#would Not want to be dependable on something like that in that way

[cheftsunoda]

I loved you dnf story 😊

Would you write one for Lewis Hamilton, where the reader is Charles friend and he is absolut smitten with her 😊

This would be lovely 😊

smitten—lh44

smau + blurbs

lewis hamilton x !leclerc best friend reader

charles leclerc x !best friend reader

yn and charles have been best friends since childhood— he would do absolutely anything for her and she would do the same for him. charles notices that yn has been extremely stressed recently as she is in her 3rd year of surgical residency and it hasn’t been easy on her— he needs a date to the f175 event and she needs a night out. what happens when yn meets charles’ new teammate who becomes infatuated with her?

fc : kendall jenner

(a/n) : thank u for the love anon. such a cute idea:) hope you enjoy!!

—

dr_yn_ln

london, england 📍

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 1,205,007 others.

dr_yn_ln : ate charles up at his own event tonight and gonna be in the OR tomorrow. boss girl status

tagged : charles_leclerc

—

view 127,003 other comments.

charles_leclerc : remind me why i thought bringing you was a good idea

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : because you’re emotionally dependent on me and i’m hot and you needed some eye candy on your arm.

liked by arthur_leclerc

↳ charles_leclerc : you were supposed to support me not outshine me

↳ dr_yn_ln : i was doing both.

liked by charles_leclerc and arthur_leclerc

lando : charles was just your accessory for the night

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↳ dr_yn_ln : yes except my chanel bag doesn’t bitch and complain as much as him

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carlossainz55 : the true smooth OPERATOR

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : love u chili ��� will miss you this season

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leclerc_pascale : ma belle fille ❤️

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : je t’aime maman 🥺

username0 : this is the girl that charles was with last night? she’s a doctor?

username15 : she is charles’ childhood best friend— she is a surgical resident. so yes she is a doctor.

username0 : hm. they looked cute together

franciscagomes : forever confused if i want to date you or be you.

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : leave the frenchie and run away with me

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pierregasly : ynnnnn i know that you are a surgeon and save lives and do really cool things everyday but let me keep my girlfriend

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : no

lewishamilton : Very nice to meet you, beautiful. 🖤

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↳ dr_yn_ln : best part of my night 🤍

liked by lewishamilton

username00 : OHHHHH oh

—

The zipper is stuck. Of course, it is. Because God has a sense of humor, and because Charles Leclerc has the upper body strength of a wet sock.

“Why is this dress built like a vault?” he grunts behind me, tugging again. My entire body jerks backward like I’ve just been possessed.

“Because it’s couture, not a jumpsuit from Zara,” I snap, bracing myself against the bathroom sink. “Can you please be gentler? That’s my spine, those are not exactly easy to fix by the way.”

Charles mutters something in French that I don’t catch, and I don’t want to, because I’m already trying not to laugh.

“This would be easier if we just stitched you into it,” he says, giving one final tug. The zipper finally gives in. “Voilà.”

I turn to face him. He’s already in his tuxedo, perfectly pressed and annoyingly smug. I swear the only thing keeping him humble is me.

“You look—ugh, whatever,” he says, making a face like looking at me is physically painful. “Hot. I guess.”

I grin. “Try not to cry about it.”

“I will cry about it,” he retorts, grabbing his cologne from the counter. “You’re going to make me look like your security guard.”

I grab my lipstick and lean over to check the mirror. “You’re lucky I’m even going. I have a 10 a.m. call at the hospital. The fact that I’m wearing heels tonight should qualify me for sainthood.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Please. You’ve stitched arteries on no sleep. You’ll survive an event.”

“And yet I might not survive you,” I mutter, dodging him as he leans in dramatically for a selfie.

“Smile, YN. We’re going to look iconic.”

“You’re going to look like a proud boyfriend and confuse the entire internet again.”

“That’s half the fun.”

We snap a few photos — him doing the classic Charles smirk, me holding a champagne glass. He scrolls through them with a satisfied nod.

“Okay, ready?” he asks, offering me his arm like we’re in a rom-com.

“No,” I reply. “But my dress is tight enough that I can’t sit, so we might as well leave.”

Charles laughs, leading me toward the door. “You’re going to outshine me tonight, aren’t you?”

I smirk. “Charles, darling… that was never in question.”

—

I lose Charles approximately four minutes into the event. One second, he’s beside me, making some snide comment about the appetizers being too small, and the next, he’s whisked away by a publicist who definitely threatened him with a smile.

I hover near the edge of the venue, sipping champagne, trying not to think about the fact that I have to scrub in for surgery in less than twelve hours and my feet are already screaming. It’s fine. I look hot. That’s what counts.

“Long night ahead?”

The voice is low, warm, and British in a way that makes me blink twice. I turn slightly — and there he is. Lewis Hamilton. Oh. I don’t know what I expected — something glossier, maybe. Untouchable. But there’s something… quiet about him in person. Intentionally lowkey. Until he looks at you — and then it’s like the world zooms in.

“Only if you count a 10 a.m. surgical rotation as fun,” I reply, offering a wry smile.

His gaze drops briefly to my glass, then back to my face. “That explains the minimal champagne.”

“That and the fact that Charles will cry if I leave him at this party alone.”

Lewis huffs a laugh. “So you’re the infamous best friend.”

“In the flesh,” I say, tilting my head. “And you must be the new teammate. The one Charles was pretending not to be nervous about meeting.”

He smiles — all soft charm and good energy. “I wasn’t sure you were real. He talks about you like you’re some mythological figure. The perfect hybrid between chaos and competence.”

I snort. “Well, I am in heels, fully glam, and technically still on call. So he’s not entirely wrong.”

There’s a pause. He’s still looking at me — in that calm, deliberate way that feels… different. Not surface-level. Like he’s filing things away.

“Well,” he says after a beat, “chaos and competence suits you.”

“You’re not too bad yourself,” I reply, raising a brow. “Though I’m still not sure if I like you yet.”

That makes him grin, something slightly crooked and entirely lethal.

“Challenge accepted, doctor.”

And just like that, Charles reappears — hair windblown, tie askew, muttering something about media interviews being invented by demons. He opens his mouth to speak, then stops. Looks at Lewis. Looks at me. Looks back at Lewis.

“Oh no,” Charles says dramatically. “I was gone for seven minutes.”

—

The party is dimming — not done, but definitely winding down. The lights are softer now. The photographers have mostly disappeared. People are half-drunk, laughing too loud, shoes quietly coming off under tables. Charles is deep in conversation across the room, talking animatedly with someone in Ferrari red. I slip away. No drama, no announcement — just a quiet exit toward the side hallway, where the noise drops off behind thick doors and everything feels… still. I find the terrace by instinct, the same way I find a break room at the hospital when I need five minutes to breathe. It’s empty, quiet, with city lights stretching out beneath the railing.

Except it’s not totally empty. Lewis is already out there. He’s leaning on the stone balustrade, one hand in the pocket of his suit, his bowtie untied and hanging loose around his collar. He turns slightly when I step outside. His smile is immediate. Soft. Familiar in a way I wasn’t expecting.

“Escaping?” he asks.

I shrug, walking to the edge. “Resetting.”

“Same,” he says, eyes back on the skyline. “Events are good… until they’re not.”

I laugh under my breath. “That’s exactly how I feel about 48-hour shifts.”

His gaze flicks over to me — curious. “You really love it, don’t you? Surgery.”

“Most days,” I say truthfully. “Some days it breaks you. But I think the best things always do, in a way.”

Lewis nods, quiet for a second. “Charles wasn’t exaggerating.”

“About what?”

“That you’re sharp as hell.”

That makes me smile. I tilt my head toward him. “Did he also mention that I’m usually the reason he’s late to things and that I once made him cry laughing during a press conference?”

“That part he did mention.”

We share a look, and it’s easy — the kind of ease that doesn’t feel forced. It settles into the air between us, warm and slow.

“Charles told me you’d hate this kind of event,” Lewis says after a beat. “Said he had to bribe you with food and the promise of no press.”

“I told him I’d only come if he let me insult him in public at least once,” I reply. “Which I did. Twice, actually.”

His laugh is low and genuine. “You’ve got him wrapped around your finger.”

“I was here first,” I say simply. “You’re just the shiny new teammate.”

“Mm,” he hums. “I’m not sure that’s the only reason you’re watching me like that.”

My stomach flips, and I blink. “I wasn’t—”

“You are now.”

He turns to face me fully, and suddenly the air feels different — heavier but not uncomfortable. His voice drops just slightly, not for effect, but like he’s being honest in a way not everyone gets.

“I like you,” he says. “I don’t know how else to say it. You walk into a room and the whole thing shifts.”

I swallow. “You’ve known me for like… an hour.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about you since minute ten.”

I look at him for a long moment — the kind of look that weighs the risk, the timing, the absolutely horrible idea this could be… and how much I don’t care.

“You’re not just saying that because I look like a Bond girl tonight?”

His smile tugs wider, slow and soft. “I think you’d be dangerous even in scrubs.”

I step closer, just slightly — the space between us narrowing, but not quite gone.

“You’re not what I expected,” I murmur.

He tilts his head. “Good or bad?”

“I don’t know yet,” I whisper, smiling. “Ask me again in the morning.”

Lewis leans in, but not fully — waiting, giving me the moment. So I close the distance. The kiss is slow — unhurried, thoughtful. Like we’re both aware this could change everything. And maybe we want it to. When we pull back, I stay close, forehead against his.

“You realize Charles is going to lose his mind, right?” I breathe.

“I’ll survive,” Lewis says quietly. “Will he?”

We both laugh — quietly, together — and in the distance, I hear someone call my name. Probably Charles, looking for me with a plate of dessert and twenty questions.

—

The hallway is quiet when I step out of the elevator, heels in one hand, the other gently smoothing out my dress that’s seen better hours. I slip the key card into the door, trying to be quiet—though the dramatic click of the lock disengaging kind of ruins that plan. I step in and immediately freeze. Charles is sitting on the edge of the bed. Not lounging. Not half-asleep. No.

He’s sitting upright, arms crossed, still fully dressed down to his cufflinks, like some kind of tired but deeply judgmental dad whose teenage daughter missed curfew. He says nothing at first. Just raises his brows.

I blink. “…Hi?”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Oh my God,” I groan, dropping my heels and heading straight to my suitcase. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” he says. “Just sitting. Watching. Processing.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Because someone vanished halfway through the night and never came back. Then someone didn’t answer their phone. Then someone made me look like a concerned husband in front of team management when I asked if anyone had seen my best friend.”

I unzip my garment bag and pull out my travel sweats. “Well, someone was having a perfectly nice conversation with your teammate until it got very late.”

Charles inhales like he’s trying to center himself.

“Define nice,” he says finally.

I toss him a glance. “Charles.”

“I’m just asking,” he says, throwing his hands up. “Asking. In a nonjudgmental way. As your lifelong friend who also happens to know the man you were very clearly flirting with across the room for two hours—”

“Oh my God, shut up,” I mutter, grabbing my toiletry bag and heading for the bathroom. “Don’t go full protective brother on me. You literally invited me to this.”

“I invited you for a night out, not to elope with Lewis Hamilton,” he calls after me.

I shout back, “You’re being dramatic.”

He mutters something in French. I ignore it.

When I come back out, freshly changed and makeup wiped off, he’s still sitting there. I zip up my duffel bag and check the time.

4:38 AM.

The jet he arranged is wheels-up in just under two hours so I can get back to the hospital in time for rounds. No sleep for me. Again.

Charles watches me fuss with my charger cord for a moment before asking quietly, “So… are you okay?”

I stop, meeting his eyes. That’s the thing about Charles. Under all the teasing and fake-older-brother energy, he knows me too well. Knows when to joke, when to pry, and when to just… check in.

“I’m okay,” I say honestly. “It was just… nice. To not be a resident. Or a surgeon. Or anything else, for a few hours.”

He nods.

“Also,” I add as I grab my bag, “Lewis told me he wants to kiss me again when we aren't hiding from you.”

Charles makes a noise like he’s physically in pain.

“Goodnight, Charles,” I say sweetly, walking past him.

“Have a safe flight,” he groans, flopping backward onto the bed like a man defeated. “And if I see one headline, I’m telling your attending you flew to London while on call and made out with a 7 time world champ.”

“You’d have to prove it,” I smirk, blowing him a kiss before shutting the door behind me.

—

dr_yn_ln

liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton, arthur_leclerc & 1,708,443 others.

dr_yn_ln : i haven’t slept in 48 hours HELP

—

view 125,034 other comments.

lando : why do you still look this good on no sleep REF DO SOMETHING 🗣️

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : DO SOMETHING REF (me after i’m put on for another 4am surgery) (george when max comes near him)

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username0 : i can’t with her she is so fucking funny

arthur_leclerc : ynnnn remember how you said i can borrow the porsche

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : sadly yes i do recall

arthur_leclerc : 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

↳ dr_yn_ln : sigh. it is with me at the hospital. come get her. im having someone pick me up anyways.

arthur_leclerc : 🏃🏻

↳ dr_yn_ln : he’s a runner he’s a trackstar

liked by arthur_leclerc

charles_leclerc : WHO is coming to pick you up because i know it isn’t me

↳ dr_yn_ln : he gon run away when it gets hard

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charles_leclerc : YN MN LN now.

username0 : her blatantly ignoring charles is taking me out

username15 : i wish her and charles would just date. they are so cute

↳ charles_leclerc : maman and arthur have been trying for years — it will never happen.

↳ dr_yn_ln : charles is hot but he annoys tf outta me

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arthur_leclerc : i literally gave a whole presentation on why you two would work. neither of you took it seriously. i had slides.

↳ dr_yn_ln : you had transitions and background music.

↳ charles_leclerc : he made us hold hands and look into each others eyes like it was couples therapy. i still have not recovered.

↳ arthur_leclerc : love is real and you two are cowards.

lilymhe : gorg and can save a life. lethal combo

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lewishamilton : see you soon 🤍

liked by dr_yn_ln

—

There’s a very specific kind of exhaustion that hits after a 48-hour call shift — a dull throb behind the eyes, like my brain is trying to shut down completely but the rest of me is too wired on bad coffee and adrenaline to let it. So when I stumble out of the hospital’s staff entrance with my hair tied up, eyes puffy, and scrubs looking like they’ve been through a war zone, I am not prepared for what’s waiting by the curb. Arthur. Leaning dramatically against my Porsche like he owns it, wearing sunglasses even though it’s overcast, chewing gum like he’s in a teen romcom.

“Bonjour, Docteur Boss,” he says, arms crossed. “Did you save lives and break hearts today?”

“I’m too tired to punch you,” I mutter, handing him the keys. “So you’re lucky.”

He catches the keys midair.

“This is the coolest I’ve ever felt,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat but leaving the door open. “I’m taking the roof down and playing French rap at full volume.”

"I will physically end you if you scratch it."

“You’re so violent for someone who takes oaths,” he says sweetly.

I groaned and rolled my eyes, trying to keep myself up right.

Arthur eyes me for a beat. “Soooooo…”

I crack one eye open. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

“You were going to ask about Lewis.”

He gasps, scandalized. “I was—but now that you’ve brought him up, yes. Did he kiss you again? Is this a thing? Do I have to start emotionally preparing for you to date the GOAT?”

I give him a look. “Why are you acting like you’re about to walk me down the aisle?”

