#sometimes that isn’t even a metaphor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anghimalaaynasapuso · 5 months ago

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DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

#könig #könig call of duty #könig x reader #call of duty #x reader #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #cod x y/n #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig x reader #konig cod #konig call of duty #konig mw2 #konig x you #konig x y/n #📌 könig

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felrott · 2 years ago

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I’m still raw dogging the destiel archive btw, it feels kind of like wading through mud if I’m honest

#I’m wading #I’m searching blindly for good or something #and occasionally find it and it’s worth it bc I dunno it’s just shinier #where is this metaphor even going #anyway sometimes I find gold #sometimes I trip and drown on muddy water for 3-10 chapters before I realise what I’m reading isn’t going to get good #and then I come up for air and chug from my wincest thermos and Wade on #what am I even typing rn #I typoed ages ago when I said good I meant gold but like fuck am I typing out this nonsense again

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vatelixx · 8 months ago

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The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone).

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid smut #sub spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid #giving him the happiness he deserved #he is my roman empire #his excess trauma is also #my #roman empire #thank u and good night america #i’m not even american

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cressidagrey · 1 month ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 33: September 2024 - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was quiet, soft. A low hum of air-conditioning filled the silence between words, the kind of ambient white noise that Belle had grown to find oddly comforting. She sat cross-legged on the couch, a mug of chamomile tea cooling in her hands. Simone, always calm, always precise, watched her with an expression that never pushed—but always invited.

“I think it’s… better,” Belle said slowly. “Not fixed. Not even close. But better.”

Simone nodded. “What feels better?”

Belle thought for a moment. “Arthur’s been texting more. Charles and Lorenzo send me links to baby things they think I’ll like. Nothing huge. Just... consistent. Like they’re trying.”

“And how does that feel?”

“Confusing,” Belle said honestly. “Nice, sometimes. Other times I want to scream. But I’m not… shutting them out. Not completely.”

Simone’s gaze softened. “That’s progress.”

“Yeah.” Belle gave a wry smile. “It’s baby steps. My mother sends me articles about parenting now. Like I haven’t already read everything the internet has to offer. But she’s trying.”

“And how does it feel when he does?”

“Complicated,” Belle admitted. “It makes me happy, but it also makes me angry, like—where was this five years ago? Where was this when I needed it?”

Simone nodded once, acknowledging the contradiction without judgment. “You’re allowed to feel both. One doesn’t cancel out the other.”

“I know.” Belle paused. “But I think… I want to keep the door open. Just a little.”

“That sounds brave.”

Belle gave a dry laugh. “It sounds terrifying.”

Simone tilted her head. “Would it help if you had more control over how you let them in?”

Belle looked up. “What do you mean?”

Simone set her notebook gently aside. “What if you invited them to something low-stakes? Something where they’re part of your world, but not the center of it. Somewhere you can set the tone, and where other people are around. Like a buffer.”

Belle blinked. “Like what?”

Simone smiled lightly. “You mentioned Max’s birthday. That you’re planning to decorate the nursery that weekend?”

“Yeah…” Belle’s voice trailed off as the thought formed. “We were going to build the shelves and hang the prints. Nothing fancy. Just… make it feel real.”

“What if you invited your family to be part of that?” Simone asked gently. “Not the whole day. Not a big deal. Just… included.”

Belle was quiet for a moment. “It wouldn’t be about them.”

“Exactly,” Simone said. “It’s about you. Your space. Your child. But it could be a way to let them step into that gently. On your terms.”

“And if it’s awful, I can make Max tell them to leave,” Belle muttered.

Simone smiled. “You’re not alone anymore. That’s the difference.”

Belle stared down into her tea. The idea sat heavily—but not painfully.

Maybe it wasn’t a reconciliation. Maybe it wasn’t forgiveness.

Maybe it was just… the next step.

“Okay,” Belle said softly. “Maybe I’ll ask them.”

Simone nodded, kind and steady. “Only if you want to. You don’t owe anyone a seat in your story. But if you want to hand them a folding chair—they’ll know where to find it.”

Belle snorted. “God, that’s such a therapist metaphor.”

“And yet,” Simone said, eyes twinkling, “you got it immediately.”

Belle smiled, small and tired and real. “I did.”

***

The fan hummed softly overhead. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the night air in, and Belle was half-curled on her side, head resting on Max’s chest, her fingers absently tracing the edge of his shirt.

They were supposed to be asleep. But the baby had kicked just hard enough to startle Belle, and now sleep felt like a distant thought.

“Do you want to keep talking names?” Max asked quietly, not pushing, just offering.

Belle didn’t answer right away. Her fingers paused, then started again. “Maybe.”

Max waited.

“I’ve been thinking about middle names,” she said eventually. “And… I don’t know. I’m stuck.”

“Too many options?” he asked, brushing his hand along her spine.

She shook her head. “Just one. That I keep coming back to.”

Max was quiet, letting her shape the words however she needed to.

“My father’s name,” Belle said softly. “Hervé.”

He didn’t react. Just shifted a little so he could see her face better. “Okay.”

“There’s this… expectation,” she continued. “I haven’t said anything to anyone, but I know. My family will assume we’ll use it. Especially because we are having a boy. It’ll be this unspoken thing that I’m supposed to do.”

Max ran his thumb gently along her arm. “Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet again. “I don’t know.”

And that was the honest truth.

“I loved him,” she said, her voice rough now. “He died when I was nineteen. There’s a part of me that still misses him every day.”

Max’s eyes softened. “I know.”

“But he also…” She swallowed. “He sold Blanche.”

Belle let out a breath. “Sold her. My horse. My best friend. Just—gone. For karting tires. For Charles. And I know it was to help the family, and I know he thought he was doing the right thing. But he never even told me. He didn’t say goodbye. I came home and the stable was just… empty.”

Max didn’t try to fix it. He just leaned in a little, one arm brushing hers. Letting her feel him there.

“So now,” she said, throat tight, “I think of giving our child his name, and there’s this voice in my head saying, you should. That it’s the right thing. That I’ll be ungrateful if I don’t. That everyone will judge me.”

Max reached for her hand and wrapped it gently in his.

“But then,” Belle whispered, “there’s this other part of me that still feels like that girl. Standing in that empty stable. Wondering why I wasn’t enough to keep.”

Silence bloomed between them. Not heavy. Not cold. Just true.

After a moment, Max spoke, voice low but certain. “You don’t owe anyone that name.”

“I know,” she said. “But part of me still wants to give it to the baby. Because he was my dad. Because I did love him. Because it wasn’t all bad.”

She turned to look at Max. “Is that stupid?”

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s not stupid. It’s human. He mattered to you. It’s okay that it’s complicated.”

Belle’s eyes glistened. “What if people think I’m being selfish for not using it?”

Max shifted closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Then let them think it. This isn’t about them. It’s about what feels right to you. To us.”

She leaned into him slightly, comforted by the certainty in his voice.

“And Belle,” he added, voice gentler now, “you know Charles or Arthur or maybe even Lorenzo will use the name. One of them will. Hervé will live on, one way or another.”

Belle turned slightly toward him.

“And maybe they should,” Max continued. “Because he had a different meaning to them. Because Hervé was their father too. And that’s their grief to carry, their memory to honor.”

Belle gave a small, tearful laugh. “Arthur will probably make it the kid’s first name and then forget to tell anyone.”

Max smiled. “Exactly. So you don’t have to carry that weight for them. Not this time.”

She nodded, silent again. But this time, it felt less like drowning in indecision and more like finding breath.

He squeezed her hand. “This is our child. And this name? This is yours to choose. Not for tradition. Not for guilt. For love.”

Belle blinked back tears she hadn’t meant to let fall.

Max smiled softly. “If you want to use Hervé, we can. But it doesn’t have to be this time. Or ever. Our baby won’t love you less. He won’t even know unless you choose to tell him.”

Belle exhaled shakily and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Can we just… sit on it for a while?”

“For as long as you want,” Max said. “We’ve got time.”

Belle stayed curled against him, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. One of his hands had settled over the curve of her belly again, warm and grounding. She didn’t want to break the moment—but she also didn’t want to hold it in anymore.

“There’s something else,” she said quietly.

Max shifted just enough to show he was listening.

“I saw Simone yesterday.”

“Yeah?” he murmured. “How was it?”

“Good,” Belle said. Then, after a pause: “Hard. But good.”

Max waited.

“She brought something up. Something I haven’t stopped thinking about since.”

Max hummed softly, encouragement in sound form.

“She suggested… maybe I invite my family to help with the nursery. On your birthday.”

Max blinked. “Oh.”

“I know that’s not what we planned,” Belle rushed to say. “And it’s totally okay if you don’t want to. Or if it feels like too much. I just—Simone said it might be easier if I let them come when it’s not just about me. When it’s already a full day. Less pressure. Less expectation. More people around.”

She lifted her head slightly to look at him. “Would that be okay?”

Max was quiet for a moment. Not because he was upset—Belle knew his silences now. This one was full of thought, not hesitation.

“I don’t care what my birthday looks like,” he said softly. “As long as you’re okay. If this helps you… if this makes it easier to let them in, even just a little—I’m all for it.”

Belle’s brows knit, uncertain. “Are you sure?”

Max reached up and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m sure.”

She searched his face for any sign of discomfort. There was none.

“I just…” She took a breath. “I don’t want it to become a whole thing. Like—‘we’re all fine now,’ or ‘look how close we are again.’ I’m not there. I’m not even close.”

“You don’t have to be,” Max said. “It doesn’t have to be anything more than a few hours of paint and furniture and wallpaper. If anyone tries to turn it into a redemption arc, I’ll lock them in the garage with Christian.”

Belle laughed wetly, wiping her eyes.

“Let them come,” Max said, gently. “Let them hold a paintbrush and hang some shelves and exist in a space that you created. That we’re building for our son.”

She exhaled slowly, like letting something heavy slide from her shoulders.

“And if at any point it’s too much,” Max added, “just say the word. I’ll fake a plumbing emergency.”

Belle snorted. “A plumbing emergency in a newly built Monaco penthouse?”

He grinned. “I’m very committed to the bit.”

She rested her forehead against his. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me have it both ways,” she said softly. “For letting me try.”

Max’s voice dropped, rough with affection. “I always will.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: you’re coming to my birthday next weekend don’t make a face we’re decorating the nursery

Lando: oh thank god i thought you were about to make me wear a button-down and socialize

Max: no button-down just emotional labor and assembling IKEA furniture

Lando: so… worse

Max: also the Leclerc brothers will be there all of them

Lando: MAX NO no no no no no i’m not sitting through Arthur quoting Pinterest at us and Charles making emotionally repressed noises

Max: that’s why i’m texting you i’m not sitting through that alone you’re my support gremlin

Lando: i hate it here

Max: bring a drill and snacks or just stand near me and make fun of Arthur under your breath either works

Lando: i had plans that day

Max: do you even know what day it is

Lando: not the point

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Emilie Abadie

Lando: MAX IS MAKING ME GO TO HIS BIRTHDAY NURSERY BUILDING CHAOS THING

Emilie: yes. we are going.

Lando: WHAT WE??

Emilie: yes. You’re not getting out of it. I already RSVP’d for us when Belle mentioned it

Lando: this feels like betrayal

Emilie: it’s community support and if i have to be in the same room as Charles, i’m not doing it alone

Lando: but i was going to play FIFA and ignore my feelings

Emilie: congratulations. now you’ll be building a changing table and confronting emotional growth instead

Lando: i’m calling HR

Emilie: HR said bring cupcakes

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Max Verstappen

Lando: we’re coming emilie sold me out

Max: excellent i’ll save you a paint roller

Lando: i hope the baby grows up to be a McLaren fan out of sheer spite

***

Group Chat: WHAT IS HAPPENING

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: i need backup this is an emergency

Oscar: hello to you too

Daniel: what did you do now

Lando: MAX invited me to his birthday which is also apparently a nursery decorating session AND THE LECLERCS WILL BE THERE plural. brothers. full trio. mother. no escape

Oscar: so what you’re saying is you’re being forced to be emotionally supportive and also use a screwdriver

Lando: YES emilie said we’re going i didn’t even have a say i was mid toast when she RSVP’d for both of us

Daniel: mate that sounds like a you problem i’m in australia 8,000 miles away UNREACHABLE

Lando: that’s cowardice

Daniel: that’s geography 😌

Lando: oscar please don’t leave me alone with a roll of painter’s tape and charles leclerc talking about childhood trauma

Oscar: unfortunately i have a prior engagement

Lando: you don’t even know what day it is

Oscar: still. engagement confirmed. cannot cancel.

Daniel: i hope they make you do the stenciling

Oscar: i hope you get stuck between Arthur and Jos in a very small room

Lando: i hate both of you i want that on record

Daniel: duly noted, now post pictures of you holding a baby onesie and pretending to care

Oscar: bonus points if you cry during the wallpaper reveal

Lando: this is abuse

Daniel: this is family ❤️

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Lily Zneimer

Lando: Lily. Light of Oscar’s life. i need your help.

Lily: what did he do now

Lando: MAX invited us to his birthday slash nursery decorating emotional ambush oscar said he had “a prior engagement” please tell me that’s fake. PLEASE.

Lily: excuse me??? this is the first i’m hearing of it

Lando: I KNEW IT he’s trying to abandon me with a paint roller and charles leclerc’s unresolved childhood trauma

Lily: he said nothing about this we are absolutely going

Lando: thank god you’re my favorite

Lily: i am texting him right now “prior engagement” my ass the engagement is with Belle’s wallpaper

Lando: can i stand next to you the whole time

Lily: yes but only if you bring cupcakes and stop calling it an emotional ambush

Lando: i make no promises

***

Text Messages: Lily Zneimer & Oscar Piastri

Lily: “prior engagement” ??? MAX’S NURSERY DAY IS NEXT WEEKEND AND YOU LIED

Oscar: i didn’t lie i deflected

Lily: we’re going. you’re painting something. lando is emotionally fragile. you are not abandoning him.

Oscar: i regret all of my life choices

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Lando Norris

Oscar:I hate you.

Oscar:Lily said i have to help you emotionally regulate during baby-themed social situations

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Belle: Hi everyone— I wanted to let you know that we’re doing some nursery decorating on Max’s birthday. Nothing formal, just paint and furniture and probably chaos. We’ll be at the house all day. If anyone wants to come by and help, you’re welcome.

Belle: No pressure. But… if you want to be part of this, this is a good place to start.

Arthur: i’ll be there!! do i need to bring snacks??

Charles: Thank you for inviting us We’d love to help

Lorenzo: Do you need tools? Or wine?

Belle: both, probably

Pascale: Thank you, ma chérie. I’d love to come. Let me know what you need.

Belle:Just… bring yourselves. And maybe don’t wear white.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: just a heads up the entire Leclerc family might be at the house next weekend

Victoria: wait what like… the Leclerc family?

