#ive been wanting to make this post for a while

[cheftsunoda]

I have so many thoughts but listen 🥺 (walk with me) Max and Charles and their childhood best friend. (Max and Charles realizing they are both in love with her and each other) Thank you for listening ❤️😌

realization — cl16 & mv1

written blurbs

charles leclerc x !childhood best friend reader x max verstappen

in which charles and max finally admit what they’ve been pushing off for years— their love for you and each other.

(a/n) : i got many messages about lestappen x reader that I just decided to post this. ive had it for a while i just dunno if i like it or not. AND. JUST REACHED 2K SOOOOOO

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flashback — monaco, age 11

You’re sticky with sweat and sunscreen, your knees scraped from crashing into the curb on your skateboard again—but you don’t care. You’re chasing after Max and Charles down the winding hill behind your building, hair flying, heart pounding, laughing like the sun will never set.

Max is ahead, his wild blond curls bouncing as he runs, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, slowpokes!”

Charles huffs next to you, breathless and flushed. “He cheats,” he says between pants. “He always goes before we’re ready.”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” you grin, and yank his sleeve as you run past him, both of you giggling like it’s your full-time job.

By the time you reach Max, he’s sprawled on the grass in front of the bakery, waiting with that smug little smirk that makes you want to kick him and hug him at the same time.

You collapse between them, your legs tangled in theirs, all three of you covered in grass stains and dried lemonade. The smell of croissants and melted asphalt floats around you.

“I’m gonna marry both of you when we’re older,” you say, not even thinking. Just tossing the words into the air like confetti.

Max snorts. “That’s not how it works.”

Charles turns pink. “Why not?”

Max looks at you, shrugs. “I guess if it’s you, it could work.”

Your heart does a weird little jump. You’re too young to understand what it means, but old enough to feel the warmth settle in your chest.

Later, when the sun dips below the buildings and the sky turns peach and lilac, you walk home sandwiched between them. Max keeps bumping your shoulder on purpose. Charles holds your hand without a word.

You look at them and think— We’ll be together forever.

—

karting track, age 14

You’re sitting alone on the bleachers, helmet at your feet, fingers still buzzing from the last heat. The sun is starting to dip low, casting long shadows across the track, and the air smells like rubber, fuel, and sweat.

Max and Charles are nowhere to be seen.

You try not to let it bother you—but it does.

The three of you were always inseparable. Always. But lately… it’s like they’ve started circling each other like fire and ice. Sometimes you’re caught in the middle, and sometimes they leave you behind entirely, like now.

You spot them down by the garage, deep in conversation. Max’s posture is tense, arms crossed over his chest, while Charles gestures wildly with his hands. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but it doesn’t look friendly.

A few minutes later, Charles storms off in one direction and Max heads toward the track. Right toward you.

He doesn’t look at you as he sits beside you. Just reaches down and grabs your water bottle, drinks like he’s dying, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

You wait.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” you ask softly.

Max doesn’t answer right away. His jaw ticks, his eyes staring straight ahead at nothing. “He said you like him.”

The words hit like a slap.

You blink. “What?”

Max finally turns to you. His voice is low, steady, but there’s something wounded behind his usual sharpness. “He said you like him. And that I need to back off.”

You don’t know what to say.

Because the truth is… sometimes, when Charles smiles at you like you’re made of light, your stomach flips. And other times, when Max leans too close, when his voice drops and his eyes spark, you can’t breathe.

You’re 14 and confused and overwhelmed and you wish someone would just tell you what to feel.

So you deflect.

“I didn’t say that,” you mumble. “I didn’t say anything.”

Max laughs bitterly. “Doesn’t matter. He’s already decided.”

You glance down at your hands. “And what have you decided?”

That catches him off guard. He looks at you, eyes stormy, unreadable. And for a second, you think he might say something—really say something. But then he looks away again.

“I don’t want to fight with him,” he mutters. “But I don’t want to lose you either.”

Your heart aches.

You reach out without thinking and place your hand on top of his. His fingers twitch but don’t pull away. “You’re not going to lose me, Max.”

He squeezes your hand just once before letting go.

You sit in silence as the last race of the day rolls by, engines roaring, hearts racing, everything unsaid heavy in the air between you.

—

age 17 (pls just pretend that the timing make sense)

The day Max debuts in Formula 1, you’re in Barcelona, sitting in the Toro Rosso garage with a lanyard that feels too heavy around your neck. Cameras flash, journalists chatter in every language, and Max—your Max—is standing tall in a fireproof suit, grinning like the world is finally recognizing what you’ve always known.

You should be ecstatic. You are. Sort of.

He looks over at you just before climbing into the car, eyes locking with yours, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. You give him a shaky thumbs-up, and he nods like that’s all he needs.

But your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Because you know who isn’t here.

Charles.

