#so that crisis was averted. but again: months ago)

[cultivating-wildflowers]

brought two projects to the knitting/crochet circle last night: the sweater I've been working on at church and a blanket I put down in February for some reason and have been too embarrassed to get back to.

friends.

I had nine rows left on the blanket.

[ferrstappen]

dad of three l dad! max verstappen imagine

a/n: sooo max is officially a dad 😭😭 so I picked up the draft of my dad!Max series with the twins which you can find here! I hope you like it and let me m ow if you have some ideas!

summary: baby verstappen nº3 is here, and the twins are now happy with the idea.

It had been a quiet morning, at least by the new Verstappen household standards.

The Monaco penthouse, usually alive with the squabbling of six-year-old twins and the occasional feline disaster, was unusually peaceful. The cause of this rare tranquility? The arrival of Baby Lia had everyone mesmerized, literally and metaforically having everyone wrapped around her little finger.

Youcradled the newborn in your arms, gently rocking her in the nursery Max had insisted on painting himself. Pale pink walls, soft grey furniture, and a mobile of tiny stars that the twins helped assemble.

“You’re not even crying today,” you murmured, brushing a soft kiss on Lia’s forehead. “It’s like you know I needed a break, what a smart baby, yes you are.”

Footsteps padded down the hallway, fast and energetic. Then came the crash of something toppling over. The twins ready to disrupt the quiet.

“Mila!” Luca’s voice rang out, shrill and dramatic. “You almost dropped her bunny!”

“It’s not my fault Jimmy knocked it down!” Mila huffed back.

You sighed, smiling despite the quiet moment gone. The calm had lasted exactly twelve minutes.

You stepped into the hallway with Lia, just in time to see Jimmy dart out from under the baby’s toy box with a fluff of pink clutched between his teeth.

“Mama!” Mila wailed, dramatic tears already forming. “Jimmy stole Lia’s bunny!”

“Yes, because you dropped it, Mila!” Luca reprimanded his twin.

Before you could intervene, Max’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Jimmy! No stealing from the baby!”

Max appeared, wearing sweatpants, a Red Bull hoodie, and holding two sippy cups. He looked equally amused and tired. parenthood in a nutshell.

“Crisis averted?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“I think Jimmy wants attention,” you replied, bouncing Lia gently. “He’s jealous, he probably thought it was only going to be the twins forever.”

Max chuckled, scooping up the cat and plopping him into Luca’s arms. “That’s what happens when you’ve ruled the house for years. Then babies come and steal your spotlight. Tough life.”

“And what about Sassy?” You asked Max.

Max glanced toward the back of the couch where Sassy lounged with the disinterest of a feline queen, which of course she was. “She’s plotting our demise, probably.”

You snorted, the vibrations of your body earning a smile from Lia.

The twins came running, now united in their mission: cooing at their baby sister.

“Can I hold her again?” Mila asked, reaching for Lia’s tiny hand.

“No, me first!” Luca insisted, already positioning the couch pillows for support just like Max had shown them.

You sighed again, this time with a full heart. You remembered the day you told the twins about the pregnancy, Luca had declared he didn’t want “a baby stealing his toys,” and Mila had spent the afternoon sulking because “babies are boring.” And both of them had tried really hard to stop the baby’s arrival.

Now? They were obsessed.

It was later that weekend in Miami when Max found himself being cornered in the paddock for an interview with Sky Sports Netherlands.

“So Max,” the interview began in Dutch, “congratulations again on the new addition to the family! How are things going at home with three kids now?”

Max grinned, hands in his pockets. “Chaotic. Loud. Exhausting… Perfect.”

The interviewer laughed. “And the twins? How are Mila and Luca adjusting? I remember they weren’t too pumped when we crossed paths a few months ago.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Honestly? I thought they’d hate it. When we told them (Y/N) was pregnant, Luca wanted to move out.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Mila made us sign a paper saying we’d still play Barbie games with her even after the baby came. They were so in denial that we got a call from their teacher.”

The small group of journalists laughed.

“But now?” Max continued. “They’re obsessed. They follow Lia around like bodyguards. Luca brings her toys she can’t even use, Mila sings to her. They fight about who gets to hold her. I think I’ve held her less than both of them.”

“And the cats?” The interviewer teased. “I hear Jimmy and Sassy have opinions.

“Oh, Jimmy’s a menace. He tries to sleep in the crib,” Max said, his tone fond. “Sassy’s smarter, she gives Lia a five-foot radius. She watches from a distance like she’s evaluating her for royal court or something which is very entertaining.”

There was more laughter.

“Sounds like a full house.”

Max nodded. “It is. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

-

Back home, the house was quieter than usual.

With Max in Miami, you were managing the trio on your own. Your mother had offered to stay, but you politely declined, liking the rhythm and evolving routine; early mornings with Lia after the twins left to school, midday chaos with the twins, and long, quiet evenings watching Max on the TV while feeding the baby.

You curled onto the couch, baby Lia nestled in a wrap on your chest, Mila curled up beside you, and Luca was completely knocked out from building a Lego fortress with a secret baby princess chamber, which he assured was for both Lia and Mila.

Max’s interview played in the background. “Luca wanted to move out,” Max said on the screen, laughing.

You giggled, watching Luca’s face twitch in sleep as if he’d heard his name.

The moment made your heart ache with pride and love.

Two days later, Max came home.

The door opened quietly, he’d learned not to make noise just in case Lia was sleeping, but before he could take a step in, Mila barreled into him.

“Papa!” she squealed.

Max laughed, lifting her with one arm and dropping his bag with the other. Luca followed, hugging Max’s waist.

You appeared at the end of the hall, holding Lia with one hand and balancing a bottle in the other. “Hello babe, the house didn’t burn down.”

He met you halfway, kissing you deeply, letting his hand rest over Lia’s tiny head. “Missed you,” he whispered on your lips.

“She missed you too. She kept staring at the TV every time you talked.”

“She’s a Verstappen, she knows good racing.” Max bragged, a habit he picked since the twins were born was now at its peak after the birth of Lia. “Plus, she was conceived the night I won the fourth so she knows what’s good.” Max whispered the last part so the twins wouldn’t hear.

Later that night, the five of you, cats included, were on the bed.

Mila had brought her blanket, Luca had brought snacks which were promptly confiscated by Max. Jimmy snuggled into Max’s feet while Sassy stared at the baby with mild disapproval.

Lia gurgled softly between you, wearing a pale pink Red Bull onesie Max had been gifted by the team.

“I can’t believe we made her,” you whispered, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I know,” he whispered back, brushing his thumb along Lia’s little hand. “She’s perfect.”

“I was so scared,” you admitted. “I thought adding another baby would ruin the balance and let’s be honest, we never really thought about having another baby, we were just desperate to celebrate your championship.” You giggled, remembering the night.

Max turned to you, cupping your cheek. “You were right to be scared. But we didn’t ruin anything. We just… added more love.”

Luca yawned. “Papa, can Lia come to the next race?”

Max smiled. “Not yet, buddy. But soon.”

Mila curled next to her mother. “She needs earmuffs with her name printed, like the ones we use when we go see daddy race.”

“She’ll have them,” Max promised. “We’ll get her baby-sized ones.”

You smiled, the warmth in your chest spreading like sunlight.

“I know we have enough but… I think we need a new cat.” Max proposed.

You snorted. “Excuse me?”

Max shrugged. “It’s only fair! The twins have Jimmy and Sassy, Lia deserves her own.” Your husband worked his beautiful blue eyes on you.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” You said, knowing this fight was already lost.

“Mila was also talking about a puppy after meeting Leo.”

“Max!”

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hello, Congratulations on the 5k follows!!

I discovered this fandom a few months ago and have been living for your writing ever since.

I was thinking as a drabble of the taskforce gentlemen coming home at the crack of dawn from a long mission and seeing their spouse's hand, limp on the ground peeking out from the side of the couch. All the panic and worry going thru their heads, so much bubbling up, horrible scenarios. They rush over and find you sleeping on the floor. The power had gone out last night and the hardwood floor was the coolest place to be (you didn't want to open the window because you know how they worry), so you were watching stuff on your phone and drifted off. Crisis averted!

Thank you for your time 💜

—Wide-Eyed Panic

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Why were you behind the couch?] ❞

I’ll start by saying all of them would be concerned and immediately go into panic mode—why were you behind the couch? Why was your hand sticking out? Why, in God's name, were you not moving? Cue the horrible thoughts and flashes of what went on in their work lives.

John Price ➺

John entered the house with a sigh, slipping off his boots as the door was closed and deftly locked behind him. Grunting under his breath, the man rubs over his face, the lights off as he calls out with a tired grumble to his voice. 

“I’m back,” his voice echoes, the tone moving through the darkness far louder than it should have. There’s no answer. “Love…?” Pausing, John blinks slowly at the wall, ear twitching to the utter silence of the home. No water in the pipes. No buzzing of electricity. No you. Eyes rising, they dart around quickly as his finger moves out to the light switch. A small push elicits nothing, just as he thought. The power was out. 

Dread slowly creeps into John’s chest.

Hand reaching behind his back, the man’s fingers inch over the smooth metal of a pistol, grasping the weapon before he begins walking forward. He keeps silent, feet moving to where he knows the wood won't creak. 

His mind runs. 

Why was the power off? Where were you? Why didn’t you respond—were you hurt? John’s mind goes to blood and bullets, his jaw clenching tightly as the pistol comes out to rest in front of him; hands shifting the grip as he takes a soothing breath. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone, but it would be pointless to lie about how his heart hammers. 

“Fuck,” he growls, eyes going tight. 

That’s when he sees it. Blue eyes widen sharply. 

“Love!” John shouts, all other concerns about intruders meaningless to him. Your hand was sticking out from behind the couch, a dark shadow in the low light. He rushes over as you jerk, yelling in alarm as he rushes to grab you, pulling you up into his arms and pulling you away into the closet across the room.

“John!” You blink rapidly as you’re set back against the wall. 

“Shush now,” he grunts, eyes panicked. “Keep awake, let me look.” A hand moves all over your body, searching and pulling at clothes to touch the skin for any wounds. “Tell me where it hurts, then. Quickly. We have to move—”

“John, what the hell,” you push at him, moving him back. Your eyes try to adjust to being so rudely awakened at such an hour. “What are you doing?!”

You weren’t hurt. 

The Captain’s face pulls in with confusion, back against the closet door and now in more darkness than ever before. He can barely make out your face before you sigh and put your hands against his arms. 

Things begin to calm down as his hand rests at your hip, nearly tight enough to bruise. In his other is the gun just before you put your hand to it and softly peel the item away from him—putting it on the shelf that you know is to your left. 

Hands find John’s cheeks as he pants.

“John,” you say his name again. “...what happened.”

“Why were you on the ground?” He forces out firmly, voice a low grunt. “Why were the lights not—”

“The power went out for everyone, okay?” You speak slowly, rubbing your thumbs over his beard. “It was on the news. I didn’t open a window because I knew you would worry about that—the floor was cool and it was getting too hot in here.” 