Max: all of them Belle invited them to help with the nursery on my birthday painting. furniture. emotional tension. the works.

Victoria: so… you’re telling me that i need to bring snacks, patience, and a fully charged phone for live updates

Max: absolutely arthur’s already trying to bring snacks so we’ll see how that goes

Max: i’m just warning you there will be wallpaper there will be feelings there may be passive-aggressive screwdriver moments

Victoria: i’m bringing wine and wearing black in case we need to mourn the concept of boundaries

Max: smart also maybe stay near belle just in case she needs backup

Victoria: always

Max: she’s trying so hard i just want it to go okay

Victoria: it will you’ve got me and a surprisingly motivated lando norris, apparently

Max: he’s been emotionally blackmailed into coming it’s beautiful

Victoria: see you there, birthday boy don’t let anyone cry on the crib mattress

Max: no promises

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: (laughing) “Okay, okay — last lap, and then serious question time. Max. Birthday boy. What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

Max: (without hesitation) “Ah, nothing crazy. My family’s coming over.”

Gianni Vecchio: “So what, big party? Michelin chef? Yacht? Balloons shaped like racing trophies?”

Max: “No, nothing like that this year.” (pauses, completely deadpan) “We’re doing the nursery.”

(beat of stunned silence)

Chris Lulham: “…You’re doing what?”

Max: (grinning now) “You heard me.”

Chris: “Mate. Like… baby nursery?”

CHAT: 🧡🧡🧡 “Wait. THE NURSERY??” “HELLO???” “Is this how we find out he’s building the baby room???” “MAX. HELLO. BACK UP.” “Soft dad mode ACTIVATED.” “27 and domesticated.” “Say ‘my wife’ next, I dare you.”

Max (nodding, smiling like it’s the best thing in the world): “Yeah. Belle wants everything up before December, so we’re starting now. Wallpaper, furniture, the works. It’s… nice. Feels real.”

Luke: “You’re telling me you, Max Verstappen, multi-time F1 World Champion, are spending your birthday assembling a crib?”

Max: “Yeah. Why not? We’ve got to put up the wallpaper. And the mobile thing. The one with the little monkeys. I have been trying to build the giraffe lamp for three days and failing.”

CHAT: “BELLEEEE 🥺” “JUNGLE. NURSERY. I’M DEAD.” “Wait it’s a jungle theme I can’t breathe that’s so cute.” “HE SAID HER NAME.” “‘My family is coming over’ = wife + baby bump confirmed.” “IKEA collab when.”

Luke: “Do we get a vlog? A ‘Verstappen Builds a Jungle’ series?”

Max: “You can come help if you want.”

Luke: “Absolutely not. I’m not getting blamed if the giraffe ends up upside down.”

Max: (shrugging) “It’s Belle’s vision. I’m just the assistant. And maybe the muscle.”

Chris: “Can’t believe the guy who nearly flipped a kart at age nine is excited about monkey mobiles.”

Max: “Yeah, well. Turns out there are better things than trophies.”

Gianni: “…you’re telling me your birthday party is IKEA furniture and jungle wallpaper?”

Max (smiling): “Yeah. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Chris: “God, he’s in deep.”

Luke: “Deep? He’s gone. Man said nursery like it was a five-star spa weekend.”

Max: “It kind of is. You don’t know joy until you see Belle looking at stuffed lion.”

Gianni: “Max Verstappen: Three-time World Champion. King of the jungle nursery.”

Max: “Soon-to-be father of one very spoiled, very loved little monkey.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridwife: MAX VERSTAPPEN SAID “YOU DON’T KNOW JOY UNTIL YOU SEE BELLE LOOKING AT STUFFED LIONS” don’t touch me i’m emotional

@/rbrarchive: i don’t want Drive to Survive i want a 4-part miniseries called “Verstappen Builds a Jungle”

@/formulafem: Belle: “Don’t make it all about me.” Max: “Her name is Belle. She wants monkeys. I love her. My job is giraffe assembly.” 🥹🥹🥹

@/kartsandcookies: Soft dad era Max Verstappen is stronger than any Red Bull aero package. He’s GONE. He’s in the jungle with a mobile in one hand and an allen key in the other.

@/f1contentqueen: We just watched Max Verstappen admit live on stream that he’s building a jungle-themed nursery for his child. On his birthday. Because Belle wants it done before December. Sir. You are the prize.

@/itsgivingdadenergy: 27. Multi-World Champion. Could be celebrating on a yacht. Instead: – Crib assembly – Monkey mobile – Jungle wallpaper – Saying “there are better things than trophies” 🥹

@/alonsohascats: MAX SAID BELLE WANTS “EVERYTHING UP BEFORE DECEMBER” SOFT DEADLINE?? BABY VERSTAPPEN ETA CONFIRMED FOR DECEMBER???? HELLO????

@/verstappenanon: You can actually hear Chris Lulham’s soul leave his body when Max says “the nursery.” I need the highlight reel. I need the full transcript. I need therapy.

@/sheercontent: Please understand that “Soon-to-be father of one very spoiled, very loved little monkey” is now my religion.

@/formulaiconics: Someone asked Max Verstappen what he’s doing for his birthday and he said “assembling jungle furniture for my unborn child.” This man has never been hotter.

@/gridtea: Max: "My family is coming over." Us: oh cute. Max: "We're doing the nursery." Us: EMOTIONAL COLLAPSE

@/carbonsnack:

I regret to inform you that Max Verstappen is so deep in domestic bliss he considers building IKEA furniture a birthday treat.

@/chaosandcarbon:

Max Verstappen, in 2019: “I’m here to win.”

Max Verstappen, in 2024: “I’ve been trying to build the giraffe lamp for three days.”

@/iknowaboutthegiraffelamp

if you’d told me five years ago that Max Verstappen would be losing sleep over a giraffe lamp and grinning about baby mobiles on Twitch I would’ve called you delusional but here we are

***

The plan had been simple.

Paint the nursery. Assemble the crib. Maybe hang the curtains. A cozy afternoon with a few close people.

Instead, there were 20 humans, two stepladders, a very suspicious IKEA instruction manual, and one giraffe lamp with a death wish.

***

In one corner of the nursery:

“Don’t force it,” Lily said calmly, crouched beside Oscar as she braced the neck of the lamp, her fingers steady against the ceramic.

“I’m not,” Oscar replied, tone even, brows furrowed in concentration as he adjusted the internal wiring with surgical precision. “But whoever assembled this originally had a deep disregard for physics. Possibly also sanity.”

Lily glanced at him, amused. “So Max, then.”

He gave her a long, unimpressed look. “Do you want the giraffe to work or not?”

She held up one hand in surrender but didn’t let go of the lamp. “Please continue your delicate surgery, Doctor Piastri.”

Oscar muttered something under his breath about hostile work environments, but his hands were careful, his focus razor-sharp. Despite the chaos unfolding around them—Arthur dropping wallpaper paste on the floor, Charles reading the instructions upside down, Lando declaring himself a “pattern expert”—the corner they’d carved out for themselves was oddly peaceful.

They’d been working on the lamp for nearly twenty minutes. Rewiring the socket, re-aligning the brass hardware, and gluing down a chip in the giraffe’s ear with Lily’s travel-sized nail glue. The giraffe’s head, slightly cocked to the side, had a vaguely judgmental expression, as if it, too, was questioning every decision that had led to this moment.

It fit right in.

“There,” Oscar said finally, sitting back on his heels. “Moment of truth.”

He reached up and flipped the switch.

The giraffe’s eyes lit up—literally. Two soft golden bulbs nestled behind the ceramic pupils flickered to life, casting a warm, slightly eerie glow around the corner of the nursery.

Lily gasped, delighted. “It’s majestic.”

Oscar tilted his head. “It’s deeply unsettling.”

“Majestically unsettling,” she corrected. “I’m naming him Gerard.”

Oscar blinked. “Gerard?”

She nodded, solemn. “He’s seen things. He has opinions. He’s here to supervise.”

Oscar glanced at the giraffe’s glowing face and then at Lily. “We’re not keeping this in the corner. It’s going next to the changing table. That way the baby can meet Gerard during every diaper change.”

“Perfect,” Lily said. “An early lesson in judgment and accountability.”

They both laughed, low and warm, the kind of laugh that comes from knowing each other too well and still liking what they find.

Across the room, Belle caught the glow out of the corner of her eye and smiled. “Did you fix it?”

Oscar looked up. “Gerard lives.”

Belle blinked. “You named the lamp?”

Lily patted Gerard on the head. “He named himself.”

Max, overhearing, just said, “If that lamp judges me at 3am while I’m trying to swaddle a screaming child, I’m throwing it in the bin.”

Oscar stood, dusting off his hands. “He’d survive. Gerard has strong main character energy.”

***

In another corner of the nursery:

“Okay,” Alexandra said, holding up a brass knob shaped like a monkey. “We’ve got a giraffe, an elephant, a lion, a hippo, and this little guy. Rank them in order of jungle superiority.”

“Giraffe wins for drama,” Emilie said, without looking up as she carefully smoothed down a tiny cotton onesie covered in embroidered leaves. “Monkeys are too chaotic. They’re basically Lando with a tail.”

Charlotte, on her knees by the partially assembled dresser, looked up with a grin. “So lion goes in the center drawer. Obviously. Power placement.”

“Agreed,” Alexandra said, already unscrewing the generic silver knobs from the dresser Max had built three weeks ago and left in ‘temporary, totally functional’ mode. “This child will be raised with aesthetics and authority.”

“Also, do we alphabetize the clothes?” Charlotte asked, holding up a delicate pale green muslin romper. “Or organize by size? Or by outfit vibe?”

Emilie blinked. “Is… outfit vibe a category?”

Charlotte shrugged. “If it’s not, I’m inventing it. Look at this cardigan. It’s giving ‘baby goes to brunch.’ This one?” She held up a tiny zip-up hoodie with bear ears. “This is ‘baby goes camping but stylishly.’”

Alexandra held up a pair of overalls the size of a dinner napkin. “This is ‘baby is emotionally prepared for tax season.’”

Emilie snorted. “Belle is going to walk in here and either cry from joy or immediately revoke our access to her child’s wardrobe.”

“I’m betting on both,” Charlotte said.

They laughed, quietly, gently, surrounded by soft fabrics and the scent of wood polish. Emilie reached for the drawer handles and began screwing on the animal knobs—giraffe on the top left, lion in the middle, elephant bottom right. It was absurd how satisfying it felt.

“Does this feel… real to you?” Alexandra asked after a moment, her voice a little softer now. “Like… Belle is having a baby.”

Emilie paused, hand resting on the edge of the dresser. “Sometimes, no. And then I fold a pair of newborn socks and remember that a tiny person is going to wear them.”

Charlotte added, “A tiny person with Max Verstappen’s DNA. Which means we’re probably going to have to baby-proof the sim rig by month four.”

Emilie smiled, but her eyes were warm. “They’re going to be so good at this.”

“They already are,” Alexandra said.

Emilie screwed in the last knob—a hippo, slightly crooked, just enough to be charming.

“Done,” she announced.

Charlotte leaned over to inspect. “That hippo is judging me.”

“Perfect,” Emilie said, sitting back on her heels. “He and Gerard the giraffe lamp can have meetings.”

***

In another corner:

It was supposed to be a straightforward job.

One wall.

Four panels of jungle-themed wallpaper.

An afternoon of light banter and bonding.

Instead, it had become a cautionary tale about letting three Leclercs, two Verstappens and a chaos-addicted McLaren driver do anything involving measurements.

“Okay,” Max said through gritted teeth, holding the smoothing tool in one hand and a strip of wallpaper in the other, “this is the last panel. We just need to line it up with the tree trunk on the previous one.”

Charles leaned in, squinting. “It’s already misaligned.”

“I haven’t even put it on the wall yet, Charles.”

Arthur, standing precariously on the second ladder with a glue brush in one hand and his phone flashlight in the other, said, “It’s the giraffe that’s off. Look. Its legs don’t line up.”

Lando, sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaned back slowly until he was lying flat, arms splayed out dramatically. “I could be anywhere else. I could be in Bali. Or dead. Either would be better than this.”

“You’re not helping,” Max muttered.

“I told you I wasn’t helping,” Lando said, voice muffled by the carpet. “I was promised cake and low-stakes birthday vibes. Not psychological warfare disguised as home improvement.”

Lorenzo sighed loudly. “I said we should’ve started with the right side and worked left. But nooo, Arthur had a system.”

Arthur looked offended. “My system was logical!”

Jos, standing by the door like a deeply disappointed god, crossed his arms. “Your system has resulted in two upside-down leaves, a floating lemur, and ten minutes of arguing about tree trunks.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t be arguing if people listened to me when I said we needed a laser level.”

“NO ONE OWNS A LASER LEVEL, CHARLES,” Max snapped, eyes wild.

“I do,” Jos said, calmly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” he asked. “I like precision.”

Lando groaned from the floor. “I’m going to fake an injury. Someone drop a bookshelf on me.”

“Can we please just get this on the wall before my son graduates university?” Max asked, voice climbing into a pitch usually reserved for pit wall frustration.

Jos stepped forward silently and took the smoothing tool from Max’s hand.

“Oh, thank god,” Lando muttered.

With terrifying precision, Jos adjusted the paper, ran the tool down the seam, and stepped back. It was perfectly aligned.

No one said a word for a full five seconds.

Then Jos, still deadpan, muttered, “It’s like working with unmedicated squirrels.”

Arthur snorted.

Lorenzo looked personally wounded.

Charles opened his mouth and wisely closed it again.

Max dragged a hand down his face. “Why did I think this was a good idea?”

Lando, now half-asleep on the floor: “Because you love Belle. It’s always because you love Belle.”

Jos handed the smoothing tool back to Max and walked out without a word.

A moment of silence followed.

Then Arthur said, “Should we… fix the lemur?”

Max turned slowly. “If you touch that wall again, I’m using your face to test the crib mattress.”

***

In another corner:

The nursery was full of chaos—ladders, laughter, half-screwed drawer knobs, wallpaper that had probably driven someone to therapy. So Belle had retreated to the sun-drenched living room with a basket of baby clothes and a folding station made out of the coffee table. Victoria helping her sort the clothing by size.

Sophie knelt near the bookshelf, methodically stacking picture books and board games by theme and height. Pascale perched neatly on the edge of the armchair, holding a cup of herbal tea.

In the hallway just outside, the sounds of chaos filtered in: a thump, a shout, and the unmistakable hiss of an offended cat.

“I said don’t chase Sassy with the tambourine!” Tom called, exasperated.

“We’re not chasing it, we’re guiding her with sound!” one of the children yelled back.

Victoria winced. “That’s the third time today.”