He’s back in Monaco. At a funeral. His father died yesterday. You weren’t there. You couldn’t be.

You’d promised Max you’d be in Barcelona months ago, long before anyone knew what was coming. Long before Charles’ world shattered in one quiet, sudden moment.

You texted him. Called him. Begged him to let you come home.

He didn’t reply. Not at first.

When he finally did, it was just—

I don’t want you to miss his debut. He’s your friend too. Just… come back soon, okay?

It broke your heart. Because Charles Leclerc doesn’t ask for much. Never has. And when he does, it’s always too quietly. Too late.

You try to focus on the race, on Max tearing through the track with the same furious brilliance you’ve seen since he was 10. He finishes in the points. Reporters flood him. His team cheers. You want to run to him, to celebrate—but your phone buzzes with a new text.

He’s gone, YN. It doesn’t feel real.

Suddenly, all the noise around you becomes muffled, like someone shoved your head underwater.

You slip away from the garage without saying goodbye.

When you finally make it back to Monaco the next morning, you go straight to Charles’ apartment. You use the spare key under the planter—he always joked it was there for you, not for emergencies.

He’s sitting on the couch, surrounded by crumpled tissues and silence.

The moment he sees you, he crumbles.

You drop everything and pull him into your arms. He doesn’t cry, not like most people cry. It’s quiet, almost reverent—the kind of grief that steals the breath from your lungs. His arms wrap around you like a lifeline, like he’s afraid if he lets go, he’ll fall through the earth.

“I should’ve come,” you whisper, fingers in his hair.

“You did,” he says hoarsely. “You’re here now.”

You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for the sunlight to shift across the walls. Long enough to feel your own throat ache.

Eventually, he speaks again.

“Max did good, huh?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. He did.”

A long pause.

“I’m happy for him,” Charles murmurs, “but it’s hard not to wonder why some of us keep losing everything while others just… keep rising.”

You press your forehead to his. “You haven’t lost everything.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that. Like you might be the only thing left tethering him to this world.

Later, when you’re making him tea and digging through his cupboards for something edible, your phone lights up with a call from Max.

You stare at it.

You love them both so differently, and so much.

But right now, only one of them needs you.

So you let the call go to voicemail, turn off your phone, and go back to the boy whose heart has just been split open.

You sit beside Charles on the couch and tuck your legs beneath you. He leans against your shoulder like he did when you were twelve, when he first told you he wanted to race for Ferrari. You put your arm around him and hold him like you’ll never let go.

He doesn’t say anything else that night. He doesn’t have to.

Neither do you.

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present day!

The café is tucked away on a quiet street in Monaco, the kind of place tourists don’t stumble into, where the waiter doesn’t ask for a name—he just smiles and brings your usual. You’re already seated when they arrive, Max and Charles, ten minutes late and bickering lightly as they always do.

“She said noon,” Charles is saying as he drops into the chair beside you, already stealing an olive from your plate. “Which means twelve o’clock, Verstappen.”

Max slides into the seat across from you, sunglasses perched on his head, hair a little too tousled to be accidental. “Twelve is a suggestion, not a law.”

You roll your eyes, smiling anyway. “You’re both late. I should’ve invited Susie instead.”

Max leans forward, smirking. “You like her better than us now?”

“I mean,” you tease, “she listens to me. Shows up on time. Hasn’t crashed into anyone lately.”

Charles puts a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. “Ouch.”

You grin, and just like that, the rhythm returns. It always does. No matter how much time passes or how many races come and go or how many relationships fall apart between the three of you… when you sit at this table, it’s like nothing’s changed.

The waiter brings drinks—sparkling water for Charles, coffee for Max, your favorite tea. You sip slowly as they talk about the last few weeks. Charles is still glowing from a podium. Max is unusually smug about a private test day in Austria that no one was supposed to know about. You let them talk, occasionally chiming in, occasionally just watching.

They’re older now. Sharper in some ways. Softer in others. Charles still gestures with his hands when he talks, like he’s conducting a symphony. Max still pretends he doesn’t care and then immediately contradicts himself with how much he does.

And you? You’re different too. Busier. Stronger. Fiercer than you were at seventeen. You’ve been building something with Susie Wolff that matters—mentoring girls, creating space, shifting the foundation of motorsport one step at a time. Still, when you’re with them, you feel like that girl again. The one who loved them both so much it sometimes made her chest ache.

“So,” Charles says after the food arrives, breaking a comfortable silence, “how’s your calendar looking? There’s a gala next weekend, FIA nonsense, but they’re doing a tribute for the Academy. Thought you might be there.”

“Invited, yes. Going?” You shrug. “Depends if I survive another board call with a room full of men who think Susie and I are ornamental.”

Max snorts into his drink. “Do they want to die? Be honest.”

