#she's had to learn compassion

[brain-rot-central]

i'm gonna start using descriptors for Tavaria. she's an OC. named Tav, sure, but she's overall an OC and i love her okkkkk

[inamindfarfaraway]

I love how Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse said “Anyone can be Spider-Man”. I love how it inspired everyone to imagine their own Spider-People, saving the day in their own universes, with all kinds of cool, interesting personalities and aesthetics and mutations and life stories and relationships. We all put pieces of our soul into these homemade heroes. We had fun. We found community. And then Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse said, “Wow, great job! You’ve really taken our message to heart. Well, get ready for even more of everything you liked from the first movie and a new message to complement the first. Anyone can be Spider-Man… and anyone can be pulled into a cult.”

So now we all have to contemplate whether our lovingly crafted heroes would ever be on Team Mandatory Trauma Because Martyr Complex or not and why.

[yeullove]

I know No Compassion!Lane is supposed to be heartless, but her "I no longer find him desirable" line k*lled me. I almost cried during Greg's diamond scene 😭😭😭. I love a good angst, but that's straight-up m*rder!

[werewolfsmile]

Just watched The Librarians S2E8 And the Point of Salvation and...

I loved it, for the most part. Cleverly written and a fantastic Ezekiel-centric episode! He had beautiful moments with each of the others and learnt so much from them. He had substantial character growth and was given the space to bear the weight of serious circumstances and respond appropriately. This episode had the potential to be incredibly pivotal for Ezekiel's character!

And yet....

That ending. What the hell?? What do you mean his memory is lost and he forgets all of those poignant moments???? All those conversations, all that learning to rely on others - are freaking serious??

I'm never a fan of time loop episodes, but I thought they were handling this one pretty well. Right up until they erased all of Ezekiel's character growth at the drop of a hat. This was literally the equivalent of "and then she woke up" being used in a novel. It's weak and strips all purpose of what the characters have just been through.

Ugh! Tell me I'm not the only one. How dare they give me such a good episode of growth and discovering potential for Ezekiel Jones, then take it all back with a just kidding!

[kamipyre]

stealing this from psy.cho pass, but i was thinking about suki's greatest strength and i realized ultimately it's this: suki sees and accepts things as they are.

this doesn't mean that she's fatalistic, but more of...suki is not as inclined towards nostalgia. when confronted with change and especially if there is evidence pointing towards the reality of things not matching up with what was in the past, she has an easier time both recognizing things are different & adapting.

as a result, this combined with an eventual strong sense of self allows her to maintain the principles she deems as important while in a system/society that does not.

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

Thinking about Muro and how despite everything hes still defined by choosing to care about people and be compassionate when most other people in his situation wouldn't.

[tentakrool]

why does remmick seem like a little freak when other vampires have natural charm and appeal?

tl;dr — sinners challenges the audience’s preconceived notions of vampires by throwing one into an atypical setting, subverting audience expectations to create a fresh vampire story rooted in historical and societal realities

saw a post comparing remmick to other vampires in media, specifically how unlike most vampires, he freaks people out and doesn’t have this suave, unearthly charm… but here’s the thing. he isn’t the one they’re freaked out by. they were suspicious to begin with, because of the sociocultural atmosphere of the time

1. should be obvious why the black characters suspected him of foul play. most white people in 1930s Mississippi did not seek out black companionship. if a white person wanted to deal with black folks, there probably was some kind of nefarious ulterior motive — case in point, the klan guy selling the mill to smoke and stack.

2. the white people in the film had reasons to suspect remmick as well. 1932 set us smack dab in the immediate fallout of the stock market crash of 1929 — the Great Depression. things were rough, and it made desperate people so desperate things. people would walk up to a house claiming to need help, then rob the family blind and sometimes even kill them. for remmick to run up to a white couple’s home out of nowhere and beg for help… that would be a red flag. his offer of money and appeal to their racism helped smooth that over, but their immediate suspicions of him came from the desperate atmosphere of the times and their own struggle for survival. you can tell they’re not wealthy from the ramshackle appearance of their home and their simple clothes. they don’t want some vagabond to waltz in and kill them for what little they have.

3. this would require a much longer post to fully flesh out, but i would argue that remmick does have that otherworldly charm — just for the right kind of person. while most people are suspicious of remmick from the jump due to their experiences with racism, poverty, etc., mary is the one person who seemed to fall for his platitudes and charm… and i would argue it’s because of who she is.

stack tells us that mary has a rich white husband that owns a successful, lucrative farm. she has no need to worry about her livelihood or safety from strange white people. in fact, she is probably used to them kissing her ass because she’s rich, pretty and passes for white. remmick, bart and joan are just white people to her, and they show her empathy and compassion when they learn her mother passed away, which further disarms her. only when they begin exhibiting monstrous behavior (the drooling especially) does she really clock that they’re dangerous.

i bring this up because in a lot of media, vampires find success in charming others because they can relate to them. yes, they are depicted with glamoring powers that can draw people in, but think about the classics.

dracula targets jonathan harker after placing himself in a position of power over him, then goes to hunt mina and lucy, both members of higher society. they defer to him because he is a count — a powerful person societally. his strangeness is offset by their unwillingness to challenge or question his authority.

or perhaps a newer example — lestat and louis in the amc iwtv show. louis is less suspect of lestat early on because he has made a living from dealing with white people, playing to their position of power above him and deferring to them. lestat uses this to get close, then begins appealing to louis’ desire for power over the white men who disparage and control him. again we see that while it’s true that the vampire has an otherworldly charm, it’s their knowledge of power and societal dynamics that makes them effective

we don’t normally see poor white trash vampires, so it seems like remmick isn’t as successful at charming others, but really what’s happening is that the film is challenging our preconceived notions of what a vampire looks like by throwing one into an world that we normally wouldn’t find them in. vampires aren’t normally poor, wounded and hunted — they have power, money, influence and good looks.

that said, remmick still uses the same playbook as other vampires; he just has his work cut out for him, and has to navigate an inherently desperate, dangerous world in more calculated ways to protect himself. otherwise, he never would have had a chance in hell of getting close enough to the juke to achieve his goals. coogler did this on purpose. which is just another way this movie slaps major ass.

gahhhhhhhh this could be a whole paper and i’ll be damned if i don’t wanna write it

[rosecreates]

"This one yearns for connections she feels she doesn't deserve. Even when shown compassion, she hid herself away. She will make for a cautious heart. Do not mourn her – she isn't alone anymore."