Your mind tells you to explain quickly and fluently. You move forward and press your forehead into John’s as he sags with a great exhalation of breath—his arms circling you tightly until your spine might crack. 

He doesn’t speak for a long while, just holding you.

“Scared me,” he mutters, missing you deeply on the forehead, speaking into your skin. “Fuck, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

He keeps you to his chest, eyes fluttering shut and his spine hunching over you, fingers splayed over your back. You run your hands through his hair and calm the swelling of your heart.

You can feel his pulse mirroring your own.

Simon Riley ➺

When he sees your hand, he freezes. 

Simon wasn’t a stranger to the lights being off in the home—you opted for lamps and low light more often than not; this wasn’t new. He had only quirked a brow when he came home to the pitch-blackness, off from his recent deployment and eager for a warm bed to fall into. He admits he’d let himself calm down on the car ride home—your home was where he could relax and release tension until it became as unimportant as an ant on the pavement. 

But when he’d closed the door silently behind him and walked the few steps it would take to enter the living room, where he was sure you were still up either reading or watching something on your phone under a blanket, his body had stiffened immediately. 

Your hand sticking out from behind the couch. Limp. 

Lifeless.  

He’d been staring at it for only a few seconds before the memories came back—the ones of gore splattered to the walls and ceiling of an old flat back in Manchester. 

Simon’s thoughts had hit him like a bullet.

Not again.

Rushing forward like a bear, the man slips along the hardwood as his knees go down, shaking the home at the force at which he grabs at your body and flips you from your side to your back. 

You gasp awake and instinctually throw out a fist, connecting with a stone chest as you hiss and blink in panic. 

Fingers ruthlessly dig into your shoulders, wide brown eyes open, and…and afraid. 

“Simon?” You mutter softly, all fear in your heart is squished in an instant. 

The man breathes through wheezes, balaclava fabric moving from the force of his breaths. His fingers are shaking, blinking as his head jerks to look your lying form up and down swiftly. 

You hesitantly put a hand on his cheek and he flinches before nuzzling into it. 

“Don’t…” he takes a quivering breath into his lungs, and after, loosens his grip on your skin. Simon’s hands go to your waist, dragging you up and stapling you to his chest. “Don’t do that again.”

His voice is low. Vulnerable. 

You blink, hands holding him back on the floor. 

“...The power went out,” you try to explain only half of it softly, muffled by his neck. 

He only holds you harder, eyes open and blankly staring at the floor a foot away.

Johnny MacTavish ➺

Johnny hums a song under his breath, hanging his keys on the hook near the door.

“Dearie!” He calls to you loudly, itching at the side of his head and chuckling. “Don’t run too fast to me now, I’m all yours for two w—”

The light switch is moved by his finger, but no light illuminates his path to the living room. Pausing in the entrance, the man’s brows furrow tightly, speech cutting off like scissors to paper. 

“...eeks?” Johnny ends his sentence, turning back around to look at the switch in confusion. “The hell’s going on with that?” He mutters to himself, a frown growing on his face before he refocuses on his mission to find you—now with the added task of figuring out why the power was out in the house. 

“Swear,” the man grumbles, huffing while he runs a hand over his face, “if those kids down the street did something I’ll be livid. Little devils, I swear.” 

Johnny steps farther into the living room, glancing around. 

“Dearie?” He pauses, listening before calling out your name. “Where’s she off to?”

He sighs softly, wanting to hold you now that he’s home to do so—squeeze you in his arms and take in your scent again; he’d missed you immensely while he was away.

Johnny came across your hand sticking out from behind the couch by accident, moving to make his way into your bedroom thinking that you were sleeping. He sees an odd shape in the blackness and pauses, feet slowing to a stop. 

When he notices that it’s a hand—your hand, he doesn’t even realize that he’s completely gripped the side of the couch and wrenched it back until the scratch of the wood floors screams in his ears. 

You wake up to hands on your cheeks, sharp yelling, and your head being shaken up and down until you’re conscious. 

“Dearie, hey! What the fuck,” the last sentence is growled on fast lips. “What the fuck.”

Your hands slap to Johnny’s wrists, nails digging in. 

He breathes out quickly, looking into your eyes to look for dilation as the darkness forces him closer. “There we are, tell me where you’re hurting, now, yeah? Did you hit your head? Let me take a look. It’s okay, I’ll get you all fixed up, there’s no need to worry.”

“Hey!” Your hands push at his, trying to shove the brick wall away from you. “Quit it! Johnny! I’m fine! ”

The man pauses at your animated movements, blinking rapidly before his grip loosens. 

When it’s obvious that you’re perfectly fine, he moves back and groans, thumb and forefinger digging into his nose bridge. 

“Hell’s bells, Hen.” You glare, panting on the floor before you push yourself up. 

“‘Hell’s bells’, me?” Johnny’s head plops to your shoulder. “You just shook me like a fucking rabbit!” 

“Scared the shite out of me, you terror.” The man huffs. “Need to put a heart monitor on you.”

“Piss off,” you sigh, putting a hand to your chest to feel the pace of your pulse and the blood that runs furiously.

Johnny, moments later as he’s still resting on your shoulder, starts…laughing. Low at first, then gaining noise the more it goes unchecked—a deep rumble into chest-jerking amusement. You look down at him, the couch tilted and long scratches over the floor. Pausing, you blink at his shaking shadow before your lungs start quivering. The two of you bend over one another with shared, house-shaking laughter. 

“What the fuck were you doin’ behind the damn couch?” Johnny grabs you close, kissing along your neck as he picks you up, dragging you to your feet. 

“The power went out!” You giggle, chest hurting from the fast gasps of breath as more kisses are spread over your skin. “It was colder down there and I didn’t want to open one of the windows because I knew you’d throw a pouting match about it.”

“Christ, Dearie.” Lips meet your own. “I had half the mind to think you had a heart attack. Nearly gave me one.”

Kyle Garrick ➺

Kyle sighs as he rubs at his jaw, itching the skin and slipping out of his jacket. 

“I’m home, Love!” He says, his voice echoing over the flat. “Want me to start on supper or have you eaten yet?” The man smiles, taking off his cap and putting it on the coat rack, sighing softly. 

It was good to be back. 

Bending down to unlace his boots, he pulls at them until they’re loose enough to slip out of, thumping to their sides on the rug until he reaches out and fixes them. 

“What’s that, then?” He calls into the darkness, not hearing your answer as he quickly checks the time on his phone. “Fuck, it’s late,” Kyle utters to himself. 

Walking into the kitchen, he touches the light switch only to be met with nothing. Pausing, the man’s face pulls in—fingers twitching at his sides as he glances at the window and the moonlight that seeps in to glare along the floor. 

A deep frown takes hold of him, and he looks around once more before backing up.

“...Love?” Kyle wasn’t too concerned—the building wasn’t always the best, and power outages weren’t unheard of. But, damn, if the high of getting off of a deployment didn’t put him in a negative head-space when it came to a change in routine involving you. 

Why weren’t you answering him?

Walking slightly faster into the living room, his hand nearly reaches into his pocket to call your phone if you didn’t end up in any of the rooms—pulse beginning to be infected with a steady injection of adrenaline. 

Brown eyes find your hand behind the couch when they’re about to shift to the open door of your bedroom. A sharp gasp is inhaled instantaneously. 

Kyle races over, grappling to it and pressing his fingers to your neck for a pulse. You softly breathe, none the wiser as you lightly shift and sigh in your sleep; a delicate hum moving out as familiar fingers dig into you. 

It’s through his panic that a thought quickly cuts through the man’s mind. You’d mentioned this before. 

Kyle pauses, just about to loudly wake you. 

‘It gets hot when the power goes out, Kyle, I swear one of these days I’m going to just fall asleep on the floor. At least it’s cool down there.’

Well, the power was out, and, it seemed, you really had fallen asleep on the floor. Now that he thought about it, the flat was running hot—and he also knew that you knew he had gotten nervous of late when you left the windows open at night. 

“Bloody hell,” the man releases a long breath, free hand moving to grip the back of his head. A few seconds later, Kyle chuckles to himself, shaking his head with a small smile. “You are losing it, Mate. Losing it.” 

Without another word, he grips you, and with a grunt, picks you up and takes you to bed, setting you down on the pillows and making sure to leave the sheets off of you so you don’t grow uncomfortable.

A kiss is pressed to your forehead, and you hum in slumber, smiling unconsciously.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Love.” 

He leaves to go make a quick supper of cereal and milk.

[enhaflixer]

newly turned vampire! riki x 400 y/o vampire f!reader - VAMPIRE SUPPORT GROUP

pure crack. fluff. i def got an ask for this but rn i cant find it at all.

-

You've been dead for 400 years, but nothing has made you feel more alive than watching this disaster unfold.

The vampire support group meets in the basement of an abandoned church—cliché as fuck, but the rent is cheap. You're only here because eternity is boring and watching newly-turned vampires panic about their condition provides at least mild entertainment. Four centuries of existence have left you with few novel experiences.

Until him.

He slouches in fifteen minutes late, wearing sunglasses indoors, at night, in a basement. Riki Nishimura, according to the name tag he reluctantly sticks to his leather jacket (which still has the price tag partially visible underneath the collar).

"Sorry I'm late," he says, clearly not sorry at all. "Had some, you know, vampire business to take care of." He flicks an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder.

The support group leader—Gary, turned in 1983, still wearing the same outdated suit—gestures to an empty folding chair. "Welcome, Riki. Would you like to share your turning story with the group?"

Riki slides into the chair like he's auditioning for a yakuza film. "It's whatever. Got bit last week. No big deal." He shrugs with such calculated casualness that you have to press your lips together to keep from laughing.

"The transition can be traumatic," Gary offers. "It's okay to have feelings about it."

"I don't really do feelings," Riki says, adjusting his sunglasses. They slip down his nose, revealing eyes that are very obviously bloodshot from crying. He pushes them back up with his middle finger, trying to make it look intentional.

You've watched newly-turned vampires react in every possible way: the screamers, the deniers, the embracers, the religious crisis-havers. But you've never seen someone trying so desperately to seem unaffected while clearly being a complete internal mess.

"So what can you do?" asks another newbie vampire, Emma, turned three months ago. "Can you transform into a bat yet?"

Riki scoffs. "Transformation is for vampires with something to prove. I'm secure enough not to need to show off."

You know—everyone knows—he can't transform. Most new vampires can't. But his absolute commitment to this façade is fascinating.

"What about blood?" asks Gary. "Have you adjusted to your new diet?"

Riki pulls out a thermos with skull stickers on it. "It's fine. I'm on this special blend. Very exclusive." He takes a sip and visibly gags, then pretends he was just clearing his throat. "Smooth," he comments, voice strained.

It's too much. A small laugh escapes you.

His head whips toward you, noticing you for the first time. You, with your simple black turtleneck and jeans—no need for gothic theatrics when you've been dead since the Edo period.

The moment his eyes land on you, he chokes on his blood drink. Like, actually chokes. He spends a good ten seconds coughing into his elbow while trying to look like he's just thoughtfully clearing his throat.