Belle sighed. “She’ll live. Granted, she’ll loudly complain to Max this evening, but she’ll survive. ”

They shared a smile, the kind of tired, knowing thing women passed between each other without words.

The conversation drifted toward baby names as Belle started sorting through the pile of baby clothing.

“We’ve narrowed it down,” she said casually, “but we’re still thinking about middle names.”

“Have you considered something from your side of the family?” Victoria asked gently.

Pascale perked up immediately, voice sweet with just the faintest edge of expectation. “I always thought Hervé would be such a lovely tribute.”

The words hung in the air.

Belle’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” she said, carefully. “We’ve talked about it.”

“I just think,” Pascale continued, smiling, “it would be such a nice way to honor your father. Especially since it’s a boy. Your father would’ve been so proud.”

Sophie, without looking up from her espresso, said, “Would he?”

Pascale blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sophie set her cup down and looked up slowly, voice as calm and cutting as a fine blade. “You speak as if love and grief are simple. As if honoring someone is a duty, not a choice.”

Belle’s breath hitched, just slightly.

“He was her father,” Pascale said, defensively.

“Yes,” Sophie said. “And he made choices that hurt her. That shaped her. That took something from her she never got back. That doesn’t make him a villain. But it does make this complicated.”

“I’m not saying he was perfect,” Pascale said stiffly. “But he was part of her.”

“And she’s allowed to decide which parts she wants to pass on,” Sophie said. “You may think you’re asking for a tribute. But what she hears is a demand.”

Pascale fell quiet. Not insulted. Just… still. Like someone who’d finally heard something that made the ground tilt.

Belle didn’t speak. She just folded a blanket slowly, fingers steady even though her throat was tight.

Sophie’s voice softened. “If Belle chooses that name, it should be because it brings her peace. Not because she feels indebted to grief.”

Victoria reached out and gently squeezed Belle’s hand.

And then—quietly, almost too quiet to hear—Pascale said, “I never thought of it like that.”

Belle looked up.

Pascale swallowed. “I just… I thought I was helping. I thought keeping his name alive meant something. But maybe I was asking her to carry something I should’ve been carrying myself.”

Sophie nodded, sitting back. “Then perhaps now, you can start letting her choose her own way to remember him.”

***

Instagram Stories: @/victoriaverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/sportschaosnet max verstappen going from “i don’t need friends” to “i have a jungle-themed nursery and a sister who writes poetry about it” is MY roman empire

@/OscarHardLaunch MAX HAS A NURSERY THERE IS A JUNGLE THEMED NURSERY THE CATS HAVE BEEN DEFEATED THE ERA HAS BEGUN

@/wheresthedrama Studio_B tag = BELLE IS THE DESIGNER = Max Verstappen’s wife is actually an interior architect with immaculate taste Do not speak to me I’m in mourning for my own walls

@/featherandfuel “Happy birthday, Max. You picked the best kind of life.” HELLO???? I’M CRYING IN TARGET

@/MaxVerstappenDefenseSquad can’t believe max verstappen’s redemption arc includes a eucalyptus mobile, a giraffe lamp, and an younger sister who now speaks in emotional prose

@/charlesgirliesunite i just know charles walked into that nursery and immediately questioned every aesthetic choice he’s ever made

@/formulalatte tbh the only thing more powerful than belle’s design taste is victoria's commitment to chaos. what do you mean “objective: avoid punching my brother” girl HELP

@/verstappenupdates victoria tagging @studio_b like belle isn't her sister-in-law and bestie now LMAOOO supportive queen

@/circuithearts max verstappen having a jungle nursery and victoria getting emotional about it was not on my 2024 bingo card but I’m here for the domestic era

@/softerverstappen “Happy Birthday, Max. You picked the best kind of life.” i am on the FLOOR. this is max’s roman empire.

***

The house was quiet. Max had gone out for a drive to clear his head after dinner, and the chaos of the day—the laughter, the teasing, the wallpaper war—had finally settled into a gentle hum in Belle’s memory.

She sat cross-legged on the rug in the half-lit nursery, a notepad resting on her knee. The giraffe lamp—Gerard—cast a golden glow over the list of names she’d scribbled and rewritten so many times the page had started to wrinkle.

She wasn’t even pretending to be objective anymore. The list was chaotic. A mix of classic and unusual, soft and strong. Names Max had liked. Names Belle had dismissed. Names from books. Names from nowhere.

And again—again—her pen landed on the same one.

Emilian.

She wrote it down softly. Fourth time this week.

She didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to. Just traced the letters, over and over, until the ink deepened and the paper thinned beneath it.

It was Max’s middle name. One he almost never used. One that came up once in conversation, early on, and she’d filed it away without knowing why.

But that wasn’t the only reason.

It was Emilie, too. The girl who had stood beside her in everything. The one who’d carried her grief like it was nothing and handed her back joy in return. It was Emilie’s laugh. Emilie’s loyalty. Emilie, who had become something like a sister without ever asking for the title.

Emilian.

It felt right in a way she couldn’t explain.

Strong, but soft. Steady.

She never said anything to Max. Not yet. She didn’t know if she was allowed to name something so permanent after people who already meant so much. Didn’t know if Max would see it as sentimental or strange.

So she kept the name to herself.

Wrote it at the top of every new page.

Circled it absentmindedly when she talked to the baby alone in the quiet.

Sometimes whispered it under her breath when she folded tiny onesies or passed by the crib and imagined someone small in it.

Emilian.

Maybe she was waiting to see if Max said it first. Or maybe she just needed to be sure.

But again and again—when she closed her eyes, when she dreamed of someone with Max’s eyes and her stubbornness—

That was the name that came back.

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deadsetobsessions · 1 year ago

Text

Sea Cryptic! Danny AU- Pt. 7

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.8] [Pt.9] [Pt.10]

“I’m having a child.”

Danny stared at Batman.

“…Uh, congrats?”

Batman whips out a stack of paper and a pen. “It’s you. Sign here and initial the highlighted spots.”

Danny instinctively, from years of dealing with Vlad, whacked the stack right out of Batman’s hands and into the bay. He doesn’t even feel bad about littering this time because, “Begone, fruitloop!”

Wait, no, that’s not what he meant.

“I mean- I have parents!”

“Not for long.” Batman muttered and then did a double take. “You have parents? How?”

Danny gasped, placing a hand on his chest to clutch his metaphorical pearls. He ignored Batman’s mutters. Everyone knows the vigilante has an adoption problem. At least, everyone who lived in Gotham did, as everyone who didn’t was somehow convinced that he “worked alone” or some bullshit like that. “Are you naturally this insensitive or were you dropped on your head as a baby? Obviously I had to come from somewhere.”

“They’re still… alive?”

“And kicking,” Danny said, inching away from yet another rich weird guy trying to adopt him. “Mostly the kicking part, though.” He said, remembering the sparring sessions. His mom could kick his as six ways to Sunday with nothing but jiu-jitsu and still have time to work in the lab.

“I see.”

“I’m charging you extra for the emotional upheaval. I have trauma regarding rich people trying to adopt me.”

Batman sullenly handed over a thousand.

“Sweet. There’s a group of shades down here asking if you could find their murderer. Apparently the serial killer is still at large.” Danny pointed.

“Of course. Tell me everything.”

The adoption papers disappeared as Batman went into detective mode.

Danny shoved the cash into his glowing chest and breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to make rent this month so it was a windfall running into Batman.

——

“Hey, Tim?”

Tim woke up from his Power Nap. “Huh?”

“Phantom’s complaining that Batman kept trying to adopt him.”

Tim blinked. “Uh.. what does that have to do with me?”

Danny stared at him, a patiently amused smile on his face. “Just in case the rumor about the Wayne’s sugar-daddy-into the Bats was a thing. Other than that, we might have to confront Batman to get him off of Phantom’s back. ”

“You… want to confront Batman.”

“Hey, man, Phantom’s a friend and it’s ride or die.” Danny snickered. It was literally die, with his Phantom side of things. He held two fists up, and wound them, like Popeye right after eating spinach or something. “And if Batman bothers Phantom, we ride at dawn.”

“Batman doesn’t come out unless it’s dark, though? Or for the Justice League.” Tim grinned. He mentally classified Danny under his “to go to” list. That’s where Bart, Bernard, Cassie, Kon, and Garfield were. If he starts shit, he could count on them to have his back and cause even more shit. Danny, wanting to fistfight Bruce over the man making Phantom uncomfortable? He absolutely is making that list.

“Then we ride at, like, dusk. Or uh, like 10PM. I gotta get my beauty sleep.”

“You’ll definitely need it,” Tim inconspicuously texted the group chat, which quickly blew up.

“Shut up,” Danny playfully shoved Tim. “Wait, can Batman even legally adopt? Isn’t being a vigilante illegal? And how can he adopt someone dead?”

Tim dramatically flailed and splayed over Danny’s carpeted living room. “Dunno about his identity,” he lied to Danny, like a liar. “But Gotham has a bunch of laws for the undead/restored to life people so there’s probably enough gray space there.”

Danny spluttered. “You guys have undead friendly laws?”

“Yeah, geht do you think Grundy just chills out? Plus, we have like a minor resurrection event every few years. It usually doesn’t stick but sometimes it does. Bruce pushed for those laws when Jason came back to life, except he doesn’t actually want people to know he’s like, alive.”

“Jason died?” Danny blinked. Well, that would explain the vibes. “Huh. So what’s up with his rank vibes then?”

“Rank vibes?” Tim pressed record on his phone.

Danny nodded. “Yeah, you know how Phantom’s got like a really chill green vibe?” Inwardly, Danny snickered at his pun. Chill. Yeah, he meant that very literally. “Jason’s got kind of a rank green vibe. He’s kind of stinky? Definitely never introduce him to Phantom.” Danny’s senses got worse in his ghost form.

“Jason regularly showers, though?!”

“Not smell! Like, a spiritual smell?”

“You can smell souls?!” Tim sat up. “Bro, you’re a meta?!”

“Uh.” Danny hesitated. “Yeah. I can smell souls. It’s a thing. Everyone from my town can do it.”

“What?!” Tim paused. “Wait, can Phantom smell souls?”

“Yeah. We’re, uh, from the same town.”

“Danny, what the fuck?”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that, you’re the one with a soul-sick brother! Not to mention, you’re kinda stinky too!”

“Hey!”

“Soul-stinky nerd man!”

——

“I stink?!” Jason spluttered out, extremely offended.

“The Lazarus pits. He’s most likely smelling traces of Lazarus pit on you, you imbecile.”

“We need to speak to Phantom. This instant.”

“I dunno, B. Danny sounded like he was gonna break your face if you bothered Phantom anymore.” Dick snickered.

“Yeah,” Tim chimed in, from his seat in front of the Bat-computer. “He was pretty serious.”

“Are we just gonna glaze over the fact that they’re from the same town?!” Stephanie exclaimed, practicing her moves on a training dummy.

“How does that even work? What does that mean? I thought Phantom was an immortal?” Duke asked.

“We also can’t rule out time-travel.” Barbara slammed her baton into a training dummy, twisting her wheelchair in an agile maneuver that left the dummy on the floor.

“No bothering Phantom.” Cass proclaimed.

“That’s quite right. You all have a warm dinner sitting above your cave and should it remain uneaten, I assure you that sherbet Sunday and crêpe Tuesday shall be canceled.” Alfred stepped in. The Bats, threatened, scrambled to ditch their gear and go upstairs.

#Danny: not another adoption!#Vlad and Bruce trying to adopt Danny even though he’s got parents:🤝#batman #danny phantom #tim drake #jason todd #bruce wayne #dc x dp #bamf danny phantom #dpxdc #dcxdp #dcxdp crossover #sea cryptic! danny au

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no-144444 · 8 days ago

Note

hii can i request something with Oscar that maybe reader is just so insistent on having a boyfriend and that no boys pay attention to her , and then is Oscar who is her best friend who is just so in love and obsessed with her, it’s painfully obvious to everyone but her and then in the end Oscar just runs out of patience and just confessed, super cute and fluffy in the end. Idk if it was too specific but i hope you understand 😭😭😭

lovefool- o.piastri

꩜ summary: oscar piastri has been in love with his best friend for years. she's buried all her feelings for him for years, and has set her sights on finding love elsewhere. what happens when he finally (accidentally) confesses?

꩜ pairing: oscar piastri x fem! best friend! reader

꩜ a/n: this is...6.7k+ words... hehe. thank you for requesting I love the idea!

It’s not like you were obsessed with love. You weren’t. You were perfectly fulfilled in your life. You had good friends. You’d escaped your parents. You had your dream job. You’d turned your nightmare into your dream life. You travelled the world with your best friend, and watched as he surpassed his wildest dreams. You just… wondered. Why weren’t you in a relationship? Why didn’t someone like you enough yet? Why hadn’t you found someone yet? Everything else in life was perfect, you were happy. You just… wanted something else, someone to care about you, someone to love you.

It probably didn’t help that you had a scary guard dog best mate in Oscar Piastri. He knew you better than anyone, listened to you, and he was kind. You were glad you’d met him and gotten so close, he was now a huge part of your life. You remembered meeting him like it was yesterday; a shitty day in a new school. Somehow you’d expected more from your parents. You thought they’d listen, but why would they start that?

Haileybury is a new start. Haileybury is a great school.

It didn’t matter what you wanted, it never had. It just mattered that you wouldn’t bother them. Your talent spoke for itself, your family name spoke for itself, but no one saw you. People saw the name. They saw the ability. Then they watched, like hawks. Waiting for you to fuck up, so they could run back to your parents and remind them of the mistake that you were. Show them exactly why they shouldn’t waste their time with you. In all honesty, you wanted to run. The tall gates of Halieybury came into view, and behind it, the behemoth of a school sat, waiting, taunting you, as Headmistress Graham, a tall woman with the largest glasses you’d ever seen, explained the rich history of the area, and told you how you’d ‘love the library, it’s world class!’. You feigned interest. You smiled through the tour. You were polite to every person you met, even those girls who were already sizing you up, on your first fucking day. You wished your parents a safe flight home with about two metres distance between the two of you. There were no hugs in your family, no space for warmth. You walked into your bedroom, and you fucking screamed into your pillow. You just… you had to endure. That’s what you told yourself. With your brain, you could graduate early, then you wouldn’t be stuck in this fucking hellscape, a million miles away from home. You wanted those walls you knew so well, even if they were silent now. You wanted the ability to walk around freely. You wanted your home back, even if it was irrevocably changed.