You laugh. “One of them called me ‘darling’ last week. I didn’t even flinch. Just told him to shut up and open the report.”

Charles raises his glass like a toast. “That’s my girl.”

There’s a pause. You feel it. That old flicker. The way his eyes linger just a little too long. The way Max’s gaze shifts—like he noticed, like he always does. You look between them and smile, soft around the edges.

“Missed you both,” you admit. “It’s been too long.”

Max’s voice is quieter than expected. “You’ve been busy changing the world.”

Charles bumps your shoulder. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean you can vanish on us.”

You lean back in your chair, sun warming your face. “I never vanish. You two just get distracted with your supermodels and your drama.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Ex-supermodels, thank you.”

Charles just laughs and says nothing. The truth is, they’ve both had relationships that fizzled before they even sparked. People who didn’t understand the way they orbit each other. People who didn’t understand you. It’s always been the three of you. It still is.

You talk for two hours. About nothing and everything. Max makes you laugh until you snort, Charles insists on ordering dessert “for the table” and eats half of it before anyone else can touch it. You wipe powdered sugar off the corner of his mouth and pretend not to notice the way Max watches you when you do.

It’s easy. It’s warm. It’s home. As you get up to leave, Charles grabs your hand, just for a second. He squeezes it. Max doesn’t say anything. He just walks close, shoulder brushing yours more than once, like he can’t help it.

You wonder—not for the first time—if the three of you are just waiting for the right moment. If you’ve all been circling something inevitable for years.

And maybe… maybe that moment is closer than any of you realize.

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charles’ moment of realization!

It’s late. One of those Monaco nights where the sky is velvet and the water outside the window looks like melted obsidian. You’re at Charles’ place—because Max is in Italy for sim work, and you’re both too exhausted to be alone. There’s a movie playing in the background, something neither of you is really watching. You’re curled up sideways on the couch, legs stretched across Charles’ lap, nursing a glass of wine. He’s absently tracing patterns on your calf with the tips of his fingers.

You don’t flinch. You never do. It’s always been like this with you—touch without thinking, comfort without caution. That’s what makes it dangerous. He looks at you—really looks—and it hits him so suddenly, so fully, that it actually makes his breath catch. He’s in love with you.

Not in the distant, adolescent way he used to tell himself didn’t count. Not in the playful way he used to flirt to hide what he really meant. No. This is real. Bone-deep. Quiet. Terrifying.

You glance at him. “What?”

He blinks, startled. “Nothing.”

You smile softly, lazy, content. “You’re staring.”

“I always stare at beautiful things,” he says without thinking.

And for once, you don’t tease him for it. You just look at him—eyes soft, unreadable—and then turn back to the screen. He can’t breathe. He thinks about Max. About the way you laugh more when he’s around. About the way Max touches your back without thinking, how your eyes always find his first after a race. About the way Charles’ heart doesn’t ache with jealousy when he sees it—it just aches.

Because it’s both of you. He loves Max, too. He always has. Not in the way he was told to. Not with fire and declarations—but with steadiness. With awe. With understanding so complete it feels like silence between them is its own language.

And suddenly, it makes sense. Why no one else has ever measured up. Why every relationship he’s had has ended with restlessness in his chest and a name on his tongue that wasn’t his partner’s.

Why watching you and Max dance around each other has never made him want to stop it—just… join it. His fingers still on your skin. He wants to tell you. He wants to grab his phone and text Max. He wants to break the rules of whatever unspoken thing the three of you have built and just say it— But he doesn’t.

He just looks at you, your eyes fluttering shut as you relax into the couch. He memorizes the curve of your cheek, the way you mumble something soft in your sleep. The trust in the way you’ve let your guard down here. And then he leans his head back against the couch and whispers into the dark—

“I think I’m in love with both of you.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. And in the silence that follows, he doesn’t feel scared. He just feels sure.

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max’s moment of realization!

It’s the night before the Dutch Grand Prix, and you’re with Max in his driver’s room—feet tucked under you on the couch, laptop in your lap, hair damp from the shower. He’s pacing. Not because he’s nervous about the race. You know Max. He doesn’t pace for pressure. He paces when he’s trying not to feel something.

“You okay?” you ask, eyes flicking up.

He stops, runs a hand through his hair, sighs. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know.”

You close the laptop and pat the space beside you. “Sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”

He does. Not immediately. But eventually. Max always comes back to you. When he sits, his thigh presses against yours. You don’t move away. You never do. He stares at the floor, jaw clenched, brows furrowed like he’s in a head-to-head battle with his own thoughts.

And then, in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard from him, he says—

“Do you ever think we ruined ourselves for other people?”

You turn to look at him slowly. “What?”

“You, me, Charles…” He’s still not looking at you. “I mean—we grew up together. We saw everything. Every win. Every loss. Every ugly, messy part of each other. Maybe that’s why no one else ever feels right.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

You reach for his hand before you can stop yourself. “I don’t think we’re ruined, Max.”