"You okay there?" you ask, deadpan.

"Yeah, totally fine. Just, uh—" he straightens up, runs a hand through his hair, and somehow manages to make it worse. "Just giving my professional assessment of the, uh, acoustics in here. Good echo. Very... echo-y."

"Fascinating analysis," you reply, face completely blank.

He stares at you for a beat too long, then realizes and quickly averts his gaze, pretending to be deeply interested in a water stain on the ceiling. A faint reddish tint creeps across his pale cheeks—he must have fed recently for that to be possible.

"And you are...?" Gary prompts.

"Riki. I said that already," he mumbles.

"I meant her name," Gary clarifies with infinite patience.

"Oh." Riki's eyes dart back to you, then away again, like he's afraid looking directly at you might turn him to stone. Which is ironic, considering the whole vampire thing.

You don't volunteer your name. Names have power, and you've learned to be selective with yours over the centuries. But something about his painfully obvious awkwardness makes you say, "You can call me Y/N."

"Y/N," he repeats, like he's testing how it feels in his mouth. "Cool name. Very... name-like."

"Jesus fucking christ," mutters Emma under her breath.

The group moves on to discussing practical matters—how to get blood legally, avoiding sunlight, explaining to family why you can't do brunch anymore. Riki interjects occasionally with comments like "Sunlight? I think it adds character to just power through the burning" and "Family? I'm a lone wolf. Always have been." This last comment is immediately undermined by his phone lighting up with a text that clearly reads "MOM: Don't forget to call Grandma tomorrow, she's making your favorite cookies."

He hurriedly flips the phone over, then glances at you to see if you noticed. You maintain your perfect poker face, honed over centuries of watching humans make fools of themselves.

Throughout the meeting, you catch him stealing glances at you approximately seventy-three times. When you make eye contact, he either pretends to be looking at something else or gives you what he clearly thinks is a cool, aloof nod. It's like watching a middle schooler with his first crush, except this middle schooler has fangs.

"Before we conclude," Gary says, checking his notes, "a reminder that Councilwoman Bathory will be conducting inspections next week. All newly-turned vampires must register with the Council to receive their blood ration cards."

Riki perks up. "The Council? Like, vampire government? That's a real thing?"

You roll your eyes. "Of course it's real. Who did you think keeps humans from finding out about us? Pure luck?"

"I figured it was just, like, an understanding," he says, waving his hand vaguely. "Nobody talks about it because it's cooler that way."

"Yes," you deadpan. "Vampire society has survived for millennia on vibes alone."

Emma snorts. Gary shoots her a look.

"The Council is very real," Gary explains patiently. "And very serious about registration. Unregistered vampires are considered rogue and... well, it doesn't end well."

Riki's attempt at looking unimpressed falters slightly. "What happens to them?"

"They get staked," you say bluntly. "Or worse."

"What's worse than getting staked?" he asks, sunglasses slipping down his nose again.

You just stare at him flatly. "Use your imagination."

When the meeting ends, you find yourself lingering. He's trying to look disinterested, scrolling through his phone, but his thumb isn't moving. He's just staring at a black screen while casting furtive glances your way.

"First meetings are the worst," you say, approaching him.

He jumps like you've shocked him, then tries to play it cool by leaning against the wall. He misses the wall entirely and has to quickly readjust. "Nah, it was cool. Good to know there are other vampires out there, I guess. Not that I need, like, community or whatever."

"Of course not," you agree flatly. "You strike me as someone who has it all figured out."

"Exactly," he says, missing your sarcasm entirely. He runs a hand through his carefully disheveled hair. "So... you come to these things often?" He immediately winces at his own cliché.

"Only when I'm bored. Which is frequently, after a few centuries."

His eyebrows shoot up above his sunglasses. "Centuries? Holy shit—I mean, that's, uh, cool. Very cool. You don't look a day over..." he falters, realizing he doesn't know how to age you.

"Four hundred and twelve," you supply.

"Right. I was gonna say that."

"You know," you say, your lips curving into a slight smirk, "technically that makes me the ultimate cougar. I've got about four centuries on you."

His mouth falls open slightly before he catches himself. "I, uh—I mean—"

"I've literally known shoes that lasted longer than your entire existence," you continue, enjoying his flustered reaction. "I was drinking blood when your ancestors were still figuring out indoor plumbing."

"That's..." he swallows hard. "Actually kind of hot?"

Now it's your turn to be surprised, though you mask it better than he does. "Interesting response."

He shrugs, a hint of genuine Riki breaking through the cool façade. "What can I say? I've always been into older women. Though usually the age gap is more like five years, not five hundred."

"Four hundred," you correct.

"My bad. That makes all the difference."

For the first time in decades, you laugh—a real, unguarded sound. His eyes widen at it, like he's witnessing some rare astronomical event.

"You know," you say, "the sunglasses at night thing is very 1980s. If you want to seem current, you might want to update your 'cool vampire' aesthetic."

He whips them off so fast you're surprised they don't break. "These old things? I don't even like them. Just, you know, had eye surgery. Laser. Very... futuristic."

Without his shield, his eyes are a warm brown, currently dilated from the darkness and from staring at you like you're the last blood bag in a famine. They're surprisingly gentle for someone trying so hard to seem tough.

"There's a night market that caters to our kind a few blocks from here," you say. "They sell blood that actually tastes decent, unlike whatever you've got in that thermos."

"It's not that bad," he lies, clutching the thermos defensively.

"It's pig blood cut with iron supplements and probably hot sauce to mask the taste."

He stares at you. "How did you—"

"Four hundred years, remember? I've seen every trick." You turn toward the exit. "Coming?"

"With you? I mean—yeah, sure, whatever. I'm not doing anything else tonight. So yeah. Cool. Let's do it. The night market. Together. Walking. Side by side. Cool." He's nodding way too much.

"Or I could just go alone," you deadpan.

"No!" He clears his throat, lowers his voice. "I mean, no, I'll come. It's fine. I'm fine."

As you lead him up the basement stairs, you catch him frantically checking his reflection in his phone screen. Except, of course, there is no reflection—a fact he seems to have momentarily forgotten in his panic. He pockets his phone with a muttered "fuck."

-

The night market exists in a dimensional pocket beneath an ordinary-looking pawn shop. To human eyes, it appears closed, with dusty guitars and outdated electronics visible through grimy windows. To supernatural eyes, the neon sign reading "OPEN 24/7 FOR THE ETERNALLY DAMNED" is unmissable.

"No way," Riki breathes as you lead him toward the entrance. "I must have walked past this place a hundred times."

"That's the point," you say, pushing open the door. A bell jingles, but instead of the cheerful tone humans would hear, it emits a low, ominous toll.

The shop owner—a wizened, ancient vampire named Ichiro who came to Japan even before you did—looks up from his newspaper. "Y/N," he nods respectfully. His eyes slide to Riki. "New pet?"

"New community member," you correct, though you're amused by how Riki puffs up indignantly at being called a pet.

"I'm nobody's pet," he mutters, trying to appear intimidating. On a scale of one to threatening, he ranks somewhere around 'disgruntled kitten.'

Ichiro snorts. "Of course not." He turns back to you. "The usual?"

You nod. "And something palatable for the newborn. He's drinking pig swill."

"I told you, it's a special blend—" Riki starts, but Ichiro is already laughing.

"Follow me," the old vampire says, lifting a section of the counter. "And don't touch anything unless you can afford to replace it. Some items are older than your entire bloodline."

As you browse the market, Riki trying desperately to look unimpressed while clearly fascinated, you become aware of Council enforcers moving through the crowd. They're looking for unregistered newborns—apparently there's been trouble with newly-turned vampires killing humans.

"We should go," you murmur to Riki, whose face has gone even paler than vampire-standard. "Now."

You guide him through the back of the stalls, taking a circuitous route to a secondary exit you know from centuries of visiting the market. Once outside, in a quiet alley behind the pawn shop, you explain the situation.

"So there's killer newborns out there?" he asks, genuinely concerned.

"Seems like it," you reply. "Which means you should lie low for a while. Go straight home, stay inside, don't talk to vampires you don't know."

"But I barely know any vampires," he points out. "Except you. And Gary, I guess, but he's—"

"Riki," you interrupt, "I'm serious. This could be dangerous. Someone might be targeting new vampires."

He studies your face, seeing the genuine concern there. "You're actually worried. About me."

"I'm worried about the situation," you correct.

"Right." He doesn't look convinced. "So, this is goodnight then?"

You nod. "Go home. Stay safe."

"You too," he says, then adds awkwardly, "I mean, obviously you can take care of yourself. Being super old and all. Not that you look old. You look great. For someone born when people still thought the plague was caused by bad smells."

"Miasma theory," you provide.

"What?"

"That's what it was called. The theory that disease was caused by bad air."

"Cool. Very cool scientific fact." He shifts from one foot to the other. "So, uh, will I see you again? At the next meeting maybe?"

You consider him for a moment. There's something oddly endearing about his transparent attempt to seem aloof while being so obviously eager. It's been a long time since anyone looked at you the way he does—like you're the most fascinating thing they've ever seen.

"Probably," you say noncommittally. "If you don't get yourself staked before then."

He tries to look offended, but can't quite hide the smile tugging at his lips. "As if. I'm very stakeable. I mean un-stakeable. Fuck."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Goodnight, Riki."

You turn to leave, but his voice stops you.

"Y/N?"

When you look back, he's closer than you expected—he must have moved toward you without your noticing, which is unusual given your heightened senses. There's an intensity in his eyes that wasn't there before, a momentary break in his carefully constructed cool-guy persona.

"Thanks," he says simply. "For helping me tonight. For not laughing at me. Well, not laughing too much."

The sincerity catches you off guard. "You're welcome."

He nods, then seems to gather his courage. "Can I ask you something? Why did you help me? I mean, I'm nobody to you. Just some random newborn vampire you met at a support group."

You consider how to answer. The truth is, you're not entirely sure yourself. Maybe it's boredom. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's the way he looks at you, like you're something special rather than just another ancient creature going through the motions of immortality.

"Let's just say you're more interesting than most," you finally reply.

"Interesting?" he repeats, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I'll take it."

There's a moment of silence between you, charged with something unexpected. His eyes drop to your lips, then back up to your eyes, a question in them.

"I should go," you say, but you don't move.

"Yeah," he agrees, but takes a step closer instead.

You can smell the blood on his breath—Jin's special blend, rich and complex. His pupils are dilated, whether from the darkness or from looking at you, you're not sure. Probably both.

"This is a bad idea," you murmur, even as you find yourself leaning slightly toward him.

"Probably," he agrees. "But I'm full of bad ideas lately. Becoming a vampire. Wearing sunglasses at night. Crushing on someone who was alive during the Spanish Inquisition."

"I was in Japan during the Spanish Inquisition," you correct, your voice softer than intended.

"Right." He's close enough now that if either of you still breathed, you'd feel it. "Still a bad idea though?"

"The worst," you whisper, and then close the distance between you.

