#Four People and a Shoelace

[pilferingapples]

where does the tag "four people and a shoelace" come from?

hah, it's from an old and probably-misremembered tumblr post that talked about small fandoms as being "four people and a shoelace" ; I started using it for Petit Cenacle fandom because we were (and are, alas!) Tiny. It's an obscure reference and that's what they'd want XD

[fremedon]

RIGHT. FRENCH ROMANTICS. Specifically the younger, more radical set of them variously called the Petit-Cénacle, Jeunes-France, or frenetic romantics. They were basically a fandom--a group of artists--principally writers, but most of them at least dabbling in multiple forms--who came together first as fans of the slightly older Romantic circles centered on Hugo and Dumas, and specifically through their participation in hyping Hugo's 1830 play Hernani.

For an intro to the principal people and their social scene, start with Théophile Gautier's History of Romanticism, or at least the first half, which is the group's origin story.

(Bonus media: There is a French TV movie about the "Battle of Hernani" (part one) (part two).)

Gautier wrote History years after the fact, looking back on his youth from his middle age. His novel Mademoiselle de Maupin (part one) (part two) is him looking back on his early twenties from the jaded vantage of...his mid-twenties, and features All The Gender Feels in every direction, strikingly literal landscape porn, and a fursuit sex scene. Do read the preface, an unfortunately still very relevant rebuttal to moralism in literature.

I'm going to put two quite recent translations on the list which are not available for free that I know of, but they're worth buying or asking your library to order.

Gérard de Nerval's The Salt Smugglers is basically like if The Princess Bride had been written in 1850 to troll the press censorship policies of Prince President Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte. Louis-Napoleon had banned serial novels; Nerval sets out to write a piece of History, Definitely Not A Work of fiction--and then spends many chapters detailing his attempts to find the book he needs to confirm the historicity of his tale; and then readers start writing in with corrections to his Definitely Historical Facts, and it turns into a meta exploration of what fiction is and whether you can have a narrative that's not in some way fictional, while also being a charming picaresque about Nerval's adventures in research.

(Salt Smugglers is Nerval in a light mood; his poetry is a little more typical. "El Desdichado" is maybe his most famous poem; I think you will especially like his "Christ on the Mount of Olives" as well.)

Petrus Borel's Champavert: Immoral Tales is equally meta, but without any ironic distance, on the topic of authorship and what it means to take responsibility for crafting a narrative. Borel is angry about misogyny, angry about colonialism, angry about antisemitism, and angry about being part of a society that makes him complicit in them. The subtitle invites us consider whether moral tales are possible--about what it means to write a fiction where people get what they deserve, and present it as a reflection of the world.

Champavert is an experimental short story collection from 1835 which begins with a largely true biographical sketch of Borel himself--and then insists that Borel is dead by suicide, his real name was actually Champavert, and that these are Champavert's posthumous papers. Those papers, which make up the rest of the book, are eight short stories, in which the same themes and situations recur in different historical settings, starting with a morality play with a clear-cut victim and villain and then getting progressively more complicated. Each story is named for its protagonist; the last one is called "Champavert," and is a first-person account by the person we heard about in the preface, the alleged author of the other seven stories--and makes those stories appear to be 'Champavert's' attempt to make sense of the events of the final story. Each story invites the question, Who is to blame? And the last one gives the final answer of Everyone. (Content warning for basically Everything, but Borel's anger makes it a very bracing and refreshing read despite the subject matter.)

I would start with those, and also with diving into @pilferingapples' tags #four people and a shoelace (for the Petit-Cénacle specifically) and #actual romantics (for the broader movement.)

i think...i think i want to start reading again but as part of a project which might make it easier, and what occurred to me as a project is "deep dive into [subgenre/literary movement] as if i were taking an upper level undergraduate class about it" bc i read SO much in college and i enjoyed almost all of it, i did not share the common experience of an english degree ruining one's enjoyment of reading. i LOVED reading in college.

so! i am hoping to crowdsource some nominations for "courses" and possible books that could be on their syllabus. this is Your Chance to design a course in your literary special interest and get someone else to read about it. :D?

(limitations on subject matter: i'm not really into post-ww2 realistic literary fiction (minus historical fiction which is good). open to literally anything else tho)

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I am going to be in lots of movies very very rapidly. Woah. WOAH.

I really need to step up my game so I don’t humiliate myself.