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you. And something shatters in his expression. Because there it is. The truth he’s been avoiding. The reason no one else ever sticks. The reason you and Charles are the only people who’ve ever seen every piece of him—and stayed.

He’s in love with you. And with Charles. It’s always been both. Not some passing phase, not a blurred memory of childhood affection. No. It’s clear now—stark and soft all at once, like the crash of waves on the shore.

You tilt your head at him gently. “Max?”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. His eyes flick down to your hand, still wrapped around his. Your fingers curled loosely over his knuckles. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. But right now, he can’t say it. Not yet. Because if he says it out loud, it’ll be real. And once it’s real, he’s afraid it might break the fragile thing the three of you still have. The thing you’ve somehow managed to keep, despite everything.

So instead, he just leans into you. Lets his shoulder brush yours. Lets the silence stretch, not awkward, not uncomfortable—just full. You don’t press him. You never do.

You just sit there, legs tangled, hands linked, the low hum of the night buzzing around you like a secret you both already know. And when he finally falls asleep—with his head tilted toward yours, breaths even—you don’t move. Because even if he didn’t say the words, you felt them. And maybe… that’s enough. For now.

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It’s pouring in Budapest. Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain—the cold, messy kind that turns paddock walkways into puddles and curls your hair no matter how carefully you styled it this morning.

You and Charles are hiding out in one of the Ferrari hospitality rooms, waiting out the storm before media. He’s laughing at something you said, eyes soft, hair still damp from the sprint debrief, and for a moment, it feels like you’re both sixteen again—tucked into a bench in Monaco, hiding from curfews and the future. You wipe a raindrop from his cheek, almost without thinking.

“You always get water in your eyelashes,” you murmur. “How?”

Charles grins. “Because I’m cinematic.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand lingers on his face a moment too long. Just then, the door creaks open. You look up—and freeze. Max.

He’s standing in the doorway, Red Bull hoodie soaked through, eyes already fixed on the two of you. On your hand on Charles’ face. On the quiet closeness of the moment. Your hand drops instantly.

Charles straightens, startled. “Max—”

But Max is already backing away, expression unreadable.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he mutters, voice clipped. “Looks like you two are busy.”

And then he’s gone.

—

You don’t see him for the rest of the day.

He misses media. Misses dinner. Leaves all your texts on read.

And you know Max—he doesn’t avoid confrontation. Not unless he’s hurt.

Not unless he thinks he’s already lost.

—

It’s two days before any of you see him again.

Charles finds him first, late at night, in the back corner of the hotel gym. No music, no lights, just Max methodically punishing himself on the rowing machine like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts.

“Talk to me,” Charles says gently.

Max doesn’t stop.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You’ve been avoiding us.”

“No, I’ve been busy.”

“Max.”

Finally, Max lets the handle snap back. He stands, pacing, drenched in sweat and frustration and something achingly sad.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t know what I saw,” he bites out.

Charles blinks. “You mean… in the lounge?”

Max scoffs, bitter. “It’s fine. Really. I always knew it would be you two in the end.”

“Don’t do that,” Charles says quietly.

“What?”

“Act like you’re not part of this.”

Max turns to him, eyes sharp and angry. “What the hell does that mean?”

But before Charles can answer—you walk in. You’d been looking for both of them. The second you saw the room light on, your feet had carried you here on instinct. You stop in the doorway, breath caught in your throat.

Max looks between you and Charles, jaw tight. “Perfect. The happy couple.”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?” he spits. “Isn’t it true? You looked pretty damn happy together. I just got in the way.”

“You didn’t,” Charles says fiercely. “You never did.”

Max shakes his head, stepping back. “I should’ve known. It’s always been like this—me watching the two of you, pretending I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”

The silence is thunderous. And then you speak—quiet, trembling.

“You’re not watching, Max. You are in the middle of it.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

You step forward. “I wasn’t touching Charles that day because I chose him over you. I was touching him because I love him. And I love you too. I’ve been trying to figure out what that means for years.”

Charles is beside you now, voice low but steady.

“We didn’t choose each other over you. We were just waiting for you to stop holding it all in.”

Max stares at you both like you’ve just spoken in a language he’s never dared to learn.

“I—” he falters, breath catching. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to want that. Both of you. Together.”

You smile through the sting in your throat. “You are.”

And then Charles moves first. He walks up to Max, slow and careful, and reaches for his hand. Doesn’t force anything. Just holds it. Max looks down at their linked fingers, then up at you—standing there, open, waiting.

And something cracks. Not painfully. Not like before. It cracks like sunlight through storm clouds. He takes one step forward. Then another. Then he’s kissing you.