The kiss is electric—literally, a small spark of supernatural energy passing between you. His lips are cooler than a human's would be, but still impossibly soft. He makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth, like he wasn't actually expecting you to kiss him, before responding with unexpected intensity.

For someone so awkward in conversation, he's surprisingly confident in this. His hand comes up to cup your face, touch gentle but certain. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you grant him access, and the kiss deepens.

You can taste the blood he's consumed, feel the newborn vampire energy thrumming through him—wild and untamed compared to your carefully controlled power. It's intoxicating, this blend of inexperience and eagerness. His fangs accidentally graze your lower lip, drawing a drop of your ancient blood.

The taste hits him like a drug. He groans, a deep, primal sound that resonates through you. His hands tighten on you reflexively, pulling you closer.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "You taste like...I don't even have words."

"Four hundred years gives the blood a certain complexity," you murmur, slightly dazed yourself. It's been decades since you've allowed anyone to taste you.

He stares at you, wonder and desire naked on his face. All pretense of coolness has evaporated. "Can I—"

"No," you cut him off, regaining your composure. "One taste is all you get. For now."

His eyes widen at the implication of 'for now.' "Right. Cool. Very cool. I can work with that."

You step back, creating some distance between you. The kiss was more intense than you'd anticipated, and you need a moment to collect yourself. Four centuries of existence, and you're rattled by a kiss from a week-old vampire with a cool-guy complex and a price tag still visible on his jacket.

Pathetic.

And yet.

"Go home, Riki," you say, your voice steadier than you feel. "Stay safe."

He nods, still looking slightly dazed. "Yeah. Home. Safety. Got it."

You turn to leave, using your vampire speed to put some distance between you before you do something even more foolish.

"Y/N!" he calls after you.

You pause, looking back over your shoulder.

He's standing there, hair mussed from your fingers, lips slightly swollen from your kiss, looking simultaneously like the disaster he is and something unexpectedly precious.

"Just so you know," he says, a genuine smile breaking through his usual smirk, "I'm totally cool with the age gap. I've always said age is just a number."

"In my case, it's a pretty big number," you call back.

"More to love!" he retorts, then immediately looks mortified at his own words. "I mean, not love. Obviously. Just a figure of speech. Very casual figure of speech."

You laugh despite yourself. "Goodnight, Riki."

"Goodnight, ancient one," he replies with a mock bow.

As you disappear into the night, you hear him whisper, "Holy fucking shit" to himself, and then a triumphant "YES!" followed by what sounds suspiciously like a victory dance.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And yet, for the first time in centuries, you find yourself genuinely looking forward to next week's support group meeting.

Maybe immortality isn't complete bullshit after all.

[hulknussen]

For a situation for Nico -

Only one bed, but with a more interesting reason

Nico flirts and brings back a girl from the bar (making k-mag unnecessary jealous of course) to try and get Kevin out of his head.

Tries to sleep with her but finds himself unable to “perform”. She gets annoyed and kicks him out of his own room.

So now Nico is left alone in his boxers in the hallway. Very embarrassed. Either he knocks or Kevin finds him, but in any case, he ends up letting Nico stay in his room for the night 🤭

hello anon who rocked my world a little bit... gave me a lovely excuse to stew on some amazing themes. I made this post already vaguely spinning this further but I also have about 900 words of word vomit (think a sketch of a fic) on the topic for anyone who is interested in--lets see, what's the list--feminization, humiliation, premature ejac, general performance issues, and overall themes of a "straight" man who has been in denial for easily fifteen years if not more. it'll be below the cut

alright. hear me out. picture this. 2017. or later, doesn't matter; renault nico. who still has his weird obsessive dislike for kevin. who's been going through this absolute crisis ever since his last relationship ended (we can even say this last relationship is the cop gf if we want, for spice). he's been in a relationship basically for the last decade, if with different women. now it's been what, 6 months, 12 months, and he doesn't know what to do with himself. because suddenly there's space again, to think about other things. like the way his eyes used to linger in the locker room at school. like that second, faint, very distant feeling that accompanied his little cat fight in hungary. the one he's grown to associate with kevin, humiliation and embarrassment and anger and something else entirely.

so okay. he's a bit out of his tree, has a bit of a screw loose. it happens, midlife crisis. good thing about being single is that he can have hook ups to his hearts content. so he does. only women, of course, but every now and then one of them… clocks him. he bottomed for one of his hookups three weeks ago. never spoke to her again. hasn't had sex since out of shame. really fucking liked it.

but he's almost open to it by now. when they suggest things, more jokingly, maybe even a bit teasingly to see if someone like him, a race car driver full of testosterone, tall and handsome--if he would agree to a proposition like putting him in lingerie. if he would laugh and scoff when they suggest he maybe tone it down a bit; let someone else tell him what to do for once. and then he doesn't and the sex gets a lot better for everyone involved.

he meets this one woman. dark haired, his age, his height. his type. they get talking. it's pretty sexually charged. both of them know what they want, and that's fine. but they somehow end at the same topic nico has been finding himself at surprisingly often: what if they did things differently?

they go back to his room. there's some foreplay, it's exciting enough, nothing crazy. nico isn't worried.

but then they put him in her clothes. hard shell bra (cause man, that guy has tits) and lace panties. nico is hard, but maybe worst of all, barely interested in her anymore. like, had a sexual awakening sort of experience. won't stop staring at himself in the mirror sort of experience. tries to go back to having sex with her but just… can't, sort of experience. and yeah she agreed to put him in her clothes, because it would be funny, and taboo, and maybe a little bit hot. but she still wanted what she came here for, and he's no longer giving her that.

he ends up in the hallway to his hotel room. still in her clothes, with a pair of pants and shirt thrown after his way. it's clear he's not getting back into that room tonight. maybe more pressingly, bro is stood in a hallway with a semi and wearing women's underwear. puts his clothes back on; crisis averted.

cue kevin. light of my life. tamer of this horny and impossible beast we have made out of nico (okay sorry ignore me). he sees nico (dressed!) standing aimlessly in that hallway. kevin tries to be nice to nico, but nico just views it as an attempt to humiliate him. obviously kevin doesn't know what went down before, but nico already has kevin on his no-no list.

he also gets embarrassingly aroused at the knowledge that he is wearing lace under those clothes. and well; it's not like he's wearing a hoodie. youre gonna see a bra under a t shirt after a second look. so kevin notices. and nico notices that he notices. and they stand there, both knowing what's going on. and nico is trying so hard to not get more horny, he really, really is, because he does not like kevin--hell, he's not even into men. but they're in a public hallway, and kevin, the little bastard; he lifts his hand, squeezes nico's chest like you would tits. no shame, no decency. nico is a goner, man. if he thought anything before was a sexual awakening he is about to get hit like a truck with a restructuring of his world now.

they start out simple. kevin just offers him to stay the night. and nico can't think clearly anymore, anyway, so yeah maybe he dislikes kevin, but he also doesn't want to stay in that damn hallway anymore. it's like 1am, he might still be feeling that gin and tonic he had earlier. so fuck, he agrees. beyond kevin doing, well, that, it's not like anything else happened. he seems normal now. nico would almost think it was a figment of his imagination.

inside. maybe the lighting is a bit too dim to be innocent, but nico isn't gonna call it out. casually, very much casually, kevin asks "so how did you end up in that?"

nico embarrasses himself trying to answer that. kevin is enjoying it thoroughly. kevin enjoying it is making nico enjoy it. he probably comes in his cute little set of lace panties after kevin gives him half a handjob through his pants. it really does not take long or much.

kevin teases him he'll have to get that poor woman a new set now that he's ruined hers. it's a good opportunity to get nico his own set, though, so it all works out.

[antiquepearlss]

Late Night Phone Call (WIP)

Eugene receives a phone call late at night from his cousin whom he has never had a relationship with.

Eugene knew he was an insomniac. He was well aware of his awful habit of staying up late. But, he rarely had days off as a detective. If he didn’t have work the next day, he was going to stay up as late as he pleased, sleep schedule and overall health be damned.

And, if he hadn’t been awake, he wouldn’t have received what he considered to be one of the most important phone calls of his life. Even if it was at first, an odd and unexpected, downright bizarre call.

See, at two am, Eugene Fitzherbert, the estranged member of his family, received a Messenger call from the cousin he had only had one conversation with in the past decade. That conversation being them awkwardly catching up at the latest family reunion a few months ago. (It was odd that he got along better with Rapunzel than Eugene, the two seemed to instantly become best friends.) They added eachother on Facebook soon after and since then, their conversations had simply been the occasional meme or TikTok the two shared with eachother.

Eugene felt bad, the kid had tried to make conversation with him at first, and he tried to reciprocate. It just felt too weird and awkward to return the favor. Thus, the two barely talked.

All of this to say that the call was very odd, especially considering the late hour. But Eugene had a bad feeling in his gut. Something was wrong, he needed to answer the call. Even if it was likely a bored teenager wanting to ramble or a prank call of sorts.

“Hey kiddo, what’re you doing up so late?”

A small sniffled sound rang through the silence, and Eugene could feel his hairs stand on end. He may not be close with his cousin, but he already knew he would end anyone who hurt him. He was precious and innocent, and already probably had daddy issues (it runs in the family.)

“Hey, sorry I didn’t mean to bother you. I can hang up if you want I just thought you were awake because your icon said you were active butifyoudontwanttotalkitsfinejustignoremeillhangupnow.” The last part being said in a rushed whispery way, the kid sounded like he was trying not to wake someone up, and trying not to cry, or like he had been crying.

Something was wrong, Eugene could feel it. “You’re not bothering me, I’m just watching tv. Day off tomorrow yaknow.” Eugene chuckled, tone light. The kid was clearly upset and needed someone right now, and may not have anyone considering he was reaching out to his estranged cousin.

Eugene may not be close with Varian, but he was that kid before. And he’d be damned before he acted like the only adults he had. 

He could hear a shuffle, and Varian spoke again, a little more clearly. “Whatcha watching?”

The kid wasn’t crying or thinking he was a burden, crisis averted.

“Some shitty cop show, I don’t even remember the name of it. It’s all that’s on right now.” Which was true, he had barely been paying attention and had simply been scrolling his phone for the last hour. It might have been NCIS, he wasn’t sure.

“You have cable?” Varian seemed to perk up. Eugene chuckled “Yeah, Rapunzel wanted it. I don’t like it, makes me feel old.”

“We don’t have cable at home, I wish we did, though.” The kid sounded a touch lighter, having actual conversation material now. Eugene took it.

“Trust me, you don’t. It’s a worthless expensive nightmare. You’re better off with Netflix or Hulu.”

A sad chuckle sounded “we don’t have that either, dad’s not a big fan of tv.” Yeah, that sounded like Quirin. Old timey and boring.

“Whatever I watch I usually just pirate it.” 

Eugene snorted “I’m a police officer kid, you can’t just admit to high crime like that in front of me.” He teased.

Varian let out the lightest little huff “like you don’t do it too.”

“Innocent until proven guilty!” 

