#obsessed with his hands in this interview

[p1girlfriend]

how the grid takes care of reader during pregnancy

lando norris

– "you good, baby?" every five seconds

– he googles everything. literally reads parenting books before bed while cuddling you

– touches your belly like it’s a good luck charm — during interviews, during races, whenever

– talks to your belly like the baby can hear: “hey little me. if you’re anything like your mum, you’re gonna be beautiful and terrifying.”

– randomly gets emotional while looking at you sleep. cries at the first ultrasound.

– makes the worst cravings runs, but does it so proudly.

– “i just bought five types of pickles. don’t ask questions.”

✦

oscar piastri

– calm, collected and a total softie in private

– becomes a pro at foot massages and always checks if you’ve eaten

– does the “hand on lower back” thing when you walk together, protective af

– “we’re doing this together, okay?” when you get overwhelmed

– holds you when you cry for no reason and says, “feel what you need, I’ve got you.”

– quietly excited, shows it by researching strollers at 1am

– will absolutely cry when he hears the heartbeat, but denies it forever

✦

charles leclerc

– so dramatic about it in the cutest way

– “you are carrying mon bébé, let me do everything”

– holds your hand constantly like he’s scared you’ll float away

– won’t let you lift a single thing, ever — even your phone sometimes

– sings lullabies in french to the bump

– tells the baby secrets like: "mamma is being difficult today but we still love her, okay?”

– has baby-sized ferrari merch ready by month 2

✦

lewis hamilton

– he’s the most emotionally present version of himself with you

– starts meditating with you every morning and night

– “you’re creating life, baby. that’s magic.”

– rubs your back without you asking, puts his hand on your belly during sleep

– talks to the bump like “you better love your mama more than anything in this world, okay?”

– writes a song about you and the baby, but doesn’t tell anyone. it’s just yours.

– takes you on “pre-baby moon” trips just so you feel spoiled and adored

✦

daniel ricciardo

– calls you mama all the time and it’s hot and adorable

– “mama needs snacks? daddy’s gotchu”

– loves watching your belly grow like it’s the most fascinating thing

– 100% does voices for the baby

– refuses to miss a single appointment, even if it means flying in overnight

– rubs lotion on your belly every night “for bonding purposes” (and bc he just wants to touch you)

– takes weekly pics of you like you’re a goddess: “the mother of my child?? radiant.”

✦

carlos sainz

– silently obsessed with your belly

– kisses it every morning like it’s routine

– does that “serious dad” thing and triple-checks the house safety

– makes sure your cravings are fulfilled immediately

– always has a hand on your thigh, belly, back, anything—like he needs to keep contact to stay grounded

✦

gabriel bortoleto

– surprisingly prepared?? like, he studied??

– “i’ve been watching videos, amor. we’re going to ace this.”

– turns your appointments into cute dates

– dances with you when you’re feeling down, even if it’s 8am

– buys a little onesie with “daddy’s biggest fan” on it and melts when you cry

– kisses your belly before every race

– and tells you, “everything I do now, I do for both of you.”

✦

lance stroll

– ultra soft, like your personal pillow

– loves when you rest your head on him

– gets all blushy and shy when he feels a kick for the first time

– makes playlists for the baby, which is honestly just an excuse to include love songs that remind him of you

– rubs your belly and says stuff like “hey, you comfy in there?”

– lays with his head on your lap for hours, listening to you talk about what kind of parents you’ll be

✦

liam lawson

– okay he panics a little at first

– but then becomes the most attentive man alive

– looks at your belly like it’s holy

– "you're so hot right now, it’s actually unfair"

– runs errands, reads books, becomes a prenatal yoga fanboy just for you

– always asks if you need anything. water? snack? kiss? cuddle? back rub?

– gives the best post-nap forehead kisses

– freaks out over every kick like “OH MY GOD IT’S ALIVE”

✦

max verstappen

– becomes a walking security system — doesn’t let you carry groceries, doesn’t let you sneeze without checking on you

– watches you nap like you’re made of glass, hand on your belly like he’s claiming it

– drives extra slow, even though he’s max verstappen.

– grumbles “my baby” under his breath every time someone touches your bump

– doesn’t want to post about it but has the softest pic of you as his lockscreen: wearing one of his hoodies, belly peeking out, looking at him like he hung the moon

– when the baby kicks, he melts — instantly on his knees, both hands on your bump, forehead pressed to your stomach

– “do it again,” he whispers, “kick again for papa.”

©p1girlfriend

[airybcby]

જ⁀✦ best thing that's ever been mine

( sae itoshi x fem! reader )

✩ a/n — i feel like dad! bllk is becoming common now and im obsessed yall know i love a good pregnancy/family trope.

✩ word count — 1.3k

✩ content — dad! sae itoshi, friends to lovers, childhood sweethearts, unplanned pregnancy, i feel like sae would be a girl dad but just imagine baby him, not proofread

✩ synopsis — To the world, Sae Itoshi is an enigma. But to you, he’s just him.

── .✦ left a small town, never looked back

Sae Itoshi is an enigma to many.

To the world, he’s composed of cold shoulders and sharp footwork. Precision born of quiet fury, interviews clipped short, sponsorships done with dead-eyed disinterest. 

He doesn’t smile for cameras. Doesn’t entertain gossip. 

He shows up, plays with a kind of artistry that makes even the world’s best defenders look clumsy, and leaves like he was never there to begin with.

To them, he’s brilliant. Elusive. Unreachable.

But to you?

He’s the man currently sitting on your living room floor with one knee up, hair damp from a shower, blinking slowly as your son tries to feed him a Cheerio he found in his pocket.

“…You’re sure this is safe?” Sae asks dryly, staring at the sticky cereal piece as your toddler beams, chubby hands outstretched.

You don’t even look up from your book. “He already ate four. You’re fine.”

Sae huffs through his nose and leans forward anyway, letting your son press the Cheerio against his lips with the concentration of a surgeon. 

He doesn’t flinch when it sticks. Just chews once, nods solemnly, and says, “Good job, bud.”

The smile your son gives him is radiant. The same smile you fell in love with years ago—only smaller, messier, and with fewer teeth.

People don’t know the real Sae Itoshi.

Not the boy who used to kick rocks down your neighborhood street after school, scowling when they didn’t bounce the way he wanted. 

Not the one who once helped you carry your backpack home in the rain, both of you soaking wet and pretending not to care. 

They don’t know the kid who sat with you at lunch every day in silence, just close enough to count as something, even if neither of you knew what.

You were friends. In the way two kids who didn’t fit quite right into the world found each other.

Sae didn’t talk much, but you learned to hear him anyway. His silences said things. 

When he walked a little slower beside you, you knew he wanted you to stay. 

When he handed you a sports drink without looking, it meant he noticed you skipped lunch.

When he sat beside you during your library shift and didn’t open a book—just rested his head in his hand and closed his eyes—that meant he trusted you.

You started dating in junior high. Clumsily. Quietly. Like most kids, you didn’t call it dating. 

You just... stopped pretending you didn’t want to sit closer. Y

ou linked pinkies on cold walks home. You traded favorite snacks. 

You started saying goodnight on the phone even if neither of you spoke for the entire call.

And then, at thirteen, Sae left.

Spain. A dream. A career. A calling.

You still remember that day—standing at the edge of the train platform with him, both of you wearing your school uniforms, pretending your hearts weren’t hammering inside your chests. He didn’t promise you anything. 

Not forever. Not even a someday.

But he looked at you like he wanted to.

“I’ll come back,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Or you’ll come to me. Right?”

You nodded.

He squeezed your hand.

And then he was gone.

Years passed.

You lived your life in soft, slow ways. 

Kept your head down, studied hard, wrote to him sometimes, even when you weren’t sure he’d read it. 

The letters came less often. The calls dropped off. Time zones, training, language gaps—life.

And yet, the memory of him never left you. Not really. 

You dated, once or twice, but no one ever made you feel the way he did. 

No one ever looked at you like they understood your quiet too.

The second you graduated, you bought a one-way ticket to Madrid.