Not desperately. Not angrily. Just… finally. You feel Charles at your back, his arms wrapping around both of you, pressing a kiss to your temple as Max rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath trembling.

And for the first time in a long, long time— No one pulls away.

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The light filters in through linen curtains, warm and golden and so soft it almost feels like a dream. You blink awake slowly, blinking past the haze of sleep and finding yourself pressed between two heartbeats. Charles is curled behind you, arm slung lazily over your waist, nose tucked into your shoulder. Max is in front of you, eyes still closed, one hand cradling your hip, the other resting somewhere between the sheets and Charles’ arm.

It’s the quietest morning you can remember. No alarm. No paddock chaos. No rushing. Just warmth, and the sound of three people breathing in sync. You shift just a little, and Max’s fingers twitch where they’re holding you. He stirs, opens one eye, and gives you the faintest, sleep-rough smile.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he rasps.

Behind you, Charles hums softly, still half-asleep. “Too early.”

Max grins. “It’s not. It’s perfect.”

You laugh under your breath and let your fingers trace a slow line across Max’s collarbone. Everything about this feels surreal. Not because it’s wild or unfamiliar—but because it feels so right. So simple. So inevitable. Max watches you, eyes soft and unguarded in a way they never are outside of this bed.

“You are not imagining this, by the way,” he says, voice lower now. “I checked.”

You smile. “So did I.”

Charles shifts, lifting his head just enough to kiss your shoulder. Then, without opening his eyes, he reaches across you and lets his hand settle over Max’s.

“Why would we ever have to leave this bed? Can we just stay?” he mumbles.

Max snorts. “I give it two days. Before your PR team sends out a missing persons report.”

Charles groans dramatically and buries his face in your back. You laugh, tilting your head to press a kiss to Max’s forehead. Then one to Charles’ arm. Your hands are tangled with theirs beneath the blanket, warm and steady. You should be overwhelmed. You should be terrified of what comes next. But you’re not. You’re calm. Loved. Held.

Max brushes his thumb across your side. “This is going to change everything.”

You nod, forehead resting against his. “Good.”

Charles lifts his head again, eyes a little clearer now. He looks at you. Then at Max.

“Can we just… promise something?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“That no matter how complicated this gets… we don’t run again.”

You hold Charles’ hand tighter. “We stay.”

Max meets both your eyes, something in his chest again—but this time, it doesn’t hurt.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Neither are you.

And in the quiet, golden morning, for the first time in all your years together, the love is no longer unspoken. It just is. Always has been. Always will be.

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[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

hi! ive been reading your "human!reader in welcome home" series for a while now and (if i remember correctly) there was an older post about the reader managing to leave neighborhood and ending up at their old house with the neighbors and i was just wondering what would they do if the reader didnt want to return to the neighborhood with them? (or possibly what the aftermath of them leaving would be like? 👀)

Tried making this sad and bittersweet.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

If you leave

★ Everyone would be sad if you left, forever, and never came back. Especially Wally. Even if you gave him your number he'd still miss you. Even if you promised to stay in touch. Though talking to you would help him cope a bit better.

★ The day after you left was the hardest. Everything felt a little off. That's the downside to having such a tight knit community. One thread is pulled out, and the other threads start to unravel.

★ Nobody is around to collect your mail, but Eddie still delivers it to your mailbox. Half of the letters are from him. He tells the others "Well, if they come back, I don't want em' to miss anything." Knowing it's just wishful thinking.

★ Even though your house is empty, Frank still makes a point to tend to the plants you kept outside. Watering them for you. Julie too. She says "I don't want them to feel lonely." To Frank, who agrees with her.

★ You're still a neighbor. Even though, technically, you aren't. Not physically at least. You’re not in Home. But you’re still a part of it. Whenever your name is said, Home blinks with their curtains. Wondering when you'll be back.

★ Howdy would still stock his shelves with products meant for you. Keeping the habit for a few weeks until he realizes what he's doing. Then stores everything you would've liked out back. Just in case you ever return. You wont. But what else could he do?

★ Sometimes Poppy knits things for you to wear. Then asks someone to leave it in your dresser. When the dresser is filled, she moves on to blankets and scarves. Until your home is filled with them. Then, and only then, does she stop.

[julysn]

seeing stars in a false sky [Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins x AFAB!Reader]

INCLUDES. vaginal sex, porn no plot, afab reader, written before snezhnaya release, writing is kinda bad, originally posted to ao3

WORDS. ≈630

NOTES. i posted this on ao3 last night and didn’t feel like formatting it onto tumblr to match my theme 😴 but i just woke up! and it’s time to have my coffee! so here ❤️‍🩹

this is the first thing ive written after getting out of writers block.. like, seeing him literally pulled me out of writers block. this might be bad. idk? enjoy!

Nothing could’ve prepared you for seeing him like this.