The lightest, softest little giggle rang through Eugene’s speaker. Then a sniffle. 

“Are you going to come arrest me then?” His tone was teasing.

Eugene hummed a little, pretending to consider it. “If it was your first misdemeanor, then I think I’ll let you off with a warning.”

Varian let out the same sad little laugh, “bummer, I kinda wanted to see what it was like in the back of a cop car.”

Eugene knew he was joking, but the Older Cousin instincts came in. Something was wrong with Varian, he could tell that much, he needed to nip any possible life ruining thoughts in the bud. “Trust me kid, it sucks. Don’t try anything, it will follow you for the rest of your life. Stupid decisions will always haunt you.”

His tone must have been too harsh, because the light mood was instantly destroyed when Eugene could hear a wet voice respond with “oh, sorry.”

Shit. He fucked that up.

[emma23]

Turning pages together :

Llewyn Davis x reader

The early afternoon light filtered through the curtains of Llewyn’s modest apartment, casting golden streaks over the cluttered coffee table. Vinyl records and guitar strings competed for space with half-empty mugs and a worn-out copy of The Great Gatsby. You sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through the book with idle fingers while Llewyn tuned his guitar. The familiar discord of his strings floated through the room like a companionable hum, grounding the space in quiet simplicity.

“You’ve read that thing so many times,” he remarked without looking up, his voice tinged with mock exasperation. “What’s left to discover, huh?”

“Maybe I just enjoy it,” you retorted, not bothering to hide your smile. “Unlike you, I don’t overanalyze everything to death.”

“Yeah?” He plucked a string, testing the sound before nodding in approval. “I’m just saying, don’t get so attached to Gatsby. Spoiler: it doesn’t end well.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling. “I don’t need a lecture on heartbreak from you, Llewyn. I get enough of that in real life.”

He froze for a moment, his fingers stilling over the strings. The words were lighthearted, but there was an edge to them, a reflection of the struggle you both knew too well—his uphill battle with music, the constant weight of simply surviving.

“Hey,” Llewyn said after a pause, his voice softening. “You’re not exactly stuck in the sunshine business either, you know.”

“Touché,” you admitted with a sigh. “But at least I don’t live with an existential crisis strapped to my back.”

He laughed—a real, throaty sound that made his shoulders shake. “Fair enough.”

Later, the two of you had abandoned your respective distractions and ended up on the floor, a shared blanket draped over your legs. Llewyn, for all his cynicism, had a secret soft spot for reading aloud. It had started accidentally months ago when you’d made him read a passage from your favorite book. Now, it was an unspoken ritual between you.

“You take the next page,” he muttered, nudging the book into your hands.

“No way,” you countered, smirking. “You skipped three lines last time, Mr. ‘Attention to Detail.’”

“Did not!” he protested, his brows furrowing indignantly.

“Did too,” you teased, leaning closer. “You’re just mad because I caught you.”

His gaze flicked to yours, softening. “Maybe I just wanted to hear you talk for a change,” he said, his tone quieter now.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “Flattery isn’t gonna get you out of this, Llewyn.”

He laughed again, and the sound vibrated against your shoulder where he rested his head. You didn’t argue when he reached for the book and continued reading.

The intimacy crept up on you without warning, like a song that began softly before overtaking the room. You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned into him until his voice faltered mid-sentence.

“Y/N?” he murmured, his lips barely brushing your temple.

“Hmm?”

His hesitation was tangible, a pause heavy with unspoken thoughts. When he finally leaned in, the kiss was unhurried, careful, like turning the fragile pages of a beloved book. You melted into it, your fingers tangling in his hair as the paperback fell forgotten between you.

“Been waiting for that all day,” Llewyn confessed when you broke apart, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Could’ve said something,” you teased, breathless.

“Yeah, because I’m great at expressing myself,” he deadpanned, drawing a laugh from you.

Hours later, the afternoon light had faded, leaving the room in a soft glow from the streetlamp outside. You lay tangled in the blankets, your skin pressed against Llewyn’s, the weight of his arm draped over your waist. He was humming softly, an unfinished melody that danced between melancholy and hope.

“What’s that?” you asked, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

“Just something I’m working on,” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

He leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering there. “Not as beautiful as you reading Fitzgerald like your life depends on it,” he teased, though his tone was impossibly tender.

You laughed, swatting at his chest. “Shut up.”

“Never,” he replied smugly, holding you closer.

As silence settled over the room, broken only by the distant hum of the city, you felt a rare sense of peace. For once, there was no urgency, no chaos—just you and Llewyn, turning pages together in your own quiet story.

“Guess I’m stuck with you,” Llewyn quipped, breaking the stillness. “Not like anyone else would willingly put up with my crap.”

“True,” you shot back with a grin. “But lucky for you, I’m terrible at making good decisions.”

He smirked. “Guess that’s why you’re here.”

“You’re insufferable,” you groaned, burying your face in his shoulder.

“And yet, you love me.”

“Don’t push your luck, Davis.”

[livewithyura]

Hiii, if your Tekken requests are still open, may I request headcanons for Lars with a jirai kei (landmine, dark type) s/o?

___ ★₊˚﹟’ Answer ’ 🫐 Thank you for requesting anon ! This is a cute idea!! 😭 , I’m trying my best to know about Jirai Kei girls because trust me I have never seen or met people with a Jirai Kei aesthetic! But don’t worry , let me just create the headcanon where Lars is handling them! Let’s go

___ ★₊˚﹟’ Reblogs are appreciated!

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! – After graduation, life pulled them in different directions. You dove deeper into the aesthetic — full Jirai Kei, mood swings and all, pretty and volatile and loud. He joined the military, fought wars, kept his emotions under lock and key.

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! You both meet again by accident ( After the event of tekken 8 ) at café. Where he was just there waiting for Lee to buy some cool pastries , but Lars saw you. You're all dolled up in pink ribbons and lace, taking a moody selfie with your matcha latte. He was hesitant at first , but he knows if he doesn't run to you , he will lose you forever .

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! He walks in, does a double take, and just quietly says, “You haven’t changed. Still dramatic.” Your response? “Lars Alexanderson? You’re still alive?” ( you means it flirtatiously. He doesn’t smile, but his ears turn red.)

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! That night, you posts a twitter rant with the caption:

“Ran into my high school crush. He’s hotter. I’m doomed.” He doesn’t like the post. But the next day, she gets a text from an unknown number : [ Hey beautiful , Care for dinner? ] [ lee’s the one who told him to write that ] It’s so embarassing for him but boom! You’re now Lars Alexanderson Girlfriend! Thanks Lee , lmfao .

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! Lars isn’t loud about love. He doesn’t do grand speeches or dramatic gestures. But he’ll spend an hour walking through a mall just to find the exact pair of ruffled socks you mentioned once, offhand, two months ago. He’s like that.

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 ! Your room looks like a pastel bomb went off. His place? Clinical and gray. But when she starts spending nights there, he adds a second toothbrush, a velvet pillow in her favorite pink, and without saying anything , a shelf just for your makeup and accessories. Quiet invitations to stay longer.

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! He listens so well it’s almost eerie. You will mention liking a certain café, and the next week, he’ll “happen” to take you there. You will casually you wants a plush bear with a broken heart on it — he finds it, ships it, wraps it.

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! When you break down ( ugly cries dramatic rants, calling yourself “unlovable” or “too much” ) he stays. He holds you until your breathing slows. Wipes your mascara-streaked face with gentle hands. Tells you to be calm , “[Y/N] My love . No matter where you go , No matter what people think about yourself . You will always loved by me”

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! You ometimes wonders if he thinks you’re aesthetic is silly . All that black lace, the moody selfies, the way you clutches your bear during fights. But then he shows up one day with a tiny, custom pin : a cracked-heart emblem you once said it reminded you of yourself . And you realizes , he doesn’t just accept her world. He honors it.

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! Lars Alexanderson is a serious man. Strategic. Focused. Deadpan. So imagine the emotional whiplash when his girlfriend stomps into the room in full Jirai Kei gear, teary-eyed and yelling, “You didn’t like my post! DO YOU HATE ME??”

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! His response? “You posted it two minutes ago.” “So?? You should’ve been waiting!!”And then he opens Instagram, likes it silently, hands you a boba . Crisis averted.

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! He’s the king of weirdly romantic deadpan one-liners. She’s sobbing over an anime she rewatched for the 5th time, and he just goes, “You’re crying again. I kinda love that about you . You look cute” “SHUT UP LARS”

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! People stare when you both walk together . A dark-haired soldier type beside a girl in pink pigtails and lacy tights, carrying a plush knife-shaped purse . but neither of you both bother ,You really consider Lars as your bodyguard .

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! He has no clue what half her fashion terms mean. What’s a “larme?” , Why are there heart stickers on her bandages? He just nods and keeps buying her stuff from obscure online stores like he’s her personal stylist.

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 !! Once, you found a Jirai Kei hoodie folded neatly in his drawer . You tried it on. Inside the pocket? A note. In his handwriting:

“Just in case today feels too heavy. You don’t have to carry it alone.

. ꒷ 🍰 Some oneshot for closer!

You’re crying again.

Not the pretty kind , not the glassy-eyed pout you post on your story. This is the ugly kind. The chest-heaving, makeup-smudging, can’t-breathe kind.

Mascara stains the collar of your pink lace blouse, and your voice cracks when you snap, “If you didn’t want me anymore, you could’ve just said so.”

Lars says nothing. His eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable. You hate that about him , how calm he is, how collected. Like he doesn’t feel things the way you do.

“You didn’t reply to my texts,” you accuse, voice thinner now, but sharp.

“You always say you care, but then you disappear. What am I supposed to think?”

Still nothing.

He takes a slow step forward. Another. You don’t back away , you never do . Even when your pulse jumps in your throat. When his hands reach for you, you flinch first ,

“I was in a situation,” he says, voice low, hands warm on your waist. “Had to handle it. But I kept your message open. Read it three times. I just… couldn’t respond yet.”

Your lip wobbles.

That shouldn’t be enough —shouldn’t undo hours of spiraling, a page of sad poems in your Notes app, and an entire pint of strawberry mochi ice cream. But it is. Because it’s him. And he’s here.

You bury your face in his chest and breathe in the scent of clean cotton and gunmetal. His grip tightens around you like instinct.

“You always come back to me,” you mumble, voice muffled.

“I never left.”

Later, you’re in his lap, legs draped over his thighs, a black lace bow slipping from your hair. He’s tracing lazy patterns on your arm, eyes half-lidded, expression calm but unreadable — like he’s trying to memorize your skin.

“You think I’m too much,” you whisper. Not a question. A truth you've repeated to yourself a hundred times.

He shakes his head once. Then again, slower. “No,” he murmurs. “You’re loud about what you feel. And I’ve spent my life around people who buried theirs. You… make it real.”

You blink at him, stunned.

“I don’t need to be quiet,” he adds, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “I need to be honest. And that’s you.”

Suddenly , you felt his lips brushing on your temple . He kisses you before you can cry again. And this time, you taste like sugar and salt and maybe something a little like hope.