Your mother cried. 

Your father didn’t speak to you for a week. 

Your friends called you reckless—chasing a boy who hadn’t texted back in months. 

But you knew something they didn’t.

You weren’t chasing a boy.

You were chasing the only place you’d ever felt like home.

He was waiting for you at the airport.

Not with flowers or signs—he wasn’t that type. 

He was just there, hands in his pockets, grown into his height, jaw sharper, hair longer. 

He looked tired. 

Beautiful. 

Real.

“You’re here,” he said, as if he hadn’t quite let himself believe you’d come.

You didn’t cry until you got to the car.

He rested a hand on your thigh the whole drive home.

Life wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t romantic montages and sunshine mornings. 

You worked part-time jobs, learned to navigate the city on your own, struggled with loneliness and language and wondering if you’d made the right choice.

But every night, when Sae came home—sweaty and exhausted, his voice rasped from yelling on the pitch, eyes soft when they found yours—it felt worth it.

You weren’t living in a dream. You were building something real.

And then, at 22, everything changed.

You stared at the pregnancy test for a long time.

The bathroom light flickered overhead. Your legs were numb from sitting on the edge of the tub. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You hadn’t planned for this. You’d been careful. You had a plan.

When you told Sae, you were ready for the worst.

He stood still for a full minute, staring at the test in your hands like it was written in a language he didn’t understand.

And then, gently, he reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Me too,” he said quietly.

The first heartbeat.

The first tiny blur on the ultrasound screen.

The nurse asking, “Want to know the sex?” and your voice breaking as you said, “Yes.”

A boy.

A boy with his father’s name on the chart, and your hands trembling as you whispered, “A mini you.”

Sae didn’t speak for a long time. He just placed his hand on your belly, eyes locked there like it was a miracle and a disaster all at once.

“We’ll be okay,” he said eventually.

And somehow, you believed him.

Now, your son is two.

He has Sae’s eyes and your cheeks. 

He toddles around with wild hair, mismatched socks, and a favorite stuffed penguin he drags by the flipper. 

He calls Sae “Papa” and you “Mama” and yells “Goal!” every time he kicks anything remotely spherical.

Some nights, Sae gets home too late. Some days, he misses first steps or messy drawings stuck to the fridge. And yet—he’s there.

Always.

He sleeps with your son when he has nightmares. 

Buys new crayons every time the old ones snap. 

Kisses your forehead in the middle of diaper changes and murmurs “you’re doing great” even when you feel like you’re failing.

You’re engaged now.

Not married. Not in a rush. 

Your ring glints in the morning light when you stir your coffee and kiss Sae goodbye before training. 

You’ve been his since you were kids.

A ring didn’t change that.

You lie in bed one night, your son curled between you, one small fist gripping Sae’s shirt. The baby monitor glows soft blue.

Sae’s awake, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on your child’s back.

You whisper, “What are you thinking?”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, “Sometimes I don’t know how I got here.”

You shift closer. “Do you regret it?”

He looks at you. Really looks. The boy who left. The man who stayed.

“No,” he says. “But I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up.”

You reach over, take his hand.

“You won’t.”

He squeezes it.

And for the first time in a long time, he sleeps soundly.

To the world, Sae Itoshi is an enigma.

But to you, he’s just him.

The boy who left.

The man who waited.

The father that your son runs to in the morning with sleepy eyes and open arms.

The love you’ve known for nearly your whole life—and still learn in new ways every day.

And in your quiet little life, built of messy rooms and warm dinners and tiny socks in the laundry, that’s more than enough.

જ⁀✦ ©airybcby ✩ masterlists

✩ likes ✩ comments ✩ and reblogs are appreciated

✦ tags ✦ @irethepotato ✦ @kiyy0mei ✦ @x3nafix ✦ @sugacor3 ✦ @ohagiyoo ✦ @reigensuperstar ✦ @nevvynevnev ✦ @virgothesimp ✦ @werfiedeii ✦ @chiieni ✦ @syleepy ✦ @academiq ✦ @peachysaki116 ✦ @manjirosanosgirlfriend ✦ @anqelkoz ✦ @silverwings920 ✦ @7leo7 ✦ @nishinoyaismycutie ✦ @sunathetuna ✦ @alexiaray ✦ @megumismyhusband ✦ @yutamy1beloved ✦ @luvlynabi ✦ @scoosh4you ✦ join the taglist here !

[vxnillabxn]

May I request hcs of all five LIs with a partner who is very into fiber arts(like sewing/crochet/knitting etc.) and occasionaly makes them little things or even clothing? (๑>◡<๑)

𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluffy as a cloud! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚omg, this was such a sweet request! 𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯 i hope you like it, and thanks so much for requesting! ♡

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

oh boy. 

he wears the things you make for him even to sleep.

you once made him an apple amigurumi with a pilot hat.

he loves it. he uses it as a keychain.

you also made him the cutest ugly sweater for christmas, and when he found out you made a matching one for yourself, he was ecstatic.

it could quite literally be the hottest day out there, and he'd still be inside, wearing said sweater, and pleading for you to wear yours.

he proudly displays everything you make, too.

from gorgeous masterpieces to your very first attempts.

not only back at your shared place.

no.

his private aircraft is filled with handmade pillowcases, some blankets, embroidered cushions for his pilot seat, cute little coasters…

everything screams “you.”

he loves it.

he'll shamelessly ask you to craft different things for him, too.

summer is coming? come on, pips. make him a cute hat!

what about fall? maybe you could make a cozy scarf for your boyfriend, hm?

is winter around the corner? hehe, some snug mittens sound so good right now.

and for spring… perhaps a knitted basket so he can collect flowers for you?

yeah, you better get to work, pipsqueak!

he won't rush you, though.

but he'll stare lovingly as you work on his requests!

and he'll also make sure you're moving your hands with love and care for him —he'll kiss them after. endlessly.

he gets excited with every single project you finish, no matter how small.

and he absolutely adores it when you proudly show him the final piece —as long as it's to sell, for you, or for him.

if it's a gift for someone else…?

that won't do.

he'll also jokingly ask if you could replace his fleet uniform with a homemade one for when it gets too windy and chilly.

it is a bit ambitious.

but he's already savoring the “ah, this? yeah. my sweet baby made it for me,” that would escape his lips whenever someone asked.

and no one would ever get to have something similar, not even if you sold your work and someone asked for it.

and you had to pinky promise you would keep some things under the “caleb's-specials” category!

or he'll simply take all of your things away and lock them up until you seriously, seriously promise to only craft with either him or you in mind.

…or well, until you kiss him.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

he's obsessed with your work.

he could stare at you for hours as you move your hands so effortlessly, staying so focused while doing something else at the same time, such as listening to music or watching a video.

the day you asked if he wanted you to craft him something…

his heart began thumping in his chest.

he literally sketched tons of designs —in less than an hour— for you to choose and recreate.

he wears your creations proudly, especially when he gives interviews or goes to exclusive galas.

“oh! who's my designer? my precious pearl, obviously!”