Flins was perfect in every way, his chiseled body appearing almost as if he had been sculpted by the Gods themselves, his girth dripping with pre-cum. Your eyes traced along his veins, admiring the view as he stood before you, the atmosphere heavy with lust.

“Are you ready, beautiful?” He asks, his deep voice inked with arousal. He wanted you, and you wanted him, and in this moment, the only thing that mattered to him was pleasing the both of you.

“Yes..” You breathed out, your heart pounding against your chest. This would’ve been your first time with him, and to say you were overjoyed would be an understatement. You were over the moons.

Flins steps forward, gently pushing you down onto the bed, bringing your knuckles up to his lips and brushing a soft kiss against them as his cock rubs between your folds. No words are exchanged between the both of you, only breathy moans, and he’d rather have it stay that way.

He grabs his bottle of lubricant from the nightstand, squeezing a generous amount onto his palm and rubbing it all over his penis before finally beginning to push in, eyes studying your face to make sure he wasn’t hurting you.

Your eyes shut in ecstasy, hands desperately grabbing at the bedsheets as your legs quivered in pleasure. He felt so good, so perfect inside you, like the missing puzzle piece you had been trying to find for years. It was him.

Flins’s hips begin to rock back and forth, moving in a slow and steady rhythm as he slides in and out of you, watching carefully to see if your expression would change into pain. He couldn’t find any of that, and instead, watched as your expression contorted further and further into bliss.

“Should I go harder?” He asks, his hands holding your hips tightly, almost digging into your skin.

“Yes.. please..” You gasp, head lolling back as your eyes roll back. You felt like you were on another plane of existence, on a different planet admiring the true sky.

Flins groans, and his hips roll against yours faster, harder, one hand desperately gripping at your hips while his other hand slides up and swirls around your nipples. He leans down and pressed a kiss against your neck, lips parting to let his teeth sink down in your skin. He needed to mark you, make you his, show everyone that they couldn’t have you.

“I’m.. shit.. I’m close..” You mumble, placing one of your palms over your mouth to muffle your moans, as they had been crescendoing.

In response, Flins begins to leave more brief, tiny hickies on your neck and collarbone as he thrusts faster and faster, his cock slamming into you with increasing force. You were so close to the edge of heaven, so close to succumbing to the pleasure, so close to orgasm..

“Fuck, I’m—“ You can’t even complete your sentence before absolute bliss overtakes all other senses, ecstasy crashing over your body as you writhe underneath him.

Your heart pounds, feeling as if it’s about to explode out of your chest, your walls clenching around Flins’s girth as your cheeks flush. He felt absolutely amazing, and you began to regret not making a move on him earlier. You could’ve had a taste of him way earlier.

“I’m cumming too..” He groans, his head falling down and burying into your shoulder as his cock spasms inside of you, filling your insides with his semen.

After a few seconds of euphoria, he finally pulls himself out of you and lets his limp cock sit against your abdomen, panting and out of breath. “.. Want to go for another round?”

“Yes.” You say immediately.

[v1x3n]

okay!! i know i havent been posting regularly, and im sorry if anyone was upset about that! ive been going through a lot in my life recently, many things i can but will not list off because i do not personally know any of you. my close friends on here have all basically told me i should probably take a break, and thats what i am doing.

over the past few days, i have been spammed with hate and awful asks, i couldnt even share one publicly because it literally made my heart drop. i dont know who these people are, i know there are multiple, but it doesnt matter. you are a fucking grown ass person. act like one. theres no reason to spam me with your suicidal thoughts, your hate, threats, telling me your feeding my work into ai. because honestly it makes you look like an absolute tosser.

i have been preparing to go on a break for a while because of how fucked my mental health is right now, and honestly noone other than me and who i chose to tell should even know that. and obviously because your life is shit youre taking it out on someone else because of what? i didnt write your goon fics quick enough? i am an actual human being and have a whole ass life outside of tumblr? sending hate will not make this progress faster. and its the total opposite!!! if you were just nice then i couldve gotten whatever fic you wanted out quicker.

i will be online to talk to my favorite mutuals but i am not posting fics for a while, nor will i be writing them!

fucking freaks man

[arcade-confetti]

Being someone who read Under The Red Hood and came out with the firm belief that, for Jason, it's not about killing Joker, it's about Jason wanting proof Batman would choose him over the Joker (bc shelia chose the joker). Makes seeing any other media where it's all about just wanting the Joker dead is a teeny bit frustrating. to be honest

Jason could've killed the Joker himself, really, really easily. Jason kidnaps the Joker before the confrontation. I can't open my comic for a reference right now, but it felt like he had the Joker for quite a bit before the confrontation. He had him. He beat him up with a crowbar. He had every single opportunity to kill the Joker himself, but he didn't because that wasn't his goal. Make no mistake, he did plan for the Joker to be dead by the end of it, but do you see what im trying to say here