“I just think he’d be a great brother-in-law,” he says with a shrug. “Very respectful. Very cool. Good jawline.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know,” he grins, then glances down the street. “Speaking of your soulmate…”

I turn, and sure enough, there he is. Lewis. Looking stupidly good in a hoodie and sweatpants like he didn’t just wake up early to pick me up after the longest shift of my life. Roscoe’s in the back seat of his car with his tongue out, already happy to see me. He spots me, smiles that slow, soft smile — the one that makes my tired bones ache in a completely different way — and gives a little wave. Arthur watches the whole thing unfold like he’s watching the finale of a romance drama.

“Tell him I said hi,” he says dreamily, already putting the car in drive.

“You’re being weird.”

“Tell him,” Arthur insists as he pulls off, windows down, blasting Aya Nakamura at full volume.

I shake my head and cross the sidewalk toward Lewis’s car. He gets out and meets me halfway, pulling me into a hug before I can say anything. His arms are warm and his hoodie smells like laundry and eucalyptus. I kind of melt into him.

“Hey, doc,” he murmurs into my hair. “Rough shift?”

“Brutal,” I sigh. “I think I forgot what sleep is.”

“I’ve got smoothies, your favorite protein bar, and Roscoe’s been practicing his ‘cheer up’ face.”

I pull back just enough to smile at him.

“You’re unreal.”

Lewis grins. “Get in the car. You’re done being a superhero for today.”

I nod, finally letting myself relax as he guides me into the passenger seat, like I didn’t just spend two days elbow-deep in someone’s abdomen. Roscoe licks my arm. I don’t even flinch. And as we pull away from the hospital, I text Arthur.

“he says hi, btw. now please don’t crash my car or play your sad boy shit in it.”

“no promises. also i already named it. she’s called La Baddie.”

—

The world feels a little floaty when I step out of the shower — the kind of tired that’s deeper than sleep, woven into my muscles and bones. My skin’s still damp, and my hair’s twisted into a bun on top of my head with a claw clip I nearly dropped into the toilet twice. Everything aches. But when I walk into Lewis’s bedroom, the lights are low and golden, the bed already turned down. My favorite show is queued up on the TV, paused at the opening screen. And there — neatly folded on the edge of the bed — is one of Lewis’s old t-shirts. Soft. Faded. Worn in all the best ways. I don’t even have to ask if it was for me. Of course it was. Roscoe lifts his head from his bed in the corner and gives me a sleepy tail wag, then goes back to snoring. I change slowly, my body stiff, and when I pull the t-shirt over my head, it falls mid-thigh and smells like Lewis. That clean, citrusy scent that always clings to his hoodies and pillows. I crawl into bed and instantly sigh into the pillows — it’s like sinking into a cloud. The door creaks softly a moment later.

Lewis walks in with a glass of water and my lip balm, because he knows I’ll forget both. He doesn’t say anything, just sets them down on the bedside table, pulls the covers up over me, and leans down to press a kiss to my temple.

“Come here,” I mumble sleepily, reaching for him.

He chuckles under his breath — low and warm — and climbs in beside me, one arm wrapping around my waist and pulling me close until my head’s tucked under his chin and my legs are tangled with his. His fingers stroke slow, soothing lines down my back.

“You did good, sweetheart,” he whispers, like he knows I need to hear it.

I hum against his chest, eyelids already heavy. “Mmm… you’re warm. And big.”

Lewis laughs again, soft and quiet. “You’re delirious.”

“You love it,” I murmur, drifting.

“I do,” he says, no hesitation.

I fall asleep in his arms before the episode even starts. And for the first time in 48 hours, everything feels still.

—

I wake up slowly — the kind of slow where you don’t even realize you’ve opened your eyes until the sunlight starts to sting a little. The bed smells like eucalyptus and detergent, and the t-shirt I fell asleep in is soft against my skin, worn-in in the way only his clothes are. The first thing I notice? Silence. No pagers. No monitors. No trauma codes being yelled down a hallway. Just a low hum of music from the kitchen and the sound of a spatula hitting a pan. I stretch, bones cracking like an old house settling. Roscoe lifts his head from his bed near the door and wags his tail lazily, like he’s been up for hours but didn’t want to wake me. Bless that dog. The smell hits me next — pancakes, cinnamon, maybe… caramelized bananas?

I shuffle out of the bed in just Lewis’s oversized tee, feet cold on the hardwood as I pad toward the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. And there he is. Lewis, barefoot, shirtless, wearing gray sweatpants and an apron that says “Kiss the Chef” with a ridiculous grin on his face as he flips pancakes like he’s in a Michelin-star kitchen.

“Good morning, Doc,” he says without turning around.

“You’re unreal,” I mumble, slumping against the kitchen island. “Tell me I didn’t hallucinate this.”

“You didn’t. You did, however, sleep for fourteen hours.”

My jaw drops. “No.”

“Roscoe took shifts watching over you. I made him head of security.”

Roscoe woofs softly from his corner like he’s confirming his job title.

I blink blearily at Lewis as he plates two golden, perfect pancakes and tops them with a ridiculous amount of whipped cream. “Why are you like this?”

“Because you don’t know how to rest, so someone’s gotta teach you.”

He places the plate in front of me and slides a glass of fresh juice next to it.

I raise a suspicious eyebrow. “Are you fattening me up to make me take a nap again?”

“Not quite,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “I have a full spa day booked for us. At-home. Massages, facials, steam diffuser thingies. You’re not allowed to lift a finger.”

My eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He leans back on the counter, arms folded and smirking. “I even stocked the fridge with all your weird juice bar orders and bought that overpriced candle you cried over in London.”

“You remembered the candle?!”

Lewis shrugs like it’s nothing. “You looked like it meant a lot.”

I could cry again. I might cry again. Instead, I just stare at him, overwhelmed and speechless, and say the only thing that comes to mind.

“You’re my favorite person.”

“Good,” he says, tapping the plate. “Now eat your pancakes and prepare to be pampered. Doctor’s orders.”

—

I’m pretty sure Lewis missed his calling as a wellness guru. Because after breakfast, I’m wrapped in a plush robe that smells like lavender, sitting cross-legged on his couch with one of those fancy golden face masks on — the kind I always scroll past because they’re “too expensive” but still cry over when they’re sold out.

The lights are dimmed, there are no fewer than eleven candles lit, and there’s some soft R&B playing from his speaker. Roscoe is curled up nearby like a sleepy little bean, also living his best life.

“I’m going to fall asleep again,” I mumble through the mask as Lewis pads in from the kitchen with a tray of tea and fruit. “This is too much. You’ve created a nap trap.”

He grins and sets the tray down with practiced hands. “That’s the point. Recovery phase.”

“Recovery from what? Being alive?”

“Exactly. You’re under intensive care.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s hard to fight the smile tugging at my lips. Especially when he kneels in front of me and starts painting my nails — light, sheer pink. The kind I never wear because I don’t have time, and gloves make it pointless.

“Where did you even find this color?”

“You mentioned it once.”

I blink down at him. “I was ranting about how surgical gloves make manicures a waste of time.”

“And I remembered. Because you still looked really pretty while ranting.”

I pause. He doesn’t meet my eyes, too focused on making sure the polish doesn’t streak.

The silence buzzes for a second before I crack. “Okay, now you’re just trying to make me fall in love with you.”

He smirks — cocky, devastating, and so smug it makes me want to flick him in the forehead. “Is it working?”

I groan and flop back onto the couch. “It’s working too well, I need an emotional support dog.”

Roscoe lets out a soft snore. Useless. After the nails, there’s a massage. Lewis sets everything up in the guest room like he’s been doing this for years — soft towels, diffuser going, and the most relaxing playlist I’ve ever heard.

I lie face down and barely manage to mumble, “You’re taking this overachiever thing a little far,” before I completely melt into the table.

His hands are warm and skilled, pressing into all the right spots with practiced gentleness, careful around the tension in my shoulders. Somewhere between the lavender oil and his fingers stroking slow circles down my spine, I feel my eyes drift shut again. When I wake up, I’m tucked back into his bed, the candles are still burning low, and Lewis is curled around me — arms tight, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. And I think — if this is what rest feels like, maybe I could get used to it. Maybe I could get used to him.

—

By the time I’m slipping into the dress Lewis left hanging in the closet for me — a silky black number that fits too well for it to be a coincidence — I know something’s up. He hasn’t told me much about where we’re going. Just, “Wear something that makes you feel like the main character. I’ve got everything else.” When I walk out, he’s standing by the door in a crisp black suit, no tie, just enough cologne to make me dizzy. His eyes sweep over me slowly, like he wants to remember it.

“Damn,” he breathes, smile crooked. “You’re gonna ruin me tonight.”

“Big talk,” I tease, grabbing my clutch. “You haven’t even fed me yet.”

The drive is quiet. Peaceful. We don’t play music — we just exist in this calm little bubble, where the world feels too soft to touch us. He pulls into a private villa outside the city, the kind tucked behind high hedges with a single lantern-lit path winding toward a glass-walled restaurant overlooking a private garden. There are no other guests. Just a table set for two beneath a canopy of fairy lights. My stomach does a weird flip.

“I told them I wanted it quiet,” he says, hand on my lower back as he guides me forward. “Didn’t want to share you with the world tonight.”

I laugh, but it comes out softer than I expect. “You’re being weirdly romantic.”

He just shrugs, eyes not leaving mine. “Weird’s better than too late.”

Dinner is soft conversation and slow bites, the kind where you don’t even realize you’re smiling until your cheeks hurt. He watches me the whole time — not like I’m something to figure out, but like I’m something he already knows by heart. When dessert comes — a tiny chocolate something I barely touch — he reaches across the table and takes my hand.

“Can I say something?” he asks, voice lower now.

I nod, suddenly very aware of my heartbeat.

“I’ve liked you for a while.” He smiles a little. “But I didn’t want to be another thing pulling at your time. You already give so much of yourself to everything and everyone.”

I can’t speak. I just look at him, blinking, heart thudding like it’s trying to get out.

“But that night,” he goes on, thumb brushing my knuckles, “watching you talk with everyone, hearing you laugh like you hadn’t in weeks… I just knew. I didn’t want to be on the outside of your life anymore. I want in. All the way in.”

I finally manage a whisper. “Lewis…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says quickly. “I know you’ve got a million things pulling you in every direction. I just needed you to know where I stand.”

I squeeze his hand. “I’ve been standing in the same spot this whole time. Just didn’t know I was allowed to look your way.”

The tension breaks — just like that. He exhales, eyes crinkling as he leans across the table and presses a kiss to my hand.

“I’m looking,” he murmurs. “And I’m not looking away.”

—

f1gossipgirls

257,054 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Lewis Hamilton in love? Lewis has been seen out multiple days in a row with none other than Charles Leclerc’s childhood best friend, Dr. Yn Ln. The two were seen multiple times in Monaco, either shopping, having dinner together or leaving in his car. What do we think about this couple?

—

view 10,347 other comments. 

username00 : honestly i am down bc yn is the sweetest and she is a literal doctor. rather her than another random model.

username15 : i just know charles is STRESSED

username8 : poor arthur. he pulled out all the stops to try and get yn with charles only for her to end up with his teammate LMAO

username7 : this is so cute i am obsessed with these two

username5 : power couple

usenrame20 : @/arthur_leclerc how is charles??

↳ arthur_leclerc : he is…well. charles. 

username17 : she is exactly who i always wanted lewis to end up with. i think she is good for him. 

—

My phone buzzed across the nightstand just as I was settling into bed with a mug of coffee and a very ambitious plan to ignore the world for at least 30 minutes. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. Only one person FaceTimed like a man on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

Charles Leclerc wants to FaceTime.

I picked up, sighing, and immediately winced as his face filled the screen—hair wild, hoodie halfway off, eyes wide with panic as he paced around his kitchen like he was prepping for trial.

“YN. Tell me that article is lying. Multiple dates? Leaving in his car?! WITH LEWIS?!”

“Hi, Charles,” I said flatly, sipping my coffee.

“Don’t ‘hi’ me. What is going on?! Why am I finding out through gossip pages that my best friend is starring in her own rom-com with my teammate?!”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You were shopping. With. Lewis. Hamilton. And then dinner? And the paparazzi caught him opening your car door. Who even does that anymore?!”

I raised a brow. “Chivalry?”

“Conspiracy. That’s what it is,” Charles muttered. “And betrayal.”

I blinked. “You introduced us.”

“As friends! Not—whatever this is!” He gestured wildly. “I should’ve known when he started asking me what your favorite coffee order was. I thought he was being nice. He was plotting.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but then the screen glitched and suddenly a second face popped up beside Charles, looking far too pleased. Arthur.

“Oh no,” I groaned. “They’ve joined forces.”

“You knew and didn’t tell me?!” Arthur gasped. “Charles was spiraling and you just let him suffer? You’re evil.”

“You’re loving this.”

“I am,” Arthur grinned. “Honestly, I thought it’d happen sooner. Lewis looks at her like she hung the stars. And he brought her pastries last week—pastries, Charles. That’s endgame behavior.”

“He brought almond croissants from that place in Menton,” Charles said hollowly, like he’d just lost a war.

Arthur gasped again. “The ones with the flaky top and the powdered sugar?!”

“Yes.”

I blinked. “Do you two want to date him or—?”

“Don’t deflect!” Charles shouted. “You are not allowed to distract me with logic. I’ve known you since you had braces. I deserve a heads-up before my teammate starts making heart eyes at you in public.”

“I’ve seen your iCloud history, Charles,” I said sweetly. “We don’t owe each other anything.”

Arthur cackled.

“Okay, but seriously,” Charles said, softer now, “Is it real? You and Lewis?”

I paused, a little stunned by how quiet he sounded. “…It might be.”

He groaned and sank to the floor, off-screen. “I need a therapist.”

Arthur tilted his head with a chuckle.

“I want updates,” Charles added from the floor. “I want a full timeline. If I find out on Instagram that he’s kissed you, I’ll slash his tires in front of the FIA building.”

“Add me to the group chat,” Arthur said. “I wanna send memes.”

I shook my head and laughed, setting my mug down. “You two are ridiculous.”

Just then, the door creaked open and Lewis stepped inside, holding two takeaway bags and kicking off his shoes. His eyes landed on me—and then on my phone, where the brothers were still onscreen and very clearly squinting at him.

He blinked. “Do I… say hi or back out slowly?”

Arthur perked up. “Is that Lewis? Hey, lover boy.”

Charles sat up instantly. “Are those almond croissants?! You’re bribing her again?!”

Lewis gave me a long-suffering look. “Should I come back later?”

I grinned. “Nope. You’re in it now.”

Arthur leaned into the screen. “Lewis, welcome to the Leclerc interrogation. Please state your intentions and whether or not you believe you are boyfriend material.”

Lewis just smiled, leaned down to kiss the top of my head, and calmly replied, “Well, I did bring almond croissants again.”

Charles shrieked. Arthur cheered. And I took another sip of my coffee, already exhausted.

—

f1gossipgirls

325,074 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Dr. Yn Ln has been spotted in the paddock the last two days. There have been rumors swirling for months on whether she is currently dating Lewis Hamilton or not. She was seen in the Ferrari garage and then was seen with Susie Wolff and Lewis’ Ex Teammate, George Russell. She was seen with Lewis quite a few times during the weekend. We are still unsure at this time where these two stand.

—

view 53,098 other comments.

username00 : why was she with susie??