—nobody asked him, though. he just needed to say it.—

he is absolutely delighted when you create things from scraps, and if you let him use them in his paintings for texture purposes.

he also loves buying things for you whenever he goes shopping for supplies.

what was that thing you used? yarn? thread? ah, who knows! he'll just buy tons of different things as long as he sees pretty colors and good quality.

your shared house is quite a mess and it looks like an arts and crafts store because of all the things he brings… but that is what art is all about.

he truly enjoys those quiet days where you two are apart, yet together. he would be painting, you would be working on the sofa… it would be silent, but you two were still close to each other, and that was all that mattered.

he is also very supportive!

he posts everything you do. from small, first-attempt projects to the things you take days, weeks, even months to finish.

and the fact that your longest project ever was a hammock for both of you to lie down together by the sea…

fills him with so much joy —cockiness— and love.

if you ask him to, he'll add your pieces to his art collection, too.

hell, he would name the whole art collection after you, and make sure you're the main focus.

even if you only craft cutesy things, clothes, or practical and useful items, he'll share your art with the whole world.

or, better yet, he'll work alongside you, taking inspiration from the things you craft to create masterpieces himself.

you're his biggest source of inspiration, and he considers your art just as breathtaking and meaningful as his.

if not more.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

his base never looked better.

the twins wear the coziest matching, handcrafted clothes, and even crocheted flowers attached to the horns on their hoods.

mephisto has the cutest little hats and proudly shows them off, too.

the gorgeous dining table has the prettiest coasters, and… truly, every room has your essence, for that matter.

soon enough, the base not only looks pretty, but it becomes a workshop if you decide to teach luke and kieran how to craft, too.

sylus loves it.

in fact, he encourages it.

he'll praise you. he'll even watch attentively as you work, before bringing your hands to his lips —always reverently.

those hands of yours work wonders, and he's mesmerized even by the simplest of projects.

of course, he loves it when you craft things for him…

and when you make things for yourself, especially if it's something only for his eyes to see.

he'll get you the best quality materials and tools.

truly, just say the word, and you'll have everything you wish for.

he also loves it when you quietly work on one of your projects during a social event.

moving your hands so quickly, creating gorgeous things without even trying, hidding from the rest of people.

skilled as a spider, playing with yarn like a mischievous cat.

you're like his little sneaky spider-kitten.

or kitten-spider.

also, he found out you made a cover for his motorbike helmet.

he doesn't really use his helmet; he's quite literally unharmable.

…but when he saw you putting the cover over the helmet, then handing it to him with a huge smile, he suddenly cared about his safety.

he wears it now, every single time he rides.

obviously, no one dares say a word about it, —nor does he care if they do— but seeing the leader of onychinus himself wearing a crocheted helmet cover with horns is… quite the sight.

on that note, he'll definitely ask you to make him fingerless gloves.

and if you're skilled at making clothes, he'll ask you to be his personal designer (he'll always ask months in advance, don't worry!)

he'd definitely want the two of you to match… but since he knows how long it takes to handcraft something —especially clothes for this huge man— he'll probably try to help you out.

spoiler alert: it doesn't work out.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

he makes you sit between his legs when you work.

he holds whatever you ask him to, and quietly untangles the yarn, too.

you don't even need to ask; he's already doing it so you don't have to stop mid-work.

it keeps him busy, and he loves feeling useful.

he also finds it incredibly relaxing to watch your hands move so effortlessly.

he gets those asmr-like tingles in his sleepy head, and the best part?

he gets the full experience.

your scent, the soft sound of the hooks clicking against each other, your peaceful breathing…

oh! he's dozing off again.

he absolutely loses his mind when you start making cute things for him to wear.

a bunny hat? comfy sweaters?

a quilt!

a big, cozy quilt, followed by so many blankets for his naps!

he'll wear them all…

at once.

he doesn't care if he starts sweating or nearly suffocates under the warm cocoon he wrapped himself in.

he'll leave this world in peace, surrounded in your awesome work.

he waits for winter to come; both because it means “cuddle time,” and because it means you'll stay in, working on new projects.

which probably means you'll craft things for him, hehe.

also, if you ever need a life-sized mannequin for anything, he'll stand still just for you.

need to take pictures of your crafts?

he'll stay still, let you dress him up, or put things on his hands for him to hold for you.

he will definitely get jealous if you start crafting for the tiny animals that wander onto the balcony.

yeah, he's basically a princess and animals gather around him —but can't they find their own crafty human?

geez, greedy little things.

and don't you dare make something by hand for anyone else!

he'll give you money to buy a gift if it's for a friend's birthday, he doesn't want you gifting something as special as a craft of yours.

but if you ever do... if you ever gift your works of art to someone who isn't him…

he'll sulk and disappear —or rather, he'll hide under the covers until you come find him.

can't you see how much he loves your work?

he'll make more space for your gifts, he promises!

he'll even wear everything you've made in one outfit, pretty please —just craft for him!

because he knows how much love and effort you pour into everything you do.

and he wants to keep all of that to himself.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

he is a quiet supporter.

both of you work silently together. he loves it when you come to his office and quietly craft.

he also loves when you sit next to him —or plop yourself right on his lap.

it feels like having a little hardworking birdie choosing to build a nest on him, and he loves thinking of you that way.

he especially loves when you craft things with his style in mind.

sure, if you make something colorful and fun, he'll wear it proudly or carry it around.

but when you make cool-toned or neutral-colored scarves, gloves, or even embroidered sweaters…

those, he always wears.

on your dates, at the hospital, when he has to travel.

everywhere.

he even sprays them with your perfume, so he can feel the lingering tenderness of your hands when crafting on the pieces —and your familiar scent.

he takes such careful care of everything you make for him.

by now, he's gotten used to waiting for you to rush in and throw your finished crafts onto his lap.

you see a cool idea online? you rush to tell him.

you come up with your own pattern? you rush to show him.

and he loves seeing you that excited.

if you try to get him into crafting, he'll indulge you —especially with embroidery.

he's got expertise with needles, after all.

it might be a bit tricky at first, but he'll absolutely get the hang of it, especially when it means spending quiet days by your side.

the two of you curled up like two gentle grandpas, crafting together…

he can already see that future. and it's bright.

if you embroider tiny snowflakes on his clothes, he'll embroider little jasmines on yours.

he'd even stitch a hidden “i love you” inside your sleeve, so you can trace it with your fingers whenever you miss him.

and if he messes up a project, he'll either quietly throw it away… or wait for you to notice and gently help.

he also worries about your hands.

he'll massage your fingers, your palms, your joints, making sure they're not too sore.

and he'll always check that your hooks and needles are ergonomic, so they don't hurt you.

he doesn't want his favorite thing to hold in the entire universe to feel discomfort in any way.

[modanisgf]

JEALOUS , MEGAN SKIENDIEL .

“IT’S MY RIGHT TO BE HELLISH, I STILL GET JEALOUS.”

in which megan hates the way people flirt with you, in front of her like it's nothing. leading to an incident that left hybe in shambles…

☆ PAIRING(S) : megan skiendiel x 7th!member reader

☆ WARNING(S) : profanity, possessive?? themes,

☆ TAGS : wlw, secret relationship, established relationship, takes place in gnarly era, fluff

💭: HI GUYS! this is a small drabble for now while i cook up… i feel bad not posting anything bye💔💔 super rushed lowk i Am fighting for my life i wanna sleep

megan would be lying if she said she didn’t get jealous easily. it irked her that people would look at y/n weird, like she wasn’t right there. of course to them she was single, but she liked to drop subtle hints to get them off of her girlfriend. megan would always spark conversation up with y/n whenever someone would flirt with her, and drag her away. and it usually worked just fine.

but this time around, something was different. the kats were promoting ‘gnarly’ in korea and you were currently doing an interview. unfortunately for megan, the host took a liking to her girlfriend. they kept asking question after question to y/n, eventually getting to a quite personal one.

“so y/n, are you seeing anyone?” the host asks, smiling like it was a normal thing to ask.

y/n visibly tensed, trying her best not to look at megan. she thought for a moment, before turning her gaze to the host.

“no comment.” y/n says simply, nervously laughing after.

the host sighs, “i’ll take that as a no for my sake.” they say holding their heart, with a sad expression.

y/n felt megan’s gaze on her, making her turn towards the girl. y/n winced a bit at the angry look on her face, obviously not amused with the interviewer's words.

“it’s okay, there’s only a little bit longer.” y/n whispers to her girlfriend.

y/n grabbed her hand as subtly as possible, rubbing circles on her thumb in an attempt to calm her. megan relaxed a little, leaning back into her seat. she closed her eyes in a moment to rejuvenate, before paying back attention to the interview when she got asked a question.

“megan, would you ever do ginger hair again? i love your look right now but it seems everyone was obsessed with your ginger hair.” the host asks.