___ ★₊˚﹟’ Written by @livewithyura , Reblogs are appreciated .

[rouzuchan]

The Crush Culture

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈(𝐬): Todoroki Yosuke x Reader(ʏᴏᴜ/ʏᴏᴜʀ) 𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: oneshot, fluff 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: gender unspecified; todoroki being a S.I.M.P.

“Fuuuck.”

The only word running through Todoroki’s mind. They were either prolonged or short under his breath. His breath was labored, spending prior moments working out in his room, the dumbbell still within his hard grasp.

His forehead coated in thin sheets of sweat as beads fell from his damp hair. He snatched the nearby towel, roughly running the cloth on his sensitive skin while attempting to calm his rising pulse. 

“Fuck” He muttered again.

The time read 7:12 PM, already behind his routine. He’d spent the day as normal, but something about recent events had his presence somewhere else. 

Throwing the towel somewhere, he grabbed his phone. Inputting his passcode before clicking straight into his messages. 

The screen’s light illuminated his sharp features, his lips cracking into a smirk as he scrolled up into the message feed dating back from last week.

Damn. You just had to prance around his mind, huh?

Who knew getting dragged into his gang’s matchmaking rendezvous would lead him to now? He still remembered standing broody whilst everyone else chatted and danced around, light strobing and flashing in his eyes making him want to escape. 

In his silent ruminations, he was late to notice another suffering individual at his side, a little too uncomfortable in their skin. You were definitely in the same boat as him. 

And the rest was history. 

Because you lived on the other side of town (and went to an actual school), you both opted to text for weeks, promising to jump at any free time you guys had.

It was better than nothing, he thought.

Amid his floating, fluffy daydreams, a notification slid down from above the screen with a ding. His chest palpated when he read who the delivered message was from.

Hey, I’m heading downtown. Can’t sleep and I wanted to take a break from home :>

He bit inside his lip. Todoroki clicked on the message, sending him down to the very bottom of your chat room. His fingers hovered and deleted message after message, word after word. The chat bubbles danced for a while until he unintentionally pressed send. 

He lurched forward with wide eyes, reading his sent message.

Sure, ��   I’ll go shower rn

“Fuck!-- Nice going, Yosuke.” He breathed out, pinching the bridge of his nose as he dragged it down.

Another ring came from his phone, feeling his dread quickly pushed away as his throat banged as if he could choke his heart at any moment. 

He peeked over the screen. 

Haha, okay ^^ see u [NAME sent a location]

Seeing your lighthearted message, Todoroki released a breath he didn’t know he held. Crisis averted. Would you even mind? Did you get in the same situation as him some time ago? He kinda hoped so…

Brushing the embarrassment off, he got up and made his way to his shower, hoping to clear his muddled mind. 

After dressing up nicely, Todoroki walked down the cool and uncharacteristically quiet streets downtown. 

It only occurred to Todoroki that this would be your first time hanging out in person since the party. Hard to believe, sure, but with your schedules and his intent on never breathing a word about you to his gang, that insignificant time frame of one month suddenly became precious moments he’d never trade.

Todoroki shook his head, sighing as he curved the corner, hands stuffed in his leather pockets. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions. You were technically still acquaintances… Unless sending memes and funny cat videos were a sign of your affection— it was still too soon to call any shots unless this date– hang-out went well. 

What were you planning? You mentioned something about cafe dates being a go-to, but would cafes even allow caffeine during this time? What do they sell in cafes other than caffeine? Is there anything you’d like? 

“Over here!”

Todoroki raised his head and followed the voice, straight to you. Standing underneath the streetlight, you waved toward him. The fluorescent warmth made your features shine in the treacherous sea of strangers.

You didn’t look tired, or was that just the grin on your face? Todoroki couldn’t tell. He felt like he could drop all his worries now. You were there. Mere feet away.

Fuck… he was in deep. And as his body practically gravitated towards yours, Todoroki knew he wasn’t escaping from your fingers any time soon.

But, he’s honest with himself. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The midnight grind doesn't stop 🙌 /j but anyways... um, listen I don't know either. Words just... spat out... as always. Ugh, why can't I be this sappy on command!? (〃＞目＜) Being fr right now: That image with Todoroki working out has been eating me up, it's insane <(_ _ )> behold, the crew 😎🥂: @airbendertendou, @star2fishmeg, @straysugzhpe, @simpforchuchu, @strxwberrychocolate, @prodbyblush, @thatpoindexterpixy

[amethystina]

In chapter 5 of Who Holds the Devil, Ga On doesn't send Elijah a picture of Komi and he wakes up to several messages from her being worried. At this time, what do you think was going on in Switzerland? Because if she was stressing out about it, do you think she spoke to Yo Han or not, and if so, what would be his reaction to this?

Hope you can recover well!

She eventually spoke to Yo Han about it, yes, but it took a while before she got worried enough to do so. She's used to Ga On working late sometimes and so at first she figured her reminders would be enough. Which means she sent the majority of the messages you can read in the chapter before she even considered going to Yo Han.

And, by the time she did, it was mostly because she realised that it was so late in South Korea that Ga On might already have gone to bed, and he still hadn't contacted her. Which she felt was very unlike Ga On.

As for Yo Han's reaction, there is, unsurprisingly, quite a big difference between what he chooses to show Elijah and what he's feeling internally.

He'd be pretty flippant with Elijah, downplaying the severity of the situation, telling her that it's probably nothing to worry about. Maybe Ga On was busy with something and his phone ran out of batteries, so he didn't get her reminders? Or maybe he just forgot? Yo Han can come up with several very rational and logical explanations as to why Ga On didn't send Elijah any pictures.

Basically, Yo Han would try to calm her down by pretending it's no big deal. And tell her to at least wait until tomorrow before she starts freaking out

Internally, however?

He'd be worried, too.

Because no matter what he tells Elijah, Yo Han knows that Ga On wouldn't just forget a promise like that. Ga On cares too much about Elijah to disappoint her. So something must definitely have happened, Yo Han just doesn't know what. And while Yo Han is well aware that the explanation might be perfectly innocent, his mind would also start spinning towards worst-case scenarios — because that's how he works. He needs to be aware of the possibilities and, if need be, prepare for the worst.

And, somewhere around there, Yo Han would be frustrated that he can't track Ga On yet. He already decided that he wants to long before this, but this is one of those things that helps him decide that, yeah, he needs to give Ga On something he can track sooner rather than later so this won't happen again. Yo Han has no idea where Ga On is and it's making him antsy as hell.

The closest he can get is to text Lawyer Ko and ask if Ga On was at work that day. But even if Lawyer Ko says yes, that still leaves far too many possibilities. A lot could have happened to Ga On in the hours after he left work.

But Yo Han would tell Elijah none of this, of course — especially since the crisis is averted the very next day. Nor would Yo Han ever mention it to Ga On. It's just one of those things that stays inside Yo Han's head and influences his choices later, but is more or less invisible to everyone else. Perhaps not so surprisingly, there are a lot of those. As Ga On has pointed out: there's always a reason for the choices Yo Han makes. And, sometimes, the information he's basing that choice on was gathered weeks, months, or even years ago.

That man's brain never stops processing x'D

I hope that answers your question! :D

And thank you so much for the concern 💜 Unfortunately, I'm not feeling the best right now (neither mentally nor physically) but I know it's temporary so I'm just trying to wait it out :)

[doctorstrangereview]

0027: Strange Tales #135

Cover Date: August 1965 On-Sale Date: May 4, 1965

This month Strange Tales introduces its answer to James Bond. Sgt. Fury is recast as super-spy Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Doc is completely absent from the cover bar a tiny portrait in the corner box. I really miss those boxes. In this issue we get a nice amount of intrigue and back stabbing as Doc fully embraces his mission to find "Eternity".

Doc has gone to London to search for "Eternity". He's keeping vigilant this time as he smokes out a Mordo spy in the airport just after he's landed. After wiping the minion's memory, he travels to a castle on a foggy moor. The castle belongs to Sir Baskerville. So far there are no signs of any hounds. Doctor Strange's thought bubble identifies Sir Baskerville as a "former" disciple of Mordo until he met with an accident. The fact that he's Sir and not Lord means he's a pretty minor noble. I wonder if he has his Knight Grand Cross. It's a nice castle whatever the case.

A grey haired gentleman in a rather fine long smoking jack lets Doc in. We see the 'accident' left him with an injured hand that he keeps encased in something. Or did he lose it and this is capping the stump? We may never know, but he's still a proper English gentleman who offers Doc tea. Doc's like "Sorry dude. Got no time for that. Did you happen to hear of 'Eternity'?" "By golly, I believe I have! Let me go get that scroll for you."

Sir Baskerville with no hounds leaves Doc in front of the fireplace to contemplate his situation. Wisely, Doc thinks the situation out rather than his usual shouting out to all who can hear. Just a few stories ago, as Doc was vanishing to Shazana's and her nameless sister's realm, Doc recognized Dormie's voice. Here he thinks "if only I knew from whence Mordo's increased power has come!" which sounds to me like he hasn't a clue. The colors in this panel are delightfully moody.

We change scenes to the Dark Dimension where Dormie is steaming even more than usual. He's still worked up by someone mucking with his Mindless Ones barrier. Fortunately, his security is somewhat better than most magic users in this series. Using a round edition of the magic smoky flat panel TV, he replays the events around the barrier incident. I suppose being and absolute, supremely powerful dictator makes you a bit paranoid and you watch everything. He watches Clea steal the energy draining device and place it by the barrier. It looks like she's in Nightmare's realm instead of the Dark Dimension, but whatever. Of course, if he had truly effective security, Clea wouldn't have been able to steal the device in the first place. Dormie is pissed and does the equivalent of putting his fist through the TV and begins to carefully plot his vengeance. In a better show of continuity Clea wears the same outfit in the flashback as when she first seen stealing the device last issue.

Going back to Castle Baskerville, we find out Sir Baskerville is still in the thrall of Mordo. Whoa! Would have never suspected that! Sir Baskerville contacts Mordo mentally who dispatches Kaecilius to take care of things. Unlike previous teleportation, Mordo has to speak a spell to achieve it this time. Arriving, Kaecilius and Mordo's giant floating head yell at Sir Baskerville. He grabs a scroll and goes back to Doc. Sneaking up behind, Kaecilius/Mordo attacks. But, Doc is the tricky one this time! It was only an illusion of Doc which quickly fades. A suit of armor begins to move and Kaecilius/Mordo, attack it again and again, but it doesn't fall. Doc's trick #2! Running through a doorway, a hidden Doc clobbers Kaecilius, cutting off his contact with Mordo. There's something very satisfying about that panel.

Doc freezes Sir Baskerville and probes Kaecilius' mind, without consent, of course. Here he confirms that Mordo's secret partner in crime is Dormie. Continuity crisis averted!