[norristrii]

WINNERS OF ALL HEARTS.

People love your and Oscar’s relationship since the beginning; Moments of you and your boyfriend Oscar during Drive To Survive season 7.

pairing. Oscar Piastri x fem! reader

warnings. est. relationship. In honor of Oscar’s win in Bahrain! 🫶🏻 I have never seen a single episode of dts and I definitely don't plan to. Everything here is made up and doesn’t relate to the actual season. // I’ll do Lando version too!

[episode one]

The season opener buzzed with energy. You walked hand in hand with Oscar, people and cameras around you. It was nice to be back after winter break.

As you strolled along, you glanced down and noticed your shoelace was untied. Stopping mid-step, you turned to Oscar, handing him your handbag with a casual smile.

“Could you hold this for me, please?” you asked with smile.

Oscar ignored your question, but instead of standing there as you’d expected, he knelt down beside you, his movements swift and deliberate. His fingers worked deftly to tie your shoe, the knot firm yet careful.

“Thank you,” you said, your smile soft and genuine, appreciating his thoughtful gesture. He returned the warmth with an easy smile of his own. “No problem,” he replied with smile.

Netflix editors made it funnier by cutting to Lando rolling his eyes as he walked past you.

[episode two]

The atmosphere in the McLaren garage was relaxed as you lounged before practice. Lando, leaned over with his phone in his hand, sly grin across his face.

“Y/n, look what Oscar sent me,” he said, showing you a TikTok video that was anything but innocent. You couldn’t help but laugh at the dirty text, but before you could say anything, Oscar’s voice cut through the moment.

“I already apologized!” he exclaimed, his face flushed with embarrassment as he overheard your conversation. His reaction only made the situation funnier, and you burst into laughter.

“How can this even happen?” you managed to say through fits of laughter, struggling to catch your breath.

Oscar, still blushing furiously, threw his hands up in defense. “It was an incident!” he protested, his voice almost cracking under the weight of his embarrassment, which only made you laugh harder.

As you and Lando laughed, the editors cut to Oscar, subtitles read: [tremendous embarrassment]

[episode three]

Before the race, the cameras captured a quiet yet heartfelt moment. You carefully adjusted Oscar’s helmet, ensuring everything was perfect. Satisfied with your work, you smiled warmly at him. “Good luck,” you said, pressing a light kiss on his helmet.

“Thank you,” he replied softly, his voice full of gratitude. Then, with a tender smile under the helmer, he added, “I love you, babe.” The simplicity of his words carried the weight of something steady and true.

After this clip was published, fans went crazy and it became viral on tiktok.

[episode four]

Oscar had done it—his first Grand Prix win, a moment he’d dreamed of and worked tirelessly for. The roar of the crowd faded into the background as he climbed out of the car, his eyes immediately scanning for you. Without hesitation, he sprinted toward you, his emotions overwhelming him.

Before you could say a word, he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you, the world seeming to pause in that heart-stopping moment. The victory was his, but the celebration was yours together.

While you celebrated his achievement, the camera cut to Nicole and Hattie doing heart from hands as they pointed at you two.

[episode five]

Oscar moved through the fan zone with ease, signing caps and shirts as he greeted the crowd. In his hand, his phone rested casually, the screen occasionally lighting up with his touch. Each time it did, it revealed his wallpaper—a candid photo of you, beaming with joy as you cuddled your dog. It was a quiet reminder of what grounded him amid the chaos of his world, a glimpse of the happiness he cherished most.

Fans took photos and posted it online saying, “He loves her so much it can’t be even real.”

[episode six]

With the cameras buzzing in the McLaren garage, the two of you had too much time on your hands. Oscar was focused, attempting to braid your hair—a task far more challenging than he anticipated.

“Oh my god, this is so hard! It’s like a puzzle,” he groaned, frustration clear in his tone.

You couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You drive a F1 car and can’t do a braid? Osc, c’mon,” you teased, your grin widening as his struggles made the moment all the more entertaining.

Netflix narrative saying, “Let’s hope Oscar is not hairdresser in his next life.”

[episode seven]

The interviewer beamed as they addressed Oscar, “So Oscar, great job today, your first pole position, how do you feel?”

Oscar’s smile was radiant as he replied, “Yeah, just great... the car, the team,” but his gaze shifted, seeking you out in the crowd. His expression softened even more as his eyes landed on you. “My girlfriend’s here, so it’s the best,” he added, his grin unmistakably proud.