Edit: If I knew this post was gonna get 1000+ notes I would've tried to word it better or something, this was a rant I made on the way to the grocery store 😭

It's not about making Batman kill either. When Batman says he won't kill, Jason adjusts and goes, 'Let ME kill the Joker or kill me to stop me' instead. The test is all about Batman choosing him. The whole final confrontation is Jason's first death again. The parent, The Joker, and the explosives. It even ends with Jason unable to move as a bomb goes off right next to him again because the parent didn't choose Jason. And instead tried finding an option that'd benefit them and (consequencely) letting the Joker walk, again, lol, lmao <-in agony

[mousetrappa-fr]

And thus, Soup was born.

Based off how I made an account in 2019 and left a single egg in my nesting grounds for three whole years. I love my boy.

Alternate ending under the cut:

^^^In a world where these two did not comprehend the use of a lamp to check the embryo^^^

[grahams-hatched-egg]

As a hannigram lover this actually resonated so hard. The community is very hard to navigate, as a trans gay man this actually has had an effect on my mental health and what ive looked for in relationships. The fact that i find very little healthy fanfiction, and the fact that i find most that actively support the abuse and manipulation of will graham is startling.

for starters, I want to make myself clear to those i come across. I have never and will never support the idea that Molly, Alana, Beverly, etc. BASICALLY ALL THE FUCKING CENTRAL(but even still minor side characters) WOMEN IN THE SHOW ARE PORTRAYED AS ENEMIES IN THW COMMUNITY. And why are they enemies? because they “got in the way” of hannibal and Will. Molly for trying to give Will a normal life, beverly for trying to arrest hannibal, and alana for being manipulated and then mad at hannibal but still trying to save Will from hannibal.

second, I am fully convinced the show itself is not the problem. Will turns hannibal down at every turn, attempts to kill him at many points, and it is blatant that the love between them is twisted and abusive, and most of all Will being manipulated into loving hannibal, which feels unconsentual. Where there is an issue is when people portray Will as a willing and sane person in the relationship. And especially that that is the only mindset that gets pushed in the community.

The people who actively choose to ignore the blatant misogyny and the praise of abuse in this community are problematic.

But i also want to give a unique perspective as someone who has been active in this community for 3 years now. I mostly interact with other queer people, and that of course has hidden a big part of the community (namely straight people). But still i feel that i have an inside perspective of what looks to be very insane to the outside.

- Most people i have talked to both on tumblr and in real life all acknowledge this is NOT what we look for in relationships. That it is toxic and dangerous.

- This brings me to people that say that they want what hannigram has, which in most cases seems to be younger people joining the community. This is not good obviously, but i know where it stems from. Because i myself have thought this exact same thing as a 14 year old. Hannigram being as accessible and popular as it is its a stepping stone for many into the world of fanfiction and tumblr and shipping and whatever else, it certainly was for me. I dont want to dumb things down and say it was 14 year olds being edgy, or lonely and them thinking toxicity is the only way theyll ever find love(that was what it was for me) because i think its a lot deeper than that.

And thats the fanfiction. Popular ones such as “Paragon” literally has a line in it being like “would you blame the wolf for killing the deer” or something like that, or its a post fall curtain fic with lots of angst and resolution. BUT this never involves hannibal being punished for killing abigail, torturing Will or the manipulation throughout the whole relationship. Instead its Will “embracing” his darker instincts. Which again WHY? why forgive everything thats happened at the drop of a hat because “hannibal was right all along.” For all the smart people in this community they seem to be pretty fucking stupid to the idea that hannibal is a manipulative prick.

- so why am i still in the community when there is still such blatant and obvious misogyny and the support of a cannibalistic serial killer who manipulates a man into loving him and then tortures him. And while this may not be a good answer, its the fact that i can separate my fiction from reality and read some inherently angsty content while still being able to understand that it is wrong and abusive. Now for the community. I dont often express that i enjoy hannibal nbc, nor do i mention that i ship hannigram. But in my offtime i interact with the people that i agree with. I separate myself from the people who seem to hate all the women in the show, and those who actually think hannibal is good for Will. I enjoy it in my private life, through fanfiction and online, but as ive matured ive realized and learned that i should focus on separating it heavily from my real life. And thats how most people in the community feel as well. That it is wrong, and that if we witnessed it online, it would be an immediate condemning of the abuser and helping of the abused. But I will never blame someone for not liking it as I fully understand how it comes across.

And as one last point im going to say, if hannibal was not casted with a popular model and actor mads mikkelsen, people would not be shipping them, and in fact very against Hannibal. And just because he is attractive does not mean he should get a pass to literally kill, imprison, torture, and manipulate a man into loving him.