↳ username13 : her father is a huge investor and has known the wolff family for years. 

username00 : ah that makes sense

username15 : she is so beautiful it is unfair

username20 : they are def dating idc. i don’t want to hear anymore arguments.

username14 : they are ENDGAMEEEEE

username27 : i’m still not over her and george laughing like old friends and susie hugging her. this woman is networking on an elite level.

username16 : imagine dating lewis hamilton, being charles leclerc’s best friend, AND looking like that??? it should be illegal to be this powerful.

username22 : y’all notice how lewis magically appears every time she’s spotted? this is the most consistent thing we’ve seen from him since 2021 😭

username30 : she’s in her surgical residency and still had time to serve looks and cause grid-wide chaos? she’s not real. —

twitter!

@/scuderiaferrari : Best Friend Vs Boyfriend with Dr. YN and our drivers out now! 

Link below! 🏎️

—

The moment I walked into the Ferrari media room and saw both Charles and Lewis already sitting in front of two whiteboards with markers in hand, I knew I had made a grave mistake.

“You said this was just a fun interview,” I hissed at the poor media girl who had tricked me into this.

“It is!” she chirped. “Fun! Cute! Viral content!”

Charles was already grinning like he knew he was about to embarrass me publicly. “I’m so ready for this. I raised her. This man,” he pointed at Lewis dramatically, “has no idea what he’s in for.”

Lewis looked calm, borderline smug. “I literally spent forty-five minutes organizing her fridge last night because I knew it would make you feel better after her shift. I’m good.”

“I taught her how to ride a bike,” Charles countered, puffing his chest.

I sighed and dropped into the seat between them. “You also told me gum would stay in my stomach for seven years and convinced me to eat dirt because it would ‘build immunity.’”

“That sounds like a Charles thing,” Lewis agreed, smirking.

Charles looked offended. “It was organic dirt.”

"All dirt is organic, Cha."

I was starting to regret everything.

“Okay!” the producer called cheerily. “Let’s begin! Who knows YN best- her lifelong best friend or her seven-time world champion boyfriend?”

Lewis raised his brows at me like, No pressure, and I just gave the camera my best deadpan stare. It’s been 48 hours since I slept properly and I was about to moderate a public quiz about my own life.

What’s YN’s go-to comfort food after a long shift?

Lewis wrote immediately. Charles squinted like he was doing quantum mechanics.

“Three… two… one!”

They flipped their boards.

Lewis: Peanut butter toast with banana and honey.

Charles: Pizza. Always.

I blinked. “Okay, technically, Charles is right if I’m in a spiral. But Lewis is right if I’m functioning like a real adult.”

“Half point each?” the producer asked.

“No,” Charles said dramatically. “I am her day-one. I knew about the pizza thing since she was twelve.”

“Her metabolism thanks me,” Lewis said, giving him a dry smile.

I groaned. “Next question!”

What is YN’s irrational fear?

Charles was cackling before the question even finished. Lewis looked thoughtful.

“Three, two, one.”

Lewis: Getting stuck in a lift with strangers.

Charles: Fish with human-like teeth.

“Charles!” I yelped, smacking his arm. “I told you that in confidence!”

Lewis leaned over to look at his board. “That… that is terrifying, actually.”

“She sent me an article about it at 2am once,” Charles said. “She couldn’t sleep after seeing a picture on Twitter.”

“I was vulnerable.”

What’s YN’s guilty pleasure TV show?

Charles was scribbling so hard the marker squeaked. Lewis tapped his marker dramatically before flipping his board.

Charles: Selling Sunset.

Lewis: Selling Sunset. (She pretends she hates it.)

I covered my face. “I do not—okay, I do. But only for the outfits and chaos.”

“They’ve watched entire seasons together,” Charles whispered to the camera, as if reporting from the front lines. “She quotes Christine.”

“Only ironically!” I defended.

Lewis gave the camera a side glance. “She also paused one episode to explain the psychology of twin dynamics using the Oppenheim brothers as examples.”

Charles burst out laughing.

What’s YN’s biggest pet peeve?

“Oh, I know this,” Lewis said confidently.

Charles just stared at me, then slowly started writing. “If this is wrong, I’m sorry in advance.”

They flipped.

Lewis: People talking over others in group conversations.

Charles: When people interrupt her while she’s diagnosing herself on WebMD.

I let out a snort.

“She once made a PowerPoint about how she thought she had scurvy,” Charles said fondly. “All because she didn’t eat fruit for like two days.”

Lewis looked at me. “That’s concerning but also… weirdly on brand.”

The camera stopped rolling after a final round of chaotic banter, Charles pouting over his technical win because he got more questions right, while Lewis was busy feeding me strawberries from the snack table.

“You two are insufferable,” I told them.

Charles threw an arm around my shoulders. “You’re lucky we love you.”

Lewis smiled, stepping beside me and slipping a hand around my waist. “Very lucky.”

I leaned back against both of them, overwhelmed in that stupidly warm, quiet way I always get around the people who know me best. Yeah, I was lucky. Wildly, unbelievably lucky. Even if they did both remember the fish thing.

—

lewishamilton

liked by dr_yn_ln, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 & 5,090,001 others.

lewishamilton : got a new teammate and found my soulmate in the same season.

tagged : dr_yn_ln

—

dr_yn_ln : charles and i are sadly a package deal. in many ways

liked by charles_leclerc and lewishamilton

↳ charles_leclerc : i don't go anywhere without my emotional support yn

liked by dr_yn_ln and lewishamilton

↳ lewishamilton : i am learning that.

arthur_leclerc : yn is a leclerc - basically. she knows all of our secrets.

liked by dr_yn_ln and lewishamilton

lando : woah woah woah. if i knew yn was not off limits i would've made moves years ago.

↳ charles_leclerc : she was never not off limits. especially for you.

lando : oh well. happy for you guys! i too would pick lewis hamilton over me.

liked by dr_yn_ln and lewishamilton

georgerussell63 : you old softie

liked by dr_yn_ln and lewishamilton

—

[saeamy]

OWL (OUR SON)

itoshi rin x reader

summary ۫ ꣑ৎ you're waiting for rin to return from blue lock, but something is missing from his room content: fluff! probably ooc! rin wc: 997 a/n: this is a draft from like 2 years ago that i kinda tried fixing up as best i could lol. this was like my first time writing so i hope you enjoy ^^ also didn't know what to name this...

giving gifts to rin wasn’t just hard. it was a whole mission.

but for his last birthday, you felt like you really came through with his gift. you had spent hours making sure it was absolutely perfect, no flaws or miscounted rows. a crocheted owl plushie. rin’s birthday embroidered on the bottom of the foot, and you made an additional cute scarf and sun hat for the owl, with both yours and rin’s initials.

when you first gave it to him, he had just stared at it for a few seconds, before letting a small smile make its way to his face. and from then on, the owl was always lying somewhere in his room, whether it be on his desk or on his bed. 

you even noticed how rin would change the owl’s clothes depending on the weather and season, but you’d never tell him, he’d just roll his eyes and deny it. 

but now, you were sat on his bed, scrolling through your phone while you waited for rin to return from blue lock. his mum loved you, and let you in, treating you as if you were a daughter. it’s been around 3 months since you last saw rin properly, only communicating with him on texts and short calls when it was allowed. 

you had seen him play against the japan u20, and the way you had tried your best to comfort him after his face-off with sae. 

you glance at the time, and get up to stretch your legs a bit. he should be here soon. you couldn’t wait to see him properly, talk to him without any distractions. your eyes flit around the room as you pop your back, and you see something out of place. or rather, a lack of something.

everything was as it should be. his shelves full of trophies that he had earned, a picture of sae and him (yes, he put it back up) and a picture of you and rin from your second date. 

but the owl was missing. it wasn’t on the bed when you had sat down, or on his desk. neither was it on the shelves next to his trophies. you didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but your heart clenched a bit. 

maybe he didn’t like it that much, and only kept it around to keep you happy. did he throw it away, was it too childish for him? but you swore rin’s eyes had lit up when you had first presented your little project, all bundled up in a basket alongside some other small gifts! 

but you didn’t have much time to think about it when you heard a familiar voice speaking to ms itoshi in the kitchen. 

footsteps padded towards you, and the door opens to reveal your boyfriend, standing with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“rin! you’re home!” 

you quickly move to wrap your hands around his neck, squeezing him tightly. rin’s hands fall around your waist, his head dropping onto your shoulder, his dark hair tickling your neck. “i’m back,” he mutters gently.

you both pull away, and he sets his bag down, but you promptly reach out to grab it. 

“i’ll unpack it real quick, so you won’t have to do it later!” 

rin just nods, completely forgetting what was in his bag. you start taking out his clothes while he flops down on the bed, thankful for the peace provided away from his teammates at blue lock. “rin?”

rin can already hear the grin in your voice, and he sits back up, raising a suspicious brow. “mhm?” 

he looks at you, and sees your wide smile. while unpacking, you found his owl, bundled between some of his clothes, and rin’s ears quickly flush pink as he realises what you’re getting at. “you took it with you?” 

rin groans, burying his face between his knees, but he hears the smugness and elation in the question you already knew the answer to. rin didn’t get rid of it after all, he had literally taken the owl you made him for the entirety of the 3 months he was at blue lock. 

“you missed me that much?” 

now you were stretching it. he rolls his eyes, trying to keep his cool demeanour up, despite failing miserably. the red flush from his ears was slowly making its way down to his neck. “don’t let it get to your head. i just needed…” 

needed what? something to remind him of you when you couldn’t talk? but he’d never admit that to you. not that rin needed to. you already knew, but you like to tease him and watch him get flustered. “whatever, he probably just accidentally landed in the bag while i was packing.” 

rin raises his head to look at you, and he groans when he notices your wide eyes. “what now?” 

you snicker, not bothering to hold any of your chuckles to yourself. “so he’s a he now? does he have a name too, rinnie? it would be shame to leave our son nameless now would it?”

rin was sure that if you were to touch anywhere on his body, you’d feel the way he burned like he was running a 39.5 degree fever. he just grabs your wrist and yanks you up from where you were kneeling next to his bag. 

“just shut up.” he grumbles like an angry kitten, and shifts your bodies so that you’re both laying down, his face buried in your back so you can’t see the expression on him. you can feel the warmth emanating from his flushed face and you just hum contently. “i’m really glad you liked your gift rin. it makes me really happy.” 

he clicks his tongue. “i’d like anything you give me, stupid.”

and your eyelids flutter closed, happy to be back in your boyfriend’s arms again, even if just temporarily, rin will always carry something from you with him, whatever it may be. 

© saeamy 2025 - do not repost, translate, copy or modify my works on any other platform!

[motorsportbarbie13]

One New Voicemail (Jenson's Version)

your relationship with jenson as told through voicemails

(i'm aware jenson doesn't have twin girls but he does in this. also potential trigger warning for boss/employee relationship? age gap as well. thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for encouraging my daddy issues with this one <3)

His Daughter Is Sick

“Hey, it’s Jenson.” He pauses, a breathy chuckle cracking over the line.

“You know that, caller ID and all. Sorry, I’m scattered.” He shakes his head. He’s scattered because calling you is always a nerve-racking experience. 

Jenson can’t quite explain why you make him nervous. You’d been working for him for almost a year now, nannying for his twin girls Gracie and Molly but it was like he was brand new at this whole ‘interacting with a pretty girl’ thing. Which was total bullshit. He was Jenson Button, for crying out loud. And you were the NANNY for fucks sakes. 

“I know it’s your day off and you already work so hard with the girls and I appreciate all that you do for them…” Another pause, a quick breath before he pushes it a bit more. 

“And for me too.” The words hang in the air, like he’s testing the waters. 

You’re always willing to take on more with the girls. Saying yes to anything Jenson asks of you. He feels the guilt that comes along with needing someone, but you never make him feel like a burden.

“But Gracie is sick, the school just called.” Desperation is back in his voice. He’s panicking, you can hear it in how quick the words tumble out of his mouth. He loves his girls more than anything, you know that. Know how hard it is for him to ask for help. 

“She has a fever and it’s my week so Mallory is saying this is on me,” Frustration edges into his voice, when he speaks about his ex. She’s nice enough but there’s something about the way she shirks off her parenting responsibilities when she knows you’re around that rubs you the wrong way. 

“But I’m in London today so I’m at least an hour away, I wasn’t planning on needing to be back until pickup. Can you go pick Gracie up?” 

You know how hard that question is for him to ask. How he hates depending on you. You don’t mind. The girls mean everything to you. 

And so does Jenson.

“I’m leaving the city now so you won’t have to give up too much of your evening.” To punctuate his point, you hear a car door slam in the background. An engine firing up. 

“I’m sorry. I feel like I’m always asking you to help bail me out. I’m really shit at this whole single dad thing, aren’t I?” 

You made a mental note to remind Jenson how well he was doing. You knew it probably wound’t make much of of an impact. You were only 25, no kids of your own but you knew the girls. You knew Jenson. You knew how well he was doing with them.

“I appreciate your help…for everything you’re willing to do for the girls. For me.” He sighs, knowing full well there’s more he wants to say. 

So much more. 

“You’re a Godsend, really. I hope you know how much the girls love you. How much you mean to them.”

How much you mean to me, he nearly says. The words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill like a forbidden confession.  But that would be wildly inappropriate. 

Wouldn’t it?

“Okay. Please let me know if you can swing by and pick Gracie up.” Jenson shakes his head.

“Bye.” 

Click. 

It’s Late and He’s Tired

“Hey.” Jenson’s voice is low and raspy, a direct result of spending the weekend in Austria commentating for Sky Sports. 

Your heart squeezes at the exhaustion edging into his voice. The moment hear how tired Jenson sounds, you get up from the couch and put the kettle on, wanting to have his favorite peppermint team steeped and ready for him when he gets home.

It’s beyond your nannying duties. You know that. But you can’t help your desire to not only take care of the girls but to take care of Jenson as well. 

“I just landed at Heathrow. I should be home in the next hour or so, depending on how bad traffic is. Hopefully the girls went down good for you. I’m sure they did, they always do. They adore you.”

His girls weren’t the only ones either. 

“Thank you again for agreeing to stay overnight with them for this trip. I hope you know how much you mean to the girls. How much you mean to me.” 

A breath. Was that too much? 

“I don’t know what I’d do without your help.” The words hit like a forbidden confession, twisting something deep in your chest.

Jenson pauses, like he knows there’s not much more to say but he doesn’t want to hang up the phone quite yet. He realizes how much he likes talking to you, even if it’s just to your voicemail. 

What he doesn’t know is how you save each and every message he leaves you. 

“I know it’s super late.” His flight had been delayed getting out of Austria, but you’d known that was a possibility. 

“You can just sleep in the guest bedroom tonight. It’s not a big deal.” 

Oh, but it was a big deal. 

“I don’t want you driving home this late really, and my weather app says it’s going to rain in the next hour or so.” He was scrambling for excuses now, hoping to give you enough reason to stay over. 

It had been a while since he’d been able to spend much time with you, with all of the travel he’d been doing. Not that he should be focusing on that. You were the nanny. Just the nanny. Right? 

“So if you’re not already asleep, please stay.” 

You weren’t asleep. You were moving around the kitchen quietly, making sure the last bits of dinner were cleaned up and the kettle was set on the burner, peppermint tea already steeping for him. 

“It’s just not safe for you to leave.” He reasons, like you hadn’t already decided to stay the moment he’d told you he’d be late.

“Plus it would be a nice surprise for the girls to see you there in the morning.” 