The camera panned to you, catching the sweet moment as you blew him a playful kiss, drawing even more smiles from the onlookers.

“Would you say your girlfriend is your biggest supporter?” the interviewer pressed.

Without hesitation, Oscar nodded. “Definitely, she’s just perfect,” he said, his voice brimming with sincerity and affection. It was a small yet touching moment that reflected how much you meant to him.

Fans kept saying in comments under this clip when F1 posted it, “May this love attack me.”

© norristrii 2025

[inkskinned]

the other day we were talking about balance beams because you said that your family had one of those cool winch ones that wrap around trees to make a high wire. even though i was pretty good i had to quit gymnastics at 12 because we couldn't afford dance and gymnastics but. i had something-other.

and i got excited because i think it's a funny story. i didn't have a door for about 4 years. 13-17, or there about. i only got it back because i replaced it myself.

i think my dad took it off the hinges just because his very-macho friend david had said - i do this to punish my kids. and then about a week later it was down on the ground and then eventually rotting in a shed. i used to visit it on occasion and tilt it between two boxes so i could try to walk across the side of it. i have a scar on my foot from attempting the act of balance-beam fancy dancing. it's shaped like a crescent moon. a hinge sliced into my skin when the whole thing slipped out from underneath me.

and you looked at me and you said - what the fuck?

and i said, do you want to see? because i thought the thing you were replying to was the injury. i was already undoing my shoelaces.

you're supposed to have a door, you said slowly. you were a teenager. you - i've seen your house. you lived at the end of the hall.

i didn't understand the problem. so? i wriggled out of my shoe and then my sock.

so, you said it gently, which made me slow down. you said it in the way people tell me that i experienced something bad and i have no idea that it was supposed to be something-else instead. anyone coming down the stairs or in the hallway could see directly into your room. you were in a fishbowl for four years, am i understanding that correctly?

i stared at you, and then said the other things: well, it wasn't so bad. i just wore a towel and tucked myself into a corner to change. i could always just change in the bathroom. privacy didn't really exist for any of us. i wasn't allowed to decorate so it wasn't really my room anyway. i didn't have a lot of things growing up; so it's not like i minded having a semi-public space. my siblings left me alone if i needed them to. what's the big deal anyway.

this is accidentally what emotional vampires incorrectly label as a "trauma dump". this is accidentally how you learn that my house was actually unsafe. i don't even consider this a problem, because everything else was so much worse, in a way. i didn't know it was supposed to be different. at the time, i didn't know what privacy was. i just lied about most stuff and got good at hiding in public. i haven't ever lied about this because i didn't know it was supposed to be different. i am 31.

you looked pale and ready to throw up. you had a right to a door for your room. you were a kid. someone should have helped you.

i was busy examining the sole of my foot. the scar really does look like the moon.

[pilferingapples]

#borel can play balzac but can balzac play borel? x)#the gauntlet is thrown did balzac pick it up? lol#fun fact -> petrus and balzac were talking in this period /aka the writing of les français peints par eux mêmes#

wait wait wait tell me more about that last bit?? :D

« (…) j’en puis faire une monographie qui enfoncerait les inventaires de M. Honoré de Balzac ou le testament de l’empereur. »

Pétrus Borel, Le gniaffe, Les Français peints par eux-mêmes

I can write on the subject* a whole monograph that would knock out the inventories of M. Honoré de Balzac or the Emperor’s testament

*about the gniaffe’s (aka the cobbler/shoemaker) costume

[rosy-hollow]

Your husband, Sukuna, is a menace—but he can't say no to your even bigger menace of a daughter.

He already can't say no to you—the absolute sweetheart he had fallen deeply for—so how could he stand a chance against his five-year-old daughter, who looked so much like you yet had the wrath and fury to make even hell freeze over?

It’s Yuna’s first day of kindergarten, and you and your husband have already been called to the school because of your girl's… behavioral issues.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. and Mrs. Sukuna. I, uh… as you’ve heard, Yuna has been acting disruptively in school today. We’ll have to send her home due to her actions, but I sincerely hope this doesn’t happen again."

Underneath the table, your hand finds your husband's reassuringly, squeezing it to let him know you'd handle this.