You didn't bother showing up to breakfast. It was a bank-holiday Monday, only very few people stayed back, their rich parents were too wealthy and important to bother seeing their children before they’ve already become adults. You walked around the grounds. Perfectly manicured. Perfectly used. Everyone walked the same path here, literally and metaphorically. They would get their education, and they’d go on to work for their parents until they realise working (if you could call it working), isn’t as fun as they make it out to be. Sometimes it requires effort, and they’re not used to getting their hands dirty, so they push it onto someone else. Someone else always has to take their shits for them, and wipe them up after. You rolled your eyes when a group of girls were waiting at the front gate, for what, you had no idea, but it was blatant whatever it was could only be something that gets Year 7’s out of bed on a day they could spend gossiping and whining about having homework. Hats off to whatever it was, that was impressive. You walked on, the cold air invading your lungs as you listened to the crunch of the ground beneath you. It was melodical. You thought back to home, back to the wild gardens and overgrown trees you loved to climb, and you felt that pull again, the one telling you to go home. You swallowed it down, and you walked back inside, looking for those rehearsal rooms Headmistress Graham had been banging on about.

You sat on the stool as softly as possible. Your hands hovered over the keys. You pushed down. Careful. Cautious. Calm. Controlled. That’s what you’d been taught to be. That’s what you had to be.

A ruckus from just outside the hall pulled you out of your playing, and you stared at the door, half-expecting someone to run in.

He did. A tall boy with brunette hair and two huge bags on his shoulder, his eyes wide as he locked the door behind him. “Fuck’s sake,” he mumbled to himself. You sat there, impatient and annoyed. This was your practice room, it was booked out for you, for the year. He probably played what? Guitar? He didn’t need a fucking reharsal room, he needed a common room and an arsehole with enough ego to assault the lyrics of ‘Wonderwall’ with his voice. He looked flushed, and- had he been running? You guessed he was what the Year 7s were fawning over, and became increasingly more annoyed.

“Alright?” you questioned, turning to face him. His head snapped up and his jaw dropped. You shook your head. Boys. “I’ve booked this room, sorry.” You turned back to the piano in front of you, expecting him to do the regular thing and walk out with a muttered apology. He didn’t. He came closer, walking up to you. Crossing the hall as quickly as he could without running. “Hi,” he smiled, and you rolled your eyes. “I’m Oscar.”

“Hi Oscar, I’m trying to rehearse,” you bit out. Of course, you couldn’t just get one moment of peace. “Please leave.” You weren’t fighting him on this, you had to rehearse, and he had to leave.

“What year are you in?” he asked, approaching the piano, under some transe. He snapped out of it. “I’m Year 10.” He looked up as you rolled your eyes and turned to the boy as he stood beside you, looking at you or the piano like it was some ancient relic.

“Year 10,” you mumbled, your eyes sharp and staring at him, hoping he’d get the message. Newsflash, he didn’t.

“Cool,” he mumbled, his eyes stuck to your hands as they hovered over the keys. “I’ve never seen anyone use this before.” So he wasn’t exactly a conversationalist, brilliant.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never seen anyone play a piano?” you scoffed, and he went bright red.

He scrambled to think of a response, and his brain came out with utter shit. “I mean, this specific piano. E-everyone thinks it’s a bad piano, so no one plays it, and we have other pianos in the school so they all prefer that- I’m just going to stop talking actually,” He shook his head at your amused expression, mortification rising in his body. Fuck, he could talk to Daniel Riccardo about tyre deg for hours, only a day after meeting him for the first time, but a pretty girl with a piano was his downfall? Fuck’s sake. You let out a small, confused chuckle and the sound rang out in his head, making those butterflies that had awakened the second he saw you, fly around his stomach like they were on fucking acid. He held out his hand to be shook. “I’m Oscar.”

You took it with an amused smile on your lips. He felt his entire body ignite when you touched his hand, though he’d never tell you that. “You’ve mentioned that, Oscar,” you teased, that beautiful, small smile on your lips. Holy shit he could’ve sworn he was having a heart attack with how fast his heart was beating now that you were looking at him. “Year 10, Form B.” You held out your hand to be shaken, and he shook it with fervour, probably letting his hand hold yours for a moment too long.

“Right,” he nodded, his hand still around yours. He was fucked, completely and utterly head over heels embarrassingly fucked. He snapped back to reality. “Form B? Me too.”

You nodded, your eyes falling down to the rest of him. HP Turners hoodie, baggy trackies, oil-strained shoes. He smelt like a fucking petrol station which deodorant section had exploded. You were curious, and really, you could practice whenever. It was more fun to mess with socially-averse teenage boys. “What’s with the bags?” you questioned, pointing at the comically large bags slung over his shoulder. He looked confused for a split-second, almost so small no one would’ve noticed, like he’d forgotten they were there, and then he dropped them on the floor in front of the both of you.

“What they are is killing my fucking shoulder,” he mumbled, rolling his shoulder. “My racing bags,” he explained as he took out his helmet. “This is my helmet bag, holds, well, my helmet, and this,” he held up another bigger duffle bag. “Is just all the other shit I need for races like my suit, shoes, tyre strategies, my homework, all that boring shit,” he smiled. You smiled too, for some reason.

You nodded. “Interesting. What category are you in?”

He looked stunned that you even knew what question to ask. “Umm, British Formula 4,” he smiled. “You know racing?”

“My brother used to race,” you shrugged. You were both quiet, despite both wanting to know more about each other. He saw the way you deflated, noting down your words, ‘used to’. He didn’t pry, he never would. “Well, Oscar, I’d better get back to rehearsal.” He frowned slightly, but nodded and started walking towards the door.

“I’d like to see you again, and maybe get your name.” he chuckled before he opened the door and walked back out. You quickly realised Oscar-who-smelt-like-petrol was a big deal here. He was a racer, and everyone cared. You were used to it, with what your brother used to do, so you didn’t really care.

Just a week into school and a group of girls had adopted you into their group and you were slowly beginning to enjoy their company, but not without some troubles. One girl, Rachel, was in love with Oscar. She could speak of nothing else. It was either his hair (entirely mediocre), or his face (you understood that one), or his arms (lanky?), or what he wore (t-shirts and trackies), or him in his cricket gear (pathetic and prissy). She drove you mad with her constant pestering, always asking about him, since you two were apparently friends now. So what you teased him in form, who cared? Rachel cared. But anyway, soon, your friend group was intrinsically interchangeable with Oscar’s, as his friends became yours after weeks of teasing him. He pretended he didn’t love it, and you pretended not to notice. You tried for literally a year to get Oscar interested in Rachel, just as a favour to her (and yourself), but he wouldn’t bite. Everyone made those jokes that girl and guy best-friend duos always get, the dares to get together, but both of you stood still in your decision. He was your friend. You were his friend.

That was all.

Finally, summer break rolled around. The British Grand Prix had been a test of everything that Oscar was. No only had he fucked up his race with a penalty, he could see the way Lando was talking and looking at you, and it made him sick. In the normal, best-friend way, of course. He just… knew the kind of guy Lando was, and it wasn’t what he wanted for you. Anyway, Belgium had gone in his favour once again, a P6 to win after a red flag caused by an Alpine in quali, and Lando accidentally crashing again, giving him a stronger lead in the championship. You’d been there too, sitting pretty in the garage, giving him all the support he’d needed to get those overtakes done. And now, Greece for 2 whole weeks, full Piastri family, friends, and an all-inclusive resort to yourselves. It was all he needed.

The breeze was slight, and not doing much for the sweat dripping down his back. It was 11am, too early in his world, but Duke had texted him and told him where you were, sending a photo of you swimming in the ocean with the caption “looking for her merman, you might want to be there!”, and yes, it had gotten him out of bed. Everyone knew about his crush (which was really nearly a decade of yearning), and everyone knew about your longing for love. They begged him to just… say something, satisfy both of you. He thought about it every fucking day, every moment between you two, he longed to be more than your best friend, more than the guy you rely on, more than he was.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not when it risked losing you. Still, he walked to the beach with three water bottles and a peach (your favourite snack in the world, so much so that the nickname had stuck) in hand, ready to pretend he wasn’t dying inside every single time you touched him.

“Finally back from the dead?” Rachel snorted, watching him approach. He smirked back, blocked out the sun with his right hand as he let himself shamelessly take you in beside her. Fuck, you were gorgeous. Skimpy bikini clinging to you, still wet. You had those ridiculous snorkel glasses on the top of your head, your hair back and out of your face, sunglasses covering your eyes as you read your favourite book for the hundredth time. A small sense of pride bloomed in his chest when he realised it was the copy he’d given to you, fully annotated, at the ripe age of 17. He didn’t understand it then, but he made it a yearly tradition to read it again and rehash all your favourite arguments. Rachel watched as he stared at you, and rolled her eyes. “A-hem,” she added, bringing you both out of your busy minds. “Oscar’s here.”

“Osc!” you smiled, scooching over on your beach bed and tapping the spot beside you. You were halfway through the book already, of course, he smiled and sat beside you, handing Rachel over a bottle of water, and started pulling the peach apart, removing the pit, then offering you a piece. You opened your mouth and he popped it in, feeling much too domestic for a best friend. “So I was rereading-”

“Obviously,” he finished for you, taking a bit of another piece as you rolled your eyes.

You swallowed down your piece and opened your mouth for another. He placed it in and you chewed, then spoke. “And I was thinking about the setting, and I know these are old annotations-”

“I was 17 and I barely understood the thing, please let me write you a new one,” he begged, genuinely embarrassed of the book in your hands. All of his annotations were subtle confessions, even ones that were outright “I like you”, but you’d never taken them seriously. It haunted his dreams that you still had it. “I’m begging here, Peach.” He nudged your arms but you shooed it away.

“I like this! It’s old! It’s funny, it’s very you,” you pouted, and he’d never take it away for you if he knew it made you this happy. He shook his head, laughing. “Plus your handwriting was so much better when you were 17, I can barely read it now,” you laughed and he rolled his eyes, scoffing. “But yeah, the setting, I was thinking that maybe-”

Just then, Hattie and Peter (her boyfriend on his first year of the Piastri family getaway), bolted by, running into the water as they giggled. You watched them happily, but felt a twinge in your heart. You groaned and dropped your head into his lap. “When will I get that?”

Rachel gave him a look that screamed SAY IT!, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t risk losing you. He shook his head and ran his hand from your collarbone down to the middle of your back and sighed. “Soon, I’m sure.” It killed him to say, but he genuinely did hope you found someone. Even if it destroyed him. He’d given up on love long ago, and he just hoped he could stay close to you once you found your perfect prince charming.

“How about we go clubbing tonight and you can meet some men?” Rachel suggested and a cold sensation filled Oscar’s veins as he gave her a side-eye. She’d never been the best sport about Oscar not choosing her, but he knew she was just trying to do what was best for you. You wanted love. Just… not from him. Which was fine. That was alright. He’d accepted it.

“We have family dinner tonight,” you looked up at Rachel from Oscar’s lap. “But after?” you looked back at Oscar, trying to gauge his reaction. He shook his head.

“Not for me, but I’ll drive you there,” he offered, ever the giver. You frowned.

Your hand rested over his stomach and he tensed, his abs underneath your hand rock-hard. You didn’t even notice. You’d never noticed, just laughed when he said his clothes didn’t fit anymore and called him lanky anyway. “No, we’ll get a taxi, don’t want to make you drive on your time off,” you pouted. Oscar had been different in recent months. He’d been off about something and you couldn’t figure out what. He wouldn’t go out on nights out anymore, wouldn’t bother to celebrate after big moments like wins or your awards. He always wanted to stay in, cuddle on the couch and head to bed to talk for hours, like you used to do at school. It was fine, you enjoyed nights like that just as much as anyone would with their best friend, but still, it rubbed you the wrong way that he would never go out with you.

He sighed. “You sure you want me to come?” he asked, looking down at you, fingers running up and down your thigh now. It had no effect. He cursed himself. You nodded vigorously in his lap and he smiled. Anything to make you smile. “You sure I won’t be too guard-dog-y and scare all the guys off?” You shook your head and rolled your eyes.

“You’re not scary in the slightest Oscar, look at you, you’re fucking lanky,” you held up one of his (very much) not-lanky arms, and faltered for a second. Shit, he was bigger. He was taller. His neck was fucking huge, and you could feel a torso full of abs under your hand. He smirked down at you like he knew what he was doing and you gulped. “See!” you finished, giggling at him. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as you stood up. “Come on, you need some water time,” you dragged him up (which seemed much harder than before with his added strength). “No fun playing mermaids by myself!” you started jogging off into the water, and he got the most perfect sight of your smile, then the back of you. He cursed internally and pulled his shirt off, a grimace on his lips. Rachel shook her head behind him and they both thought the same thing.

How was he going to survive tonight?

Oscar didn’t like going to clubs with you, because it was torture to watch you flirt with other guys. He hated the way they looked at you, like you were just another girl, like you weren’t a piece of sunshine taken and given to the world.

But now, apparently that extended to the swim-up bar in the hotel. He was just behind you, waiting at one of those stupid half-submerged tables, after listening to your rant about the setting of the novel for actual hours. A guy went up to you, harmless, right? Wrong. The way he was looking at you, like you were a piece of meat, or something to be won, it made Oscar sick. He stood to his full height, puffing out his chest just a bit. It felt a little silly, but the surprise in the guy’s eyes was worth it. He came up behind you, a warm hand on your hip as he leaned down and whispered in your ear. “You alright?” he asked, lingering over your shoulder as the guy backed off, nodding at the sight in front of him. You crossed your arms and walked ahead, grabbing your drinks off the bar in a huff. Objectively, he felt bad. He knew how much you wanted it, that novel-worthy love, and he wished he could give it to you. It physically hurt him to know he couldn’t.

You frowned as you sat down at the table. “That wasn’t fair. He was going to give me his number before you walked up,” you sighed as you stirred your cocktail. Day drinking was like a sport on these holidays, and you were already feeling a bit tipsy. Oscar rolled his eyes and sat across from you, placing his hand on your arm as the other held his G&T. He had that stupid pity-smile on his lips and it made you want to scream. “Seriously!” you gaped at his audacity. “He could’ve been the love of my life.” You huffed, deflating. You’d had this conversation with him too many times, but he was always so stubborn, always saying the same thing.

The love of your life isn’t going to show up at a bar. The love of your life isn’t going to show up at your gym. The love of your life isn’t going to show up outside your friend's apartment. The love of your life isn’t going to show up outside one of your concerts. The love of your life isn’t going to show up in the orchestra of one of your concerts. The love of your life isn’t going to show up shirtless on a tinder profile.

“Peach, the love of your life isn’t going to show up at a swim-up pool,” he said matter-of-factly. You hated that. He was so sure, so fucking aware. Like nothing else could ever be true, because of course not. He was Oscar Piastri and he had the final say. His thumb pressed soothing circles into your arm as he frowned. He knew it was wrong, fuck, he knew it. But he couldn't let you go off with someone else, someone who wasn’t him. Not when he knew his heart fucking beat and bled for you. “How about we go for a dive?” he offered, trying to wipe the frown off your face.

