. There wasn’t anyone to guide me through the journey or help me connect the dots I was missing. Instead, I came across people saying things like, “If you don’t believe they’re together now, then you’re not a Larrie,” or, “If you believe Louis is a father, you don’t belong here.” That kind of attitude doesn’t help anyone—it just makes curious people back off entirely. It discourages people from learning, from asking questions, or from engaging in a way that lets them discover more.

And that’s where we, as a fandom, need to do better. We have to be open to letting people question things, to debunking our own “proofs,” and to occasionally being wrong. Otherwise, we’re not a fandom built on open discourse and communication—we’re a cult with “requirements.” And that’s exactly what the mainstream narrative needs us to be. They rely on us miscommunicating, taking things out of context, and looking like fools so they can have their big “gotcha” moment where they say, “See? They were crazy all along.”

Between that, the small percentage of overly invasive fans, the hate we all get from the press or solos, and Louis’ denials, it’s no wonder people are overwhelmed. It’s easier to just walk away and let your theories simmer quietly in your brain. You gaslight yourself into believing whatever explanation makes the most sense because that’s what we’re fed.

Honestly? If I’d been just a little less questioning of the media or a little less willing to dig deeper, I wouldn’t be here now. I would’ve stayed on the sidelines, convinced myself it wasn’t worth it, and never gotten to see the full picture.

So yeah, I agree with you—this fandom needs more support and curiosity, more room for respectful questioning, and less division. We need to be able to talk and share without tearing each other down. At the end of the day, no one (except the two of them) has all the answers, but we can at least respect each other’s journeys and help each other along the way. 💙

I feel like one of the shittiest things as of late is how many little corners of the larrie fandom there is, and how we all aren’t together because “they broke up” or “I believe in Larry but he’s got a kid” or “I believe larry was a thing but ___ cheated on ___ because of this song lyric that I interpret” or whatever other “hot take” that is constantly posted loudly on Twitter. don’t get me wrong, im always up for a healthy and respectful debate, but everyone’s trying to create new theories and it’s exhausting. like cmon team… we’re just an easy target if we divide our already small (but strong) community into even smaller parts.

back in the day you were either an anti or a larrie, or in the far smaller world of neutrals or another pairing (back then there defs wasn’t as many folks in those categories as now). and sure, people still had some wild takes, but we’d usually talk about it no matter how ridiculous it was. we were curious. we wanted to learn and hear from each other. the support was there and it just doesn’t exist on twitter, and that’s where the vast majority of newer fans set up shop, because it’s a bigger platform than tumblr these days.

if you’re curious about more to do with larry or know people who are, bring them over. we have a million masterposts, blogs who’ve been here for years, a wealth of industry and legal knowledge. but for the love of god, make sure to be respectful of each other. this Twitter bullshit I’ve been seeing recently is disgusting

[wbbpls]

Platonic Plus One? (Chapter 1)

For purposes of the story line I made people up but our Uconn girlies will still make appearances!

———————

Chapter 1

Paige and Azzi became best friends instantly. They met during USA basketball in high school and have been inseparable ever since. They easily mixed their friend groups and families, as if they’d always been in each other's lives. So when Azzi was asked to be a bridesmaid in her cousin Jessica's wedding, bringing Paige along was a no-brainer.

Jessica and her high school sweetheart Brandon were well-versed on all things Paige and Azzi at this point and weren’t shocked at Azzi asking Paige to be her plus one.

Storrs, CT

“Paigey please go with me? I don’t want to show up alone and if you don’t go I’m just going to be texting you the whole time.”

Paige pauses her game and places her controller down. “I don’t know Az. I don’t want to intrude. Like I know I’m not tight with Jess like that, but don’t you think I would have been invited if they wanted me?”

“Uh no because they gave me a plus one, which I’m sure my family knows means you. You have to remember his Mom has been weirdly involved in the planning and she’s more traditional about this stuff.”

Paige moved to sit at the edge of her bed with her feet dangling off the side. “So then wouldn’t they want you to bring like a real date?”