“it really depends, to be entirely honest i like this hair a lot more. i feel like it really suits me y’know? but i wouldn’t be opposed to being ginger again. though if i had to choose, i’d go back to my natural hair, y/n—“ megan stopped herself, before continuing. “sorry, a lot of my friends like my natural black.” megan continues, the interviewer nodding.

lara tried so hard not to laugh, megan shoving the girl a bit. she should’ve just went with it, now it looked she was hiding something. megan holding her head in her hands, trying not to laugh due to lara.

y/n just shook her head at the two. the interview ended briefly after the hair question, thankfully. allowing y/n and megan to debrief.

“is everything okay? why’d you look at the interviewer like that?” y/n questions. megan’s face softened at y/n’s gentle tone.

“i don’t know,” megan shrugs.

“megan.” y/n deadpans, “it was definitely something.”

“it’s not important, don’t worry about it, if anything we can talk later.” megan reassures y/n, before leaving to fix her appearance for their next stop.

y/n watched her leave, pursing her lips in frustration. megan is so stubborn.

—

the next time megan felt this feeling (she knew it was jealousy.. she just hated admitting to it) was when katseye were back in los angeles. she and y/n were doing a live in megan's room, briefly before going to bed. the live was currently just filled with y/n talking, while megan read the comments.

"yeah, i remember once megan tried to tell me hawaii was spelt ‘haiwaii’… it’s worse because she’s from there?” y/n says, laughing a bit.

“okay stop,” megan groans, “i was only on three hours of sleep.”

“mmm whatever you say, meg.” y/n replies, trying to hold back her smile.

megan just rolled her eyes, taking the silence as a chance to read more of the comments. one caught her eye though, it was about y/n.

bootywater: yn marry me for 10 seconds!

unfortunately for megan, her girlfriend had noticed the comment too.

“y/n marry me for 10 seconds? okay!” y/n agrees, counting down the seconds.

megan gave y/n a quick glare, but ignored it. it was just for fun, she shouldn’t get mad. it couldn’t get any worse anyways, right? yeah no, she spoke too soon. a comment soon popped up on screen, alarming the both of them. it asked something weird about y/n, causing megan to glance over at her girlfriend.

“y/n..” megan mumbles, trying to be as quiet as possible, “mute the live.”

y/n muted the live right after megan’s words, then turning to face her. y/n didn’t miss the annoyed look on megan’s face making her heart drop.

megan sighed, "sorry, i just don't know. it bothers me whenever people flirt with you. it's like i just don't exist." she says, her hand cupping the side of her mouth to make sure no one knew what she was saying.

"i'm sorry meg, i shouldn't have responded to the comment. and i know, i wish we were public.." y/n mumbles, taking her girlfriend's hand in hers.

she made sure their hands were offscreen, and placed her other hand on top of megan's knuckles holding her tight.

"just always remember i'm yours." y/n responds quietly, and quickly.

"y/n." megan deadpans, her heart dropping at the sight of the comments on the live.

"what?" y/n asks, following megan's line of sight.

"shit."

y/n had missed the mute button, and now the comments were going crazy about the two girl's moment.

"shit, we have to go bye!" y/n says, ending the live as fast as possible.

the two girls just looked at each other, before busting out laughing.

"i can't believe you fucked up that bad." megan teases, making y/n groan.

"hey i mean... you kinda got your wish? now everyone knows im not single.”

"you're insane.."

[formulafanfics13]

Hi!

Can I request Lando with an older girlfriend but she’s just a few months older and they keep that as a inside joke almost, both of them really goofy with eachother but she’s more shy/introverted in public

Love your writing 🥰

The older, The wiser - LN4

Masterlist

summary: she's only a few months older, but lando acts like she's ancient. it's their favorite inside joke, one they never explain to anyone. they're chaotic behind closed doors, but in public she stays quiet - until lando's soft obsession makes her the center of the paddock anyway.

warnings: introvert x extrovert dynamic, fluff, public shyness, private chaos, teasing, age jokes (playful), lando being completely smitten, soft affection, found comfort, established relationship

It started with the dumbest joke. You were five months older than him. That was it.

But Lando took it and ran like he'd discovered the fountain of eternal comedy. "You want me to get your slippers, grandma?" "Tell me again what the Great Depression was like." "Should I drive slower so your hip doesn't give out?"

You called him insufferable. He kissed your cheek and said, "You're older. Be mature."

The first time you met his team, he said it with a completely straight face. "She's wise," he told Zak. "Ancient. Practically prehistoric."

You smacked his shoulder. Andrea raised an eyebrow.

"She's twenty-six," Lando added solemnly. "But emotionally? Eighty-seven."

Zak just laughed and muttered, "She's gonna outlive all of us."

In private, you were unhinged together. Giggling at 2am in hotel rooms, wrestling for the last fry, leaving stupid love notes in his suitcase like "remember to moisturise, you're aging rapidly."

He made you laugh harder than anyone ever had. And you made him feel safe.

He said that once, after a long flight and a bad qualifying. "You're the only quiet I like," he mumbled into your neck.

In public, though, you were shy. Not cold. Just calm. Composed.

Lando would be cracking jokes in the paddock, bouncing between interviews and fans, and you'd trail behind, sunglasses on, polite smile, saying little.

The WAGs noticed. The press noticed. So did the fans. "Who's that?" "His girlfriend? Really?" "She's so quiet. She looks older." "Why does she never talk?"

It didn't bother Lando. But you heard it. And it stuck. Until one race weekend in Barcelona, when someone in the media pen made a joke about Lando's "mystery girlfriend."

"She's not mystery," he said flatly. "She's just smarter than all of you."

The interviewer blinked.

Lando grinned. "She's older. Wiser. She lets me talk so I can dig my own grave."

You laughed out loud from behind the camera.

The clip went viral. After that, the questions stopped. Because he answered all of them.

"My girlfriend? Yeah, she's introverted. But she's my favorite person in every room." "She's only older by a few months, but I call her my sugar mummy." "She keeps me from doing dumb shit. Most of the time." "She's the reason I sleep more than four hours now." "She's it. That's the whole answer."

You told him he didn't have to defend you. He shrugged. "I'm not defending," he said, curling a hand around your waist. "I'm bragging."

Then he kissed your shoulder and whispered, "Tell me again what it was like before the internet?"

You shoved him. He laughed like you were magic.

[microwaverice]

Okay yes

But,

Here is the crazy thing about the Twilight series. Bella isn't just an unreliable narrator, S.M. is an unreliable author.

Yes, absolutely, she specifically sets up imprinting to be a non-romantic, non-sexual devotion to another person. In my head-canons Renesme and Jacob go through the rest of their lives together as platonic companions. HOWEVER, Meyer also absolutely grooms her audience through several plot points and off-hand remarks to believe that once Renesme has reached maturity, they will end up together.

S.M. was soo obsessed with each of her beloved main characters having a happy ending that she couldn't NOT clone Bella for Jacobs sake. This is well documented in several interviews as well as in the acknowlegements of one of the books where she reports calling friends in near tears worrying about the characters as if they were real people. She had made Jacob soul crushingly in love with Bella, and the only way out of that was for some miraculous way for them to be together. Her solution was basically "let me invent an extension of Bella that is able to become a full adult capable of consent in 7ish years." I don't understand how she didn't see the problem with that, but that's fully what happened.

She knew that the baby imprinting was going to happen, at least by the point at which Quill imprints on Claire in Eclipse. Meyer introduces this concept in a way that intentionally alters any readers' assumption that imprinting is romantic, but it also prepares the audience for what will happen in Breaking Dawn.

Later, when Jacob is all depresso about the wedding or something, he visits Quill and Claire. Jacob makes the distinct observation that while there is nothing weird happening between the two now, that once she has reached adulthood, he will still look her age. He thinks something along the lines of "she will choose him, how could she not?", in reference to his undying loyalty and care. This sets up the audience to believe that could, would, or should be accepted in this world and that Quill would be a willing participant.

Bella also has similar thoughts in the direction of her own daughter and Jacobs' relationship towards the end of breaking dawn when she has stopped putting up the obligatory protective mama bear fight that S.M. needed to make the relationship gold-seal parent approved.