And not just the girls. But he can’t say that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

Jenson pauses again, working up the courage to ask the next question that’s been sitting on the edge of his mind for weeks now. 

“Maybe we could all go out to breakfast together?” His heart races as the question lands. 

“They’ve been asking to go to that little cafe down the road from the house for months now and I’m just never home enough for us to go.” The explanation stutters out of his mouth, swift and fast like he wants you to keep listening.

“So, if you don’t have anything going on tomorrow morning, maybe the four of us could all go together.” He winces, knowing what this sounds like. Knowing that he sounds like he wants more.

Because he does. He does want more with you. More than the stolen looks while you prepare dinner after he arrives home. More than the late night talks that have become more and more frequent after the girls are fast asleep. More than the lingering press of fingers against hands as you catch up on that day’s activities while the girls unwind in front of the television. 

He wants more with you but Jenson is terrified to ask for it. 

“If you’re not busy.” He says quickly, hoping to save himself from embarrassment if you reject him. 

Jenson couldn’t stand that. Not from you. 

“I’m sure you are, so maybe just forget I asked? Or not. Whatever.” He fumbles. 

You smirk because there was nothing more you’d like better than to spend the morning with the girls who have stolen your heart and their dad, who has also worked his way into your soul. You smirk because there’s no way you’re ever going to forget he asked. Forget how nervous he sounded, how much you wished he’d asked you to your face so he could have seen the blush creep up your neck at just the thought of spending more time with him. 

“Okay. Well, I’m in the car and on my way home. See you soon.”

Click.  

You Both Have A Rare Free Weekend (aka Jenson Button Asks the Nanny Out)

“Hi.” Jenson clears his throat. You pick up on the nerves instantly. 

“The girls are fine, I don’t need rescuing.” He chuckles, palming at the back of his neck. 

“They’re actually at their moms this weekend.” 

Pause. A deep inhale. 

“But you knew that. You did the exchange for me yesterday.” He laughs, nerves fraying at the edges. 

“So, the girls are at their mom’s for the weekend and I don’t have anywhere to be, no races, nothing.” 

Was he really going to do this?

“I remembered you talking bout that Monet exhibit that the National Gallery was debuting this week and thought maybe…” 

Jenson sucks in a breath. Does he risk it? Everything that’s passed between you over the last year flashes before him. The lingering looks. The secret smiles shared when the girls weren’t looking. The way you seemed to always find a reason to stay later and later lately, insisting on helping Jenson with dinner or bedtime or homework. It felt domestic. Serious. Natural. 

“I just thought maybe if you didn’t have any plans, we could go…together.” 

The words hang in the air, heavy and big and dangerous. Jenson knew what he was risking here. Knew that you could retreat behind the professional veil that you wore, even if it was becoming less and less lately. 

“It’s been ages since I’ve been to the gallery and you were saying the same thing the other night. How you never get into the city anymore.” He’s scrambling now, trying to speak over the nerves. 

“I thought maybe we could make a day out of it. If you want. Get an early start into the city, wander around the gallery for a bit and then maybe lunch?” Jenson hates how desperate he sounds. It’s the truth though. He’s desperate for you. 

You haven’t been ‘just the nanny’ for quite some time now. 

“Dinner too, if you want.” 

Jenson wanted to wring as much time with you out of one of his rare lazy weekends. 

“You are just so good with the girls and you do so much for us and…” He’s trying to decide how far to push this. How honest he should be. 

“I just want to spend some time alone with you.” He murmurs, the confession making his chest constrict. 

This was so dangerous. If you turned him down, he could lose you for good. His girls could lose you for good. But he had to try. Had to risk the rejection.

“Fuck.” He hisses, losing his courage for just a moment. 

“I’m sorry, I know this is probably the worst way you’ve ever been asked out on a date.” 

Jenson freezes. What if he hadn’t made it clear enough that he was actually asking you out on a date?

“I’m really rusty at this. And nervous.” He chuckles. 

“You make me nervous.” What was it about you that made Jenson forget how to act? What had happened to the man that just had to crook a single finger to get a girl into bed? Where was that man?

Long gone for you, apparently. 

“Okay. Well. If I haven’t totally fucked up this entire thing, give me a call. I can pick you up any time tomorrow morning…”

Click. 

The Morning After

“So last night…” Jenson’s voice is rough, still heavy with sleep. 

“I genuinely can’t remember the last time I had so much fun at a bloody art gallery. And then lunch. And dinner.” He pauses.  

“And then after dinner…” A smirk collects at the corner of his mouth.

You and Jenson had crossed all sorts of lines last night. Starting with going out on a date with your boss and finishing with…well. It was now Sunday morning and you were just easing your way back into your apartment for the first time in over 24 hours.

“I hope you’re okay with everything that happened last night.” Jenson’s stomach twists suddenly, anxiety gripping at his throat. 

“It felt right though, didn’t it? It did for me. Natural, fun, like this was always supposed to happen.” Jenson would never forget the way you’d smiled at him when he suggested you two go home together. 

It felt dangerous, new, comfortable. 

“You’ve been a goddess in my life since you found us and I know this might be a lot.” The reality of what had happened last night began to sink in. 

What this meant for your working relationship. How badly he wanted this to work with you. 

“I know people are going to talk. Our age gap is going to raise some brows but…I’m willing to risk it if you are.” Jenson imagined when people found out that he had fallen for you, the nanny, tongues would wag. 

He was right, of course. You two ended up being a huge scandal around town. 

It hadn’t mattered.

“I don’t give a fuck what other people say and last night was…God, baby.” He chuckles, easing his way into the nickname. 

Your heart squeezes. Baby. 

“Last night was…” He laughs again, shaking his head.

He wouldn’t have been able to predict how well last night had gone. It had meant everything. 

“I’d been working up the courage to kiss you all night. And then when we were on the couch after the movie and you were right there, you were so close.” Jenson pauses, reliving the moments just before he had pressed his lips to yours, warm and inviting and everything he’d been dreaming about for weeks now. 

“I suspect you kept scooting towards me the entire time, weren’t you? Cheeky girl.” He wasn’t wrong. You smirk.  

“You just looked so warm and cozy and you smelled so good, I couldn’t resist.” The way he’d kissed you on the couch you’d already spent so much time on was something you’d never forget.

Soft. Tender. Reverent. Like he never wanted the moment to end. You certainly hadn’t.  

“I know this is…not conventional but I want to give this a try.” 

This. You and Jenson. Something that felt right and natural and a little bit dangerous. 

“I can’t get you off my mind.” His confession hangs, heavy and thick.  

“The girls are with their mom until Wednesday.” He says it like an invitation.  

“Maybe we could do something tonight?” 

Pause. He was getting ahead of himself, wasn’t he? Fuck.  

“Too much?” Jenson winces. The last thing he wants to do is scare you off. 

You both were risking so much by giving this chemistry between you a chance to bloom. He didn’t want to fuck it up. 

“Not enough for me, if we’re being honest.” He felt like he was 18-years-old again. Fumbling and dumb.  

“God, I’m in so much trouble with you.” Jenson chuckles, low and thick. It sends a shiver down your spine.  

“Okay, I’m going to hang up now before I really embarrass myself. Call me if you want to do something tonight. Even if it’s just us making out on my couch.” 

Another laugh. 

Click.  

Overheard. 

“Daddy! What do you mean she won’t be our nanny anymore?” Gracie wails. 

You frown at the phone. You can hear dual sniffles, slightly muffled, like they’re farther away than the phone would like. 

“Why is she leaving us, daddy?” That’s Molly. She’s upset too. 

“Girls.” Jenson soothes. “Girls. It’s okay. Really.” He leans over, resting his elbows on the kitchen counter. The girls sit opposite of him, plates of pancakes and bacon sat in front of them for their Saturday morning breakfast. 

“She’s not going to be your nanny anymore because well…” Jenson wasn’t quite sure how he should word this. The girls were young, sure but they were old enough to understand. 

“You know Michael is Mummy’s boyfriend?” 

“Yeah…” Gracie is skeptical as to where this is going. Molly just blinks. 

“Well, she’s not going to be your nanny anymore because she’s my girlfriend.”

Silence. 

“WHAT?” Molly and Gracie shout in tandem. 

“Is…is that okay?” Jenson wasn’t prepared for what would happen if the girls rejected this news. His heart hammered, chest constricting at the possibility. 

The way grins split both of his girls faces instantly set Jenson’s mind at ease though. This was going to be fine. 

“So she’s not leaving us?” Molly asks in her delicate 4-year-old voice. 

“No, honey.” Jenson shakes his head, a relieved smile pulling onto his face. 

“She’ll still be around and taking care of you, she just won’t be your nanny anymore.” 

It had been a tricky conversation but one that had needed to happen. Details were still being ironed out, but this was step one of untangling your professional relationship while your personal relationship with Jenson grew fast and strong.

“In fact, you’re probably going to be seeing her a lot more than you did when she was your nanny. Is that…okay with you girls?”

You couldn’t see it, but both Molly and Gracie nodded their heads vigorously.  

“Are you going to kiss her?” Molly chimes in. 

Jenson chokes on a laugh. 

“Probably.” A smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

“Will she still tuck me in at night?” Gracie asks. She depends on your bedtimes stories now. 

“Of course.” Jenson nods. 

“And she’ll cook us dinner? She’s a lot better at making dinner than you are, daddy.” That was Molly, a serious fan of your cooking.

“If you want her to.” Jenson laughs, full and bright. 

“She loves us.” Molly says solemnly. 

“Yes she does, bug.” Jenson answers, just as seriously. 

Your love for his girls had never been in doubt. Not since the first day you’d started caring for them. 

“Does she love you?” Gracie asks. 

Jenson sways on his feet, the full force of the innocent question nearly bowling him over. 

“Well,” He struggles. 

Your heart stops. 

You do, you realize. You do love him.

“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about that yet.” He sounds anxious and you suddenly can’t wait to confirm what you just figured out yourself. 

“Do you love her?” That’s Molly. 

Silence. 

Jenson thinks. He knew the answer immediately but he’s almost afraid to vocalize it. It’s only been six months since your first kiss. Is this…too fast? Too much? 

“I think so.” He manages around a thick knot of emotion that’s suddenly settled in his throat. 

“Good.” Gracie says. 

“Yeah. Good.” Molly agrees. 

“Daddy…” Gracie starts and Jenson looks over at his daughter. “Why does your phone say her name on it now?”

Jenson’s heart ceases to beat.  

“Bloody hell.” He groans. 

“Hi, honey.” 

Click. 

Checking On His Girls. 

“You fell asleep putting Molly to bed, didn’t you?” Jenson chuckles. 

His hotel room door snicks closed. 

“Or maybe my old man habits are just rubbing off on you and you’ve fallen asleep on the couch already.” He teases. 

You never missed an opportunity to remind him how old he was. He never missed an opportunity to remind you that you were the one that fell in love with an old man. 

“ I just got back to the hotel, wanted to check on my girls.” 

A pause. Sheets shuffle as Jenson sits on the edge of the bed. He glances at your contact photo on his phone. You and him and Molly and Gracie, all piled together on vacation earlier in the year. 

“All of my girls.” 

You’d never get tired of being called his, of belonging to Jenson. 

“I rescheduled my flight to leave a bit earlier from Spain so I should be home before bedtime, hopefully.” He leans back onto the headboard, closing his eyes. 

“If I don’t quit live on air after having to deal with Danica for another six hours.” Jenson groans just thinking about his coworker. 

“Anyway, I miss you. God, I miss you.” He whispers, voice dropping an octave as he mentally goes over exactly what parts of you he misses.

“I’m so glad you finally agreed to move in with us. Not having to say goodbye to you twice is just…lovely.” 

That had certainly been a big step. One that had been nerve-racking and anxiety inducing. One that felt big and scary but natural and like it was the next step all at once. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of waking up next to you.” He muses, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“Coming home to the girls was always the highlight of my weekends away.” He pauses, remembering what it was like before he had to say goodbye to you when he got home. 

Now he doesn’t. 

“But you being there too? God, Baby.” 

You’ll never tire of hearing him call you that. 

“Your things being with our things, you being in our family now. The place finally feels…complete. Like this was how it was always supposed to be.” 

Jenson falls silent, reflecting on how much has changed since you came into his life. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve you, but he was never going to allow you to walk away. 

The Tiffany blue box in the far corner of his closet, hidden beneath a pile winter jumpers, was going to ensure that. Jenson was certain of it. 

“I’m going to order room service and eat, I’m famished. FaceTime me later? I want to see your pretty face before I go to sleep.” He grinned, once again looking down at the photo that was displayed on his phone. 

“Okay. I love you.” 

Click. 

[bones4thecats]

Hello! I saw that request are open again and i really want to request headcanons from twisted wonderland!

I wanted to ask for headcanons of malleus, sebek and leona with a significant other with the personality and background of elsa! I mean, s/o is really introverted, shy, studious and prim but also has so much fear of their powers due a traumatic event in their lives and have problems with let go all the pressure and fear they have but eventually learn how to control their power better.

I hope this is not such a heavy request and youre free to decline this! I hope youre doing well in real life!

↳ Conceal, Don't Feel.

A Twisted Wonderland × Elsa! Reader.

Requester: @ultravioletqueen.

Characters Included: Malleus Draconia, Sebek Zigvolt, and Leona Kingscholar.

Possible Trigger Warnings: Accidental physical harm caused from sibling to sibling, mentions of parental death, attempted murder, and isolation.

●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●

🐉 Malleus uses magic in a lot of his daily activities. It's practically in a fae's DNA to use magic often. But, for you? You despised using magic. More specifically, you hated using your magic. 🐉 Your boyfriend noticed your hesitation to use your unique spell to defend yourself against an attack sent by Lilia in a spar. His green eyes widened and pupils narrowed when you flinched and jumped away instead of blasting back.

🐉 He asked what it was all about, and was shocked to hear you were told to suppress your magic due to its strength and danger against your younger sibling. 🐉 Malleus hugged you from the side and asked if you believed him to be dangerous because of his own magical prowess. You jumped and looked at him shocked, yelling a no and an explanation on why you knew him to be safe, not a monster. 🐉 When you finished, he smiled at you. "How am I not a danger, yet you are?"

⚡ Sebek was sort of scared of you at first. When you arrived at Night Raven College, your magic was still a little stray and was heavy dependable on your emotions. Let's just say hiding it all and then releasing it wasn't a very good move. ⚡ He and you began dating after your own overblot. It seemed impossible to many, as you were a first year, and your magical capabilities should have been below a second year's. But, it happened, and the world around began to freeze over. ⚡ Sebek's eyes were teared up when you began to scream in pain, ice overtaking your form. Your fingers were like icicles and your pupils snowflakes. He screamed for you to listen to him and not the thought in your mind. ⚡ "Your strength is not something to be scared of! Being strong is something you should take pride in! Your magic is beautiful, not monstrous!" He began to walk through the raging storm, leaving the sights of his fellow first years as he called out to you. ⚡ "Please- just come back to us! Come back to me! I love you!"

🦁 Leona and you had very different views on magic. He found it to be useful in multiple ways. You found it to be troublesome and something that would only tear people apart. 🦁 Maybe that was because it tore you and your younger sibling apart. 🦁 He knew you and your sibling had a harsh relationship, even harsher than he and his brother. You and they used to be very close; playing around anytime you got the chance. But, after you accidentally blasted them with your magic, you isolated yourself. 🦁 Leona tried getting you to contact them more, as you tried getting him to contact his brother more. But, he always failed. Eventually, he caught your sibling walking around campus, asking for you. 🦁 He was unsure if you wanted to see them at the moment, so he messaged you. When you told him to keep them away for now so you could get ready, he said he'd get Ruggie on the case. 🦁 While Ruggie busied your sibling, Leona sat in his room with you beside him. You were sobbing into his chest, while he just held onto you like a pillow. 🦁 "Don't worry, Frosty. I'm right here."