Meanwhile, this quote from Her at the end of the Thorn chapter in Slay the Princess befits Raven.

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown 🌑 Lilith in the Houses

There’s a part of you that doesn’t ask for permission. A part that remembers what it felt like to be silenced, shamed, exiled, for simply being whole. That part has a name: Lilith.

In your birth chart, Lilith shows where you’ve been told your power is “too much.” Too loud. Too angry. Too sensual. Too intuitive. It’s where you carry a refusal to shrink, even when doing so would make you easier to love.

1st House

They noticed you before you had the chance to know who you were. You were named, labeled, sexualized, misunderstood, before you even chose your own reflection. People projected onto you what they feared or wanted. You learned to either shrink or fight back, but either way, you were never neutral. Lilith here isn’t asking for softness, she’s asking for ownership. You don’t have to be likeable to be real.

2nd House

You were told to want less. Need less. Be grateful. You learned that wanting more made you selfish. That pleasure had a price, and value had to be earned. So you kept shrinking your needs until they looked polite enough to keep. Lilith here is done with that. Your body knows what it’s worth. Your hunger is not a flaw, it’s a compass.

3rd House

You learned to bite your tongue before your words ever found their edge. Maybe you spoke up too soon. Or too much. Maybe you were told to keep the peace. Or stay small. Lilith here holds the grief of being silenced before your truth could bloom. But that truth? It's still there. And it doesn’t need permission to be said anymore. You don’t have to be digestible to be understood.

4th House

You made yourself quiet to be loved. Love came with rules: be good, be still, don’t ask for too much. Lilith here carries the ache of inherited shame, the kind that gets passed through generations like china: fragile, silent, sacred. But you weren’t born to carry your lineage’s guilt. You were born to end it. You are allowed to be safe without being small.

5th House

You learned to edit your joy. You turned the volume down on your radiance. Because someone said it made you “too much,” “too loud,” “too visible.” Lilith in the 5th remembers a time when being seen was dangerous. But she’s also the voice that says: Be bright anyway. Be messy, be wild, be luminous. And stop apologizing for the art of simply being alive.

6th House

You were taught to disappear into service. Your usefulness became your identity. You overperformed. Overextended. Overgave. And somewhere in the repetition, you forgot what it felt like to just exist. Lilith here is tired of being a machine. She demands that you stop calling self-sacrifice love. You don’t owe anyone your depletion.

7th House

You kept abandoning yourself for love that didn’t know how to stay. You played roles, softened edges, dimmed your truth to stay chosen. But Lilith in the 7th house holds a mirror to every relationship that asked you to disappear. She doesn’t want revenge. She wants recognition. Love doesn’t mean losing yourself. You can be chosen without being edited.

8th House

You were taught that power lives in secrecy. But secrets become cages. You’ve seen how intimacy turns to control. How sex can become currency. How silence can rot you from the inside. Lilith in the 8th wants the whole truth. Even if it shatters the illusion. You’re not here to perform closeness. You’re here to reclaim it.

9th House

You were told what to believe. Who to be. What to worship. But your soul doesn’t follow rules, it follows resonance. Lilith here sets fire to false teachers, empty doctrines, and the quiet ways belief has been weaponized. You don’t want to rebel. You want to be free. And freedom starts with trusting your own questions more than their answers.

10th House

You’ve been punished for your ambition. Or worse, praised for it in ways that felt like control. You’ve been told to behave. To lead politely. To climb without taking up space. Lilith in the 10th house isn’t interested in pleasing the system. She wants to dismantle it. You don’t owe the world a sanitized version of success. You’re allowed to lead in a way that doesn’t leave you empty.

11th House

You’ve learned what it means to be tolerated instead of truly seen. Lilith here has been exiled from the group. Not because she was wrong, but because she was inconvenient. Your vision makes people uncomfortable. Your truth challenges the collective script. Good. This is where you stop trying to fit in. And start building spaces where you never have to ask if you belong.

12th House

You’ve hidden so much of yourself you forgot what was yours. Lilith in the 12th house is a quiet scream. She’s the part of you that still flinches when you feel too much, want too much, remember too deeply. But she doesn’t want to be healed. She wants to be held. This is where you stop exiling your shadow. And finally let the unseen be sacred again.

🌙 Your birth chart holds more than traits — it holds truth. 📖 Decode it with my book, step by step.

[fleuresdumonde]

Local antivax cult member coworker setting off my fight of flight reflex again tonight

[feluka]

It's my birthday!

This has been the worst year of my life, but the best part of it is that I made so many new friends on here. I used to delete my blogs when they reached a certain amount of followers because that had always intimidated me, but this time I can honestly say the steadfastness and support and compassion of the people I've come to know drowns out any petty harassment I've seen.

Not that friendship comes with a price, but I want to ask you, if you've ever learned anything new from my blog, and you ever felt you want to give back to me, please donate to my friend Amal (@amalashuor)'s campaign. A little peace of mind about her very difficult current situation would be the greatest gift.