"I apologize for any inconvenience, sir... but may I know the details of what happened first?" you ask politely, maintaining a calm facade. And if the two of you weren’t talking to your daughter's school principal, Sukuna would’ve kissed you right then and there—because the moment he opened his mouth, he’d probably have a restraining order filed against him in every country.

Despite your calm demeanor, though, you were practically seething.

You knew your daughter. Yes, she had quite a temper, but to act up in such a way that caused a scene? That didn’t sound like her. And if she really had, then something serious must've happened.

The principal nods, sighing bitterly. "Apparently, there was a squabble between your daughter and another boy on the playground… He ended up with a tooth knocked out in the end."

You blink, taken aback, frowning.

Your daughter, though prone to getting angry, would never resort to violence. You and your husband raised her better than that.

Your blood simmers slightly as you take in the principal’s disdainful expression and condescending tone. You want to punch it off his face—but you don’t, much to your own chagrin.

Your husband is squeezing your hand so hard it feels like your bones might snap, but you still rub your thumb comfortingly against his knuckles.

"May I speak to my daughter? Though this behavior is unacceptable, this doesn’t sound like her at all," you say, and the principal sighs, nodding.

"Yes, but please make it quick."

You nod, mentally flipping the man off, before exiting the room with your furious husband in tow.

There, just outside, sits your daughter—wide red eyes filled with tears.

"I-I’m sorry, Mommy..." she whimpers softly, and something inside you breaks as you rush forward to envelop her in your arms.

It takes everything in you not to hunt down the people who reduced your loving daughter to this mess. And you're sure your husband isn’t doing any better—years and years of therapy doing everything it can to keep his rage at bay.

"H-He said my eyes m-made me look l-like a m-m-monster, and t-then he pushed me, and so I just pushed him back, and then he tripped over his shoelaces and his t-tooth fell out—"

Yuna is full-on sobbing now, and you freeze, holding her tightly.

Wordlessly, you pick up the small five-year-old and hand her to your husband, a glint in your eye. Sukuna stiffens, swallowing hard. His grip on Yuna tightens slightly as he watches you storm inside.

He’s only seen you mad maybe four times in your ten years of marriage—if Yuna could freeze hell over when she was angry, then you were the devil incarnate herself.

You reenter the principal’s office, slamming the door behind you. Sukuna decides to be a smart dad and take his daughter down the hall, avoiding what is definitely about to be verbal homicide.

When you finally exit the room, there's an eerily peaceful look on your face. Casually, you dust off your shirt, approaching your husband and daughter with a warm smile.

Sukuna and Yuna exchange uneasy glances.

"So~ who wants ice cream?"

Yuna’s not uneasy anymore.

Sukuna sighs.

He loves his two girls more than anything in the world—he never, ever would have pictured himself being the calmer one in the relationship, but you never ceased to prove him wrong.

That’s what he loved about you, though.

A/N: i love when beefy men are down bad for me (this has never happened)

[brookghaib-blog]

The ghost I left behind

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I wrote this with Sunshine & Rain.. By Kali Uchis, feel free to enjoy this with that on repeat to really feel it burn. Also please somebody give me HD gifs asap. Also if you hadn't read the preview yet, I recommend it!

Word count: 4,7k

Preview

--

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an ugly green tinge over the already-drab walls of the 23rd Precinct. Y/N pushed the door open with her elbow, hands full—one holding a stack of wrinkled flyers with Bob’s photo on them, the other clutching the hem of her coat closed.

The front desk officer didn’t even look up.

The bell above the door had long since stopped ringing for her.

She shuffled to the counter. She was wearing the same hoodie she always wore—his hoodie, oversized and faintly smelling of old laundry detergent and smoke. Her stomach was just beginning to curve outward, subtle but undeniable beneath the fabric. Four months.

“Hey, Ms. Y/L/N,” the desk sergeant mumbled without meeting her eyes. “You’re back.”

She placed the flyers down with quiet urgency. “I printed new ones. Better quality. I added a note about the reward this time, in case someone’s seen him.”

The sergeant sighed, his pen clinking on the desk as he leaned back.

“I told you last time. No new leads.”

“I’m not asking for a miracle,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Just—please check if anything came in since last week. A tip. A sighting. A… a body, no, not that, but anything really.”

A uniformed officer behind the counter—young, smug, cruel in that casual way people are when they forget you’re human—snorted. “Lady, you know the guy was a junkie, right? Odds are he got tired of playing house and ran off when the stick turned pink.”