While this is going on Mordo is dispatching his ninja minions. Before they can reach the castle, Doc finds out that Mordo promised to restore Sir's hand. Having some knowledge of this particular situation, Doc informs him it can't be done. Then, he actually says "You no longer interest me!" In a race against time Doc retrieves his cloak. This is what caused the armor to move and why the devastating force had no effect. He goes to the roof of the castle as the minions arrive. "You, ninja dudes, my mind to your mind my thoughts to your thoughts. Doc has gone to the netherworld. You should go there to." And the flee.

Mordo realizes something is wrong and goes to the castle himself as Doc flees. Realizing he's been outwitted, Mordo shakes his fist in the air in a classic "I'll get you next time!" moment.

I like this. Doc has a definitive victory against Mordo who clearly outclasses him in power. He achieved this through his wits. Doc is more than a magical blowhard. He's a cunning strategist. Outmanned and outgunned he can still come out on top. It's bittersweet. His mission to find "Eternity" is still a failure. The story moves the arc along at a sufficient, if not brisk pace. Pieces are set in place or have begun to move. Sir Baskerville will return in a number of years in a future story arc that is truly masterful. It will even include some familiar participants. From here to "Eternity," baby!

[mariacallous]

Had the great Maya Angelou been alive to witness Saturday’s climax of the omnishambolic dog’s breakfast of a misbegotten legislative process that took place in the U.S. House of Representatives, surely she would have said, “When a political party tells you over and over again that they have no higher priority than serving Vladimir Putin, believe them.”

Then, again, it didn’t take the genius of Ms. Angelou to get the message. At the critical moment at which they had one last chance to avert a government shutdown, when Republicans in the House were forced to abandon all of their legislative priorities but one, the one they chose to ditch was the vital U.S. aid to Ukraine. In so doing, they sent the world an unmistakable signal once again that the first and guiding loyalty of Donald Trump’s GOP is as it always has been to the Kremlin.

Other messages were sent as well by the week of cringeworthy drama that was to the floor of the House as an untrained puppy would be to the floor of its new home.

Had James Madison, Alexander Hamilton or John Jay been watching, they surely would’ve been compelled to write a new Federalist Paper, likely entitled “On Legislative Clusterfuckery.” Kevin McCarthy, the ragdoll Speaker of the House, was toyed with and tormented by a MAGA alliance that appeared to be made up from a group of particularly inept extras from the movie “Idiocracy.” Neither principles, ideals, nor any sense of responsibility made an appearance during the prolonged floor fight.

Matt Gaetz, the chief tormentor, evoked Shakespeare. But not in a good way. He was more in the sort of character described by Macbeth when he spoke of “an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Gaetz and his misfit supporting cast, including Marjorie Taylor Greene, threatened to oust McCarthy if he did not meet their demand that he break the deal he had made months ago with President Biden to avoid the last government financial crisis. They wanted cuts to critical social programs including child care, Head Start, Meals on Wheels, law enforcement, housing and more. They wanted to cut the salaries of senior officials including Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin. And they seemed willing to throw millions of government employees—including the military, the Border Patrol, the IRS, administrators of aid programs and others—out of work, thus harming the lives of tens of millions more Americans.

But they also knew that every recent past government shutdown—and all were the handiwork of Republican House majorities—backfired on its authors. And so, just as many had given up hope and every agency of the U.S. government was making plans for a government shutdown that would have begun at midnight of Oct. 1, McCarthy agreed to put forward a so-called “clean” Continuing Resolution that would extend funding for government programs until Nov. 17 of this year. They continued funding at prior levels. They even included funding for disaster assistance and cut a pay boost the House GOP was trying to give itself despite their reckless disregard for their responsibilities.

But something had to be given to the far right. The GOP needed some concession to make it seem as though their childish games had all been worth it. What did they choose? What was the one thing they said would be the last hill they would die on, the one issue so important to them that they would turn out the lights of the U.S. government to defend their position? It was to defund Ukraine aid. It was to settle for, in the words of progressive commentator Josh Marshall, “one sloppy kiss with Vladimir Putin.”

The message that it sent to the world was unmistakable. Economist Timothy Ash tweeted, “Staggering that the GOP, the party of Reagan, has been captured by Russian fascists.”

French writer and philosopher Bernard-Henri Levy wrote that U.S. aid to Ukraine should not be politicized, saying “it is about freedom and democracy, good over evil, right over wrong. Support for Ukraine is essential for the entire free world.”

Yale history professor Timothy Snyder wrote, “Cutting off Ukraine aid makes America unreliable, weakens the cause of democracy, threatens the international legal order, encourages tyrants around the world, and hastens Chinese aggression.”

Liz Cheney, one of the last Republicans with a conscience still standing, pointedly noted that the decision by the MAGA GOP to deny Ukraine funding came on the 85th anniversary of Neville Chamberlain’s 1938 “peace in our time” speech.

It was an apt point. Just as Hitler saw Chamberlain’s weakness as the opening he was looking for, surely Vladimir Putin saw the GOP message for what it was, encouragement for his aggression and his war crimes from the Party of Trump, a clear signal that all he would have to do was wait until the next election cycle and if they won, a GOP-led U.S. would abandon Ukraine, our allies in Europe, and reward Putin’s brutality by extending his reach ever more deeply into the heart of Europe.

Democrats and a handful of more moderate Republicans promised in the wake of the deal that they would seek and expected to get a new supplemental bill that would ensure Ukraine aid continued to be funded.

Let us all hope they are successful and it passes. But the damage has been done. The Putin wing of the GOP and all those who have enabled them made it crystal clear that of all their dangerous priorities, the most important was to strengthen America’s enemies, weaken our allies, and to put democracy at risk overseas just as they are doing here at home.

Nobody is cheering the last-minute deal to keep the government open that cleared the House and then, late Saturday, the Senate. McCarthy, seen as weak before, is seen as even more spineless and at risk than he was. The reprieve that was won is only temporary. The future is uncertain. While the Biden administration and Democrats handled this as well as possible, it is clear that getting anything done in Congress will be very difficult. And while the lunatics from the GOP’s MAGA ward may have temporarily gained control of the congressional asylum, they damaged their tattered reputations even further by achieving not a single solitary thing for any of their supporters—any that is, except their cackling Russian patron whose Bond villain laughter from deep within his bunker home could be heard round the world by all who understand the menace and his Trumpist supporters represent.

[pearl484-blog]

Deleted Scene: Chloe is Ladybug?!

This scene is from Replay, depicting Blue talking to Nox after Nox comes to him despondent. Originally, it was going to be a set up to an explanation of the glamour in-story, however, it has been replaced by a shorter version. We worked hard on it though, so here is the original for your enjoyment

“What happened? What’s going on?” Blue asked. Had something happened? Had someone died? 

“I can’t believe it,” Nox despaired. “Chloe’s Ladybug.” Blue bit back a scream. This was what Nox had woken him for?

“Oh, really?” Blue asked. “Chloe is Ladybug?” If this was some kind of joke, it had horrible timing. Although he had to admit, the acting tips he was giving to Nox seemed to really be paying off. Blue was almost convinced that Nox was upset.

And then,  Nox looked at Blue sadly and nodded, “Alya confirmed it. She found her suit in her locker.” 

Blue snorted. Wow, his counterpart was committed to this. “Really?” Blue asked. “She had her magical suit in her locker?”

Nox nodded sadly and then cried, “And then, Chloe got Alya got expelled! How could I have fallen in love with Chloe?”

Oh God. Blue realized. This wasn’t a joke. 

“Okay,” Blue said, sighing as he realized he was going have to break the very obvious truth to his counterpart. “Will you humor me a second?” Nox nodded. 

Blue decided to go with an easy one. “What color is Ladybug’s hair?”

“It’s dark as night,” Nox answered, a bit poetically, but Blue would accept it. 

“And what color is Chloe’s hair?” Blue asked.

“Blonde,” Nox answered, rolling his eyes at such a ridiculous question. Blue waited for his other self to realize his mistake, but instead Nox continued by gushing, “It’s so clever of Chloe to change her hair while she’s in costume. No one will realize it’s her.”

Nox sighed. Okay, he had walked into that one. He’d been the one to tell Nox that some heroes dyed their hair, so maybe he just extended that to Chloe. Nox decided to try again. 

“Okay, well how about this? You know how Chloe is, spoiled, bratty, and a bit demanding? And that’s just around us, you’ve seen her around other people. She’s like a mean girl straight out of a high school show. Do you really think that Ladybug would act like that?”

 Nox gasped, and Blue applauded himself on the crisis averted, before Nox said, “I knew she was faking the mean girl act. It’s genius.” Blue felt the smile fall from his face as Nox continued, “Wow. I almost believed it myself, and we’ve been friends forever. She’s an amazing actor.” 

Blue was stunned at Nox’s amazing thickheadedness and had to think for a moment. What on Earth could possibly be undeniable, indisputable proof that Ladybug and Chloe were not the same person. Then, in a flash of inspiration, he had it. 

“Didn’t Ladybug save Chloe from Stoneheart less than a month ago?”

Nox paused for a minute, and Blue watched the gears in his counterpart’s head turn, and then. 

“I can’t believe it,” Nox moaned. “Chloe is Ladybug!” Blue watched incredulously as Nox went through the same spiel about Alya finding it out that he had done less than 5 minutes ago. 

At this point, Blue wasn’t really sure what he could do. Clearly Nox was convinced that Chloe was Ladybug, despite all the evidence saying otherwise, but it also seemed like maybe he was having memory problems, or brainwashing?

Cautiously, Blue had Archie carefully start exploring Nox’s head for any sore spots, and Blue kept a careful ear out for any winces or complaints. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Nox had a concussion, but Blue figured it couldn’t hurt to know. 

But before Blue could finish, the Adriens’ phone started playing a demand from Lady Wifi. Apparently, being suspended caused people to get upset. Who’d have thunk?  

Without a word, Nox brushed Archie off and transformed, racing off to face Lady Wifi. And although Blue tried to stay awake to keep an eye on his possibly concussed counterpart, in the end, his attempts were for naught and he was dragged back into the realm of sleep. ~*~

Thankfully, Chat did manage to defeat Lady Wifi on his own, and much to the superhero’s delight, he’d also managed to get to lay in Ladybug’s lap and snuggle her, after he nearly died of hypothermia. He’d been so excited about the feeling of safety and concern that Ladybug had for him. It made Argos try to remember when the last time he’d felt that Ladybug had been for himself. He wasn’t sure when it was, honestly, but it couldn’t have been too long ago. 

Even more surprising though, had been Plagg’s complaining about Chat Noir passing up the opportunity to look at Ladybug that day. Plagg had complained over and over that they could’ve solved all of Adrien’s problems with just one peek, but Nox seemed resolute that he should not do that, albeit he didn’t seem to quite understand why he’d felt such a strong need to just leave her be.

The entire fiasco seemed so bizarre to Blue. Ladybug had trusted him enough to detransform in front of him a number of times. Everytime, he’d never been so much as tempted to open his eyes. Perhaps it was just how often it had happened, but the idea that Ladybug had been standing a few feet in front of him de-transformed wasn’t a big deal to Blue anymore.  