She is vetted here at #175 on @gaza-evacuation-funds' list

[yey56]

HARLEY SAWYER X PSYCHOLOGIST READER

You have been working at Playtime CO for some years now, you worked as the head department of psychology but most of your work consisted on providing profiles of the children in the lower levels or as your coworker called them, experiments.

Over the years of working with them and knowing what they are being turned into, you've learned to work with them pre and post experimentation. Another thing you've learned through time was to deal with the partner you were assigned for the project. Harley sawyer.

What is there to say about that man. He is the head scientist in the project but he is absolutely horrible at dealing with them, or with anyone. That's how you were assigned to work along side him . He made the experiments and you maintained them under control.

Initially the ones who needed to be under control where you two because of your crashing personalities. While he was a serious control freak and borderline antisocial you one the contrary seemed to not take things seriously, constantly taunting him and the other stuff and with a permanent sarcastic tone in your voice voice.

Of course at first he didn't like you much, and to be fair you didn't make it easy. Everything he said refering to the experiments was refuted by your obsession to keep a mildly stable mental health in the subject.

Dr Harley sighed heavily looking your way with an annoyed look- What now?- he asked

If you keep treating the subjects like that your are going to break them.-you said in the observation room with him while you were both supervising experiment 1355, a young girl turned into a smiley unicorn.

They're toys, they can be fixed easily- he responded as if he had repeated you that phrase for the 11th time (he did)

You know what I mean Sawyer, they are of no use if their minds break-you explained with a calm smile- or have you forgotten what kind of problems an unstable subject could bring?- your asked him, your question mocking him.

It turned out well with Yarnaby or have you forgotten Dr (Y/L/N)?- he said imitating your question

You laughed slowly- ah yes the kid you isolated as your pet, great example Dr-

Harley Sawyer was well known for working alone, he didn't like others company and whenever he got an assistant or a guard, he scared them off by being authoritarian or exposing them to dangerous situation. You were the only one at the company who actually could keep up with him.

In the interviews with the children you would lead the conversation while Harley observed and took notes. In the laboratory you were more of an assistant, helping the Dr with whatever tool he needed or just preparing the chemicals.

Even though he hated to admit it, his experiments have been more controlable and causing less troubles since you started working together.

You would be unbothered by the kids, showing enough compassion for them to not recognise you as a threat, but showing not an ounce of regret in your eyes while seeing how Harley turned them into toys.

Do I have to remind you that compassion is useless in this job?- Sawyer said while closing a wound he had made on the experiment while operating

You haven't realised how much time have passed since your prior conversation have ended. It was strange for the doctor to initiate them, usually preferring silence but you weren't complaining.

Compassion can make a person go through great lengths- you said- But I understand that in this line of work it's nothing but a limit, a wall that needs to be broken in order to obtain results.-

For once in a long time both you and Harley agreed on something.

He finally stopped sewing the toys fresh wound and started reading the inform you had redacted about the psychological profile of the child before the operation- you should do another one once she wakes up (Y/L/N)- he reminded you while reading the little notes and highlights you left about her.

You always reserved a space the paper work to express your personal opinions on the experiment and Harley always read them. It's another thing he started doing, considering your opinions and advice as something worth of noticing.

-Doc...-

-Sawyer...-

-Sawyer??...-

-HARLEY!!-

He looked at you not noticing how he had spaced out of his mind for a moment while reading your report.

What is it?- he asked actually surprised that he was actually distracted enough to not hear you.

I was asking you about the experiment 1322, Doey. How are the three conscience developing? are they getting used to they're new body?-you asked. Doey was your favourite experiment so far, it was the one you have showed more interest in and your involvement with him was way bigger than with others. Sawyer didn't understood your fascination with Doey.

Since you both started developing the project, you had shown special interest in the idea of three people combined in a toy. In fact, the reason you had starting working more time with the doctor was because of your eagerness to see how the experiment would turn out.

You have become much more comfortable with one another, even after years of coexisting with each other in the lower levels of Playtime.

Sometimes he would catch himself looking at you while you were with the kids in the interviews. He observed your calm demeanor through the crystal of the observation room. He could see how the children grew more confortable with you while you were joking.

The cognitive abilities of the toys were improving each day thanks to your work so of course the bosses permitted you both to perform as many experiments as needed.

Another thing Harley noticed about the last week's was how you would spend most of your time testing and conversing with 1322. He had grown so used to your presence that it was getting harder to work without you present.

He would never admit that he missed your sarcastic comments about the designs of the toys or how he missed to call you a germ, his germ, whenever you were getting to annoying.

Sometimes when you went to the cafeteria upstairs to get some coffee or a sandwich to eat, you would get him something too.

You haven't brought anything recently and that was because of your new obsession.

He finally finished the last transformation successfully, now the only thing left was for the experiment to wake up and for you to examine them.

Harley wandered through the corridors searching for the one room he knew you would be in, this time, he was the one bringing you a coffee.

He watched you through the crystal of the observation room. You always insisted on talking face to face with Doey. The mass of doe seemed calmer with you around. The two more peaceful personalities of Doey talked to you, voicing their regrets and fears. Though the violent part of the creature always seemed reluctant to talk to you. Not responding what was asked of him or simply not responding at all.

Dr ( Y/L/N), your presence is required in the observation room number 29- Sawyer interrupted your conversation. Doey seemed afraid for a moment only to turn his expression into an angry one. With a gesture of your hand you calmed him down and signaled silently for Harley to turn on the ice so the doe wouldn't scape.

You exited the room to find your coworker handing you a cup of coffee. You looked at him with a raised brow but accepted it either way.

Well, look who it is.-you said with satisfied grin- I thought you were supervising Yarnaby?- you commented

Yes I was, are you aware of how much time you spend with that... Mass?- he said with contempt- what's so fascinating about him anyways? He's only been trouble.