But in my heart. I know. Both Quill and Jacob would never be able to go in that direction once they have imprinted. According to the laws of imprinting, you can never intentionally harm the person you've imprinted on. And do you know what's universally psychologically harmful: dating the person that raised you. Both Quill and Jacob play active roles in these girls' childhoods. I do not care that Renesme is superhuman and fully conscious in the womb. She is still learning, growing, and incapable of fulfilling all of her needs. She is dependent not only on her parents but also on Jacob. Any transition to a romantic relationship later in life is incredibly weird, and I firmly believe Jacob would never ever be able to agree to that.

All that to say, yes, you are right,

And also that Meyer had major issues and groomed her audience. Lucky for us, she blessed us with a classic SM plot hole that made it impossible for all that work to come to fruition

in defense of wolf pack imprinting !!

real talk cause I’m kinda disappointed in some people.

everyone wants to talk about how “weird” imprinting is but no one wants to understand what it actually means.

imprinting isn’t romance. it isn’t obsession.

it’s devotion. it’s connection. it’s a wolf’s soul recognizing another soul as sacred. the kind of sacred that makes you drop your life and say

“you come first now.” and you don’t even have to be in love. you just have to love. in whatever way the imprint needs. protector. brother. guardian. friend.

andd so many people think and say that imprinting means falling in love which is so not true. imprinting as zero to do with love. It’s a deep connection between a wolf and his imprint which means a wolf is tied to his imprint and he’d be anything for her, a brother, friend and protector.

It’s was literally character development. S.M didn’t know what to do with jake’s character.

seth literally could imprint and just be a best friend. It’s spiritual, protective, instinctual. it grows into what that person wants and needs. quil literally imprinted on claire to prepare us for jake and that ai kid but it’s not “oh my gosh he fell in love with a baby”

HE DID NOT.

jacob did not fall in love with a baby. he imprinted. that means he exists now to protect her, not to date her. not to romanticize her. but to shield her from the world until she’s ready to face it herself and maybe even then.

jacob literally said : “It’s not like love at first sight. you become whatever they need you to be.”

he never said, “oh wow renesmee is so hot,” he said, “I will protect her with my life and die for her if I have to.” that is not romance, that is sacred werewolf programming.

quil and claire have such a sweet relationship like siblings, if you have seen the bts picture’s you can see how cute they are and there’s zero romance it’s genuinely like he’s a older brother for her and a protector.

not wanna be rude but the same people who swoon over 100-year-old edward sneaking into bella’s room to watch her sleep are like “ewww jacob imprinted on a baby” like ??? girl be serious edward literally treated bella like a possession and took her car apart so she can’t visit jacob, her best friend.

paul and rachel, jared and kim, even sam and emily—they fell in love naturally after imprinting. because they were adults and had real feelings! the imprint just connects them. It doesn’t erase free will. It’s not grooming. It’s devotion. loyalty. love, when it grows into it.

AND THE CULLEN STANS? they hate on the wolf pack for existing be so for real 😭

before you hate or make such comments like “he fell in love with a baby” please go and make a research what imprinting actually means cause honestly I’m getting tired of constantly seeing people saying such stuff

wolves imprint because their bond runs deeper than blood. it’s a soul tie. a heart compass. it’s not a love story. it’s a destiny story.

I hope I didn’t sound rude or disrespectful I just wanted to make things clear. have a great day 🐰🖋️

[d1onysusw1n3]

Treasure - Bruce Wayne X Fem!POCReader

[love]

/ləv/

noun

• an intense feeling of deep affection.

Life is unfair. Everyone knows that.

Everyone has felt the sting—the cruel, indifferent ways the universe can snatch the ground right out from under your feet just when you thought you were standing steady.

It doesn’t matter how safe, how secure, how perfectly planned your life seems—chaos always finds a way to seep in.

Right when you think everything is normal, predictable, maybe even finally okay… it all goes to shit.

Unfortunately, Bruce Wayne knows that lesson better than most.

If you asked someone to describe Bruce Wayne, they’d probably toss out the usual headlines: playboy, billionaire, the charming face of Gotham’s elite.

Maybe they’d mention that subtle darkness behind his smile, the kind of allure that feels like a warning.

And if you asked about Batman, the descriptions would change—brooding, relentless, fiercely self-reliant. A man who keeps the world at arm’s length, always one step ahead but never truly present.

For a long time, Bruce kept that dual life in perfect balance. The image of the careless billionaire remained intact, polished and untouchable.

That is… until he met you.

-

-

It was trial and error.

Bruce Wayne needed a new assistant.

His last one, well—she couldn’t keep up. The tight, unrelenting schedule, the whirlwind of meetings, the unpredictable demands of both the Wayne Enterprises board and Bruce’s private life—it chewed her up and spit her out.

Burnt out and overwhelmed, she walked out with more stress lines than when she started.

Bruce could at least admit it—he wasn’t exactly easy to work with.

He was stubborn. Demanding. Meticulous to the point of obsession. And, as some would say, just a bit full of himself.

After the last interview that morning, he was ready to give up for the day.

The woman had sat across from him, talking a mile a minute about how she was so perfect for the job, how no one was more qualified, how her time management skills were unmatched—yet she fumbled the second he asked about multi-department coordination.

He was halfway to closing the file when you walked in.

And everything… shifted.

You walked into that office with the kind of calm confidence that couldn’t be faked.

Like you belonged there—like you already knew you had the job before even shaking his hand.

Your silky, smooth loose coils bounced gently as you moved, cascading past your waist and stopping right at the round of your ass, a natural frame for your grace.

Your eyes—deep, dark chocolate—sparkled under the soft light filtering through the window, catching just right as you tilted your head.

And your skin… a flawless shade of rich ebony, kissed with caramel undertones. Warm. Radiant. Ethereal.

It wasn’t just beauty.

You were elegance made tangible.

“Hi, I’m Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne,” you said, stepping forward and extending your hand with perfect formality.

Your voice…

God, your voice.

It was velvet and fire.

Smooth like silk, yet deep, husky, and laced with something ancient—soul.

It rolled from your throat like a blues song whispered at midnight, and for a moment, Bruce forgot what words were.

He took your hand in his, offered a firm but respectful squeeze. The moment his skin touched yours, it hit him like a bolt—an electric current crackling straight down his spine.

He’d shaken hands with CEOs, politicians, and masked vigilantes.

But this—you—was different.

Bruce had been with many women before. Models. Heiresses. Women with headlines for names.

But what stood before him wasn’t just a woman.

You were the woman.

You had presence.

The way you walked, shoulders back, chin lifted slightly.

The way you held his gaze—direct, unwavering, respectful, but unafraid.

It was like your confidence wrapped around you like a second skin. Not boastful. Just… lived-in.

“Please,” he said, lips twitching into a rare, amused smirk. “Call me Bruce.”

He gestured for you to take a seat across from him, voice smoothing into that low timbre of professionalism.

“Let’s go over your schedule, our procedures, and what you see as your key strengths.”

As you began to speak, outlining your qualifications, past experience, your ability to organize chaos into efficiency—Bruce listened. Or, at least, he tried.

The truth? He’d already made up his mind the moment you walked in.

You could’ve said nothing and still had the job.

That pencil skirt hugged your hips just right. The black mesh blouse showed the faintest tease of skin while still looking perfectly professional.

Your glasses—thick, black, square-framed—rested comfortably on your face, making your soft freckles stand out even more.

But it wasn’t just how you looked.

It was how you carried yourself.

Beautiful, yes.

But also grounded.

Confident without arrogance.

Sweet, but not syrupy.

Warmth radiated from you, a kindness you didn’t try to weaponize.

And beneath it all… a fire.

Not loud or flashy.

But steady. Undeniable.

He could see it in your eyes—you had passion. Drive. And something in you told him that when the world tried to burn you out… you’d burn brighter instead.

You were exactly what he needed.

When you finished your pitch, you sat back—calm, poised, waiting.

Bruce said nothing at first, just studied your face with those impossibly intense blue eyes, like he was cataloguing every line, every freckle, every breath you took.

Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted into something warm.

Something real.