🌊 Copyright © 2025 by Bones4thecats on Tumblr. All Rights Reserved. 🌊

[crazy-1201]

PREACH!

I fully endorse this. I have no intention of pretending Canon is come kind of bible when it’s also written by people who are flawed and can make crazy choices. Just because they thought of a concept doesn’t mean they can execute it well or understand the emotional/moral themes that can tie in.

Any fictional work can be interpreted differently by audiences, or portrayed differently by someone else. Sometimes there are people who have lived through something a character is going through that the author may not have, and would understand the subject better.

It’s not just ‘well this is how it is.’ It’s “that’s how it is from ‘THAT’ persons perspective, but ‘I, think logically they should be have this way-“

And I get it, sometimes there’s a character or series that’s pretty solid and you don’t want to mess with it, that’s fine. Superman is who he is because of his qualities- but even characters like Superman have had different writers and inconsistent portrayals. So I approach things from a comic point of view.

Which is along the lines of what Stan Lee said regarding people trying to power scale- which is whoever wins in a fight is pointless because whoever he wants to win, wins. They’re just throwing out comics and canon is all over the place depending on what you’re picking and choosing half the time. You do what you want with it.

Fiction is all about justification. If you can write your way around something it doesn’t matter worth a damn what someone else thinks would happen. And that includes the author. Yes, we know the original source material may be a particular way, no one’s gonna debate a series of events happened (~usually,) but that doesn’t mean the reasons,or methods, or emotions behind them, or the reality of the audience, or even the rationality of the writer aren’t questionable. And if I want to imagine a world where a character does something differently or something else happened to skew their path, then I’m going to do it.

I have seen a massive chunk of fanon works and thoughts that are just outright better than the source material, and honestly we should celebrate that fact and allow people to enjoy it to the fullest potential. Because we aren’t limited by budget, or time constraints, and we have a lot of resources to study and a lot of people to collaborate with to come up with ideas, and we are trying to make the series new and enjoyable in a way we and others might like or want to explore. And that’s a good thing.

The second you publish something it’s not yours anymore, it’s an idea anyone can interpret.

[tobiasdrake]

Where do you fall on the "killing vs. not killing bad guys" argument? I know the debate is complicated and there's a lot of various factors for and against either side, so I wanna hear your take on things.

An intensely complicated subject that tends to get oversimplified on both sides of the equation. I generally don't like to take a "side" on this because I feel like the idea of there being "sides" on killing misses the point.

Unless you're talking about cold-blooded execution of a subdued foe, killing generally isn't a choice you get to make. It's a consequence of the choice you already made to use violence.

While arguments about killing villains exist beyond superhero comics, this is a particular way that they tend to happen in superhero media. Superhero stories depict their heroes as, effectively, SWAT teams. The Green Goblin is about to blow up Newark, so Spider-Man breaks in and smashes his face against a brick wall until he passes out.

Part of the fantasy is the idea that nonlethal violence is easy and reliable. After Spider-Man reduces the Green Goblin's HP to 0, a Windows menu pops up and says "Would you like to finish him?" Spider-Man boldly clicks "No" after every fight like the hero he is.

It allows fans to enjoy brutal takedowns of bad guys without having to reckon with the reality that when Batman brought an entire floor down on top of that guy's head, he probably didn't wake up in a hospital bed. Batman can throw a guy off a third story balcony and watch his knees crack as he hits the ground and the story assures you that he's fine. He'll just need a little stay in the hospital.

But realistically speaking, all of these guys would have body counts. Not because they were aggressively trying to murder, but because you don't really get the choice. It is extremely easy to kill someone and surprisingly difficult to nonlethally incapacitate them. The line between how much blunt-force cranial trauma will knock someone unconscious versus how much will kill them is extremely blurry and it moves.

There are less lethal ways of incapacitating someone than others. Obviously, tasing someone has a lower mortality rate than shooting them with bullets. But the only surefire way to uphold a Code of No-Killing is to not use violence as your problem-solving tool in the first place. And there's not a lot of de-escalation training going around the Avengers Mansion.

So it always just feels kind of self-delusional when superheroes brag about not killing people but their primary mode of problem-solving is to shoot a guy in the face with an exploding arrow or something. You're gonna kill people if you're Batmanning. Sorry, that's just the reality of violence. When you throw a guy off a roof, you don't get to choose what physics is going to do to that sack of meat and bone as it hits the ground.

Now, on the opposite end of the spectrum, should superheroes kill people on purpose? Uh. No. I don't want cops extrajudicially murdering whoever they don't like, and I don't want Batman to do it either. Due process exists for a reason.

Superheroes should not try to kill people. But they are going to kill people sometimes, because their hammer is violence and their stories are just excuses to pit them against nails.

"But the Joker always breaks out of prison." Yeah, but he also always comes back to life. If you can nitpick about genre conventions then I can too. Hell, often times you can't even redeem a villain without the next writer unwriting it and making them a bad guy again. At a metafictional level, there is rarely any way to truly do away with a popular villain.

But. Y'know. Let's talk about heroes who aren't fucking copaganda. In the broader fictional sense, should stories end with the hero killing the villain or shouldn't they?

This, again, has no simple Yes or No answer. It depends heavily on the themes being explored and what the villain is meant to represent.

We need to talk about the "demise" of the villain, which can be a literal death or it can be many other things. The primary function of the villain is to be wrong about something. To oppose the hero, who is right about something.

The villain holds bad ideas, bad beliefs, bad ideology. The hero may start out holding good ideas, or they may be something that the hero comes to over the course of the story. But by the time these two meet in the third act climax, they are meant to embody the two faces of the story's central thesis. Regarding whatever this story is trying to talk about, the hero is right and the villain is wrong.

Whatever form it takes, whether literal death or not, the demise of the villain is the final statement on their incorrect or even toxic beliefs. Which often does take the form of literal death because it's easy to write a comeuppance that way.

Luke Skywalker believes that there is love in his father's heart for him, and Emperor Palpatine is confident that Anakin is truly lost. But Luke's love for his family wins out and destroys Palpatine.

Scar is selfish, cowardly, and disloyal. Simba returns out of a sense of responsibility and loyalty to his people, coming clean to them and accepting his place among them. Scar tries to sell out the hyenas to save his own skin, as well as stabbing Simba in the back. For his treachery, the hyenas rip him to pieces; He is devoured by the very loyalties that he selfishly betrayed.

Obadiah Stane, the embodiment of war profiteering and the military-industrial complex, is literally consumed by the clean energy project that Tony wants to move the company towards instead.

Sauron underestimates the power of the small and meager folk, and believes wholeheartedly in Great Men of History. And so when Great Man Aragorn marches to his gates, he allows himself to become convinced that this is his true nemesis, his true rival, the threat he must face. This is the glorious battle that will decide the fate of Middle-Earth. And so he turns his eye away from the common folk that will be his undoing.

The villain's flaws, their toxic ideology, the things that make them the villain, are what their demise is supposed to be about. They can be consumed by their failings or undone by the hero's virtues, but either way, in a well-executed demise, a closing statement on the story's thesis is made.

But a well-executed demise doesn't necessarily have to be fatal, either. Like I've said, it can be things other than a literal demise. Sometimes it absolutely should.

In Civil War, Zemo is driven by an obsession for revenge. His homicidal retaliatory bloodthirst is a toxin that he infects both T'Challa and Tony with over the course of the story. Tony succumbs and has to be defeated with force, though Steve still demonstrates his strength of character by sparing Tony's life in the end even when the madness of the battle threatens to grip him too.

But it's T'Challa who delivers Zemo's demise. Not by killing him, but by making the choice to rise above vengeance. T'Challa breaks the shackles of Zemo's infectious vengeance and chooses mercy. And it's in this moment that Zemo's feelings, his cruelty, are opposed and vanquished by T'Challa's heroic virtue.

Firelord Ozai believes in the Social Darwinist ideology of Might Makes Right. He leads a culture where disputes are settled with deathmatches and believes it is his right to blanket the world in fire because he has the power to do so, and no one can stop him. Aang, by contrast, is a pacifist at heart because those are the values he was raised in; Values of a culture that Ozai exterminated, whose very last vestiges exist only in Aang's heart.

Ozai would kill Ozai and Azula, who often gets left out of this conversation. Because theirs is a culture where righteousness stands hand-in-hand with brute strength. Where who is right is decided by who is left standing when the dust settles, and who is a pile of ash. Aang defeats Ozai; By Ozai's belief system, Aang is stronger thus Aang is righteous and it is his Conqueror's Right to execute Ozai where he stands.

But Aang doesn't just beat Ozai; He rejects Ozai's way of life. He renounces the belief system of the imperialist colonizer and holds true to the belief system of a people they destroyed. While a simultaneous outcome plays out between Katara and Azula, as Katara similarly chooses mercy once she's obtained a position of power and control over Azula.

Special note also to Zuko who demonstrates that he actually cares more about protecting people than about winning his Glorious Deathmatch of Imperialist Honor. Which also serves as a rejection of Azula's beliefs that relationships are founded on fear and control. Zuko, too, rejects the belief systems of Ozai and Azula and warrants recognition. Ozai would never have taken a hit like that for Azula. Azula would never take a hit like that for Ty Lee.

It's this mercy that breaks the Hundred-Year War, destroying not the perpetrators of it but the very principles on which it is founded. This philosophical annihilation of Azula and Ozai's very understanding of strength and power is their villainous "demise", and weighs far more than just cutting their heads off and calling it a day ever could.

There is no correct answer to whether or not heroes should kill. What matters most is how the demise the writer chooses for the villain reflects upon the story's central ideas and thesis.

[98tsuki]

caleb / xia yizhou x reader. 979. angst. no evol au. he gets his heart broken here, sorry to him. ׄ ׅ ⊹ ﹫ part one.

it’s been nearly a month since he dropped you off at his place. four weeks since he last heard your voice, twenty-something days since you broke down in his car, one hundred and sixty-something hours since–

he can’t sleep. can't rest, can't function properly. he reaches over to check his phone to see if you’ve seen any of the texts he’s sent you since then, hoping you’ve read anything, but to no avail. he’s been left on delivered since the day after he saw you walk into your friend’s arms before driving off disheartened. the entire drive back he’d second guessed everything he’d done before your sudden request. had he been too overbearing? too touchy? he’d apologize. he’d get on his knees and beg and grovel if he had to. anything to wake up to the sound of your sleepy voice humming in the bathroom again.

it's eating at him because you've never been this distant with him before. even when you were mad at him you'd made an effort to still talk to him. the silence is cold and unforgiving. it stings. it stings.

his phone dings and he shoots up to grab it. had you seen his messages? were you coming home? do you miss him like he misses you–

his heart sinks. he then chides himself for feeling down, especially since it was right for her to text him anytime she wanted. dick move for ghosting her for as long as you were incognito, he supposes. his entire psyche feels off without you here to knock sense into him for being a shit boyfriend.

to her. not to you.

er—not boyfriend. or not boyfriend yet. close friend. they were just… friends. the three of you had always been superglued together. him, her, and you. three of three. it wasn't fair to her to not respond to her messages either.

her immediate reply doesn't ease his heart. a wish goodnight followed by some cute emojis. a stark contrast to your lack of response.

he’s hit with an overwhelming wave of sadness, a pang in his chest resounding with ripples of discomfort and melancholy. were you avoiding him? giving him space? why? he didn’t want space. he wanted you and your crooked grins and your loud laugh and the way you held on to him when you were scared and the way you searched for him in your sleep. he wanted you home–here, in your shared home–most of all, for you to fill in the cracks you left gaping for days on end. for you to walk through those doors and promise you’d never leave him like this again.

his heart hurts. it aches, aches for someone who isn’t even here to soothe it. aches for someone who isn’t even his to begin with–why? he was already set with her, had everything he could ever need in a person with her. she was kind, caring, and the two of them have a connection no one could ever compare to, but–

but. 

she wasn’t you.

she wasn’t the one who saw his bruises afterwards. the one who gave him a space where he didn’t always have to posture being someone dependable. yes, she was his weakness, but you were his oasis away from the reality he was shaping for someone else on his own. he supposes that’s why your arguments sting harder than any other. you didn’t need him. not in the way everyone else did.

he sits up suddenly, eyes wide and heart threatening to burst out of his chest. she wasn’t you, could never be you, and suddenly he realizes he’s been doing it all so, so wrong. he let you walk into the arms of another man when you were upset and his chest squeezes, shaking hands fumbling with his phone to call you once again, tripping over his feet in his shoes. haste makes his actions sloppy.

he’ll apologize. he’ll plead for you to come home, and you’ll talk things out and he’ll get to hold you again. he’ll get to see your smile, and all will be right once more. he's sure of it. it has to be. you promised the three of you would always stay together. you promised.

“hello?”

he pauses, voice stuck in his throat. why was xavier answering your phone? were you still mad at him? he’ll fix it. he’d do anything to hear your voice again.

“hey, man,” he tries, and immediately can tell the other man is frowning on the other end. “are… are they there? i want… i’d like to speak to them. if that’s cool.”

silence stretches for eons as he waits for a response. he hears shifting, and what he thinks might be a faint yawn, and then–

“baby, wake up. someone wants to talk to you.”

the phone almost slips out of his hands. his heart beat slows, each beat echoing inside his entire body. he hears your voice faintly, sleepy and confused, and with xavier's gentle coaxing, you clear your throat and the phone is handed to you.

“hello?”

his voice comes out a whisper. “hi,” he breathes, and closes his eyes when you fall silent. “when are you coming back? when will you come home? i miss you. was it me? did i do something wrong?”

he doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels something hot and wet drip onto his arm. “please come home,” he sniffles quietly, hands gripping the phone tightly. “i’m sorry. whatever happened, i’ll fix it. please.”

your silence is killing him. he doesn’t know what to do or why this is overwhelming him so much. all he wants right now is you. you, all of you.

“i’m sorry, caleb.” your voice murmurs out finally. “i'll stop by and pick up my things tomorrow. i just needed time.”

the line cuts shortly after that and his heart splinters.

[porcalinecunt]

OKAY okay anonning here bc this will show my main,,,,,, nyways! as u asked for, just hear me out here.. if you write for him, lmk ur opinion on koko (pref bad toman timeline, or final timeline koko) x ftm!sugar baby reader!

just imagine it, having to call him certain things, or give him blowjobs just to get that cute outfit you’ve been wanting, or needing to let him fuck you jut to get that new, fancy car you’ve only imagined in your dreams.

i NEED him so badly its so unfair 😭😭💗💗 — @puprdou

𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘 .ᐟ

🫗ᯓ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ havin’ a sugar daddy is the easiest job in the world! all you gotta do is do what he asks and he’ll make it alllll worth it . . .♡

⋆˚࿔ FEATURING . . 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐋! 𝐇𝐀𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐊𝐎𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐈 𝐗 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

ྀི . ° . cw — ftm! reader , oral , daddy kink , public sex , dumbification , reader is alr a himbo lowkey , doggy style , cervix fucking , hair pulling , dub con breeding , spanking.