You're only trouble as far as I'm aware- he rolled his eyes you sipped again- he's a time bomb and I want to be there to see it explode- you finally responded- I want to be the germ that makes him mutate.

Germ... It's a fitting name for you- he laughed with a smooth voice.-

You both stayed silent in the middle of the room, he looked at you calmly while you ended your coffee. He was looking at you trough his glasses without blinking, with his tired eyes.

You looked back at him and when you realised he had his fist raised at you, brushing with his tumb the remaining coffee right next to your upper lip.

Neither of you realised how close you where, the dim light of the room illuminated both of your bodies. Yours against the door and his right in front of you, your external layers of clothing touching lightly.

He got even closer, feeling his breath against your own. His thumb caressing your cheek

He thought about everything that had happened recently. How Pierre and the ones closer to him had started to go against you both in the semanal meeting with the executives regarding the experiments. Pierre's demands being met by your indifference, claiming that you will keep securing the experiments as much as possible.

The doctor remembered how you, just as him, were completely devoted to the project. He had became paranoic for the past months. More irritable, unwilling to socialise with someone who wasn't you or the toys

He got even closer to you, he though he heard you whisper his name. You closed the gap between the both of you. Hands on his shoulders

Lip against lip, his hand still in your face. You felt that Harley was the only human you could trust down here. No one understood you like he did. Your desperation to contribute to humanity, your desire of achieving a more lasting body. One that could endure more.

If you ever shared this with anyone else, you'll probably be in trouble.

Your closeness with Harley and his with you was out of understanding, a feeling of trust and comfortability that had just materialised thought he kiss you were sharing with each other.

He slowly pulled apart, his breathing uneven and one of his locks of hair misplaced a slight smile on his face. His forehead touched yours and he whispered just above your lips- My germ~

Only if you knew... That exact same week Harley Sawyer would be reduce no nothing more than a system, a screen, a conscience.

At the mercy of playtimes desires while you... Well ... Your whereabouts were unknown, even though they knew you didn't get out of the building.

Somewhere... hiding between wires and toy corpses...

I'm in love with the voice of the doctor AKA Harley Sawyer.

My drawing of Harley Sawyer:

[cuppajj]

What if the ancients also corrupted and became beasts, and it's one great cycle of futility?

some info on the beast ancients:

Saint Vanilla Cookie, after deducing that the horrors and cruelty of the world are caused by the darkness in cookies' dough, formed a messiah complex. Believing he is the only one who can save Earthbread, his extreme compassion for the happiness of cookies has made him an angel of death; though he believes he is purifying those he touches, he believes their cries of pain from their disintegrating bodies are simply a part of the healing process. He has brought his willing followers to salvation, and seeks to do the same for all of cookiekind.

Midnight Lily Cookie became the new monarch of the Faerie Kingdom after the death of Elder Faerie Cookie. When she turned to the path of darkness, her fiercely loyal subjects followed with her, sworn to protect her at all costs. While she holds no ambitions for conquest, she has vowed to assert the influence of her kingdom across Beast Yeast on her own terms, and to put an end to the false enchantress who shares her being.

Dragonberry Cookie reinstated herself as the monarch of her kingdom, keeping the royal family under her thumb and influence. Her passion for strength and combat drew her attention to the Red Dragon, whose power became her obsession. Now, she seeks to know how to become a great beast herself, and will do anything to achieve it; even keeping the Red Dragon shackled underneath the castle as it’s studied day in and day out.

Frigid Cacao Cookie learned to tame the Licorice Sea that had threatened his kingdom for eons; however, something of either his design or an external force led to the entire Cacao Kingdom freezing over. Cacao sat idly by as this happened, unmoving from his great throne with his head slouched and eyes unreadable. He has resigned himself to extreme solitude, but the swirling black ocean does his bidding in his favor.

Celestial Cheese Cookie never moved on from the truth. In fact, she chose to build everything from the ground up. How wonderful! She can bring her grand design to Earthbread itself, sharing her brilliance with all of cookiekind. Of course forging a new empire will come with resistance, but she is well prepared. For the devout, they will be graciously rewarded; the dissenters will become decorations. With the ability to summon as many arms as she needs, she can turn anything to gold with a simple touch.

With five new Beasts loose on earthbread, the fight to save it has become much, much harder…

[teambyler]

El: "What is... gay?" (Byler talk)

This show establishes that El grew up in a lab and doesn't know basic things:

Pretty much all she knows about romance is what she's been exposed to on TV:

She naturally assumes that, if Will likes someone, it's a girl:

The fact that Will and Mike might be gay isn't even on El's radar.

Remember that this is the 1980s. Robin hasn't come out to the party; Robin had to explain to Nancy that she and Steve weren't dating, and even then she DIDN'T come out to Nancy.

I saw a poll here recently asking, if Byler is real, does El know? Can she sense the tension between them? Or is she completely oblivious?

I think El already KIND OF knows, in the same way she knew something was off in how Mike couldn't say he loved her. But she understandably thinks Will is straight (see above) and that Mike is straight (because they're canonically dating... hell many of us once thought that, too!). Also, she has always been too quick to conclude that the problem in their relationship is herself.

If Byler happens, I think El putting the pieces together would be (1) completely in character and (2) the most effective way to lessen backlash against Byler.

Once she becomes aware that loving people of your own sex and gender is a thing, the mental floodgates will open. El, as someone who knows Mike and Will well, will probably (together with Jonathan and Robin) be the first to put two and two together.

It might even be a RELIEF for El when she realizes that Mike doesn't love her romantically, not because there's something wrong with her, but because he's gay and/or has an incomparable love for his childhood friend Will. It would be part of her process of self-growth. She will learn that she can trust her instincts. And she will KNOW that she was RIGHT that something was MISSING between her and Mike (there's nothing wrong with her), and there's something RIGHT about Mike pairing with Will.