A smile that came from deep inside.

“You’re hired,” he declared.

Your heart soared—no, launched—into the sky.

Your breath caught. Your chest lifted.

And then the smile happened.

Unstoppable. Bright.

A breathless kind of joy spread across your face, and those dimples—so rarely seen, so deeply yours—carved into your cheeks like proof that maybe, just maybe, something in your life was finally falling into place.

Bruce had a good feeling about you.

A very good feeling.

And he still remembers the night you found out the truth.

That he was Batman.

You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t panicked.

You didn’t beg him to stop or demand he retire.

You just… worried.

For him.

He still sees you now as you were that night—

The balcony door wide open.

The moonlight spilling across your living room floor.

And Bruce, bleeding and bruised, leaning heavily on your railing like a man with nowhere else to go.

He couldn’t go home.

Not with Alfred hovering, forcing him to rest, to heal.

But he knew you would understand.

You wouldn’t judge.

You wouldn’t ask him to be anything other than what he was.

You didn’t try to fix him.

You just opened your door.

And that… was enough.

-

-

It was a rainy night—cold, musky, the kind of Gotham rain that soaked into the bones of the city.

The sky was a slate gray smear, the clouds heavy with melancholy, but somehow the rain made everything feel cleaner.

Like the sky was trying—if only for a moment—to wash the dirt and rot off this bruised, gasping city.

Inside your apartment, it was warm and quiet.

You wore a silk gown that clung to your curves like it missed you when you weren’t wearing it. The dim glow from the kitchen lights shimmered off your skin as you stood barefoot, microwaving a mug of hot cocoa.

Paperwork was spread out across your coffee table in a messy but organized sprawl, a clear sign of someone juggling too much with practiced grace.

You sat on the floor, one leg tucked beneath the other, brows knit in fierce concentration as you chewed absently on the end of your pen.

The soft, nostalgic murmur of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air played in the background—comfort noise from childhood that always made the air feel more like home. The theme song alone could pull a smile from you on even your most tired nights.

You were deep in thought when you heard it.

A knock.

Light, almost too soft to catch.

But it was there—tapping against the glass.

Your heart paused mid-beat.

You stilled.

Fifth floor.

Who the hell would be knocking on a window five stories up?

You told yourself it was nothing—your rational mind offering a dozen explanations.

Wind. A loose shutter. Maybe a bird.

But then you heard it again.

Sharper.

Insistent.

You stood slowly, your silk gown rustling around your legs as you padded barefoot to the window.

You peeled back the curtain—

—and your heart flipped.

There he was.

Bruce.

Bloodied. Drenched. Slouched on your fire escape like a dying shadow.

His cowl was off, tossed somewhere near his feet. His face was pale, smeared with grime and blood, one eye already swelling. His body looked like it could collapse any second.

And yet—your heart fluttered.

Like a teenager sneaking in her forbidden lover through the bedroom window.

God, this man had you twisted.

You didn’t hesitate.

You threw the window open and helped him inside.

Bruce tried to stand on his own, ever the stubborn bastard, but his knees buckled beneath him. Without a word, you threw his heavy arm over your shoulders and half-dragged, half-carried him across the room to the kitchen table.

“Sit,” you ordered gently but firmly, guiding him into a chair.

You grabbed your first aid kit—kept stocked because of him—and began patching him up like second nature.

“You’re reckless,” you muttered, threading a needle with precision, “and stupid for not seeing Alfred.”

Bruce didn’t argue. He just grunted.

He winced sharply as the needle pierced skin, and you didn’t flinch—just kept stitching the deep gash along his upper abdomen with practiced care.

Your touch was efficient, but still gentle. He watched the way your brows furrowed when you concentrated, the way your bottom lip tucked between your teeth.

His abs clenched as the needle worked through him, and he bit down hard on a groan.

At one point, he tried to get up, muttering something about needing to go back out, but you pressed your palm flat to his chest and pushed him back into the chair.

“Sit down, you big baby,” you smirked, not even looking up.

“It hurts. And I have to get back out—” he growled, frustrated.

“No.”

Your tone left no room for negotiation.

“Alfred would’ve benched you for the night, and guess what? I’m doing the same. You’re not leaving this apartment until you’ve had a hot meal and at least six hours of sleep. That’s non-negotiable, Mr. Wayne.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, the sound rough and rich like aged whiskey.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He watched you in silence as you cleaned the blood off his knuckles. His eyes followed your movements like they were a lifeline.

“So…” you said finally, not looking up. “Bruce Wayne is Batman. Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

“No one ever does,” he murmured, almost amused.

Then came the silence.

That thick, heavy, magnetic silence.

The kind where the air shifts and you know something’s about to happen.

You looked up, your eyes catching his—and froze.

The look on his face made your breath catch.

“What?” you asked softly, blinking.

He was staring at you like you were the only thing holding him to this world.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bruce whispered.

His voice was low—barely audible—but the weight of it hit you like a freight train.

A slow, teasing smile played at your lips.

“Are you trying to flirt with me, Mr. Wayne?”

“If it’s working… then yes.”

His hand reached up, fingers brushing a curl behind your ear. His thumb dragged down your jaw, slow and reverent, until it hovered over your bottom lip.

You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten.

You were standing between his legs as he now sat on the kitchen table, your silk gown brushing his knees.

You weren’t dainty—about 5’7, strong and toned from years of gymnastics and boxing—but next to Bruce’s broad frame, you felt impossibly delicate.

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone with aching softness.

Then he leaned in.

And you met him halfway.

Most people describe a kiss like lightning.

But this?

This was like honey.

Warm. Slow. Sweet.

It melted through you, kissed the stress out of your bones, and whispered promises into your skin.

You tasted like chamomile tea and mint.

He tasted like rain and salt and something that felt like home.

When you finally pulled back, Bruce’s eyes were wide—like he’d just realized what he’d done.

His mouth opened, an apology already forming.

But then you leaned in again.

And kissed him.

Harder.

Deeper.

You saw him.

Not the billionaire. Not the vigilante.

You saw the man.

You’d seen him bruised and bleeding.

Exhausted. Enraged.

You’d seen him vulnerable. Human. Real.

And you stayed.

When he bit your lip and deepened the kiss, it felt like sealing something—something unspoken and inevitable.

When he pulled back, he didn’t let go. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours.

Then his hands slid down to the backs of your thighs.

“Jump,” he murmured.

And you did.

He lifted you with ease and carried you to the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him.

—

You expected him to be gone by morning.

You wouldn’t have blamed him.

After a night like that—so raw, so intimate—most people would run. Especially someone like Bruce, who built walls instead of homes.

Your bed was empty when you woke.

But your heart… was full.

You smiled to yourself, stretching lazily as you pulled on a big, oversized T-shirt.

You were about to crawl back under the covers when something hit you.

The smell.

Sweet.

Warm.

Homey.

You padded barefoot down the hallway and paused at the sight in your kitchen.

Bruce.

Wearing your grey joggers—that were slightly too big but perfect in him, sat low on his hips. No shirt.

The man looked like a sin wrapped in domestic bliss.

His back flexed as he poured two mugs of coffee. On the counter were plates of strawberry French toast and scrambled eggs, like he belonged there.

Like he wanted to.

“Morning,” he said, his voice low and thick with sleep.

The gravel in his voice curled around your spine like smoke—dangerous, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

“Morning,” you echoed, smiling, eyes soft.

You ate breakfast on the floor, seated in front of your coffee table like two college kids.

And somehow… it wasn’t awkward.

It wasn’t complicated.

It was easy.

Bruce’s dry humor and charming smile, your banter, the way he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real—it all clicked.

-

-

By the time you moved into Wayne Manor, you and Bruce had been together for a solid four or five years.

The move had been smooth—Bruce was insistent on helping you with every box, every suitcase, despite Alfred gently reminding him he had people for that. But Bruce wasn’t letting anyone else handle your things. He wanted this to feel personal, special, like a new chapter for both of you.