𓂃۶ৎ author’s note: hey pup ;) ty for this request, koko honestly deserves more fics from me considering the theme ; ; i had fun writing this for u !! love u !! ♡

ᥫ᭡. ~ mister kokonoi wasn’t the best option for a sugar daddy. he’s pockets deep in organized crime, possible with some blood on his hands and some whores on the side. though, it didn’t matter to you. not with you having a painfully thick skull that you couldn’t look past his sweet talk and bone colored hair, you were wrapped around that man’s finger in an invisible chokehold.

though, the money didn’t come immediately nor easily. that’d be too boring!

what’s a good baby without exploits of his own? he thought when it came to choosing you. luckily, he picked up the human embodiment of a small pup. little and stupid, yet blindly obedient. perfect. ♡

his first command? “refer to me as sir, and sir only. you hear?” he’d tell you the first night, watching you nod eagerly at this request. soon enough, he’d ask for more perverted terms. daddy, master, mister..it never failed to stroke his ego and get his dick hard in his dress pants.

or his dick in you. if you wanted something? depends on the material, you’ll be filled with his cum by the end of it regardless. holding an adorable bubblegum pink mini dress, one that’d show off your figure, you’d pout and put on your best teary eyes to an amused koko.

“daddyy?” you’d whine. “what’s on your mind, baby..” he’d sip on the champagne bubbling in his glass. “you want that dress? it’d look gorgeous on you.” a grin stretched on his lips when he sees you nod. “i don’t gotta ask. y’know what to do for it—“ he drags out his words in a sultry tone as small clinks! accompanied his words.

“fuck. keep goin’ baby, wanna mess ya up real good..” words that only made your cunt burn with need as koko stretched your throat out, making you gag on his length. “good boy—y’know what good boys get? hm..?” he asked, yanking you off his dick by the back of your head. you couldn’t answer his question, he knew that. dazed and cock drunk with drool and precum soaking your chin, only his leaking tip touching your lips.

“good boys get their wishes.”

a phrase burned into your cock riddled noggin’. was he wrong? of course not. it was as simple as give and take, regardless of the item, he’ll have you one way or another. it never mattered how or even where. though, he would grow quite fond of the idea of fucking in public.

his favorite? having you pressed against the walls of the changing room, nothing but the luxurious heels he bought you last week being the only thing on as he pumped your pussy full for the whole damn store to hear. it’s not like you were quite either, whining and moaning your pretty lungs out, not thinking about the poor customer next door.

koko didn’t stop you though, why would he? hell, why would you? not with those pretty dior perfumes and designer dresses on the line!

“ack! daddyy!—aah!” yelps tore out of you as koko juts his hips against the plush of your ass, abusing your poor cervix. you didn’t even know his dick could reach that far. “i-it’s too much..! i can’ttt!” you only quit your whining when he grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back until he’s able to stare into your puffy eyes. nothing but carnal desire staring back at you.

“you want your fuckin’ things or not?” koko leaned into the shell of your ear, his threat digging itself into your cranium as if to give you a hint. “y-yes..i swear daddy! i swear!” tears streamed down your flushed cheeks as you babbled on until he shoved your head back against the wall. “then shut up and take that shit f’me.” he grunted before slamming his hips even harder until you were practically bruised, cum dribbling down your legs as he spurted his seed deep into your ruined cunt.

“hgnn—noo..not inside me..!” you whined, before a sharp smack! punched a sob out of you. “mmm don’t care—‘s my pretty pussy to fuck.” koko practically bit a chuckle back as he watched you twitch and spasm uncontrollably, white spilling out until he felt satisfied enough with the mess he made. you’re mascara ruined, face hot with tears still streaming down your cheeks and your legs shaking like a fawn learning to walk. a sight that reminds him why he chose you to be his pretty baby, his personal sissy boy to spoil into taking his cock whenever he damn well wants.

“daddy? can i get those perfumes now?”

© porcalinecunt 🍷 𓂃۶ৎ do not steal, translate, or use my work and claim as your own.

[renwritesalot]

Fully willing to do this @2011lanei, it was great fun to read yours and just made me realise that I wasn’t following you?? That’s fixed now.

Hammerhead shark. I couldn’t really think of any other animal that wouldn’t be attacked by humans in some way so I feel like being a shark would lead to a pretty calm and safe life.

I always have at least one outfit in a pile on my floor lmao so probably that. Normally consisting of my comfiest t-shirt, trousers and hoodie

Idk if fairy allows me to answer a fae in this scenario. I choose fae because if you know me I likely store little bits of information so I can make conversation later. If I have to choose other than fae I’d go with mermaid because although my swimming technique is shit and I’d prefer to be a bit more badass than a mermaid (we really need more badass mermaid stories- fic idea??? Lmao) but I have leg pains that don’t really bother me in the water and I’ve been told I’m like a fish so 🤷

Grunge? I guess? That’s the nearest I can describe it as, black cap, trousers and hoodie and a few pieces of silver jewellery - bracelets, necklaces (when I can be bothered to put them on lol)

Regular milk thanks

Cereal first, then milk. Because then you can choose how much cereal you’re hunger for before adding how much milk is needed to saturate said cereal

Is it worrying or amusing that I’ve been asked this irl?? (Something like 5-10 times as well 😅) It fully depends why the person is being killed but for this hypothetical I’m going to go with they definitely deserve it and I don’t want to be caught: Make sure to be fully covered and deceptively tall/short so the police can’t ID you. Additionally make sure to wear a mask, hair net and gloves so that your DNA can’t be found at the site, then hit the person over the head and take them to the nearest out of way place you can get to. Make sure to take off any shoes and slash their feet so they can’t run. Then feel free to do whatever however anymore knife wounds would likely lead to get some blood on you which could lead to discovery. Then make sure to burn the knife in a fire with the body. I would like to note that I’m just a true crime enthusiast and not a serial killer!!

I literally have no one to tag @2011lanei you are the only friend I follow on tumblr 😭😭

yk what I'll also do this get to know your mutuals cuz I thought bout it for a bit and I think I have to or I'll explode

get to know your mutuals♡

if you could be any animal which one would you choose to be? (can be fictional) (and you can explain why if you want to)

what would you choose when you're in a hurry and have nothing to wear?

are you a witch, vampire, fairy, dryad, siren or a mermaid and why do you think so?

what is your style?

regular milk or plant based milk?

which one do you put first milk or cereal?

fav way to kill someone? (idgaf if you never thought of it now you have to think of something and make it at least a bit cool I'm begging)

and I'll go first cuz I can

girl I wrote kinda a lot in these answers but I just had to brag about my fav way of killing people🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ and okay maybe it's kinda stupid that I'm also doing this game even tho I made it for others but who cares?

I can't choose but either a phoenix or a wolf cuz the allegory of both of these animals absolutely stole my heart

anything in my wardrobe that looks good (and it's almost always not adequate for the cold weather, I literally can wear a mini skirt when it's like 2°C outside and there are times when I am wearing a mini skirt and a crop top when it is 0°C and even when it was -3°C I don't care)

something in between vampire and a dryad cuz I feel like I would be a good vampire I don't know how to describe it but I just know and that's it and also a dryad cuz when I think of them they give me rather a messy and chaotic vibe which is def how I act and overall express myself so I'd say that I'm sometimes both sometimes one and sometimes the other

I'm goth so my style is overall gothic and / or cunty

regular but only 1,5% fat

CEREAL

sooo this is my fav way, first - pepper spray in the face so they can't see and therefore they can't run away, second - start scratching their legs with a pocket knife as hard as possible and try to find an aorta and cut there (making it even harder to run away), third - stick the same knife into all of their fingers (why not), fourth - knock out their teeth with a knuckle duster and finally - when they open their mouth trying to catch a breath from the blood and saliva running into their throat pour fluoroantimonic acid into their mouth and it's done! and I'll add that fluoroantimonic acid is called the most corrosive acid in the world ans if it touches the skin it causes huge damage and if poured into someones throat it'll burn the insides and kill. I think I'm really creative cuz I came up with this when I was writing one of my books and now I'm obsessed

tags: @n1eprzytomnadesperacja @niketas-s @r4tkisses @dawkacynizmu @gothicm0rph @slowacki006

and with question 7 rn I'm mostly thinking about one bbg ( @dawkacynizmu I'm looking at you ) cuz a bit after I came up with this question I thought that you might have an interesting answer

[kawaoneechan]

So I'm watching this video about the genius of Skyrim's opening cutscene, and I got to thinking about Animal Crossing and Project Special K again.

In the original Animal Crossing, you start on a train in first person perspective, and Rover starts asking questions. This determines who you are, what your town's name will be, and (via a personality test) what you'll look like. You switch to third person overhead when you arrive. So far so good.

In Wild World, you start in first person in a taxi, where Kapp'n asks the character creation questions. In City Folk, he drives a bus instead but otherwise it's the same setup.

In New Leaf, you start in a train again, getting harassed by Rover again. Which makes sense as far as returns to form go.

And then in New Horizons, you start in first person in a DAL terminal. Timmy and Tommy ask the questions, and there's no personality test to determine your looks — you just switch to the customization UI on the spot.

Those are all in-universe. Characters are asking these things about you and your destination.

In Skyrim, you start locked in first person, in a cart, and all your character customization things happen at once when you get to Helgen and the Imps realize you're not on the list. In Morrowind, you start on a boat, get out, and get sent to do some paperwork that functions as the character creator. Skyrim's character creator isn't as in-universe as Animal Crossing's, Morrowind's very much is.

Right before I post: I just looked at a playthrough video for Hello Kitty Island Adventure and apparently that goes with a redacted take on New Horizons in that your destination is set in stone but you're given a character creator interface. Which like in ACNH can be redone by using a mirror. Anyway...

Here's where the thoughts begin.

One feature that's planned for Project Special K is the ability to select a map generator — do you want an ACNH-style island, a beachfront town bordering a forest, or something else perhaps? Each generator has a Lua script that makes all these determinations, so you pick a generator and a size in acres and off it goes.

But what about the character creation? It makes sense for AC and NL to have you start on a train, as you arrive at a train station. It makes sense for WW and CF too, likewise. And NH makes as much sense — no road nor rail leads to a hitherto uninhabited island, after all.

But in PSK you can decide what travel amenities there are.

The hard way would be to have Not!Rover on a train, Not!Kappn in a bus or taxi cab, and the Not!Nooklings at an airport depending on what the generator says it'll provide.

The easiest way would be to not have it happen in-universe at all: have a big menu list that lets you pick a map generator and size, town name, player name, and player appearance, and a big blue Ⓐ EMBARK button. Generate the map, spawn in, you're done.

But hey, maybe there's a third option I haven't thought of?

[sugardollcurse]

I'm a Ringo fan and I just LOVE the way you write him, I always leave satisfied when I read your Ringo hcs AND that Ringo fic you wrote, totally amazing♡♡♡ I would like to request another Ringo fic bcs there aren't enough fics in this ringomaniac world... I would like a Ringo fic, anything you want really, maybe cozy mornings, a day where he is the one who cooks, just anything! And again, I LOVE everything you do, peace and love!!!

𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 | ringo starr x reader

𐙚 summary ; ringo makes breakfast in nothing but boxers and a grin. you don’t get out of bed ‘til noon.

𐙚 note ; you get it. i swear there’s no comfort like writing ringo at his softest. peace and love always !!!

The sun crept in like it knew it was being rude.

Yellow streaks spilled across the bedsheets, lighting the tangled limbs and discarded t-shirt on the floor, the little record player in the corner with its lid half-shut and something still humming low because neither of you’d gotten up to stop it. The apartment smelled like warmth and dust and sleep.

You rolled over with a groan, cheek pressed into the pillow.

Ringo was gone.

Well, not gone. You could still hear him. Somewhere in the flat. Clanging.

You blinked slowly, head buried beneath the duvet, trying to place the noise. Something metal, something clumsy.

Then you smelled it. Butter. Bread. Was that eggs?

Your heart fluttered.

Ringo had said he was gonna cook this weekend, but he also said that about fixing the bookshelf and watching Dr. Zhivago with you. You’d learned to love the promises even when they dissolved like smoke. He meant them. But today… maybe he meant this one more.

You groaned again, curling into yourself, stretching your toes under the sheets.

Then-

“Aye!” he called from the kitchen. “Don’t think I don’t hear y’tossin’ around!"

You laughed, a sleepy huff into the pillow. “How d’you know I’m awake?”

“’Cause you always make that noise like you’re bein’ murdered when you stretch. S’nothin’ short of dramatic, that.”

You sat up, rubbing at your eyes. Your voice was hoarse with sleep. “You're makin’ breakfast?”

A pause. A suspicious sizzle.

“…depends how y’determine breakfast. Might be brunch by now. Or early tea.”

You dragged the duvet off and made your way down the narrow hallway in socks. The flat was old, with squeaky floorboards and weird little alcoves, and you loved every inch of it. Especially the kitchen.

There he was. Back to you, standing at the stove in nothing but his boxers and an apron that said “Kiss the Cook” in red paint. His hair was flat on one side, puffy on the other.

“You would wear that apron,” you muttered.

He turned, spatula in hand, big grin plastered across his face. “’Course I would. Gotta advertise, haven’t I?”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching. “What's all this?”

“Well, I made eggs, see, scrambled, then did toast, but I burnt the first two slices so you’re gettin’ the golden ones, not the test batch-aren’t you lucky-then I thought, well I’ll slice some avocado, right, real posh like. And then I thought, what if we want beans too?”

“Do we want beans?”

“I dunno. I just wanted to make enough noise that you’d come in and kiss me.”

You laughed and crossed the kitchen to do exactly that. He kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in weeks, hand on your hip, thumb brushing the hem of your shirt, warm and unhurried.

“Mornin’,” he murmured against your lips.

“’S not morning anymore.”

“Still counts if we haven’t eaten.”

You leaned into him, eyes closed. “You’re warm.”

“I’m cookin’, love. My arse is roastin’. Should’ve put trousers on.”

“You should’ve turned on the fan.”

Ringo looked toward the greasy little fan over the stove, then shrugged. “Adds to the charm. Keeps me sweatin’.”

You swatted his stomach and he grinned. “Table’s set. Sort of.”

He wasn’t lying. There were two plates, a butter knife, and a spoon that absolutely wasn’t needed for anything, but it was lying between them like it belonged. A single napkin sat balled near the edge. And in the middle: a little stubby candle in a wine bottle, half-burnt from last night, when you’d split a bottle of red and played cards with your feet in his lap.

You sat. He served.

He poured tea for both of you, two sugars for you, one for him. He did it without asking. Then he slid the food in front of you with a chef’s flourish.

You stared at your plate.

“Is that a heart-shaped egg?”

He raised both eyebrows. “You noticed!”

You laughed into your tea. “It’s lopsided.”

“S’how you know it’s genuine.”

You dug in, and to your surprise, it was good. The toast was buttery and crisp. The eggs were soft, a little peppery. The avocado was… well, it was avocado. But he’d sliced it with the love of a man preparing a wedding feast.

You hummed around a mouthful. “Richie…”

He perked up like a puppy. “Yeah?”

“This is a normal breakfast.”

He puffed up. Actually puffed. Shoulders back, chest out, doing a mock-bow in the chair.

“I accept awards in the form of snogs.”

You leaned over the table and kissed him again, slower this time. The candle wax had melted into the woodgrain. Your fingers brushed his.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling ‘til he reached over and traced the curve of your cheek with his thumb.