She'll learn about the PAINTING LIE. She'll see that Will sacrificed his own happiness for her and Mike. She would have ZERO resentment toward Will and want to help him IN RETURN. She's finding friendship, family, and love in all her relationships. The anti-Bylers who think Will would "steal" Mike from El and so she'd hate him, not only think too little of Will, but also underestimate EL.

El, as someone who ALWAYS has been goodhearted and had a strong moral compass, who loves Mike and Will deeply, and who from her own experience supports the marginalized and abused, could be the #1 Byler among the characters in the show.

-teambyler

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Tumblr Exclusive Bonus Chapter #1

The Norris Children, in detail.

Series Masterlist

Ada. 

There’s something about being the first.

The first baby. The first to walk. The first to speak.

The first to cry during a thunderstorm at six years old and not know why it hurt inside your skin.

Ada was the blueprint.

The test run.

The one everyone watched a little too closely, even when they swore they weren’t watching at all.

She was four when her pre-school teacher told her parents that she was “incredibly advanced.”

Six when a substitute accused her of cheating because no child should be able to do mental arithmetic that fast.

Eight when she realised her classmates didn’t need to rehearse conversations in their heads before saying them out loud.

Nine when she had her first meltdown in public.

Not just overstimulation — shutdown. A storm behind her ribs. Fists clenched tight against her ears while fluorescent lights made her feel like she was being peeled apart.

And that night, instead of lectures or shame, her mother simply knelt down next to her on the bathroom floor and said, “I know exactly how that feels."

From then on, things got… clearer.

There were charts on the fridge.

Colour-coded calendars.

Noise-cancelling headphones in every backpack.

Sensory bins and weighted blankets and quiet mornings where the rest of the world was still asleep, but she and her mum sat side by side at the table — not speaking, just thinking.

Her mum said that they were both just “different.”

Her dad called her “brilliant.”

Ezra grew up, donned her with the awful nickname ‘boss baby’, which stuck even when he was taller than her. 

Sienna was the baby. Sweet and curious and untamed in a way Ada never had been.

But Ada didn’t mind being first.

It meant she had a job.

A responsibility.

To show her siblings it was okay to be unique.

To lead, not loudly, but with structure. With compassion. With the quiet certainty of someone who’d learned early how to build scaffolding around herself — and then gently help others climb it too.

And through it all… there was Ayrton.

Always there, like a background hum in her childhood.

Photos of them as toddlers asleep on a bean bag in the McLaren motorhome.

Him pushing her on a scooter in a Monaco courtyard.

Their first proper kart race, where she finished seventh and he finished dead last — she gave up karting after that, too loud and uncomfortable. But he didn’t. He never gave up. 

He was Max’s boy.

But more than that, he was hers.

At school in Monaco, when the noise was too much, he sat next to her with earbuds and a silent fidget toy.

At thirteen, he learned the signs she used when she didn’t have words.

At fifteen, he taught her how to parallel park.

At sixteen, he was the only one who didn’t flinch when she told him she was autistic, even though she’d never used the word aloud before that day.

And at nineteen… he kissed her.

It happened behind the Red Bull hospitality unit, after a long debrief and a chaotic race day. Rain made her curls stick to her cheeks. He had his team hoodie on, half-zipped, and her iPad tucked under his arm because she’d forgotten it — again — and he always noticed.

They were laughing about nothing. And then he kissed her. Gently. Curiously.

And she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t spiral.

Didn’t calculate.

Didn’t pull back.

Because she’d known — for weeks, months, maybe longer — that it was always going to be him.

And maybe the paddock would talk. Maybe the press would speculate.

But Ada had always been fluent in odds.

And even after a thousand simulations, the answer came back the same.

Ayrton Verstappen was the outlier.

The wildcard.

The once-in-a-lifetime variable that made her carefully balanced world better.

And if she was the daughter of two people who had once risked everything for love — then she could do the same.

She didn’t need fireworks or grand declarations.

She just needed this:

His hand in hers.

His hoodie over her shoulders.

And a quiet voice that asked, not assumed, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Ada said. No hesitation. “More than okay.”

Ezra. 

Middle children don’t get movies made about them.

Ezra had known that for most of his life. He was the pause between two exclamation points. The calm between the storm that was Ada — all brilliance, boldness, and incandescent ambition — and the quiet gravitational pull that was Sienna, who never needed to speak loudly to command a room.

He loved them both. Fiercely.

Still, being the only son in the Norris household came with its own specific brand of chaos. Sparkly nail polish and glitter in his hair courtesy of Ada. Hair clips and butterfly bows because, as she declared to anyone who’d listen, “Ezzy’s curls are prettier than mine!” There were science fair disasters in the kitchen, choreographed dance routines he wasn’t allowed to bail on, years of hand-me-downs, and the deep, immovable truth that he would never win an argument with his big sister — and rarely wanted to.

But he wouldn’t have traded any of it.

He’d grown up in a house humming with noise and speed. Race footage often played during dinner. An old wind tunnel simulator his mum had built in the garden whirred softly most nights. Sometimes, it lulled him to sleep.

His dad, Lando Norris, once a name shouted across circuits and printed on podium banners, was the man who snuck him out to the karting track at dusk just for fun, who raced him in the hallway in socked feet, and who could flip a pancake with Olympic precision.

And his mum — Amelia — had recalibrated a power unit mid-contraction while in labour with Sienna. 

Ezra remembered that day vividly, despite only being young.

The emergency call from Woking.

Ada’s terrifying calm at just ten years old.

The way his dad had somehow crossed continents in what felt like minutes.