“What if the diving instructor touches me?” you hissed, annoyed. “Are you going to drown him?’ you scoffed before swimming off and joining another table, one with Rachel, Duke, Tara, and Eoin. Oscar sighed, his head dropping to the table as he watched you go. He was sent many unappreciative glances from the tale, half of them mouthing the same thing at once. TELL HER! but instead, he stayed over at his table, then joined his sister for a game of marco polo, which he continuously lost.

It was an hour to dinner and he hadn’t seen you. He’d swam until he was sure he’d reached his cardio goal for the day, gone to the gym and did some weights, then walked back to your shared room for a shower. You weren’t there. He got dressed into a linen shirt and slacks which was pretty fancy considering the fact that he’d been showing up to dinner in his togs and a tank most of the days. His phone rang with a message, and almost wasn’t bothered to get up and grab it, but he did, fearing it would be from you.

Rachel: Peach’s in here getting ready, still mad about earlier, but it’ll be smoothed over with a PROPER apology. For fuck’s sake just tell her!!!!!!!!!

He gathered his things, and your handbag, and stalked down the hall to Rachel and her partner, Evie’s, room. He knocked once. Then twice.

Then your face was in front of his, all wide-eyed and smiling with those dots of contour going unblended on your cheeks. Your face fell when you realised it was him, and it would’ve been a mood killer if you didn't look so stunning. The hotel robe over his favourite dress of yours, he could see the colour spilling out beneath the white, and his smile somehow perked up even more. That fucking dress with the spider web on the back an the dangerously low neckline, the one that had almost made him say it the last ime. On his birthday no less. It was maddening, the way you’d been dancing in it all night, and your smile, god your smile drove him insane. The way you pushed him to do new things and try new things and evolve, that was his favourite thing about you. You constantly challenged him, and he’d never get tired of it. “Oscar,” you cleared your throat. “Evening,” you nodded and let him into the room, some Olivia Dean song you loved playing from the speakers of your phone. The room was tense, Rachel and Evie watching you two, silent for the first time in god knows how long. Fuck, you couldn’t fake being mad at him that well, and soon the facade slipped with one tiny giggle. He laughed too, wrapping his arms around you from behind as he whispered apologies into your hair. You looked at him through the mirror, and something about the way his eyes lingered on you made you squirm. You liked it, the thrill of him watching you, you always had.

“I’m sorry, Peach,” he said again, definitively. “I was only worried about your safety, but it was a dick move and I promise it won’t happen again,” he smiled that wolfish smile, and you knew it was a lie, but you believed it anyway. You nodded and curled a hand around his own giving it a squeeze before detaching and sitting back down to your vanity and resuming your makeup. “Are we good?” he asked, and you nodded with a smile.

“We’re good,” you parroted, putting his fears to bed as Rachel rolled her eyes. Christ it was exhausting watching you two walk around each other in circles like idiots. To think she once liked Oscar was wild. Now, she saw him as what he was, a pathetic lapdog that would follow you to the ends of the earth. It was kind of funny actually, watching as he fell over himself to be as close as he could to you. You two were so perfect, fitting together like two pieces of a jigsaw, but you just couldn't see it. Mostly, it was Oscar’s fault for not stepping up and admitting his feelings, but you were also to blame for not noticing the way he lit up around you. She shook her head as he entertained you by throwing popcorn into your mouth. Hopeless.

God, if that interaction with Mr. Muscles earlier wasn’t going to send him over the edge, Hattie trying to set you up with one of her friends from college would. His name was Freddie, and Oscar already hated him because he was perfect for you. Smiley and surfing, long hair and completely Melbourne, tall and muscly and a brian full of smarts. He even had little sisters he took care of. He seemed perfect. Oscar just begged the universe to tell you that your heart wasn’t in it, to remind you of the boy who sat beside you who looked a lot like a man now, but still kept those foolish, boyish dreams alive, those ones of you waking up beside him or walking down the aisle towards him. He held his breath as you scrolled through his photos.

He was everything you were looking for. Fuck’s sake, his name was Freddie, what was cuter than that? Osc- No. You stopped yourself. You’d buried that when you turned 18 and watched him with his tongue down the throat of one of the popular girls, and you promised yourself it wouldn’t come up again. Oscar wasn’t yours. He didn’t want you. But you stacked everyone up against him. The way he introduced himself, dorky and too strange to be anything but fate. The way he wouldn’t leave you alone, not until you finally agreed to be his friend. The nights he’d sneak into your dorm and listen as you told him about the horrors that awaited you during break. The night he’d promised you that, while he wouldn’t be able to magically make your brother appear again, he could hold your hand through any tough moment you needed him. The way you believed him. That stupid night when you were both 17 and told yourselves it wasn’t a big deal, and you kissed him and you understood. Understood what it meant to be loved and taken care of. Have someone care.

You blinked it all back. All those moments and memories that you stowed away for those days after dates when you realised that while Oscar was who you wanted to be your forever, he couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be, because he didn’t want you. “He’s cute.” you smiled, but anyone could tell it wasn’t real. Hattie smiled back and promised to send on his number, and you thanked her.

Oscar stiffened beside you, and he had to stop himself from putting a possessive hand on your thigh. He reminded himself, she’s not yours. She won’t be yours. He swallowed back the bile in his throat. Dinner tasted like cardboard, but it wrapped up anyway, and five of you bundled into the rental car, a heavy silence between you and Oscar for the second time that day. The rest of the group were too busy singing whatever showtunes Duke had insisted on to notice, but you did.

The club was cool, this half-inside-half-outside deal with strobe lights and far too sensual music playing. In the least ironic way possible, it felt like a movie scene. The Hills by the Weeknd blaring from speakers as you were dragged into a dance with Evie. You just needed to stop thinking about him. You’d gone years keeping these feelings at bay, and there was no need to ruin the best thing in your life with selfish feelings. The red strobe made him look sinful though, already at the bar, already getting you a drink, like he was your boyfriend. Fuck, it was ridiculous. He acted more like a boyfriend than any of your past boyfriend had, opening doors, perfect chivalry, holding hands, knowing you. Knowing what you wanted. The flashing lights made him look even more delicious than he usually did. You kew he was an athlete, and you knew he looked good, but fuck, seeing him shirtless and now in that stupid linen shirt that strangled his biceps made you want to fucking swoon. He searched for you in the crowd until he found you, then sent you a wink and a smile.

Fuck if it didn’t go straight to your core.

He stood at the bar, the perfect bodyguard, an eye on each of his friends. Rachel and Duke were already chatting with some locals, always able to make friends wherever they went. You were out on the dancefloor, his brain short-circuiting. Evie sent him an evil look while you spun around, gaining the attention of a few guys around you. He felt that same protectiveness, that voice in his head that screamed ‘mine’, but he stayed back. He laid off it. He didn’t want you mad at him again, and he could always try to convince you he saw they do something shady. Sure, it was unethical and completely unfair to you, but his chest physically hurt to not be stalking over there and kissing you, showing you that you had someone who loved you more than anything. He didn’t. He just watched. Watched how you looked in that fucking dress. Watched the way your eyes lit up when you saw him at the bar. Watched as his heart broke for the fifteenth time that day.

Duke walked up beside him, his best friend for years.“Look man, just fucking do it. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t, and you know Y/n, she’d never hold it against you and you might get some closure,” he shouted over the music, directly into Oscar’s ear as his resolve slowly chipped away with the way you were dancing. Shit, it was fair. You looked so beautiful out there he didn’t know what to do with himself. “Stop torturing yourself.” He clapped a hand on his back and nodded, his wisdom for the night, now imparted. Oscar’s hand shook as he moved through the sweaty bodies of the dancefloor, one thing on his mind. Duke had a lot of bad ideas, but also a lot of good ones, and he decided that he couldn’t live like this anymore, and he’d dance with you one last time before forgetting. Forgetting his feelings. Releasing you to find someone who hopefully loved you like he did.

He cleared his throat, and smiled when he reached you, then held out a hand. “Care for a dance?” Evie sent him a look, and he nodded. She scurried away as quickly as possible, as you took his hand with a smile. His other hand went up to your waist as you slowly rocked your bodies together, anticipation filling the air. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispered in your ear. “Any guy here would be lucky to have you.” The words felt foreign in his mouth, he’d always been the silent supporter of your search for love, but now, he was going to try and help. You smiled up at him with that gorgeous smile, that fucking dress that drove him insane, and just you. You being you. You being your wonderful self. The lights flashed again, and suddenly he was kissing you.

FUCK. He thought, but he didn’t stop. He hadn’t kissed you since he was 17, and he was making up for it. His hands grabbed at your waist, pulled you as close to him as possible, as he kissed hard. Hoping that everything he felt could just be seen in the kiss. All the desperation, all the passion, all the… love. He wanted you to feel it, to know it had been torturing him since he was 15 years old that he didn’t get to do this everyday. He was so in his own head that he’d barely realised you were kissing him back, and then he just groaned into your mouth, kissing you harder. You wanted to savour the moment, your hand cupped his cheek as the other splayed out against his chest, fisting his shirt and bringing him impossibly close. You buried this, you told yourself. He’s not yours. He’ll never be yours. So you pulled back, and you ran. You couldn’t entertain someone who wasn’t ever going to be yours, especially not when it was Oscar, the guy you’d been embarrassingly in love with since you watched him fall over at a cricket match, but still get up and smile at you with a thumb up.

Oscar stood there, stunned for a minute. He had no idea what he’d just done. He was just frozen for a solid minute. Someone bumped into him and suddenly he was in motion, fighting through the crowd to find you. He had to tell you, explain, make you understand. It was just a mistake. He didn’t mean it. Everything can go back to normal, he told himself. She’s still your best friend. The balcony looked out over the entire city, the warm Mediterranean air engulfing him as he stepped out. You were out there, leaning against the glass as you watched the last light disappear from the day. He stopped and admired you for just a few seconds, hoping this wasn’t the last time he’d speak to you. Then he decided to do the one thing he’d been putting off for almost half his life, be honest.

“Peach I’m sorry about that, but-” he started until he realised you were crying. Fuck. He’d really cocked this up, hadn’t he. “Peach, I’m sorry,” he shook his head, leaning against the barrier, leaving too much room between the two of you. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you sniffled, your voice raw with emotion. He passed over a tissue from the packet he always brought with him, for you. “Do you think it’s fun to play with my emotions? Is this like a little game that gets you off? You’ve been fucking playing it since I was fucking 17, and I understand that you probably felt obligated when I asked you when you were 17, but you could’ve said no. I just… this isn’t right,” you scoffed and his eyes widened. You shook your head. “It’s not fair, Osc. Not at all.” He stopped thinking, stopped fucking breathing. You liked him back, this whole time. He could’ve been kissing you every fucking day. He could’ve been your real boyfriend for 7 years now. He cursed himself for not being brave enough before, and for not seeing it before.

“I’m in love with you,” he whispered, and your world stopped for a second. “I’ve been in love with you since I was 15,” he admitted with a defeated chuckle. “I was just too scared to tell you,” he sighed. “I love how you dance when something is delicious, I love how you cling on to me every fucking day. I love your smile and your hair. I love how fucking smart you are. I love how brave, and strong you are to have gotten through everything with your family. I love you. You’re just… you’re everything,” He explained, tearing up. “And I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before. I’m sorry that it came out in jealousy and possessiveness, but I just couldn’t let you go. I can’t. I won’t. And I’m aware that this might be too much too late, and I understand that, but I just need to make you hear me now. Nothing I’ve ever done for you has been out of obligation, not when we were 17, and not now. I kissed you in there because I couldn’t imagine not doing it. I can’t imagine anyone else being the woman I want. You’re the coolest girl I know. I love you so fucking much, peach, my chest fucking hurts.” He sniffled, then chuckled sadly at himself for crying.

You turned to him and shook your head. “You’re such a fucking moron,” you smiled before pulling him in for another kiss, this time with your arms around his neck, and a shared understanding that, yeah, you two were in love. And yeah, that was fucking wonderful. You pulled back just enough to rest your forehead on his. His pretty wide eyes under the moonlight as the first round of this evening’s fireworks display began behind you. You smiled. “I love you too,” his grin somehow got bigger. “So fucking much-” you could barely finish your sentence before he kissed you again. But you were both thinking the same thing, we have years of kisses to make up for, might as well start now.

You both tried to ignore your cheering friends, but you broke away (much to Oscar’s annoyance) and smiled at them, celebrating the almost decade-old crush you’d tried so many times to bury. It didn’t bother Oscar when it meant he got to look at you being so happy it made his chest ache to know it was him making you that happy.

Maybe you hadn’t ever buried it. Maybe he’d made it too hard. Maybe all of that didn’t matter now because he had his arm around your waist and your taste on his tongue and you were smiling brighter than ever.

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seiwas · 9 months ago

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you're the reason (i got a weakness) | miya atsumu

wc: 2.9k

summary: it’s not that atsumu doesn't like you dressing up like this—in fact, he loves it. just not when you're fighting. not when he can't even call you "baby".

contains: post-timeskip atsumu, arguments and atsumu feeling really sorry, flashbacks, uses the nickname “baby” & “my love”, reader is described as “pretty” and wears heels, hurt/comfort.

a/n: atsumu isn’t a sucky boyfriend he just gets carried away sometimes. song inspo: can you blame me? - kehlani, lucky daye.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)

sponsored by @itskilau and @tasoyoru for the @ficsforgaza initiative. please check it out and support if you can!

“Bab—”

Atsumu lingers by your bathroom door, eyes drooping lower and sadder than they ever have. The steam makes the bleached strands of his hair cling to his forehead, his thick eyebrows now damp and flattened.

You sigh, the big, heavy, and deep kind, shoulders dropping as you clasp the lock of your necklace.

He stares.

That’s his job. You always ask him to do it the moment you step out of the shower.

His lip trembles, eyes watery.

“Not now, Atsumu.”

You walk past him as you adjust the towel around your chest, your arm brushing against his. It’s a small thing, a sensation ingrained so deeply into the past two years you’ve been together, but he feels it like it’s the first time you ever touched him—and in a way, it is. Since yesterday, at least.

The silence that trails after you is so deafeningly still, he thinks he can hear his heart breaking.

“Atsumu,” your voice rings.

Who the hell is “Atsumu”?

He’s not supposed to be “Atsumu” to you. He’s “Tsum.” He’s “baby.” He’s “my love.”

Anything but “Atsumu.”

When you close the door of your walk-in closet to change, the metaphorical volleyball of hope floating right into the palm of his hand misses and drops straight to the floor.

It started with volleyball, as all things with Atsumu do.

You’d met him at the rise of his career, just a few years of him being pro. You were friends first, but if you ask anyone around Atsumu, they’d tell you you were never just a friend to him; he’d invited you to all his games and practice matches, spent a bit more time in the locker rooms before going out for dinner with you and the rest of the team.