The first time you stepped inside the manor as a resident, not just a girlfriend visiting for dinner or to wait up after a late patrol, it hit you like a tidal wave. The grandeur of the place was almost cinematic. Gleaming marble floors stretched across the vast foyer, and a sweeping staircase, draped in red velvet carpeting, spiraled upward like something out of a classic film. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above your head, casting soft golden light across polished surfaces. Despite all its opulence, the manor didn’t feel cold or sterile—it felt lived in, somehow touched by memory and legacy.

And that’s when you met Alfred.

It was almost immediate, the connection. You shared a dry sense of humor, a taste for a specific blend of strong tea, and a fondness for calling Bruce out when he was being just a little too broody. The two of you had conversations that danced between witty and philosophical, and before long, Alfred had started to refer to you—quietly, and with a fond glint in his eye—as his favorite resident.

Bruce’s heart had nearly burst the first time he walked in on the two of you laughing together in the kitchen over something as mundane as improperly folded linens. Seeing two of the most important people in his life getting along so naturally—it grounded him, made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could have a real family again.

Of course, moving in came with adjustments.

Bruce had been used to living alone, to silent halls and a schedule that made no sense to anyone but himself and the Gotham underworld. You, on the other hand, had a natural body clock, a love for uninterrupted beauty sleep, and a very human need for rest. It took time. He’d stumble in at 4 a.m. and accidentally wake you when his suit clattered to the floor. You’d sigh, roll over, and mumble, “You do know people need sleep to function, right?” But you always reached for him anyway, curling around his tired frame.

Then there was the cave.

You had taken one look at it and declared, “This place is creepy and unsanitary. I’m going to catch a bat-borne virus down here.” Bruce had tried (and failed) to hide his smirk. But over time, it grew on you. You began bringing down snacks, organizing things he never bothered to sort, and even installing a Bluetooth speaker so you could play music while he worked. One night, you caught yourself calling it “our cave.”

It wasn’t just that you lived there. You belonged there.

You kept up your boxing—your therapy in motion—and Bruce even taught you advanced hand-to-hand. Not because he wanted you in the field—hell no. You were a nurturer through and through. The idea of hurting someone, even in self-defense, made your stomach twist. But Bruce insisted: “There are dangers in dating Batman.” You needed to be prepared.

Then, a few years later, Bruce came to you with a decision.

“I want to adopt.”

You blinked up at him from the couch, half-eaten popcorn bowl in your lap. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I want to adopt,” he repeated, eyes steady but voice quieter now, almost reverent.

You stared at him, your head slowly tilting. “Woah, Bruce. You feeling alright?” you teased lightly, placing the back of your hand against his forehead. “No fever. Okay. So what’s this about adopting?”

He sighed, folding himself down beside you, resting his forearms on his knees.

“There was a kid,” he said after a pause. “Something went wrong. His parents were caught in the crossfire… and I couldn’t stop it.”

Your playful expression softened into something quieter.

“I’m going to take him in,” Bruce continued. “I want to train him. As a sidekick.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your thoughts churning like storm clouds behind your eyes. You could feel the weight in his voice—guilt, empathy, responsibility. He wasn’t doing this lightly.

“I don’t mind a little one running around the mansion,” you finally said, voice careful. “But Bruce… to put him in danger every day? My heart can barely handle knowing you’re out there.”

Bruce reached for your hand. His thumb rubbed slow circles over your knuckles, grounding himself with the contact.

“I know, princess,” he murmured. “But… he needs this. He lost everything. And I never found the people who killed my parents—it still haunts me. I don’t want that for him. I want to give him something to fight for. Something to believe in.”

It wasn’t an easy yes, but eventually, you gave it.

That’s when you met Dick Grayson.

He was small but wiry, with muscles built from years of acrobatics. His dark black hair fell in his eyes sometimes, and those piercing blue eyes… they reminded you of Bruce, but not in a carbon-copy way. There was something softer behind Dick’s gaze. A cautious optimism. A spark that hadn’t been stamped out yet.

“Y/N, this is Dick Grayson,” Bruce said gently as the boy peeked out from behind Bruce’s legs. He was quiet, wary, sticking close to Bruce like a shadow.

It took time, but he warmed up to you. Slowly, steadily. You learned his favorite meals, how to coax a smile from him with the right joke, and eventually, he began to seek you out—not just Bruce. He became Robin. He solved the mystery behind his parents’ murder. And somewhere along the line, he found joy again.

And you? You adored him.

That fact became carved in stone the first time Dick got hurt on patrol—just a sprained ankle, nothing major. Bruce had insisted on going back out while Dick recovered, but the boy had been crestfallen, confined to the manor. You’d seen the brave face he put on… and the tears he wiped away when he thought no one was looking.

—

That night had been long. Just Riddler and his usual chaos—riddles spray-painted across brownstones, a half-baked attempt to rob a jewelry store, the usual puzzle pieces.

Bruce was sore, bruised, and all he wanted was to collapse into bed next to you. After a hot shower, he pulled on a clean T-shirt and soft pajama pants, expecting to find you curled under the duvet.

But you weren’t there.

He paused, frowning, until soft giggles echoed down the hallway. Following the sound, he padded barefoot to Dick’s room, nudging the door open quietly.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

You and Dick had built a full-blown pillow fort in the corner of the room, complete with twinkling fairy lights and thick blankets draped over chairs. Inside the fort, you had a star projector casting constellations across the ceiling—Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major swirling in soft hues of blue and purple. You sat crisscrossed with Dick tucked into your lap like a sleepy koala, his head resting on your shoulder.

“This one here is called Orion’s Belt,” you whispered, pointing up.

“I like that one. It’s my favorite,” Dick murmured with a sleepy giggle.

A warm, sleepy smile crossed your face just as Bruce ducked into the room.

“Well now,” he said with a playful eyebrow raise, “what do we have here?”

You looked up, grinning. “Hi, love. We’re learning about the stars.”

“I see that,” he chuckled as he crawled into the fort with you both. It was a tight squeeze, but somehow, the moment only got cozier with his addition. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Dick immediately curled into Bruce’s side.

“We saved you a spot,” Dick mumbled as his eyes began to flutter shut.

Bruce rested his cheek against the top of Dick’s head. “Perfect. I needed it.”

In the gentle glow of starlight, with your hand resting on Bruce’s knee and Dick snoring softly between you, Bruce closed his eyes and breathed in the quiet. For once, there were no sirens. No screams. Just the sound of family—soft, safe, and healing.

“Remind me to thank you later,” he whispered against your skin.

You smiled, reaching to thread your fingers through his.

“You already have.”

[choerykiss]

Them Falling In Love With An Idol

𝜗ৎ dating/drama/romance/f!reader ─ #150-180 word count

✦ warnings : my dramatic writing . headcanons (short/easy to read) possessiveness/protectiveness (mild) . idol!reader . jealousy themes .

─ bluelock [top6] rin, shidou, karasu, otoya, yukimiya, nagi

﹒𝓝𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: Aughh, all of these headcanons turned out to be so sweet </3. Also, first bllk post let's gooo (*￣3￣)╭

RIN

At first, Rin is extremely reluctant to even admit he has a crush on you. You're an idol, always in the spotlight, and he hates the idea of sharing your attention with the entire world.

When he realizes he's in love, he becomes hyper-protective but in a quiet, stoic way. He'll stand in the back during your concerts or fan events, arms crossed, glaring at any fan who gets too close.

He won't admit it, but he watches every single one of your performances and interviews, memorizing your dance moves and lyrics. You sometimes catch him humming your songs while practicing.

He struggles with jealousy — not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he hates that so many people see the sides of you he considers his.

In private, he’s soft and gentle, almost shy. He loves hearing you talk about your idol activities, but he always reminds you to take care of yourself and not push too hard.

If you’re exhausted after a show, he'll quietly make you tea, force you to rest your head on his lap, and stroke your hair until you fall asleep.

SHIDOU

Shidou thinks it’s hot that you're an idol. The fact that you stand on stage and capture everyone's attention? He lives for it.

He goes to your concerts and screams louder than any other fan, completely ignoring the fact that you get embarrassed. He'll yell things like "That's my girl!" at the top of his lungs.