“I like seein’ you like this,” he said.

You swallowed. “Like what?”

“Happy. All soft and sweet. Like I did somethin’ right.”

You rolled your eyes, but it came out too gentle to mean it. “You do things right. All the time.”

“Not always.”

“No one does.”

He didn’t answer. He just kept looking at you like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like the candlelight and the cheap toast and your hair mussed from sleep was something out of a dream he wasn’t done having yet.

You set your tea down. “Richie?”

“Mm?”

“Stay like this with me. All day.”

He grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince

[thebroccolination]

I really like that Phi’s reluctantly humoring this whole situation because it really drives home how, like. However their breakup happened, their relationship was so strong from his perspective that he can’t fathom any reason for it. He was just completely blindsided by it. And like. He also depended on Tam for everything, so even though Tam left him and hurt him badly in the way he did it, I can see why Pathapi’s not fighting him more.

“Even if everyone else is mean to me, you’re kind to me, Tawan.”

I think that sincere, “When I’m ready, I’ll tell you everything,” from Tam is probably what got him over this latest hurdle. I think if I were in Phi’s situation with the world against me and the one person I could always depend on came back to me, even if they’d hurt me, I’d want that support back. It’s wonderfully messy because I think Phi’s having double-vision. Tam’s behaving in some ways like his Tawan, but he’s also the guy who tore his heart in half. He’s his only ally, but he’s also the one who burned the barricades to expose him to the world’s derision.

I think if Tam had cheated or done something more specific than cutting ties and ghosting, Phi would have shut the whole thing down in the office on day one. I think it’s because he doesn’t know the reason that he’s constantly recalibrating how he feels about Tam being back.

It’s such smart character writing, because I feel like we’ve all had that friend entertaining rekindling things with an ex and as the friend, we’re like, “NO, MON AMIE. NOT HIM.”

But Tamtawan was someone Pathapi was confident he’d marry. Like, they were openly discussing it the night before Tam left. I think Pathapi wants any half-decent reason to forgive him, and it’s smart writing not to give it to him because that would be maddening to the audience. The script has to build sympathy for Tamtawan before we’ll forgive him, because let’s be real, Pathapi’s not in an emotional state to go, “Nah, fuck you, I’m good.”

He’s not good. All he wants is his sun back. The narrative has to keep it from him by denying him what he needs to justify taking Tam back to himself.

I’m having a great time. :’)

[lnfinity-survivor-choco]

Hi! Thank you for clarifying.

Nothing of what is said there I disagree much with, I'd like to perhaps point out that most people would understand masking as integrating with neurotypical behaviour in ways in which you don't stick out, that's the overall definition of masking I was going with, but, it doesn't mean this nuanced, in depth one is wrong.

It does extrapolate on the one I referred to, but my stance is still the same.

Not everyone can mask, let me give my thoughts on each point.

"Masking isn't something only people with low generalized support needs do."

No objections, also, let's remember MSN autistic people too, it's not only low or high needs

"it's something that every kind of autistic person can possibly engage with in some form."

I don't love the dividers of every "kind." There's more nuance than just low, middle, and high support needs, implying everyone can engage with feels a bit reductionist, to me. This would also depend on what you mean by can, can they mask safely?

Can everyone regulate themselves to fit without it backfiring and ending up worse? or it being just as unhealthy or more as being forced to unmask?

No. Not everyone. There's people who can in any of the groups refered to, low medium or high support needs, but implying all kinds can do it pushes the idea that everyone can mask and do so safely, and I disagree.

"Masking may not be as successful for some, but that doesn't mean it's not happening and having a lot of effort put into it. It doesn't mean that it can't still cause pain and have long term consequences."

This point actually aligns with mine, being forced to mask can cause pain and have long term consequences.

"Masking just doesn't look like the same set of skills for everyone. "

Also true.

"For some it's attempting to blend in with the crowd and being "normal" and average and unexceptional."

*nod-nod"

"For others it's changing or adjusting things like movement or speech patterns - and not always in an attempt to appear neurotypical."

Agreed!

"Some might lean hard into a stereotype as a form of masking, because it just makes it easier for people to understand their immediate needs that way."

That implies the NT environment is attuned to the autistic person's masking or understands it's being done which is blatantly false, even psychologists often don't, unless they're ND themselves.

"Others still, could suppressing certain traits but not other traits, even if it seems counterintuitive to an outsider the traits they do and don't suppress."

This is indeed masking, yeah.

"Sometimes its masking one "unusual" trait with another. "

✅

"It can look like someone who usually communicates a lot with noises and gestures and big movements being very still and quiet."

Yep!

"It could be things like using more "adult" or "serious" looking tools even if it's not necessarily what the autistic wants or finds most accessible, like using text-based or keyboard AAC systems instead of symbols or grids, because some view symbolized AAC as something to grow out of.x"

Not every autistic person can do this.

"It's things like staying silent because one knows they will blurt out something inappropriate for the situation or infodump or have the wrong volume or odd cadence - even if that silence is also something that gets noticed and seen as unusual."

True. Except not every autistic person can or will be able to know or tell the moment correctly, and then it becomes twice as awkward and upsetting for them too. Reminds me of the "secret rules that are ok to break" thing in which an autistic person may either obey when they're not expected to, or not do so thinking it was an approved exception.

"Masking isn't only when you "pass" as 100% neurotypical successfully and it's not some all or nothing thing."

That's why terms like high masking are used in academia sometimes to distinguish how much someone can mask, it's arbitrary and slightly stupid but it's the best NT's got so far.

"It's not only about the output, it's the internal state of the person doing the masking that's important too."

Exactly! Which is why I make my original point anyway, not everyone can safely mask, just like not everyone can safely unmask, neither is inherently more privileged.

"There's no one "thing" that autistic people do that is exclusive to one type, and masking, as it's often borne of trauma, is certainly not one of them."

Except everyone's trauma is different and exclusively theirs, and while "types" help find a lot of common ground and the ability to relate, everyone's disorder affects them differently, just because someone could mask doesn't make it safe, it's pitted against the risk of not masking, in which depends on person and situation to pick what is safer.

I hope I made sense with my explanation, also, these weren't bad points at all, I'm just providing a different perspective.

Unmasking isn't safe for some autistics to do, especially those in certain minority groups. It's a luxury, so before you tell an autistic person to "just stop masking" please check your privilege.

[kbunzzi2oa]

Desire - Park Jongseong

Pairing: Fem!Reader × bodyguard!Park Jay

synopsis: You never asked for a bodyguard, but your parents after being multi millioners and being scared of you maybe getting kidnapped...

Genres: Yandere, Dark Romance, Smut, Slow Burn, Psychological, Aftercare, heavy/soft bondage, mirror sex, belt slapping, make out, unprotected sex, possessiveness, Dom!Jay x Sub! Reader, confession, jealousy.

Warnings: Possessiveness, power imbalance, non-violent yandere behavior, detailed sexual content (multiple scenes), obsession, light bondage, manipulation, dirty talk, overstimulation, intense emotional intimacy, dark undertones. 18+ only.

W.C: 21.5k

Nef notes: HEY EVERYONEEEEE welcome back to another fic, first of all I LOVED THE ALBUM TEN OUT OF TEN SO GOOD HOLY SHIT, my faves are definitely, too close, flashover and with our without you AND outside. Hope you guys enjoyed this fic based on the live of Niki tying up JAY like...OH NY GOD..so I had to make smth. I'll be posting a bit later a haechan bday fic, beacuse ITS HIS BIRTHDAY.hope y'all enjoy this fic, likes, reblogs and comments are enough for me!..love yall!! (⁠◕⁠દ⁠◕⁠)

You never asked for a bodyguard.

You certainly didn’t want one assigned to you full-time, shadowing your every move like a second skin. But your father insisted—after the break-in, the media scandal, and the letters. And when he’s a CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company, what he says isn’t up for debate.

That’s how Park Jongseong came into your life.

He called himself Jay.

The first time you met him, he didn’t smile. He didn’t flinch. Just looked you over in that clean black suit, expression unreadable, hands clasped in front of him like he was attending a funeral. You thought he was too young to be protecting anyone. Thought he was just another silent type trying to play tough.

You were wrong.

Jay wasn’t silent.

He was watching.

Always.

At first, it was subtle—the way he’d linger a step too close behind you, a hand gently pressing to your back when crowds grew thick. The way his gaze didn’t follow threats, it followed you. Not your surroundings, not exits. You.

Then came the possessiveness.

He began walking into your apartment without knocking. He took the liberty of driving you himself instead of your usual chauffeur. One night, you heard his voice outside your door, deep and low, telling someone to leave. You peeked through the blinds.

It was the guy you’d gone on one date with. The guy who never texted back after.

Jay made sure he never would.

And when you confronted him about it, standing in your kitchen in an oversized shirt and bare feet, he just looked at you with that calm, unreadable expression and said:

“I protect what’s mine.”

You told yourself it was just professional.

You told yourself you liked the security.

You told yourself you didn’t feel your thighs press together when he said it like that.

But everything changed the night you drank too much at the gala.

You barely remember the ride home, only that your dress felt too tight, your heels too tall, and his hand around your waist too firm. He didn’t say anything when you stumbled into him in the hallway. Didn’t scold or mock. Just caught you.

And carried you.

You remember the sound of your bedroom door closing. The way he laid you gently on the bed. The flicker of something in his eyes as you reached up and pulled at his tie, giggling.

“Don’t go,” you whispered.

He didn’t.

He stayed.

That was the first time.

The first time you dreamed of him hovering over you, eyes dark, mouth warm and commanding. The first time you woke up with your panties soaked and your name whispered into the night by lips that didn’t belong to you.

And things only got worse.

Or better.

Depending on how you looked at it.

Jay never touched you. Not unless you were in danger. Not unless he had to.

But you felt it. The tension. The heat in the air when you changed with the door ajar. The way his voice dropped an octave when you teased him. The way he looked like he was constantly on the edge of something violent and divine.

Until the night you pushed too far.

It started with the rope.

Some charity performance. Some theatrical display your father insisted you attend. They wanted an “audience participation moment” with volunteers from the VIP seats. A magic act, or something equally ridiculous.

Jay, of course, sat beside you. Silent, vigilant, dressed in all black. You were feeling petty that night. Teasing. Dangerous.

So you raised your hand when the magician asked for a participant. And when Jay leaned in to whisper a warning in your ear, you grinned and said:

“Relax. It’s just a rope.”

He didn't relax.

He watched, eyes narrowed, as they brought you up to the stage. As they asked you to tie the "volunteer"—a tall, suited man—using a thick, shimmering coil. You hesitated, but the man stepped forward, smiling.

Jay stepped forward too.

“Pick your own partner,” the magician said cheerfully.

You turned around. Looked right at him.

“Jay,” you called sweetly. “Come here.”

He froze.

The room laughed.

He didn’t.

But he came.

He walked onto the stage like he was walking toward war.

You took your time. Smiling. Teasing. Wrapping the rope around his waist, over his chest. He let you. Stood perfectly still. But his eyes never left yours.

When you leaned close and whispered, “Don’t break character,” his jaw flexed.

And when you cinched the final knot at his back, you brushed your fingers deliberately against his ass.

His hands clenched.

The crowd cheered.

The lights dimmed.

And when it was over, when you returned to your seat with laughter in your throat and fire in your veins, he said nothing. Not in the car. Not on the elevator.

But when the apartment door closed behind you—he snapped.

“You think this is funny?” he growled, backing you into the wall.

You gasped at the impact. “Jay—”

“You want to tie me up in front of a room full of people? Make a joke of me?”

“It was a performance—”

“You used me.”

“You’re my bodyguard,” you said breathlessly. “I can do what I want.”

He grabbed your chin. Firm. “No, Y/N. You don’t get to pretend this is nothing.”

Your heart raced. “Then what is it?”

His mouth was inches from yours. “It’s obsession.”

Silence.

Then you dared. “Yours or mine?”

He didn’t answer.

He kissed you.

Hard. Filthy. Starved. Like he’d waited years for permission.

Your back hit the wall again as his hands roamed your waist, your thighs, sliding under your dress with dangerous intention. You moaned into his mouth, grinding against his thigh.

“You don’t get to play innocent anymore,” he whispered, voice raw. “You’ve been begging for this.”

You whimpered, nodding. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

“Say my name.”

“Jay.”

“Louder.”

“Jay—fuck, please—”

He lifted you in one motion, carrying you to the bedroom like you weighed nothing.

And that night, he made good on his obsession.

He was not gentle.

Not at first.

He stripped you bare, piece by piece, lips marking every inch of skin like a claim. His hands pinned your wrists above your head as he knelt between your thighs, tongue lapping at your soaked heat until you screamed.

He didn’t stop when you came.

Didn’t slow when your legs trembled, your voice broke.

He whispered things—dirty, dark things—into your skin, your mouth, your cunt.

“Mine.”

“Only I get to see you like this.”

“You don’t come unless I say.”

“You tied me up. Now I own you.”

You begged. You writhed. You shattered over and over until the sheets were soaked and your throat was raw from moaning his name.

And when he finally slid inside you—thick, deep, filling every inch—your vision went white.

He fucked you like a man possessed.

Hard. Deep. Deliberate.

His lips found your ear, murmuring, “You’ll never need another man again. I’ll kill anyone who tries.”

And you believed him.

You wanted it.

You wanted him.

But he didn’t leave you broken.

When it was over—when your body couldn’t take any more, when your limbs gave out and your mind went quiet—he held you.

Carried you to the bathroom. Washed every inch of your skin. Kissed your temple.

He dressed you in his shirt and tucked you against his chest beneath clean sheets.

And whispered, “I told you. I protect what’s mine.”

➽──────────────❥

You knew the moment he locked the door that tonight would be different.

Jay had been quiet all day—watching, waiting, simmering under the surface. It wasn’t anger. It was worse. It was focus. Precision. Like he’d been planning something, step by step, hour by hour.

And you were the final step.

“Strip,” he said simply, voice low and unreadable.

You did.

Slowly.

Your hands trembled as you peeled away your shirt, your bra, your jeans. He didn’t help. Didn’t touch. Just watched from the edge of the bed, dark eyes burning into you, arms crossed over his chest.

When you stood bare before him, nipples already hard, slick already forming between your thighs, he finally moved.

Jay rose, pulling the thick leather belt from his trousers in one long, deliberate motion. The sound of it sliding through the loops sent a violent shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard. “What are you going to do to me?”

He smirked. “Everything.”

And he did.

He started with your wrists—binding them tightly above your head with silk ties, hooking them to the bedframe. Then your ankles, spread apart and fastened to the corners of the bed. You were completely exposed—helpless, dripping, heart racing like prey.

But you trusted him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging the belt across your stomach. “So eager to be ruined.”

He dragged the leather slowly down your thigh, letting it brush your inner skin before snapping it—lightly—against the inside of your leg.

You gasped, eyes flying open.

“Oh, baby,” he said with a low chuckle. “That was just the warm-up.”

The second slap came faster—against your hip. The third, over your ass. Then another, harder, across your inner thigh.

Each strike left a burn, a mark, a delicious sting that made your back arch and your breath catch.

You moaned—loud, shameless, desperate.

“You like this,” Jay growled. “Being tied up, used. Marked.”

You nodded frantically, voice broken. “Yes—yes, please, more.”

He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between your spread legs, belt dangling from his hand like a predator’s leash.

“You don’t get to come until I say,” he warned. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”

Then he lowered his mouth to your cunt—and devoured you.