Osamu has the receipts of all the extra orders of onigiri Atsumu started adding to his regular weekly subscription since meeting you.

Your first ‘date’ was Atsumu treading the very fine line between teaching you how to play volleyball and teaching himself self-control. Keeping an eye on the ball is hard enough, what more when he has to resist staring at you in very cute volleyball shorts too?

As MSBY’s success skyrocketed, so did Atsumu’s—brand deals left and right, solo work trips during off seasons, commercials; the whole thing. When Atsumu wasn’t training, he was either traveling or attending events and photoshoots. Always on-the-go. Moving.

And he knew you understood, knew you knew him and his tendencies to overwork; knew him, and his habit of getting stuck inside his own world. You’d driven to late practices with bento boxes to share, and you’d packed his gym bag more than a few times, brought in extra clothes without him having to say a word.

You’ve managed his lifestyle better than anyone could.

But, Atsumu has a bad habit of promising more than he should, of serving white lies just as easily as he does volleyballs behind the service line.

“Won’t take long, baby. Swear it,” he holds on to the wall by your door, slipping his feet inside his dress shoes. “Pick ya up at 6:00?”

He’d winked at you then, kissed you between your eyebrows and nose before sneaking one more right at that spot underneath your ear.

What he’d give to be able to do that right now.

“Okay,” you giggle, swatting his chest as you nod, “better hurry then, you might be late.”

When Atsumu remembers that moment, the way you’d agreed so doubtlessly, he hates himself even more. You trusted him, have trusted him so wholeheartedly this entire time, so maybe you’re right—

“Would it hurt for you to just be honest?”

—Atsumu has no excuse standing you up on the date he promised you weeks ago all because he lost track of time in some brand event, listening to a potential collaboration on volleyball shoes. Atsumu has no excuse agreeing to “some drinks” right after just to meet the executives of the company.

There are meetings for those things, ones that can be scheduled and agreed upon. Ones that don’t compromise or add on to the already long list of missed dates with you.

“I know you’re busy and I understand,” you sigh, turning the knob of the kitchen stove as you heat up the kettle, “you know I do.”

He stands before you a quarter past 11:00 p.m., cologne long faded and the smell of alcohol spilled on his sleeve. The kitchen island stands like a net on the court, the ball being sent over to his side.

“Baby, I—”

He passes it back.

You turn from the stove, face fresh and hair tied into a messy low bun as you look at him—how could he have ever stood this–you–up?

You take the ball, “Can I finish what I have to say first?”

He nods. The kettle begins whizzing.

“I’m happy and so, so proud that you have all these opportunities,” you reach for the cupboard above head to grab a mug. The box of tea bags sits to your right, a mix of Lemon Balm and Chamomile that Atsumu swears keeps his anxieties at bay during the night. “But at least tell me if you can’t make it.”

You tear open a tea packet, dangling it inside the mug. The kettle whistles, and he feels the onset of a spike.

“Please don’t keep my hopes up every time.”

You turn back towards the stove, turning the burner off as you pour in the steaming water inside the mug.

“Baby, I swear, they just–they started talkin’ ‘bout these shoes, ‘n I thought t’was cool, ‘n the execs–they said the execs’d be there in the afterparty, and—” he breathes, “won’t happen next time, baby. ‘M so—”

“Can I really believe you next time?”

You approach the kitchen island slowly, holding the piping hot mug carefully as you set it down in front of him.

Atsumu stood you up on your date, and you still made him tea.

You hold his stare for a brief moment before you walk away, sadness and disappointment all-in-one.

It is now that Atsumu knows, he’s fucked up.

The ball lands on his side of the court.

And so, he’s spent this entire day trying to make it up to you—breakfast in the morning, right before training (which he absolutely tanked because all he could think about was how sad you looked the night before); flowers that he brought home after lunch time, just to find the apartment empty. It’s only after a full text thread and three missed calls to your phone that he finally gets a response.

“Nail appointment. Going out tonight,” is your reply (using speech-to-text too, he suspects, with how formal it sounds).

Which is fine and dandy to him; you should do everything that makes you feel better after he practically took you for granted. It’s just—he hasn’t even said sorry yet, can’t even call you “baby”, can’t even touch you even though he really, really, really wants to.

And now, with you closing the door on him while you’re changing—there’s nothing else he can do, really, but to walk away and give you some space.

He shifts his feet, dragging them lightly against the wooden floors of your bedroom.

The moment he hears the door of your walk-in closet slide open, he hurriedly sits down on the edge of your bed, acting as if he wasn’t just anxiously pacing, waiting for you to come out.

He feels like shit, if he’s being honest—like how he does when he misses a serve; if not, worse.

You look good. Make-up done to only emphasize the features he loves (which is your entire face, really), and your outfit perfectly accentuating the dips and curves of your body.

He follows you as you exit the room, tailing after you like a lost puppy. When you stop by your entryway, all he can do is watch as you bend down to put on the straps of your heels. And it sucks, because if you weren’t fighting, Atsumu would be right by your feet, crouched low so that you wouldn’t have to.

It’s pathetic and a little helpless of him to just stand and stare in the middle of your living room. He should say something at least, but, you just look so good, and his throat feels dry; his heart all achy and stomach twisty.

He doesn’t want to be away from you.

And it’s not that he doesn’t like you going out looking like this—he loves it. But as soon as you step out the door with a soft “don’t wait up for me” mumbled from your glossed lips, Atsumu can only taste bitter regret at the fact that he wishes he were coming with you.

He couldn’t even give you a goodbye kiss.

The blond groans, pulling at his hair as he rests his elbows down on the kitchen counter.

“Don’t wait up for me,” you said. As if he can even sleep without you around.

The hours go by but they feel like days. Atsumu’s done every possible thing he can do in this apartment and it still hasn’t breached 11:00 p.m.. He’s cleaned down the kitchen (twice!) and arranged the food inside the fridge like those ‘stock up my fridge with me’ tiktoks he’s seen on Sakusa’s phone. The clothes on his side of the closet have been arranged by color and length, with all the ones in his dresser refolded, Marie Kondo style. He’s also pretty sure he’s scrubbed the bathroom down enough that you can probably see your reflection on the tiles of the damn thing. The laundry baskets for both your clothes are now empty, and he’s changed the bedsheets too and—

He’s still restless. The numbers on the clock taunt him, moving up agonizingly slowly. He can’t stop looking at the time, itching for you to come home.

Atsumu is sorry, so so so incredibly so, because you’re right―he hasn’t been fair to you at all, and he needs you to know that he knows it, too.

His eyes go over the clock again, only a minute having passed since the last time he checked it.

Is this how you felt? Every time you waited for him to come home for a date he promised you?

He squeezes his eyes; it hurts him just thinking about it.

That’s it, he decides, grabbing his phone and wallet as he walks out the door.

Atsumu doesn’t check your location often (maybe only a few times). It’s not a trust thing, he swears; it’s just for when he wants to make sure you’re somewhere safe, or in a place he can reach you should you need him there.

And, you clearly don’t need him right now, but, Atsumu is a little selfish, he admits.

Sitting at home with all his regret feels worse than seeking you out to beg for your forgiveness, whether you want him to or not.

He’s barely dressed for the venue as he steps inside the bar, a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt with those fashionable Birkenstock clogs on. A few people seem to recognize him, tilting their heads and murmuring among themselves as he walks through door, but none of them approach him, thankfully, except for a server asking if he needs assistance.

His eyes scan the tables first, searching for any semblance of the outfit he’d seen you leave in earlier. The dim lights make it increasingly difficult for him to look for your properly as he squints his eyes some more, narrowing his vision to the people at the front bar this time. It’s after the fourth person he dismisses that he feels himself getting desperate, nearly turning towards the server beside him to ask for help.

Until he spots you—tucked in the corner of the front bar, sitting on the barstool with your legs crossed as you swirl around your drink.

You look bored, and a little sad, chin resting in your hand as you lean your elbow on the table.

He frowns, thanking the server on the side as he makes his way to you slowly. You barely notice him as you bring out your phone, tapping on the screen as you stare at it almost longingly―a photo of you and him some time ago after one of his games. He knows it well, can still remember that day so clearly: when he became a PR nightmare because he couldn’t help but announce your relationship by kissing you in front of everybody.

It makes his chest hurt.

Then, you swipe it open, and he’s close enough now to be able to catch a glimpse of what’s on your screen: your text thread with him, his last message being, “Did you make it safely?”

(You pout, eyes pricking with tears. You didn’t reply to him then because you weren’t ready to fully talk to him yet, still upset and disappointed.

It was easy to make yourself feel better by dressing up and stepping out of the apartment earlier, the promise of good drinks and good company awaiting your arrival; you couldn’t think about how you felt if you were busying yourself with others. But now that all of those feelings have died down and most of your friends have started chatting up other people they’ve found, it’s beginning to hit you all at once just how much you still prefer Atsumu’s company more than anything else.

Your fingers hover over your text box, typing and deleting. Typing and deleting.)

He’s two stools away from you now, and he can barely contain it―

“Baby,” his voice trembles, unsteady.

Recognition fills you as you turn to the sound, half-confused at whether you’re hearing things; whether―

(“Tsum,” you mutter, eyes catching a pair of familiar warm brown staring back at you. His bottom lip quivers, the embodiment of a dam starting to crack, vibrating.

Your emotions are a mess, your breath on hold as you feel tears welling up in your lashline too. You still feel upset, still a little sad, and a tiny bit disappointed, but what coats them all is a sense of relief because—)

―he’s here, standing in front of you like he just rolled out of the house with barely enough time to get dressed (which, you’re sure is exactly how things went), and you’re sliding off the bar stool in the prettiest outfit, looking like the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“‘M so sorry,” he breathes out, stepping closer as he grabs your hand, “Don’t ever wanna make y’feel like that again.” His knee gives way as he starts sinking to the floor, “I won’t do that anymore―”

“Tsum,” you try to call his attention.

He’ll beg for your forgiveness whether you like it or not.

(The interaction is causing nearby tables to look, murmurs and whispers in your periphery as you catch vague sentences here and there. He still is a public figure, after all.)

But Atsumu is unaware, looking at you and you alone as he pleads, “No, please hear me out first. I promise I’ll tell ‘em they can speak ‘ta―”

“Tsum,” you squeeze his hand, whispering more firmly as you try to pull him up.

“Baby, please. Gimme the chance ‘ta show ya that I―”

(You look around and notice even more eyes on the two of you, fond looks on their faces as they prepare their phones for what seems like something momentous. Then it hits you, how this looks―)

“Tsum, please stand up,” you tug at his hand strongly, urging him to stand. His eyebrows furrow as he obliges, only comprehending why when you explain it to him softly, “people were starting to think you were about to propose.”

He pauses for a moment, a slight, “Oh,” as he ponders on it. “Well, if that’s what’ll prove it t’ya, then—”

You roll your eyes, the corners of your lips curling slightly as you hit his shin with your foot and squeeze his hand again, “Don’t joke about things like that.”

Well, it’s not the first time it’s crossed his mind, if he’s being honest.

He sighs, sitting on the stool beside you as he rubs his thumb over your hand again, bringing it close to his lips to kiss softly.

“‘M really sorry, baby,” he mumbles against your skin before moving your hand over his heart. “Don’t ever want ya feelin’ like this again.”

“I know,” you give him a small smile, patting down some of the strands of his hair that stick out, “you didn’t have to come out here though, you know. I was about to go home soon, anyway.”

“Can ya blame me? Seein’ ya off like that?” he grips your hand tighter as his voice softens. “Y’re too pretty to be sad,” he plays with your fingers, intertwining them with his.

You hit his shin again, feeling shy. You always do when Atsumu likes to sweet-talk you.

“Do ya forgive me?” he asks after some time, as you take the last few sips of your drink.

You hum, looking him in the eyes as you nod, pouting, “I don’t like being mad at you, you know.” He lights up, beaming, but you add on, “We still have to talk about it properly, though. Later, when we get back.”

He nods in agreement, holding your hand as you slide off the barstool, guiding you out of the bar and into the car.

(You both do talk about it properly, and the next time Atsumu promises you a date, he blocks it out of all of his calendars, sending the date to his manager even, just to be extra sure.)

a/n: this has been such a long time coming, i'm sorry to those who waited! i hope you enjoyed even though this simmered with me for way too long 😭 i love writing atsumu a little lovesick but i also think he deserves someone who is equally as in deep as he is 🥺

thank you notes: to 🍧 anon for helping me figure out "what would make you mad at atsumu?" and to @ceroseis and @mieiri for always listening to my shenanigans pre-writing!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x reader #atsumu miya x reader #atsumu fluff #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq!! x reader #atsumu x yn #haikyuu!! x reader #atsumu x you #miya atsumu x yn #miya atsumu x you #shotorus.writes #shotorus.events #in's and out's event

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astrolook · 19 days ago

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💥 The Parts of the Natal Chart That Only Activate in Crisis💥

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home! A single placement or aspect isn't enough to conclude and the whole chart has to be analyzed!

8H personal planets (Sun, Moon, Mercury, Mars)

These planets don’t activate or play a significant role when ur life’s going well. They show up when you’re stripped, raw, broken open, or deeply connected.

If it's Sun -> It activates when u r experiencing an ego death, an identity crisis, a near-death experience, or being seen too deeply by someone (aka feeling exposed). Your strength doesn’t show up until after you've been humiliated or broken. You unconsciously test people: “Will they still love me when I’m ugly?” You don’t know who you are until life takes everything you thought you were. Finally, you would become someone with nuclear-level confidence, but only after destruction.

If it's Moon -> Ur emotions naturally live underground. It activates when you experience betrayal, heartbreak, ur parent's death, or su*cidal thoughts. Your calmness is often trauma-induced freeze, not peace. Being too close to someone feels threatening to you. You pull people in just to push them out. You absorb other people’s feelings but bury your own like a corpse. You bond through mutual wounds, not joy. Trauma familiarity > comfort. You don’t cry often, but when you do, it’s a full exorcism. Finally, your intimacy with someone would feel like a rebirth, but after a mental breakdown.

If it's Venus -> It activates after loss of ur innocence, through heartbreak, abuse, betrayal/ cheating and trauma bonding. Often triggered by transformational love or a long period of abstinence. You r terrified of shallow connections, so u knowingly get into toxic dynamics. Sometimes, you test love by destroying it to see if it survives. Once you heal, you become dangerously attractive. People feel you’re real because you’ve died for love and survived.

If it's Mercury/ Mercury Rx -> It activates through revelations, true colors of the people around you, manipulation and secrets exposed. Often explodes when things are unsaid for too long. Silence or when u r putting up with things/people. You speak in metaphors/indirectly as reality feels unsafe. You intellectualize pain so you don’t have to feel it. You're scared of being misunderstood, but even more afraid of being fully known. Your thoughts turn self-destructive when not expressed. Once healed, ur voice becomes powerful but only after you’ve used it to destroy something you put up with for way too long or kept under wraps.