"If Hannigram was straight"

I am infuriated, I´m gonna get cancelled, whatever, I can´t care less. But I´m really sick and tired of fetishizers of Hannigram. Surprisingly mostly are straight and queer women, haven´t seen or heard of real gay men giving their opinion on the matter.

I come across this tiktok of person saying that if Hannigram was straight it wouldn´t work and wouldn´t be interesting, because people will make them like Joker and Harley Quinn and the relationship would be like just another abusive heterorelationship because of the power dinamics.

First, bruh... have you heard of CLARICE STARLING? 70% of the character of Will has Clarice lines, plot and personality. Will WAS NEVER the love interest of Hannibal in the original books and movies.

Second, "it wouldn´t be interesting" , ohhh but that´s because you fetishize gay relationships and abuse, do you even read normal romance gay novels or series? I bet you don´t.

So it wouldn´t be interesting because according to you, a WOMAN cannot be at the level of Hannibal. Which is basically the opposite of what happens in the novels. Hannibal LOVES Clarice because she is at his level, is intellectually equal to him, he cannot even predict her or brainwash her.

Third. "it would be just another abusive heterorelationship" , oh... and Hannigram is not one of the thousand homosexual abusive relationship that exits??? This people also LOVE Killing Stalking, Berserk for the "gay relantionship" of Guts and Griffith (the homosexual undertones are obvious, but it is abuse), the Painter of the night (I couldn´t even get past the 5th chapter for the amount of disgusting r*pe that exist in the series).

Four. "power dinamics" ahh... yes, Hannibal is clearly OLDER than Will, has double of work experience as him, he is a llithuanian COUNT, he is rich as f*ck, he is way more educated than Will and smarter than him. Is that not another "power imbalance"???? or only works because you think woman are "inferior"???? uh...

Never seen people that love the books comparing Clannibal with Harley Quinn and Joker, not a single one. We know is a fuck*d up romance, that´s the thing, the world that they live in has betrayed them thousands of times. Hannibal when he was a kid and lost Mischa and Clarice as a woman in the misogynistic FBI and real world.

The books were never written in that tone, they are a crime and thriller books mixed with artisty imaginery (beautiful indeed), they are not a moral compass to follow.

You should like how Hannibal treats Clarice, he deeply loves her, tries to help her, gives her everything, admires her. At the end of the day the only have each other in the twisted world they live in and that´s it.

But how Hannibal physically and mentally tortures Will???? Killing people he loves in front of him, making his life a living hell... and that´s not abusive and power imbalance to you?

I´m having a real hard time finding Hannigram fans that are not misogynistic or fetishizers, I swear... and is very concering.

This has impact in real life queer people. Specially teenagers. If this is all the representation that they have, abusive relationships, what do you think they are going to seek in their significant other? Is hard enough for queer people to report abuse and r*pe to the authorities.

Now imagine been a 14 y/o exposed to the internet and the thousands of toxic gay men representation out there... and reading "ohhh I just want what Hannigram has" "Hannigram for life" "that´s real love".

Now you can cancel me all you want.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

graph

bonus:

[ill-cypher]

have an itty-bitty harrowhark

[hunting-for-sport]

very earnest attempt at replicating the painting style of alexander rostov's portraits from disco elysium with characters from an anime 6 people care about

[musubiki]

.🖤🔄🤍.

[demadogs]

When a typical virus attaches itself to its host, it duplicates, right? It spreads, essentially hijacking the host… What is so unusual here is that this virus, the infected hosts seem to be communicating.

Stranger Things season two (2017)

[chiimeramanticore]

buncha yes man faces

[joshuamj]

EoW Zelda and Link designs

[milkweedman]

finished my hat finally and its super warm and comfy and i keep putting it on and then feeling the strong urge to knit more warm items. and then i take the hat off and can be normal. and then i look at the hat. and im like oh its such a warm and comfy hat though why would i not wear it ? so i put it back on and then the urge returns.

may have knit a cursed hat, basically ?

[artshokad2]

The unthinkable happened right when i was going to join in wip Wednesday unprompted @twodiamondhoes tagged me in it

I was going to do something a little more recent but the day snuck up on me so have a really old snippet from a fic i may or may not finish that i wrote in a haze of finals stress while listening to “Sleeping in the Kitchen” by Madilyn Mei on loop

Jimmy Solidarity my beloved

Its a little out of my usual style because music possesses me in a way thats a little concerning sometimes but i had fun with it!

Tagging @gladumfdoodles who i know always has a snippet locked and loaded, @raffi-cat who should share their writing more in my humble opinion, @sincerely-nines because my favorite moot you should write fanfic… if you want…

and my friend ani whose tumblr @ is not working rn so im just going to send this to them but they should share their writing on tumblr!!! Its so fun!!

(No pressure to anyone, tis supposed to be for fun :D)