He loves bragging about you. To him, you're the ultimate "prize," and he wants everyone to know. Interviews? He’ll bring you up out of nowhere. "Oh yeah, my girl killed it on stage last night."

Shidou loves to see your confident, glamorous stage persona, but he’s even more obsessed with your off-stage, relaxed self. He finds it adorable when you stumble around in pajamas or rehearse in messy hair.

He constantly flirts and teases, often pulling you into spontaneous dances to your own songs when you least expect it.

If fans or antis say something negative, he’s ready to throw hands (or at least cause a scandal on social media defending you).

KARASU

Karasu is supportive in a laid-back, almost effortless way. He loves seeing you perform, but he’s the type to quietly show up in disguise and watch from afar rather than stand out.

He loves teasing you about your idol image vs. your real self. "Oh, look at this perfect princess on stage… where’s the girl who steals my hoodies and hogs the bed?"

Karasu likes to keep things playful; he’ll randomly quote your lyrics at you in mundane situations just to make you laugh (or cringe).

He's protective but smart about it — he knows how intense idol fandoms can get, so he subtly shields you from stress without making a scene.

After your shows, he’ll take you out for comfort food and listen to you rant about behind-the-scenes drama.

He gets a kick out of seeing you get flustered when he calls you "my star" or "my shining idol" in front of his teammates.

Despite his teasing, he’s genuinely proud of you. He probably has a private collection of your merch hidden in his room, even if he'd never admit it.

OTOYA

Otoya is absolutely fascinated by your idol persona — you're beautiful, energetic, always shining on stage. It’s like you’re playing hard to get with an entire nation, and he loves the chase.

He attends your lives secretly at first, always staying just out of sight backstage or blending into the crowd in a mask. He gets a thrill from knowing he’s closer to you than any of your fans could ever dream.

Extremely flirty. He loves teasing you right before shows: "Will you dedicate a song to me tonight, princess?"

He brags about you constantly, but in a smooth, almost casual way. "Oh? That’s my girl on that billboard. Cute, huh?"

Otoya respects your independence and career but insists on being your "unofficial bodyguard" when you're out late or leaving events. He likes feeling useful and protective.

Behind closed doors, he's surprisingly gentle. He massages your tired shoulders after long rehearsals and listens to all your frustrations about idol life without judgment.

YUKIMIYA

Yukimiya admires your drive and dedication. He relates deeply to your ambition since he also worked so hard to stand in the spotlight.

He’s very attentive. He worries about your health and image pressures and constantly reminds you to eat properly and sleep enough. He might even cook you nutritious meals himself.

Yukimiya attends every concert he can, always looking impossibly elegant in the audience. He smiles proudly when fans scream for you, genuinely happy that so many people love you too.

He loves taking pictures of you (both on stage and in private) and treasures them like art. Sometimes he surprises you with small photo albums he’s curated himself.

While he supports your idol persona, he deeply cherishes the "real" you — the you who takes off the glittery makeup and snuggles into his arms at night.

He can be a little possessive, but in a refined way — he doesn’t want to restrict you, but he quietly reminds you that you’re his muse, and his alone in private moments.

NAGI

At first, Nagi thinks your job is "such a pain" — standing in front of people all day, dancing, keeping up a bubbly image. But he quickly becomes hooked on your performances because you look "cool" and "shiny" up there.

He watches your live streams and concerts while lying in bed, snacking, texting you random reactions like "lol that move was sick" or "you looked cute in that outfit."

He’s lazy, but he’ll surprise you by showing up to big shows (though he probably gets lost backstage first). When he finally finds you, he just wants to nap on your lap before your next stage.

You often catch him wearing your merch — not intentionally to support you, but just because he thinks it's comfy. He doesn't see why everyone freaks out when he's spotted wearing your tour hoodie.

He likes listening to you talk about your idol life while he lies down with his head on your stomach. Sometimes he falls asleep mid-story, but he always remembers the important parts.

He hates when you're too busy for him, so he gets a bit clingy on your days off, demanding you stay home and play games or watch movies with him all day as "recovery time."

If anyone tries to insult you online, he surprisingly snaps back in his own blunt way: "Your opinion sucks, shut up."

[batfleckgifs]

BEN AFFLECK Ben Affleck with Jon Bernthal ‧ JAKE'S TAKES

[laniidae-passerine]

don’t get how you can watch iwtv and be a sincere diehard lestat hater. like the world’s biggest lestat hater is louis and that man can’t even commit to it for more than five minutes before literally hallucinating lestat wearing a wedding ring and talking pretty to him. this show is about louis and every road leads back to lestat for that man

[ancient-qveen]

Ihsahn's ✨pretty✨ hands and nails

-gifs made by me (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)

bonus gifs also made by me. all from this 1994 documentary, which i had seen before but in shit quality until today :D

^my honest reaction to being asked if im obsessed 💀

[threadneedle]

I remember watching The South Bank Show on The Smiths, 'round at Graham's house. And then Morrissey said something at the end… (1999)

[polkadotjohnson]

Straw Hat Goofy and David Dastmalchian talk Anime, Horror and Late Night with The Devil

[4th-make-quail]

Daniel Molloy & hands // 1 of 4 -> interview with the Vampire season 2

[shelfperson]

happy louis de pointe du lac’s faggy hand gestures friday to all who celebrate

[warmblueberrytea]

If I want the vampire au for JayVik, inspired by IWTV, then it should include two important scenes.

One. The same as in the series, when Viktor turns Jayce into a vampire (they are both covered in blood, Viktor’s eyes disarm Jayce, this is the most beautiful and barbaric scene he has ever seen, and yet, he has never felt so alive), he tells him:

Be my companion, Jayce. Be all the beautiful things you are, and be them without apology. For all eternity.

Because Viktor, for once in all eternity, found a soul that understands, complements him, fills the scars left on his body with light. Because Jayce’s light is the most beautiful thing he has seen in 100 years, the light of sun that he will never be able to see again.

(Jayce accepts his offer. At that point, they do not understand their feelings well. Jayce is sometimes mesmerized by Viktor’s beauty: when his lips are covered in red, when his long fingers are exposed, with no gloves hiding white nails, when Viktor does not look away, hypnotizing Jayce like a serpent even when he just woke up and his hair is a mess. But Jayce is not sure what he feels — neither does he wish to guess Viktor’s intentions).

Two. The same scene, but in different circumstances. In the end of the story, when Jayce visits Viktor after seventy years of no communication whatsoever. Seventy years spent in different cities, where Jayce was searching for something — or someone — to fill in the hole that Viktor created in him, the hole that made him feel incomplete, that made him yearn for companion’s presence in every room he was in. After 70 years of missing Viktor’s voice, husky and warm, Jayce hears him saying “hello”, when he finds him in their old apartment. After 70 years of missing the seldom touches of skin-to-skin, he takes Viktor’s cold hand in his, and pronounces the same thing Viktor told him long ago.

You are my companion, Viktor.

And then it finally clicks. Why Viktor invited him in. Why Viktor wanted Jayce to become his companion. The loneliness drowning him, but more than that — hatred towards himself, his body. All this time Viktor was telling Jayce that he searched for a cure from perpetual diseases, as he himself was turned into a vampire while he was sick — and his sickness, his imperfect body stayed with him — for the rest of eternity.

Isn’t it unfair, Jayce? The moment you become a vampire, your form stays with you forever. If you are a child, you forever will be seen as an immature creature even if you have lived — or managed to live — for 500 years. I will always considered to be sick, Jayce. Nothing of existing medicine will ever cure me.

Jayce finally sees the whole picture.

- You’ve always wanted to cure what you thought were weaknesses. Your leg. Your disease. But you were never broken, Viktor. There is beauty in imperfections.

- Do you think I am beautiful?

Jayce touches — and Viktor allows — his wrists. Looks at his brace. At the dark circles around his eyes.

- Yes.

What was said in the beginning, is finally returned.

Be all the beautiful things you are, and be them without apology, Viktor.

For all eternity.