2. Chiron conjunct the IC or Moon

You r parented by absence and pain is ur native language. It activates when u move out, when someone loves you well and u panic, after a breakup, or when you go “home” (physically or emotionally) and regress by 10 years. Actually, you don’t remember being comforted, you just remember being managed. You can be hyper-aware of everyone else’s moods but can’t name your own. Need feels like weakness. But you secretly crave someone who doesn’t need you to be strong. Finally, relationships would stop being distractions and start becoming mirrors. You start learning that healing isn’t fixing, it’s feeling. It's about recognizing that it was never your fault that you were wounded in the first place.

3. 12H planets (Sun, Mercury, Mars)

If it's Mercury/Mercury Rx -> You think in full novels but speak in broken drafts. You can articulate everyone else’s problems except ur own. You lie by omission, not to manipulate others but to stay safe. Silence is easier than risking misunderstanding. You keep secrets from yourself and dissociate mid-convo. When u go thru a mental breakdown, nobody would know. Finally, when activated, you either become a psychic, a poet, a writer, or someone who never speaks again. Your choice.

If it's Mars -> You let people cross boundaries because you can’t find your ‘no’ fast enough. You explode alone. Then say nothing in person. When you finally express anger, you scare yourself. You express rage in slow motion. Finally, when activated, you take up space and will learn to say 'NO'. You won't put up with BS anymore or won't let anyone walk over you.

If it's Sun -> You feel invisible to yourself. Compliments feel fake. Criticism feels like truth. Your sense of self is more fantasy than experience. You learn from others' mistakes. You don't know what you want in life but you KNOW what you don't want. You stand for everyone except yourself. You don’t feel proud of anything unless someone else says it first. You disown yourself. Finally, when activated, you would stop managing ur visibility. You will start saying what you mean. You won't care if you come off messy, loud, or bitchy but it will be real than ever.

4. North Node in the 4th/8th/12th

In the 4th -> Every success would start to feel emptier the more you ignore ur home life/emotions. You over-function in crises and under-function in your own healing. It activates when career feels like a prison, when u want to cry alone in a locked room, when silence is the only thing that feels honest. After healing, you won't give a sh!t about others' opinions about ur life and start living true to yourself and become the "home" you always wanted to have.

In the 8th -> You r not secure, just armored. You keep it “light” in relationships to avoid losing control. The universe will rip things away from you until you stop gripping. You can’t bypass emotional death with logic and self-help books. Healing lives in surrender. The version of you that survives will not be the same. Being witnessed while transforming is the real shadow work.

In the 12th -> Here, stillness makes you panic and silence feels like failure. You r scared of being ordinary. You're addicted to fixing yourself but you've never actually stopped long enough to feel yourself. You’ll try everything but surrender. You believe in healing, but don’t trust the parts of it that can’t be tracked. You’re haunted by the part of you that you’ve never dared to meet. Even if u resist, your transformation will come anyway. You r here to return to "source". You will realize it thru your dreams and visions and it will take u on a path that's beyond ur comprehension.

5. Saturn conjunct Moon

For u, neediness = weakness. So you built a structure around your heart. A moat. A fortress. A goddamn prison. When someone tells you, “It’s okay to feel that way,” and you freeze like they’re speaking a language you forgot. It activates when your coping mechanisms start looking like self-abandonment. You never learned how to feel freely, you learned how to hold it together. You r emotionally mature for sure but you r emotionally underfed too. Once activated, you stop holding the world together and will start holding yourself. You will stop chasing strength and start chasing softness. You give your inner child the safety they never had and that changes everything.

6. A 6H stellium

Seriously, the toughest of all. You didn't choose the grind. The grind chose you. You r the system. The function. The routine. Until one day…you break. It activates when u realize that you planned your entire life around what others need from you or how you can provide them. It activates when a health crisis forces you to stop “pushing through.” When you realize you’re more familiar with structure than softness. People would call you reliable, not soft. Be honest! Don't you have coping routines, backup routines, and burnout recovery routines? You attract problems and solve them to feel useful. Finally, when activated, you will realize that that structure isn’t supposed to punish you, it’s supposed to protect you. You will rewrite your routines around what nourishes you and makes you truly happy. You will no longer feel the need to fix others.

I left some placements as I can't write everything in a single post. Will do a part 2 if u guys want one.

💌For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing! ✨💌🪐

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chimerafeathers · 2 months ago

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you know what i think Mirabelle deserves to get a little fucked up freaky in how she processes learning about Siffrin’s loops post-canon. for fun. as a treat

thinking about this line in particular and stretching out the implications like taffy

this is a more romanticized, cutesy facet of her interests but she’s still framing Siffrin’s situation through storytelling. so like. What If.

i mean. this woman loves horror and gore and monsters and horrible things happening to innocent people. IN FICTION. in fiction!!! obviously!!!! and it’s beyond terrible that something even remotely close to any of that happened to her real friend in real life!!

BUT.

maybe. maybe sometimes, if the conditions are right, she gets a little too wrapped up in her imagination about the bloody, awful poetry of it all. maybe Siffrin tells a joke that's a little too dark and gory for anyone else, borderline or full-on Concerning, but she latches onto it without thinking about the Implications and plays along with increasing gruesomeness because FINALLYYYYY someone will play with her in the Horror Space (like Isabeau does in the romance space!!) and then. OOPS. the implications!!!! and she has to recalibrate out of Fun With Fiction mode into Oh No, My Friend Underwent A Horrifying Ordeal mode.

but being able to joke about things, even the awful things, is...kind of comforting, to Siffrin. makes them feel less like they're being babied and pitied and more like what happened was something...normal, almost? something that doesn't have to feel like the end of the world all over again every time it's mentioned, at least. so he tries to reassure her, and Odile and Isabeau have to go “actually can you PLEASE not joke about dying horribly it’s freaking us out and also might not be the Best for you? mentally???”

maybe Mirabelle will get a little Too Into trying to weave meaning and symbolism into the scant details that Siffrin gradually reveals, like she’s trying to finish the orange poem all over again, or eagerly meddling with the romantic reunion of the two actual people in the House with undelivered bonding earrings, writing their story for them without their input.

it’s easier to justify the tragedy of it all when it has a purpose, isn’t it? finding the beauty in the darkness, the love powerful enough to end the world. romanticizing the horrors until her friend can talk about them without shutting down.

and she feels guilty about hearing something and immediately thinking “ohhhhhhh this is JUST like Blorbo From My Novels,” because she should treat Siffrin’s situation with the gravity and care he deserves!! they’re a real person, not a character who exists for entertainment, to represent the ~themes~ of some story.

but if she admits as much…maybe Siffrin is safe to admit that he had started seeing the rest of them as actors, endlessly reciting their lines. maybe that’s just how people process things sometimes, grasping for metaphors when unfiltered reality gets to be too much. maybe it’s okay to talk about that part of it all, too.

#mypost #isat spoilers #is this. is this anything.#much more nervous about this mira post because the basis for it is. tenuous maybe. have not seen something approaching this take Anywhere #thinking about the healer stereotype of being soft and warm and loving #but in reality 'healers' being exposed to the brutal bloody truth of human fragility and anatomy #she's a fighter. she's a healer. she reads the most fucked up gore you can imagine #she's anxious to the point of trembling like a chiuahua sometimes but dammit she WILL stand her ground when it counts #and MAYBE her first avenue of processing the horrors of reality is to revel in the horrors of fiction!#is this a good/healthy approach for her OR siffrin? mmmmmmmaybe not!#but like. idk. i feel like people write Mirabelle as less capable of handling the messiest parts of Siffrin’s recovery #on account of her anxiety. and i get that liking gore in fiction is VERY MUCH not the same as being chill & level headed about it #when faced with the real thing in the context of someone you care about #odile is logical and level headed. isabeau is a pillar of comfort and has defender training. i get why they’re the go-to’s #so! fair enough! but she IS also a fighter and a healer #who is absolutely resolute when something matters to her #i wanna give her more credit for her ability to step up in messy situations #and also. for fun. make her a little Weird about it too.#isat #isat thoughts #mirasif qpr #isat mirabelle #isat siffrin #in stars and time #in stars and time spoilers #bonnie not mentioned in the gory joke scenario bc i believe siffrin would have the restraint to not do that when they’re around #but not be QUITE as conscious about what’s gonna fly with the adults

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thesnackthatsmilesbacck · 11 days ago

Text

🧨 Try Me

Or: The time Dynamite replied to your thirst tweet and you briefly forgot how to exist

You’re in bed. It’s sometime after 2 a.m.—2:49, specifically, because you’re looking at the time in the corner of your screen and wondering when exactly you started measuring your nights in percentage of battery left rather than hours of sleep remaining.

The blue light burns into your retinas like you're being punished. You know this is bad for your sleep. You’ve read the studies. You’ve seen the TikToks. You’ve also been here before. This exact place: head half-buried in your pillow, a hoodie you haven’t washed in a week pulled over your knees, your thumb aimlessly scrolling until it feels like your thumb is the one doing the thinking.

And then—

It happens.

A tweet. No context.

Bet none of you could take me anyway.

— @DynamightOfficial

2:47 a.m.

You freeze.

Not in the way people mean when they say it metaphorically. You literally freeze—thumb hovering, heart stuttering, stomach twisting like it forgot which direction is “down.”

Because it’s him.

Bakugou Katsuki. Dynamight. Number two hero. Number one problem in your adult life. Professional menace. Certified weaponized male aggression. Your brain’s least safe place to go at night and yet the one it always returns to, like a tongue to a sore tooth.

You stare at the tweet.

It’s nothing. Just twelve words and a digital timestamp. But you read it again. And again. As if the pixels might rearrange themselves into something safer. Less loaded.

But they don’t.

Bet none of you could take me anyway.

It’s not just the words. It’s him saying them. At 2:47 a.m., which is in your opinion is the horniest time of night. It’s the complete lack of punctuation. The aggression that seeps through the screen. The fact that you know—you know—he meant it in both ways. He always means it in both ways. That’s the problem.

Or maybe that’s the whole reason you’re here.

Your brain does this thing when you get nervous—it splits. Like a cracked mirror, every version of you reflecting something slightly different. The part of you that’s amused is like: “Haha, feral tweet from a feral man.” The part of you that’s anxious is like: “Delete your account. Move to rural Canada. Learn to churn butter.” And the part of you that runs your Twitter smut account is already opening the quote tweet box.

You don’t think. Not really. It’s muscle memory at this point.

“Try me. I’ve already taken you in every way imaginable. Check the pinned.”

You hit send.

And then you sit there in the silence that follows, heartbeat going too fast in a body that isn’t even moving. Your screen is too bright. Your room is too quiet. Your brain is too loud.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’ve tweeted worse. You've written worse. Your entire pinned thread is dedicated to cataloging the (imaginary) ways Dynamight has rearranged your guts like God intended. You once tweeted, “If I die, bury me face-down so Dynamight can sit on my neck.” That got four thousand likes. This is nothing.

But this feels different.

Because this time, he tweeted first.

And something about that—about him speaking into the void and you answering like you’ve been waiting to catch his words midair—feels too real. Too close.

You try to scroll away. But your hand shakes. So you just lie there. Screen glowing. Brain buzzing. And eventually, you fall asleep—if you can call it that.

---

You wake up six hours later to a vibration that doesn’t stop.

Your phone buzzes off your nightstand and clatters to the floor. You groan. Reach for it. Your thumb catches the screen.

And then you see it.

> DynamightOfficial wants to message you.

You sit up so fast you see stars.

For a full three seconds, you stare at the notification like it’s a hallucination. Like your brain has finally given up trying to differentiate between your delusions and your timeline.

But it’s there.

Blue check. Hero account. Him.

You’re not awake. You’re dreaming. You’re in a coma. You died and this is some uniquely customized hell.

You tap it.

Message request: @DynamightOfficial

> you’re outta your fuckin mind

You choke. On nothing. On air. On the weight of your own self-respect, which is currently collapsing like a flan in a cupboard.

He messaged you.

There’s another one.

> what’s your name

No greeting. No “hey.” No “lol.” Just two messages, four words each, and the kind of syntax that feels like a punch to the sternum. It��s so him you could scream.

And you do. Into your pillow. Loudly. Twice.

Because this can’t be happening.

This is the kind of thing you joke about. The kind of thing you tell your group chat while giggling and pretending you’re not serious: “What if he saw the smut thread and actually liked it? What if he DMed me? Lmao, can you imagine???”

And now he has.

And all you can think is: He saw it. He read it. He read the things I said about his hands.

And then another ping.

> send your fuckin face. need to see who the hell writes shit like that.

You black out for a second.

Just a brief, graceful loss of self.

Then you pace your room like it might stop being your room if you circle it fast enough. Your skin feels like a bad disguise. Your thoughts are piling up in your mouth. You don’t know who you are. You are a brainstem with anxiety. You are a single, vibrating nerve ending.

And yet—your fingers open the camera.

You don’t know why.

Maybe you want proof this is happening. Maybe you want to test him. Maybe you’ve spent so long crafting fantasies in your head that you want to see what happens when one fights back.

You snap the pic.

Just your face. A little lip bite. A little neck. Natural light. The kind of photo that says “I’ve got thoughts you aren’t ready for.”

You hit send.

Read.

He’s typing.

He stops.

He starts again.

> dinner. you’re paying. i wanna see if your mouth works as fast as your thumbs.

You die.

You die and your ghost reads it again and whispers: What the fuck is going on.

You don’t remember what you responded with. Something stupid. Probably “sure.” Probably “okay.” Maybe just your address. Maybe nothing at all.

All you know is that it’s Friday, and you’re standing in front of your closet like it holds the secret to seduction and salvation, and your stomach hasn’t unclenched since noon.

It’s not that you haven’t gone on dates before.

It’s that none of them have started with your smut thread and ended with Bakugou Katsuki telling you to wear the lip bite.

You’ve reread the messages about forty times. You’ve gone back and forth between deleting your account and updating your pinned tweet to something more poetic, like: “This is how it starts. God help me.”

He hasn’t messaged since. And part of you keeps wondering if it was a joke. If it was a dare. If it was a PR stunt gone rogue. You even spent an hour Googling “deepfakes + Twitter DMs” before your roommate told you to shut the hell up and go shave your legs.

You don’t remember getting dressed. You don’t remember walking out the door. You barely remember the cab ride, because your thoughts looped the entire way there:

What if he doesn’t show?

What if he does?

What if he’s disgusted?

What if he reads my face like a book and doesn’t like the ending?

What if I say something dumb?

What if I say something too smart and he thinks I’m pretentious?

What if I say nothing at all?