Ezra had always known his mother was brilliant. But it wasn’t until he got older that he began to understand the weight of her genius. The pressure. The precision. The days when the world expected too much and gave too little in return. And the softness she saved only for them.

She was their anchor. Their gravity.

And his father?

He was joy in human form. Goofy. Sharp. Unshakably steady. An impossibly cool dad who became even cooler when Ezra realised — around twelve — that not everyone got to grow up with a multi-time world champion making waffles in their kitchen wearing bunny slippers and whistling ABBA.

Now, at eighteen, Ezra stood on the edge of a polished stage, scanning a sea of folding chairs and proud parents. His black robe swished around his ankles. The cap itched against his curls. The valedictorian medal felt heavier than he’d expected — or maybe it wasn’t the medal at all.

He wasn’t sure what came next.

Maybe another degree. Maybe a research lab. Maybe a year off to just breathe, to figure it out. He liked a lot of things — astronomy, physics, film, languages. Sometimes, he liked them all too much to choose just one.

He knew he could be something.

But he wasn’t racing toward it, not like his parents had.

He didn’t feel called, not in a thunderbolt way.

Just… pulled, quietly, by a thread of steady curiosity.

And maybe that was okay.

Ezra stepped up to the podium and adjusted the mic.

He looked out into the crowd until he found them.

His people. His constants.

Ada, already crying even though she’d insisted she wouldn’t.

Sienna on Dad’s lap.

Mum, right in the middle.

And Dad, camera already raised, smiling like the moment might burst out of him.

Ezra smiled too.

Then leaned into the mic and spoke.

“People say middle kids get lost. They say we’re forgettable. Quiet. That we live in the shadows of the firstborn and the baby. But I’ve never felt that way. Not once. Because I was born in the middle of greatness. My big sister taught me how to be brave. She always walked into every room like she belonged there — and made sure I knew I belonged too. My little sister taught me how to be patient. She showed me that strength isn’t always loud — that sometimes the fiercest people whisper. My mum taught me how to think with precision, how to speak with care, and how to be kind, even when it’s hard. In my opinion, she’s the smartest person in the world. And my dad… He taught me how to lead with joy. How to fail with grace. And how to win — when it happens — without ever needing to gloat. Every dream I have — everything I’ve achieved — started with them.”

He glanced down at his medal. Then back up.

“So, yes. Today I graduate. With distinction. With pride. But more than anything, I stand here full of love. For my family. For the life they gave me. And for the fact that not once — not once — did they ever ask me to be anything but myself.”

He paused. Just for a moment.

“Everything I am, I lay at their feet. Thank you.”

A hush fell over the crowd — the kind that only comes after something real, something earned. And then the applause rose, wave after wave, filling the auditorium.

Ezra stepped down from the podium, the moment swelling in his chest. The faculty called the next name, but his eyes stayed on them. On the people who had shaped him, held him steady, let him be.

So, okay — maybe he wasn’t the main character in any story but his own.

But that was more than enough.

And whatever came next… he’d meet it with open hands.

He was his mother’s mind. His father’s heart.

He was Ada’s precious Ezzy. Sienna’s fiercest protector.

He was Ezra Norris. And his story was only just beginning.

Sienna

She was born into a world of sound she could never hear.

Sienna Max Norris.

The last of three. The softest of storms. The quietest echo of a very, very loud love.

She grew up in a house that hummed. That buzzed and spun and overflowed. A house where racing was at the heart of everything, and laughter spilled into corners like light. Where Ada debated everything like it was a blood sport and Ezra always smelled like grass and sunscreen and library books.

And never, not once, did Sienna feel left behind.

Maybe it was because her family learned her language before she ever learned theirs.

Her dad had started signing with her before she could even sit up by herself.

And her mum had already built visual boards, adapted every piece of their household tech, and used an old McLaren telemetry to create a display that blinked in soft colours with the vibration of sound.

They’d never told her “You can’t do that.”

Only, “Here’s how we’ll make it work.”

Sienna grew up finger-spelling across breakfast tables and reading lips with quiet precision. She liked books more than people, pages more than parties. But she liked watching people. She liked watching her dad talk with his hands even when he wasn’t signing. She liked watching her mum’s eyes when she looked at her dad — how something unspoken always passed between them, like radio static made soft and golden.

She remembered being six years old and crawling onto the couch between them while a Tuesday morning race rerun played on the television. Lando had pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.

“You know what I love most about your mum?” He signed, fingers dancing gently.

Sienna, too young to fully grasp the scope of the question, tilted her head.

Lando smiled. “She doesn’t need to speak to say anything.”

Sienna had never forgotten that.

Maybe that’s why she’d become so obsessed with love stories.

Why her shelves overflowed with books about tenderness and time, aching and joy, the long, slow work of building a life with someone. Why she watched her parents like they were characters in a romance novel — ones that had somehow made it past the last page and kept going.

Because in her world, love was never loud.

It was steadfast. Present. Gentle. Certain.

It was her mother’s hand finding her father’s under the table.

It was her father always knowing what her mum needed. 

It was her mum reading bedtime stories with one hand while conversing with the McLaren pit wall with the other.

It was her dad painting Sienna’s bedroom walls a soft lavender because it made the light feel quieter.

Her childhood was full of kindness like that.

Of Oscar baking cookies after race weekends, even when he was exhausted. Of Uncle Max signing with a heavy Dutch accent and calling her little storm in between teasing her brother. Of Pietra brushing her hair before school because her mum was having a not so good morning. 

And always, always — the knowing. The seeing. That she was loved. 

Sienna didn’t want to be her mother. Or her sister. Or her brother.

She just wanted to be herself. And that had always been enough.

She grew up and wrote stories because she loved stitching meaning into silence. Because she wanted people to understand what it felt like to live in a world where you noticed everything but were so often overlooked.