Tongue ruthless. Belt striking rhythmically against your thighs as he ate you alive.

Your body was shaking. Wrists straining. Legs trembling. You felt everything—each lash of leather, each flick of tongue, each filthy word he whispered between licks.

“So sweet.”

“So fucking wet for me.”

“You love being mine.”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you sobbed. “I’m—Jay, please—”

The belt cracked again.

You screamed.

Not in pain. In pleasure.

He pulled away just before you could come. Smirking. Cruel.

Then he slid two fingers into your soaked, throbbing heat—curling them just right as he brought the belt down again. Not hard. Just enough.

Your climax hit like lightning, blinding, explosive, uncontrollable.

He didn’t stop.

Another strike.

Another thrust.

Another orgasm ripped through you before the first faded, and then another, until your body shook violently and tears stained your cheeks.

Finally, Jay unbuckled his pants, breathing ragged.

“Now,” he growled, lining himself up. “Now I take what’s mine.”

He fucked you slow at first...deep, possessive strokes that filled every inch. But soon, it turned primal. Animalistic. He grabbed your throat with one hand and your bound wrists with the other, slamming into you so hard the bed shook.

You were broken open...body wrung dry, voice gone, eyes glassy.

He came with a roar, spilling deep inside you, teeth buried in your shoulder as he claimed you completely.

And then he kissed you.

So softly.

As he untied your wrists. As he wiped the tears from your cheeks. As he pressed an ice pack gently against the red marks on your thighs.

“Did I go too far?” he asked, voice hoarse with something like guilt.

You shook your head weakly. “You gave me exactly what I wanted.”

He held you all night.

➽──────────────❥

The music throbbed through the walls of the penthouse suite, bass heavy and seductive, like the pulse beneath your skin. The after-party was in full swing—glasses clinked, perfume and sweat mixed in the air, and bodies moved in hypnotic waves beneath golden lights. It had been a successful night, your name on every guest list, your presence expected, adored. But for once, the attention of the crowd wasn’t what you sought.

It was him.

Your bodyguard.

Park Jongseong—Jay.

You’d never seen him like this. Always so composed, clean-cut in suits and tight-lipped professionalism, the man at your side, shadow-like and silent. But tonight, he was anything but stoic. He leaned casually against the wraparound balcony railing, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other swirling a glass of amber whiskey. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, exposing the taut line of his collarbone and that silver chain he always wore.

He laughed at something one of his friends said, the sound low, smooth, dangerous. That smirk played on his lips—cocky, relaxed, too damn hot for your sanity. He looked like sin incarnate, and for the first time, it wasn’t the room that had your chest tight.

It was him.

You needed him to notice. To really notice.

Your red velvet dress clung to every curve. Deep crimson—the colour he always paused on when you wore it. You remembered the first time he saw you in this particular shade. His jaw had locked for a second too long. He thought you didn’t notice, but you did.

You moved toward the dance floor, your hips swaying, eyes half-lidded, every step intentional. You weren’t going to beg for his attention. You were going to take it.

The crowd shifted like waves around you—dancers, drinkers, lovers pressed too close. A guy with tousled hair and greedy eyes caught your waist, pulling you toward him. His hands skimmed your hips, his mouth too close to your ear, but you didn’t stop him.

You tilted your head just enough to find Jay again.

And there he was.

Stone still.

The glass frozen halfway to his lips. The smirk was gone. His eyes burned into yours across the room, dark, deadly, possessive.

Game over.

The guy behind you whispered something, tried to grind closer. You let him. But your attention was locked on your bodyguard, who had pushed off the railing, whiskey abandoned on a side table. He cut through the crowd like a silent storm—nobody dared step in his path.

You felt his presence before he even touched you.

A hand gripped your wrist. Not hard, but firm. “Enough.” His voice was low. Controlled. But barely.

You turned with a coy smile. “Jealous?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

The next thing you knew, you were in the elevator, your back to the cold mirrored wall, Jay towering in front of you. The silence was thick with tension. His eyes dragged over you like a slow, punishing stroke.

“You wore that dress on purpose.”

“And?” you breathed.

He moved closer. “And you danced with him—him—knowing I was watching.”

You smiled like a dare. “You were just standing there. Drinking. Laughing. I didn’t think I mattered.”

His jaw clenched. “You matter more than you know. That’s why I have to do something about that mouth of yours.”

Your breath caught.

Ding.

The elevator doors opened, and you stumbled backward into the dark. His suite smelled like leather and spice, the lights dimmed low, the walls a mix of slate and obsidian. It was a room that oozed danger. And dominance.

The air shifted. He opened a drawer near the dresser and pulled out coils of silk rope—red, deep like blood, soft like a secret. You swallowed hard.

“Jay…” you whispered.

Then came the spanking—measured, slow, alternating between firm slaps and caressing strokes. Not cruel, but enough to sting, enough to make you arch into the sensation, needing more. His hand on your skin, voice in your ear, whispering filthy praise.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he growled into your mouth.

“I’m yours, Jay. All yours.”

That night, he didn’t hold back.

You should’ve known when he pulled the full-length mirror in front of the bed that tonight would destroy you.

Jay didn’t say anything—he just watched you from the doorway, sleeves rolled to his forearms, rope in hand. Thick, red rope that contrasted beautifully against the pale of your skin.

“On your knees,” he said.

You obeyed without question.

Naked and flushed, you knelt in front of him on the bed while he stood behind you, the mirror reflecting every curve, every trembling inch. You could see his expression now—intense, controlled, but with something raw behind his eyes.

“I want you to see,” Jay murmured. “Everything.”

He started slow.

First, binding your wrists behind your back in a flawless shibari knot. Then your elbows. Then wrapping the rope around your chest, beneath your breasts, between them, pulling tight until your nipples peaked from the pressure.

You moaned as your body was molded into place—back arched, breasts bound, hands trapped.

He guided you down onto your side, wrapping your thighs together, bending your knees. Immobilizing you completely. Exposing you.

“Look,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Look how beautiful you are like this.”

You could barely move.

The reflection was obscene—your body trussed up like a work of art, your face flushed, lips parted. And Jay, still fully dressed behind you, gazing at you like a god with his offering.

“You’re not allowed to close your eyes,” he warned, pressing a kiss to your throat. “You watch me ruin you.”

Then his fingers found your clit—slow circles, maddening. You moaned, thighs straining against the ropes.

“Already wet,” he growled. “Just from being tied.”

He didn’t stop.

Fingers slick with your arousal, he slid two into your dripping core, curling them just right. His free hand wrapped around your throat, gently pressing—not enough to choke, just enough to make you whimper.

“I could watch you come like this forever,” Jay rasped. “So helpless. So fucking needy.”

Your orgasm hit hard. Your body convulsed, muscles twitching, but you couldn’t move.

And he didn’t stop.

“Again,” he ordered, fingers thrusting relentlessly. “You don’t get to stop until I say.”

“Jay—please—too much—!”

Another orgasm. And another. You were shaking, sobbing, the ropes pressing tighter as your body thrashed.

Jay climbed onto the bed, kneeling behind you, unzipping his pants.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asked softly, voice suddenly tender.

You nodded weakly, eyes dazed. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He lined himself up—and slid in slowly.

You screamed.

Not in pain. In devastation. In pleasure that blurred into something spiritual.

“Look,” he reminded you, reaching up to grab your face and turn it toward the mirror. “Don’t you dare look away.”

You saw it all. The way he filled you. The way your body welcomed him, even as it trembled. His hips snapped forward, and your breath caught again.

And then his voice broke.

“I love you.”

You froze.

But he didn’t stop moving. His thrusts grew deeper. Slower. More desperate.

“I tried to stay away,” he whispered hoarsely. “Tried to just protect you. But I can’t. I can’t pretend anymore.”

He leaned forward, forehead pressing to yours.

“You’re mine, Y/N. Not just your body. Everything. Your mind. Your heart. I’d burn the world for you.”

Your eyes welled with tears, half from overstimulation, half from the weight of it all.

And still, he moved inside you. Worshipping you. Losing himself.

“I love you,” he said again, voice cracking. “Even if it ruins me.”

You kissed him.

Through the tears. Through the trembling. You kissed him because it was true.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

He came with a groan, holding you tight, face buried in your neck as your name broke from his lips like prayer.

And after? He untied you slowly, reverently. Massaging your wrists. Stroking your thighs. Wrapping you in his arms beneath the covers like you were something sacred.

And the mirror stayed there.

So neither of you could forget what love really looked like—tangled, bound, breathless, and whole.

➽──────────────❥

[obvithe-bestsoph]

I loved the last fics you made of Kenan😭 I want to request a sugestive of reader provoking him by using just one of his t-shirts and a underwear bc she knows it gets him turned on/excited

playing with fire.

masterlist requests word count: 820

a/n: this is like kinda cringe but oh well lol genre: suggestive. warnings: suggestive content.

summary: kenan comes home to a surprise.

It’s not exactly an accident.

You might pretend it is later, flash him a half-apologetic smile, murmur something about laundry day, but right now, standing in the kitchen with one of Kenan’s oversized black Juventus shirts barely covering your thighs, you know exactly what you’re doing.

And you know exactly what it does to him.

The cotton falls just below your hips, loose and lazy. His name is stretched across your back in bold white lettering, and when you bent down to get the oat milk earlier, the hem had ridden up just enough to tease a peek of your underwear. White. Lacy. Barely there.

You hear the front door unlock before you see him. He’s coming back from training, keys jingling in that familiar rhythm, and you don’t move. You let him come to you.

You hear the pause first, a break in his footsteps the second he sees you.

Then: “Seriously?”

Your head turns slowly, all fake innocence. “Hi.”

Kenan drops his gym bag by the door like it weighs nothing. His eyes drag down your body, slow and deliberate, lingering on the shirt that’s unmistakably his.

“That’s what you’re wearing today?” His voice is low, skeptical. Dangerous.

You shrug. “It’s comfy.”

His eyes flicker. “You’ve got your own clothes.”

“Do I?” you ask sweetly, turning back to your smoothie like you don’t already know how tightly wound he’s getting. “Didn’t notice.”

You know he’s watching. The sway of your hips, the hem of the shirt rising with each step. He’s probably clenching his jaw, gripping the edge of the counter or the wall or whatever he can grab before he snaps.

It’s not the first time you’ve done this. But it might be the worst one yet. Or the best. Depending on how you measure success.

He walks up behind you quietly, not touching, not yet. The air shifts. You feel it in the back of your neck, in the way your pulse skips like it’s been caught.

“You know what that does to me,” he murmurs.

You pretend not to hear him.

He exhales. You feel it more than you hear it, soft and frustrated.

“Don’t play dumb, schatz.” His voice is all heat now. “Wearing just that. You know what you’re doing.”

You tilt your head, still facing the blender. “It’s just a shirt.”

“And panties,” he adds, sharp.

You laugh - soft, almost wicked. “Would it be better if I took those off too?”

Kenan moves before you can finish your smirk. His hand slides around your waist, firm but not rough, and pulls you against him. His chest is warm from training, solid behind your back. You feel the tension in him, every inch of restraint. He’s not mad. He’s not annoyed. He’s just… trying not to lose it.

“I just got home,” he whispers, mouth near your ear. “And this is what I come back to?”

“You missed me,” you say, faux-innocent, letting your head fall back on his shoulder. “Right?”

He makes a quiet noise, somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You’re the devil.”

You hum. “You love me.”

“Too much,” he mutters, nose trailing along your jaw. “That’s the problem.”

His hands slide lower, fingertips brushing your bare thighs. The shirt rises slightly. Your breath catches, just a little. Just enough.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t do anything more than let his fingers rest on your skin. But it’s enough to make your heart flip.

“You want me to lose my mind?” he murmurs.

You smirk. “You say that like you haven’t already.”

That gets him. You feel the way he tenses behind you, like he’s considering whether now is the moment he gives in completely. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls back just enough to turn you around. His eyes meet yours. Dark. Focused. Desperate in the most delicious way.

“You wore this for me?”

You nod slowly. “You like it?”

“I hate it,” he lies. “And I love it.”

You grin. “So I should do it more often?”

His gaze drops to your lips. “You shouldn’t. But you will.”

You reach up, resting your hands on his shoulders, tugging him closer.

“That a threat?”

“That’s a promise.”

And then he kisses you, it’s not rough, not yet, just enough to melt your knees. His mouth moves against yours with purpose, like he’s memorizing the curve of your lips, the way you taste, how your breath hitches when his hands finally, finally slide under the hem of his own damn shirt.

You kiss him back harder. Let your fingers curl in his hair. Let him walk you back until your thighs hit the counter.

And then you pull away, breathless, looking up at him through your lashes.

“You’re gonna be late for your recovery session,” you whisper.

He looks at you like he could set the kitchen on fire. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to recover here.”

[whizzermania]

MAJOR CHAPTER 4 DELTARUNE SPOILERS BELOW THAT INCLUDE MENTIONS OF THE SECRET CONTENT YOU ARE WARNED

KRIS DID NOTHING WRONG

I AM TRULY CONVINCED KRIS IS LITERALLY JUST AN ASSHOLE WHOS DEPRESSED AND THATS OKAY. i do not think kris is the knight i really don’t: i think they have the ability to summon fountains mainly because of their association with the knight and i’m confident this is just a poor kid thats pissed at the world and got caught in something thats making them WORSE. like!! their whole family fell apart!! and THEY’RE BEING FORCED TO BE A PART OF A BATTLE THEY DO NOT WANNA PARTICIPATE IN.

my theory is that the knight is the reason the player’s soul is stuck to them: needing kris as a sort of catalyst in accomplishing their goals—and that kris has zero choice but to comply to the knight AND the player. THEYRE LITERALLY A DOUBLE AGENT. this poor introverted child is being pulled left and right up to a point that everytime they rip the player’s soul out of their chest, they start having a literal episode.

THIS??? THIS IS A DEPRESSED AS FUCK CHILD. I AM HOLDING THEM.

PLUS at the end of chapter 4 when kris went through ALL THAT TORMOIL ONLY TO FIND OUT TORIEL IS SAFE AND SOUND THIS ENTIRE TIME BUT EXPERIENCED THE MOST HORRIFYING TRAUMA OF THEIR LIFE?? i can’t blame them for being annoyed at their mom blasting music downstairs, kris must’ve been ruined.

this is peak characterization. every piece of dialogue of us just looking at objects, thinking of dialogue choices was all kris. like: kris has so so much love to give to susie and ralsei: but because of how much of a mess they are right now in a situation out of their control: they become absolutely miserable in trying to accomplish what the knight wants them to do. kris just straight up absolutely hates being controlled—and it does not help that TWO PEOPLE are controlling them. i think in the normal route kris feels indifferent about us. like: yeah they hate us, but they also do not mind the guidance on the majority of fronts depending on what you choose as dialogue options. i can’t help but pick the options of what would kris say most likely: because lets face it, this kid is so so introverted and im holding them :(

WHICH IS WHY I WILL EXPLAIN THE WEIRD ROUTE IN THIS. HOLY FUCK. THE WEIRD ROUTE IS TERRIFYING. the dialogue options for when the player takes control of kris when they’re talking to noelle is TERRIFYING. its controlling in a way *where we’re trying to erase kris for who they are.* AND KRIS WAS TRYING TO ACTIVELY PROTECT NOELLE FROM THEM. THATS SO EVIL. THAT IS LITERAL HORROR. IM GONNA THROW UP.