Honestly, though, the thing that mattered most to Blue is that he’d finally gotten the notion that Ladybug was not Chloe out of his head. Apparently, what had really been helpful was seeing the two of them together. Not just reminding Nox of when the two were together, but an actual moment for him to look at them side by side to re-evaluate. God, he had been such an idiot.

Of course, when he complained about Nox had been, Nox had been thoroughly confused, and Plagg had just laughed it off as people being so oblivious sometimes. And so Blue sat and stewed. Now, Blue knew he had been naive in the past, but he refused to believe that he’d been that bad. Plus, Nox had been acting very weird. 

So, of course, during his next appointment with Master Fu, he asked if they could check Nox as well. 

Master Fu raised an eyebrow, and in a carefully measured voice, asked, “And why do you think we should check your other self?”

And so, Blue explained everything, detailing how strangely Nox had been acting and his apparent amnesia near the end. 

Unconcerned, Fu simply said, “I wouldn’t worry about that. As a wielder of the Miraculous, you, Chat Noir, and Ladybug all have a special magical protection designed to prevent others from seeing through your disguises. It’s not foolproof,” Fu said sternly, as if in warning. “But it is a nice bit of protection.” Master Fu stroked his beard in contemplation. 

“It is unusual to see anyone affected so strongly by a glamour though, especially a wielder. Perhaps the city itself has made everyone a bit less immune,” he mused. “It will certainly make finding Hawk Moth harder.”

Blue sighed. Wasn’t that the truth? If this protection extended to all Miraculous wielders then he’d be dealing with a city that might even be able to watch Hawk Moth transform right in front of them, and not notice.  ~*~ Later:

Plagg laughs and says that you could dress up a mannikin in a ladybug suit and throw a red wig on it, and everyone would be convinced that it was her.

Blue says that Plagg is exaggerating. Plagg smugly asks “Wanna bet?” Blue laughs and says that it can’t possibly be that hard to get a manikin and a red wig. In the end, the manikin did fool the class, although it didn’t fool Alya after it was painted green. As a matter of fact, an inflatable Ladybug, gnome dressed like a ladybug, and a hand puppet all fooled the class. The lawn flamingo dressed like ladybug needed a little convincing, and the Ladybug cake didn’t fly for a minute, but throughout the next two weeks, both Blue and Plagg had a heck of a time coming up with new ways to test the glamour, somehow missing the dirty looks given to him by one Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

[lover-of-mine]

Anna!! Just wanted to come here to, one, say hi, and two, tell you I'm so sorry about your computer. Even if it's kinda working already, it was still something that upset you, so hopefully you're feeling better and it doesn't happen again in the nearest (or furthest, really) future.

Thank you for all the sets you always do. Whether it's the countdown, or another kind, it's always good to see you on the dashboard. 🩵🩵🩵

Hi darling 🩷 I did get it to work now, but the thing was way more frustrating because this is the sixth time (I think it's the sixth it might've been more but there was a period there where multiple things stopped working in quick succession that I just count as one time lol) that it stopped working in like, a year and half, and I have a bachelor in comp sci so I use my computer a lot (it stopped working the first time when I was working on my thesis and I legit cried for an hour straight lol) and every time it gives up on me it gets more frustrating, specially because the thing that stopped working now was the power source and I got it not six months ago because the old one caught on fire, so to have the same issues again made me a bit irrationally upset about it, because a new one would take up to 2 weeks to get here, but my dad managed to fix it and it got it to work so that crisis was averted, just not before I lost it a little bit tho.

But thank you, I really like making the sets, and it makes me really happy that you like seeing them 🩷🩷🩷

[totaldramafan-lauri]

*falls over*

DONE.

I GOT THROUGH IT. IT'S OVER, IT'S DONE, I'M GRINNING SOOOO WIDE LIKE AN IDIOT AND I WAS GIGGLING FOR LIKE FIVE MINUTES STRAIGHT >////////<

Sh-she didn't do the voice THAT much, but she did bring it out JUST enough to get me to freak out, hhhhhhhhh......Th-the part about channeling her to get a lotto ticket and her peeking out to say "Give it to me!" I WAS CHOKING I COULDN'T BREATHE- A-and the funny part is, that usually, Golden Cheese's regular voice doesn't make me flip out that much anymore! I love her voice, but i-it's usually only when she speaks in certain tones (softening and/or lowering it, of course) when I react this strongly.....Th-that wasn't heard here! It was just her normal tone, and I'M STILL! FLIPPING! OUT! X///////D

I-I think part of the reason is that words can't describe how ecstatic I am that Ms. Uribe loves voicing her so much, and seems so cool with the fans....! I-I was LEGIT worried this'd be awkward.....cuz, again, there was a stream just like this last year that she wasn't in! She could've easily shown up to that one (Mozzarella and Fettuccine's VAs did), but she didn't! C-combine that with how she'd done little to no promotion of CRK on her social medias, AND that she's not primarily a voice actor to begin with (she's an actor actor) and it just appeared like she was a private person who wasn't ready to interact with a fandom as intense as this.....and I am SOOOOOOO SO SO SO SO HAPPY I WAS WRONG! SHE EVEN ACKNOWLEDGED THAT GOLDEN CHEESE CAN BE "SEXY" IN FANART HHHHHHHHHHH??!?!!?!?!? I-I can breathe ALL the sighs of relief now! I-I'm good! Crisis averted! X////D

I-I keep thinking back to that one time I tuned in to a Streamily signing for this one CRK VA of one of my fav characters a couple years ago, and....I-I won't say who it was, but....He acted like he barely remembered the role at all, and only talked about "lol I voiced a cookie, isn't that cool".....when his character was literally one of the most important and developed in the game even back then, and.....I-I couldn't sit through that, it was so awkward....I-I don't hate him for it, cuz these stories are recorded months in advance and he's busy, but....I-I much prefer when I can tell how much a VA loves their character and remembers the story, cuz it makes me feel better about how into voices I can get......y'know?

I-I'm so, so happy I can relax now....I-I wanna listen back to it, but I gotta finish the rest of the stream first. X//////D O-oh, and I'll......I'll do the thing, too......I-I just gotta think of the right quote to request on it! I-I have, like....a short list in my head right now, just gotta narrow it down....>///////<

[cdyssey]

Barbara and Melissa - microprompt: you scared me

Well, I said a 500 word maximum, but then I kept going gdi HSIOHSIOOA. l’m going to get better at this, I swear.

CW: Minor Pregnancy Complications

AO3 Link

—

“You scared me,” Melissa says as she gently drapes the damp rag against Barbara’s clammy forehead.

They’re in the nurse’s office, the lights comfortably dimmed, and Barbara is stretched out on the slightly raised cot, holding the heavily rounded curve of her belly. She’s over eight months pregnant to the date and feels every microsecond of it—swollen and tired and so sick all the damn time.

It hadn’t been like this with Taylor, whom she had carried as easily as a summer’s breeze a little over six years ago now.

But her baby—Gina, they want to eventually call her—has been terribly hard on her body, from the first trimester of constant morning sickness to now, weeks and horrible weeks down the line, when she can barely bend down to pick up a stray crayon. This is what she’d been trying to do anyway before her surroundings had started to blur around the edges, darkness encroaching upon her vision like a fade to black at the end of a movie.

“Go get Mrs. Schemmenti,” she’d just been able to gasp as she managed to lower herself to the ground, and one of her children—(she isn’t sure who)—capably did.

And then—within what only felt like seconds to her, though it was surely much longer than that—there was Melissa, calm, reassuring, and so totally in control, kneeling next to her head and consoling the crying and frightened kindergarteners swarming all around them. Shhh. Mrs. Howard’ll be okay. Don’t worry, kiddos. The nurse is comin’.

And when Barbara herself could not speak, her tongue leaden inside her mouth, tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, terror radiating through her entire nervous system. 

But Melissa, exceedingly soft, haloed by the harsh fluorescent overheads above her, only tenderly thumbed them away.

“That goes for you too, Barb,” she’d said, grinning crookedly, as though they were just having another one of their early morning chats. There was nothing of fear in her eyes. There was only love. “You don’t have to worry. I’m here now.”

It had been more than a promise.

It had been a Melissa Schemmenti guarantee.

Fifteen minutes after the fact, though—as they wait for Gerald to arrive to take her to the hospital for a check-up—here the same woman is, finally admitting to having been scared despite all the incredible composure she had shown just moments before. Barbara, who had been staring at a random stain on the ceiling—deeply uncomfortable with being fussed over—slowly tilts her head to the left, where Melissa is standing over her.

Hovering.

Her own personal savior.

“You heard the nurse,” Barbara says hoarsely, her mouth cavernous and unbearably dry. “She just thinks my blood pressure may have bottomed out."

She bites her lower lip at this.

In her defense, it had sounded much better in her head.

"God," Melissa snorts darkly, now smoothing the threadbare blanket that had been loosely thrown across her legs, now shifting her weight from boot-to-boot. "Y'say that like it’s supposed to be a consolation..."

It seems that with the immediate crisis being over, the younger teacher's usual restlessness has returned. She fidgets. She looks at Barbara. She just as quickly glances away. But she can never seem to help herself in the end, her darkly lashed eyes always returning to the perfect roundness of Barbara's belly with an inscrutable expression.

Barbara averts her own gaze then.

She knows that pregnancy is a difficult subject for Melissa.

"My dear husband will be happy," she sighs bitterly, finding her ceiling stain again. (She idly wonders why it looks a little too much like crusted blood.) "They'll likely put me on bedrest after this."

As excited as she is to meet the newest member of her family, she dreads the isolation of the next month—sitting at home with nothing to do all day except watch TV, being unable to stay on her feet for very long, counting down the interminable minutes on the grandfather clock in the living room, feeling like a stranger in her own body...

She'll miss her kids—devastated that she won't get to read to them and play with them and work with them on their shapes and numbers for at least three months, if not longer.

She won't know what to do with herself in the absence of Melissa.

Even though they've only known each other for five years now, it's felt like an entire lifetime and then some.

"Your work wife'll be happy too," Melissa chortles, placing a palm over her knuckles. Barbara inadvertently shivers when their wedding rings clink—one ornate and carefully chosen, one randomly bought from that sketchy pawn shop off 7th Street.

"You're gonna go, have the most kickass baby ever, and rest your tired body for a while," she continues, now running her thumb across the side of Barbara's hand. "And then, when you're ready... you'll come back to me, and I'll have your chair in the break room all ready for ya and everything."

Barbara swallows thickly, moved by this image, so perfectly touched. Home is at her little house with Gerald and their soon-to-be two beautiful daughters—sure, yes, absolutely. But somewhere, in the last couple of years, home has also become a certain round table in the teacher's lounge, where there is room enough for only two.

"Promise?" She hates how desperate that she sounds, clinging to this barest morsel of normality like it's a lifeline.

But Melissa doesn't judge; Melissa has never judged her; she's a saint like that; her recurring joke is that she's God's favorite sinner.

"I guarantee it," she smirks, playful and perpetually teasing, though she is nothing but solemnity, all tenderness, when she lightly squeezes Barbara's hand.