She didn’t write to shout.

She wrote to offer a hand — the way her parents always had.

And when her first book was published — a tender, aching love story about two people who only communicated through letters — the first person she handed a copy to was her mum.

She read it in one sitting. Then found her, eyes shimmering. “You are the most talented writer in the world,” Amelia signed.

Sienna only smiled. “Mum, that’s ridiculous.”

Later that night, her dad pulled her into his arms. He still smelled like salt and cologne and faintly of car polish. He wasn’t much of a reader, her dad. He was dyslexic, probably, and had trouble giving one thing his attention for any prolonged period of time. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, with his voice and his hands, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her temple. 

And maybe that was it.

Maybe that was all she ever wanted — to take the life her family had built for her, the love they had poured into her like light, and shape it into something lasting. Something that would make them proud. Something she could pass on, long after voices faded.

She hadn’t heard her parents' vows the first time around.

But she’d witnessed them — every day, in every gesture.

So she wrote them down. Quietly. Carefully. Word by word.

For herself.

For them.

For the love story that raised her.

It was never meant for shelves. Not for publishers or press tours or critics with coffee-stained notebooks. This one wasn’t for the world.

It was for home.

She bound it herself — a soft, leather cover in dusky blue, pages printed with deliberate care, her own illustrations folded between chapters. The title had no fanfare. Just a name, pressed into the front with simple gold leaf. 

On Christmas morning, 2042, she handed the book to her grandfather — a man who had once watched her sign nonsense at the clouds and told her that she’d grow up to create entire worlds.

Zak Brown raised a brow, bemused, then slid his reading glasses on and cracked the spine open.

And on the very first page, in ink that still smelled faintly of the printer in her flat, he read the opening line aloud to the living room:. 

"Amelia Brown stared at the new plaque on her dad’s office door."

There was a pause.

Ada looked up from where she was helping Ezra untangle a mess of fairy lights.

Lando stilled mid-sip of coffee.

And Amelia, the woman who had lived the first page long before it was ever written, blinked, slow and soft, as if the past had reached gently forward to take her hand.

Zak looked up. He didn’t say much. Just closed the book, thumb resting lightly on the page.

Then, with more reverence than any of them could have expected from a man who’d slowly lost pieces of himself to old age in the last few years, he nodded. “Good,” he said. “Good job, my girl.”

Sienna smiled.

Because she’d done it.

Because she would keep doing it.

Because some stories weren’t meant to be shouted — they were just meant to be remembered.

Quietly. Carefully.

Word by word.

Forever.

[internetdaddy98]

The Beginning Of The End

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: A look into the evolution of Y/N’s relationship with Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch, over the course of her three years in residency as she begins her fourth year as a senior resident. Their unspoken connection has simmered under the surface, building tension over shared glances, subtle touches, and buried feelings,  with their emotional stalemate still unresolved, but undeniably present. 

Word Count: 1.8 K Content Warning: Mentions of child death, medical procedures, panic attacks, unresolved tension, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times. 

You have been doing this dance for three years now. You had met Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch on your first day of residency at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Fresh-faced and full of childish hope. Dr. Robinavitch had taken a stern approach when it came to your learning, and although it stung for a while, you understood it came with the territory. You knew what people assume when they saw you, you stood at just 4'11", but what you lacked in height, you more than made up for in quiet tenacity. Your brown eyes, large and observant, held a kind of quiet sorrow, like someone who had seen too much too young, but never stopped hoping for better. Your medium-toned skin often had a warm flush from running around the hospital, but you carried yourself with a kind of composed stillness, as if the chaos of the ER never quite penetrated the shield you'd learned to hold up.

You had a slight frame, graceful and almost delicate in your movements, what Dr. Robby once offhandedly described as “pretty, dainty little thing who believes in rainbows and butterflies.” But he’d also learned, sometimes the hard way, that beneath your soft voice and gentle manner, you could be immovable when it counted. You didn’t raise your voice often, but when you did, the entire room listened.

In scrubs, you often looked like a med student playing dress-up, but anyone who underestimated you regretted it fast. You weren’t the type to demand space; you simply claimed it with quiet skill and calm certainty.

Despite the barriers you put up, your compassion was obvious in the way you held a patient’s hand, the way you comforted families, and the way you never once treated anyone like just another chart. You loved deeply, especially your family, though you rarely talked about yourself. Whatever trauma shaped you, you carried it like a scar stitched into your core, quiet, but unignorable.

You had earned Robby’s respect fast once he saw past what you looked like and learned about who you were as a doctor. You had thought of Dr. Robby as a good mentor, but three years of learning about each other and learning from him had developed something between you that was unspoken, buried deep in its roots beneath the surface.

It had become never-ending game of chess where neither of the players was ready to admit defeat or their feelings. Stolen glances, small touches and unspoken truths that have been bouncing between you two for the past year, and although you both thought you were subtle, half the ER were waiting for the ticking time bomb to go off. Your relationship had shifted fast one day during your third year. It had been a brutal shift, twelve hours of back-to-back traumas, a code blue that ended with a mother screaming into her child’s chest, and the guilt of a missed diagnosis that wasn’t yours, but still felt like it belonged to you. The kind of shift that strips the bones clean.

You held it together until the locker room.

No one saw you slip inside. You were good at that, disappearing when your emotions started to boil too close to the surface. You perched on the bench, elbows on your knees, breath coming short and sharp like your lungs had shrunk.

Your vision tunneled.

Your chest ached.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to will it away, but the past had already caught up, flashes of too-bright lights, sirens, someone calling your name while your voice refused to work. You weren’t here anymore. You were there, small and helpless and bleeding on the inside.

You didn’t hear the door open.

“Sheri?”