Azzi knows she got her title of people’s princess with her sweetness and innocence…so why not use it to her advantage? She moved to stand between Paige’s legs and rests her hands on Paige’s hips (in a very platonic way of course). “P c’mon please? For me? I just really don’t want to go alone and deal with commentary from my family.“

Paige looked down at Azzi’s big brown eyes and melted. The truth is, Paige would kill to be Azzi’s date. The issue is that Azzi is straight, so she shoved those feelings down a long time ago. Also, she isn’t asking Paige to be her date, just her friend to accompany her. “Yeah, okay, whatever, Az. Just tell me what to wear.”

Azzi wrapped her arms around Paige’s neck jumping up and down in excitement. “Yay thank you Paigey! We’re gonna have so much fun I promise.”

——————————

KK and Caroline tag along for wedding shopping. KK stayed with Paige while Caroline and Azzi went to pick up her bridesmaid dress at another shop.

“Damn dude you lookin mighty fine.”

Paige is trying on a light blue suit, making her eyes pop, with the jacket being slightly oversized. Under the jacket is a black vest with a deep v at the top and showing skin at the bottom. Paige has always been comfortable showing skin and trying new styles, so here’s to hoping Azzi approves.

“You think? I’m feeling’ it forreal, but Azzi gotta like it too.”

“Ah yes the girlfriend stamp of approval.” KK says with a knowing smirk.

Paiges eyes bulge out of her head. “Bro what the hell! She could walk in at any minute.”

“Alright I’ll chill but how are you gonna do this for a whole week?”

“Do what? I’m just going with my best friend to a wedding”

“You mean doing what normally people in a relationship do?”

“You don’t think I thought about that?” Paige scream whispers. “But I can’t say no to her and I need to get over whatever I’ve been feeling so maybe a week hanging out as friends will be good.”

“Just don’t get yourself hurt P boogers.”

Paige just sighs and takes in KK’s words while looking at the suit. Suddenly she hears giggling that she’d recognize anywhere.

Caroline is the first to walk in talking about who knows what. “And then she was like—oh my god Paige you look so good!”

Paige smiles at them and notices Azzi just staring at her. “Thanks Car…uh Azzi what do you think?”

Azzi swallows hard. “Uh yeah no I mean great you look uh yeah good.“ Everyone looks at Azzi confused.

“Oh I mean if you don’t think it’s good I totally have some other options it’s cool really.”

Azzi shakes her head and moved forward quickly. “NO! I mean no it’s fine, really this is perfect. I was just uh caught off guard, it looks really good, P”

At this point Caroline and KK are eyeing each other understanding the complicated relationship of the girls in front of them. Paige has spent countless nights crying to KK, praying her and Azzi could be more. Caroline has tried to talk to Azzi about how different their relationship is. When Azzi pushes back, Caroline alwaya brings up the friends don’t get jealous of their friends hooking up with other people. Azzi always has a myriad of excuses of why those girls just aren’t good enough for Paige and changes the conversation.

“Cool cool…well uh I’ll go buy this then.” Paige says trying to hide her blush. She takes off the jacket and begins unbutton the blazer as she enters the changing room. Now Azzi is the one to get red. “No I’ll buy it! I’m the one making you go.”

Before Paige could protest Azzi was running to the front to buy the suit. The three girls left standing there stood in an awkward silence until Paige finished changing back into her normal clothes. Caroline joined Azzi at the front to make sure the flustered girl was okay.

When Paige exited the changing room KK gave her a knowing look. Paige rolled her eyes and started the gather her stuff and checked her phone.

“I mean that girlfriend approval amiright?” KK says as she wiggles her eyebrows.

“Girlfriend?” Azzi finally composed walked in on the last part of KK’s words and is unfortunately back to little composure. Was Paige talking to someone and she didn’t know? Did Paige send a picture of her outfit to some girl?

“What no? No one has a girlfriend she’s just playin.” Paige says with very little conviction.

“Yeah you know me always playin! But like if there was a girl that would be cool too right?” Paige elbows KK in the stomach to try to get her to shut up.

“Yeah that’s great, P. Can’t wait to hear all about her. Uh we should probably get going to beat traffic.” Azzi says with a shaky voice yet flashes Paige one of her signature smiles and walks towards the exit.

Paige can already tell this will easily be one of the longest weeks of her life.