By the time you arrive, your heart is beating so fast it doesn’t feel like it belongs in your chest anymore. Like it’s a borrowed thing. Like you’re just holding it until someone more qualified comes along.

The place he picked isn’t fancy. It’s not even particularly private. A late-night ramen spot tucked off a quiet street in the city. Clean tables. Dim lighting. No music. Just the hiss of broth and the clink of bowls. You wonder if he comes here often, or if he chose it because it’s the kind of place no one would expect to see him. No cameras. No crowds.

Just him. And you.

You step inside.

He’s already there.

He’s sitting in a corner booth, hood up, eyes scanning the room like he’s ready to bite anyone who recognizes him. He’s wearing black. Of course he is. Not dramatic, not sleek—just Bakugou. Comfortable but on edge. Coiled. Like he’s always thirty seconds away from going feral.

You freeze.

He looks up.

His eyes catch yours.

He doesn’t smile.

He stares.

You feel it—like heat, like gravity, like a trap closing around your ribs in slow motion. He looks at you like he’s seeing something he wasn’t ready for. Like he didn’t expect you to look like this. And you don’t know if that’s good or bad.

But then he gestures at the seat across from him with a flick of two fingers. Like you’re late to a meeting. Like he’s been waiting.

You sit.

You are aware of your body in a way you didn’t know was possible. Aware of your hands. Your breath. The way your voice might crack if you speak too soon. You want to crawl out of your own skin and start over. You want to kiss him through the table.

You want a lot of things you can’t say out loud.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says, finally.

His voice is lower in person. Rougher. Like it’s been scraped through gravel and fire and came out angry on the other side. There’s no filter. No politeness. He talks like he punches: direct. Blunt. Aimed to connect.

You laugh, nervous. “Didn’t think you were serious.”

He scoffs. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”

You blink.

He leans forward. “You think I go ‘round DMing just anyone who writes about sittin’ on my face?”

Your soul leaves your body.

You attempt to make a sound that isn’t a dying bird.

“Fuckin’ hilarious, by the way,” he mutters, like he’s talking to himself. “Some’a that shit was too accurate.”

“You read it?” you whisper.

He tilts his head. “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

You want to die. But not in a bad way. In the way that means you want to explode into dust and float into the air and never come down.

You swallow. “...Do I owe you royalties?”

That gets a smirk. Barely there, but real. He slouches in the booth, spreading his legs a little, like he owns the air around him.

“You write about me like you’ve been there,” he says. Not accusing. Curious.

“I—” You pause. “I research.”

“You imagine.”

Your cheeks burn. “Yeah.”

His eyes drag down your face. To your mouth.

“Showed,” he says. “In the threads.”

You can’t look at him. You’re too seen. You’ve never been more clothed and more naked in your life.

A waiter comes. He orders for both of you. No menus. Just confidence.

You’re still reeling when the food arrives, steam curling in the space between you like a bridge.

You talk. About dumb things. About nothing. You think you black out for half the conversation, but you remember that he listens—really listens. He doesn’t look at his phone. He doesn’t talk over you. He just watches. Like he’s trying to match you to the version of you that lives in his head now.

You try not to fall in love with that. But it’s hard.

At the end of the night, he pays. You don’t argue. You remember the text—you’re paying—but he brushes you off when you reach for your wallet. “You’ll pay next time,” he says. Like it’s a promise. Like he’s already decided.

He walks you home.

The city is quiet. Your stomach is louder.

You want to ask a hundred things. What this is. What he wants. Whether he’s going to ghost you after this or kiss you on the sidewalk.

You don’t ask.

Because when you reach your building, he stops. Looks at you. The streetlight hits the edge of his jaw, and your breath catches on the thought: He’s real. This is happening. I am not dreaming this.

And then he leans close.

Close enough that you feel his voice before you hear it.

“Next time you write about me,” he says, low and warm and rough in your ear, “make it a little more accurate.”

You freeze.

“Don't worry, i'll give you material.”

And then he walks away.

Just like that.

While you stare at him with your mouth agape.

#bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #mha x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bnha bakugou #katsuki bakugo mha #mha

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a-bit-of-writing · 1 month ago

Text

How they flirt with you {BG3 Male Companions}

Trying my hand at writing down my headcanons for the companions starting with the males! Next batch will focus on the females.

Astarion

Flirting is second nature to Astarion, but it's also a tool sharpened by centuries of necessity. Whether he's luring prey or disarming suspicion, his every word and gesture is curated for effect.

He doesn't ask if you're interested, he assumes you are.

His confidence is intoxicating, deliberate, overwhelming. He doesn't give you space to not want him.

“You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? Don’t bother denying it — I’d recognize that kind of hunger anywhere.”

But behind that ease is calculation. Every flirtatious word is a chess move. He wants to know what makes you squirm, fluster, melt. You are both a puzzle and plaything.

He rarely flirts directly. Instead, he laces his every comment with insinuation, elegance, and a touch of threat just enough to leave you off balance.

Elegant insults wrapped in compliments:

“You’re clever. Not clever enough to hide your tells, but clever. It’s adorable, really.”

Carnal metaphors twisted with menace:

“There’s something exquisite about restraint, isn’t there? The way anticipation lingers on the tongue. Almost… painful. But then — release is so much sweeter.”

Astarion touches to control the room. To control you. He’ll invade your personal space like a whisper at the nape of your neck — there, then gone, leaving heat and confusion behind.

He doesn’t hold hands. He trails fingers across knuckles.

He doesn’t kiss, he hovers close, lets you ache for it, and then smirks when you do.

“Careful. Lean in any closer, and I’ll have to assume you’re offering something.”

Flirting is his mask. He uses it to avoid intimacy, even while pretending to offer it.

When he flirts with strangers, it's a dance of masks. He’s dazzling, merciless, intoxicating.

When he flirts with someone he actually likes, it becomes more dangerous for him. The flirtation falters, just slightly — too honest, too slow to deflect.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not… I’m not some tragic thing you can fix. I’m far more interesting than that.”

And yet, the plea hides beneath the jest.

If someone earns his trust (which is rare), his flirtation starts to change. It's less about dominance and more about connection but he’ll never admit it outright.

He might say:

“I suppose I’ve grown used to your company. Annoyingly so. There, are you happy? That’s practically a declaration of love from me.”

But he’ll mean:

Don’t leave.

Gale

Gale doesn’t flirt so much as he courts – with words. Lots of them. He offers compliments as if he’s reciting from a sonnet he wrote in your honor, then revises it mid-sentence because technically, there’s a better metaphor.

He’s the kind to start a sentence with "Forgive the boldness, but…" and then say something bold anyway.

“Forgive the boldness, but when you smile like that, it puts the sunrise to shame. Not in hue, mind you, but in how it warms the world around it.”

He’s not afraid of sincerity. In fact, it’s his default setting.

He gives affection like he's offering a gift – open-palmed, hopeful, slightly nervous.

Gale’s compliments are poetic, precise, and occasionally too much. He speaks like he’s writing you into an epic poem, and sometimes he’s aware of how ridiculous he sounds but he leans into it anyway.

You’re not just beautiful – you’re “resplendent,” “arresting,” “a living stanza.”

“There’s a rhythm to you, you know. A cadence I can’t quite match, but I find myself wanting to try.”

He loves analogies. Everything is a metaphor. You’re the flame to his magic, the gravity to his orbit, the comma in his sentence.

Unlike Astarion, who touches to test, Gale touches to reassure. His hand lingers a second longer than necessary, as if memorizing the moment.

He brushes hair from your face not to seduce but because it’s in the way, and you deserve to be seen clearly.

“There. Much better. Your face deserves an unobstructed view of the stars.”

His gestures are protective without being possessive – hovering, not holding, unless you lean in first.

To Gale, being understood is the deepest intimacy. He flirts through discussion, especially if you match his curiosity.

He’s most drawn to someone who can challenge him, surprise him.

A battle of wits? That’s foreplay.

“I had a theory about you, but every time I think I’ve unraveled the mystery, you delight in proving me wrong. Please — don’t stop.”

Magic is seduction. If you show interest in the arcane, you’ve already claimed part of his heart.

What makes Gale’s flirtation touching is how often it trips over genuine feeling. The deeper he falls, the less polished it becomes.

He second-guesses, hesitates, smiles softly in the middle of his own sentence.

“I’ve lived through the ecstasy of magic and the terror of loss… and yet, you – you – somehow feel more dangerous than either.”

And when he truly lets go:

“It’s foolish, perhaps, how much I wish to be someone worthy of the way you look at me.”

Halsin

Halsin doesn’t flirt to impress or manipulate – he flirts because he means it. Everything he says comes from a place of deep sincerity, laced with the calm assurance of someone who knows exactly who he is.

His gaze holds yours like a quiet forest – no pressure, just presence.

“You move through the world with such purpose. It’s… beautiful to witness.”

He speaks plainly, but with a natural poetry – his words aren’t practiced, they’re felt.

“When I look at you, I see strength. But it’s your kindness that draws me in.”

Halsin doesn’t pile on flattery – he notices things. Deep, subtle things. And when he speaks of them, it feels like sunlight warming you from within.

He’s observant, not performative. You might not even realize he’s flirting at first – it just sounds like honest admiration.

“You speak gently, even when the world demands fury. That’s a rare kind of courage.”

He isn’t embarrassed by affection. He says what he feels, and he doesn’t play coy.

“You make the world feel less heavy. I hope I do the same for you.”

Halsin’s touch is deliberate, comforting, and patient. He touches with permission, not presumption. But when he does touch — it’s undeniably intimate, as if saying, I’m here. I will not break you.

He places a hand over yours when you're tense. Holds your gaze, anchoring you.

“Breathe. You don’t need to carry this alone.”

And when desire simmers beneath the surface, it’s elemental – not rushed, not performative, but felt in his closeness, his stillness.

“If I touch you, it will be with all that I am. Say the word.”

Halsin doesn’t need grand declarations. He flirts by showing up – carrying your burdens, tending your wounds, sharing the quiet.

He listens with his whole self. Even your silences are welcome with him.

“You don’t need to fill the space with words. I’m content just being near you.”

He’s drawn to strength, but moved by vulnerability.

And if you let him in, he will never belittle it.

“You let me see you. That is no small gift. And I cherish it.”

Though gentle, Halsin is not shy about attraction. When he wants you, it is unmistakable and entirely honoring.

He’s open about it, but never pushy.

“You stir something in me I haven’t felt in years. Not just desire but hope.”

And if you respond to his touch or words, he’ll smile – slow, unguarded.

“Then let me show you what it means to be cherished.”

Wyll

Wyll leads with charm but it’s never hollow. He knows how to wink and tip his head just right, but every line carries an undercurrent of sincerity.

He wants to make you smile. That’s the whole goal of his flirting: to brighten, to uplift, to show you you’re worth every stolen glance.

“If I had a coin for every time you crossed my thoughts today, I’d have enough to buy you something nice. Though… I’d much rather earn your smile than your silence.”

There’s always a touch of theatricality. He is the Blade of Frontiers, after all. But he never uses the title to elevate himself above you—only to make you laugh.

“Would you believe the famed Blade of Frontiers was brought to his knees by a glance? Because I’m about ready to kneel.”

Unlike Astarion’s razor-sharp innuendo or Gale’s encyclopedic poetry, Wyll gives tender compliments. And if you compliment him back? He flusters, adorably so.

He notices the little things, and they move him.

“You tend to others before yourself. That’s not something I see often and it humbles me.”

If you flirt back, he might laugh – low and genuine – but you’ll catch the faintest blush.

“Careful now… keep that up and I might forget I’m supposed to be the charming one.”

Wyll touches sparingly but when he does, it’s full of reverence. A hand to steady you, fingers brushing yours when passing something, a palm pressed over your heart after battle.

He’ll ask before crossing a boundary.

“May I?” (Offered hand. An honest question.) “Only if you’d like me to stay close.”

Even his teasing has warmth:

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll start thinking I’m special.”

Wyll doesn’t just flirt with words – he flirts through action. Standing by your side. Letting you see the cracks in the armor.

He wants to be someone you trust. And that starts by offering you his truth.

“I made mistakes. I carry them with me but I’d carry yours too, if you let me.”

He brings you into his world, slowly and willingly. If he tells you a story from his past, it means he sees you as part of his future.

When Wyll desires you, it burns low and steady – never rushed, never careless. It’s controlled, because he wants to earn the right to want you.

He doesn’t take. He offers.

“I won’t ask for anything you’re not ready to give. But know this – if you choose me, I will never leave your side.”

And if you do choose him?

That smile – the real one, soft and reverent – comes to life.

“Then let me be the man who proves you were right to.”

Rolan

Rolan is not here to charm you. In fact, he would very much like to be left alone, thank you. But there’s a twitch in his mouth when you say something clever, a pause before he looks away. He’s fighting it and that’s exactly how you know it’s real.

Flirting often sounds like irritation at first. He’s too observant. Too annoyed. He notices you far more than he admits.

“You're always putting yourself in danger. Someone’s going to have to clean up your mess. …Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say it’d be me.”

He flirts like a man sharpening a blade – precise, deflective, and with his guard raised.

“You keep looking at me like I’ve said something sweet. I assure you – I haven’t.”

(He has.)

Rolan doesn’t give you praise straight. He’ll call you reckless when he means brave. Annoying when he means magnetic. And when you catch on? He’s flustered – genuinely.

He’s the king of “I didn’t mean it like that” after saying something surprisingly intimate.

“You’re… capable. For someone with such an irritating tendency to leap before they look.”

If you catch him staring, he’ll roll his eyes. But he won’t deny it.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t… I wasn’t admiring. I was assessing.”

(He was admiring.)

Rolan is awkward about physical affection unless it’s practical. Helping you up, catching your arm in battle, brushing past you on purpose. When he does reach out first, it’s a big deal even if he pretends it isn’t.

Touches are brief, careful, and loaded with tension.

“Hold still. You’ve got something on your – here. There. It’s gone.”

He touches like he's expecting to be rejected. When you don’t pull away, it floors him.

“...Huh. You didn’t flinch. That’s new.”

Rolan connects through arguments, side glances, shared snark. He bonds with people who can keep up, challenge him, call him out and not back down.

He flirts through tension. You’ll know you’ve gotten close when he actually stops snapping at you.

“You’re not as infuriating as usual today. …Don’t let it go to your head.”

And if you tease him back? His ears go pink. Every time.

The rare moments when Rolan lets down his guard are intensely vulnerable. He won’t wax poetic but when he says something kind, it matters. He won’t say it unless it’s true.

It slips out before he can stop it:

“You make things… bearable. More than bearable, actually.”

And when he finally stops fighting it:

“I’ve spent so long pushing people away, I forgot what it feels like to want someone to stay. …I want you to stay.”

Though my next batch will focus on the females, I’m open to any scenarios you will like me to explore, so feel free to drop in a request!

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