You flinched hard, jerking upright. Robby froze when he saw your face, your eyes wide and unfocused, chest rising too fast.

He stepped in slowly, voice gentling. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s just me.”

You tried to speak. Nothing came out. Your hands were shaking. Damn it, you thought, not here. Not in front of him.

But he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. He crossed the room like he was walking toward a wounded animal, careful, steady.

“Can I come closer?”

You nodded, barely.

He crouched in front of you, not touching, just anchoring you with his presence. “You’re having a panic attack,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. You’re here at the hospital. It's over. Just breathe with me, okay? In through your nose.”

You mirrored him, trying to follow the rhythm of his breaths. His voice was low and grounding, like the rumble of a storm you trusted not to hit you.

“Out through your mouth.”

You did. Once. Twice. A third time. The air started to reach your lungs again.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Good. That’s good.”

Without thinking, you leaned forward, maybe just to stay tethered, maybe because the gravity between you pulled you there, and he caught you gently, his hand slipping behind your back. You felt his breath near your ear, his chest against yours.

Too close. Too much.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

The moment stretched, quiet and heavy. His hand didn’t leave your back. Your forehead nearly rested against his shoulder, and the smell of his cologne, faint, clean, familiar, hit you in a way it never had before.

You pulled back at the same time he did, eyes catching. Locked.

The air changed.

Not like before, not in the safe, platonic way. Something crackled between you. Something dangerous. New.

You could feel his breath on your lips. His eyes flicked there, just for a second. Just long enough to light your nerves on fire.

He blinked and stood up fast, breaking the contact like it had burned him. “You okay?”

You nodded, but your voice still didn’t work. Your heart was pounding for an entirely new reason now.

“Good,” he said, running a hand through his hair, suddenly all sharp edges and avoidance. “I’ll give you a minute.”

And then he was gone, leaving you in the silence, staring at the door and trying to convince yourself it hadn’t just happened. That your skin wasn’t buzzing. That his touch hadn’t been gentle in a way that meant something.

You had no idea what the hell had just shifted between you. And for a long time after, you sat there in the stillness, breathing finally even, hands steady, but your skin still tingled from where his fingers had touched you, and your thoughts refused to fall back into place.

Something had changed.

Something that neither of you could pretend hadn’t happened.

After the panic attack, things didn’t go back to normal.

At least, not completely.

The next shift, Robby didn’t mention it. He was the same as ever, brisk, dryly sarcastic, sharp-eyed. But something about the air between you had shifted. The way he looked at you lingered just a breath longer. The way he stood beside you now left less space. Not suffocating, never that, but close enough that you could feel it.

And you told yourself it was nothing. Just him being kind. Just the aftershock of a bad night. Just you, reading too much into a silence that stretched a little too long.

But then came the day he reached past you for a chart and his hand brushed yours, and he didn’t pull away fast enough.

The morning he handed you a coffee, your order without asking.

The way he touched your elbow when you moved past him in, like he had to, like it was muscle memory.

Small things. Nothing obvious. Nothing anyone would question, no one except you. Because you noticed. Because your body noticed before your mind could catch up.

You weren’t foolish. You knew what you were to him. A resident. A student. Another junior duckling trailing behind him. And yet, it didn’t feel that simple anymore. It hadn’t felt simple since that day in the locker room, when your panic broke through the surface and he held you together with nothing but steadiness and silence.

You were careful after that. He was, too.

But carefulness didn’t erase the tension. If anything, it sharpened it.

A glance across a the ER became something charged. A moment of eye contact during a case presentation lasted a fraction too long. When you laughed at one of his dry little jabs, his mouth would twitch like he regretted making you smile. When you succeeded, he praised you with words that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It became a game. A never-ending match between two people who refused to admit defeat. You were always one move behind him, then suddenly ahead. He’d say something biting, and you’d parry with soft defiance. You started calling him out more in rounds, in front of junior residents, even in front of attendings. Not disrespectfully, but with a kind of quiet precision he couldn’t ignore. And he didn’t shut you down. He liked it. You could tell.

Somewhere along the line, you stopped needing his approval. You had it. You knew that now. What you craved instead was something less nameable, something that sat beneath your skin and hummed at the base of your spine every time you were near him.

Late nights turned into long silences filled with everything neither of you would say.

There was the night he leaned against the nurses’ station at 3 a.m., watching you work a code from across the room with something close to pride in his eyes.

The time you stitched a laceration on a pediatric patient with trembling hands after a rough trauma, and he rested a hand on your shoulder when it was over, brief, but grounding.

The time you laughed too freely at something he said, and he looked away too fast, like it hurt him to hear it.

You thought maybe he was fighting it. Whatever it was between you. And you hated yourself for hoping he’d lose.

Because the truth was, somewhere between the mentorship and the medicine, the rivalry and the long hours, you had fallen in love with him. Not in the sweet, safe, storybook way. No. It was a quiet, painful kind of thing. The kind that lived in your chest like a secret, blooming and aching all at once.

You never told anyone. You didn’t need to.

Half the ER was watching the dance. Waiting for the moment someone slipped.

But he never did. And neither did you.

By the end of your third year, you had become known for your calm presence, your steady hands, and your ruthless efficiency. Your charts were tight. Your instincts were sharper. You could run a trauma code with one look at your team and a steady tone.

But behind all of it was that tension. That thread between you and Robby that neither of you had cut.

And as your final third-year shift wound to a close, the kind of rainy, unremarkable Thursday that smelled like bleach and burnt coffee, you caught him watching you across the break room, his gaze unreadable, jaw tight.

And by the time you walked into the ER for your first shift as a Senior resident with a new badge, and a team of interns trailing behind you, you felt the shift again.

This was your year now.

But it still started with him. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Your honor, I love my sad boi. Let me cook