Y/N’s heart splintered. Her hands clenched the flyers. “Don’t—don’t you dare say that about him.”

He shrugged. “C’mon. You don’t have to be a detective to figure it out. He got high and vanished. People like that don’t come back. Especially not to play Daddy.”

“He’s not like that!” she shouted, her voice cracking.

The room went quiet.

A throat cleared gently behind her.

“Y/N?” came the familiar rasp of Officer Cooper, stepping out from a side hallway. Silver-haired and weathered, he’d been on the force longer than most of the others had been alive. He always spoke softly, like he didn’t want to scare away whatever kindness he still believed in.

Y/N blinked back tears and turned.

“Let’s take a walk,” Cooper said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get some air.”

--

Outside, the sky was overcast. Cold. Cooper lit a cigarette but didn’t offer her one.

They stood in silence next to the station’s rusted bench. She stared down at the pavement, at her frayed shoelaces, at the grey world around her.

Then she broke.

“I can’t sleep, Mr. Cooper,” she whispered, voice small. “I dream about him every night. I wake up thinking maybe he’s home, maybe I missed a call. But then it’s just me. Just me and this baby. I don’t know what I’m doing—I don’t have money, I don’t have family. He was my family.”

Cooper nodded slowly, his expression unreadable.

“I know you’ve been kind,” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve listened. But I need more. I need you to put more people on this. I need you to look for him like he’s not just some addict you all gave up on.”

She wiped her face with her sleeve. Her tears soaked through it instantly.

“Please. Just… just try. For me. For him. For our child. Bobby wouldn’t leave me. Not like this. Not without a word. Not him.”

Cooper took a long drag from his cigarette. Then sighed.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

She froze.

His eyes softened, like he wished he could lie. Like he hated what he was about to do.

“We finally traced a lead. Someone matching Bob’s description was seen boarding a flight out of the country.”

She couldn’t breathe.

“Where?”

“Malaysia,” he said quietly.

The word hit her like a sledgehammer.

“No,” she whispered. “That’s… no, he wouldn’t… He didn’t have money. He didn’t have a passport.”

“He did,” Cooper said, sadly. “We checked. It was valid. Bought the ticket in cash. No forwarding contact. No signs of foul play.”

She staggered back, her body suddenly too heavy. Her hand flew to her belly as if to anchor herself.

“So… you’re saying he left me.”

“I’m saying,” Cooper murmured, “that we don’t believe he vanished. We believe he made a choice.”

“No,” she choked. “No, he didn’t. He loved me. We were building a life. He called me his miracle. We were deciding on a name. He cried when I told him. He held me all night and said he’d never leave.”

Cooper looked down at his shoes.

“I know, kid.”

Tears streamed down her face now, silent and relentless.

“I waited. Every day, I waited,” she sobbed. “I believed in him. I still do. He’s sick, not a monster. You’re telling me he abandoned his child before the baby was even born?”

Cooper said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Finally, she whispered, “Is he coming back ? Did he buy two tickets? He did, right, to come back to me, to us?”

Cooper crushed the cigarette beneath his boot.

“One way ticket. Maybe it's better if you go home, take a breath, and just... you can call me, ok ? I have a daughter just like you and she's an amzing mother, you will be too. You have to go to work, just rest.”

She just looked at the flyers in her hand. For months he just disappear, all her money spent in paper, organizing searches, paying potential dealers for a tip of his whereabouts.

"So this is it?"

--

2 years ago

The Cluckin’ Bucket wasn’t exactly a place dreams were made of.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of angry flies, flickering over cracked linoleum tiles and chipped yellow walls. The scent of fried oil hung in the air like a second skin, clinging to every surface. It was 11:43 PM, just seventeen minutes before closing, and the only two souls left inside were Y/N, wiping down tables, and Bob, in the back room, peeling off the heavy, foam-rubber chicken costume that had been slowly cooking him alive for eight hours.

He winced as he pulled the beak off his head, his sweat-damp hair sticking up in odd places. His T-shirt clung to his back, his jeans sagged slightly on his hips, and his bones ached in that weird, chemically induced way that only came from a cocktail of meth and shame.

He hadn’t wanted this job.

He sure as hell hadn’t wanted the chicken suit.

But here he was—twenty-something, barely scraping by, dancing on a street corner in 95-degree heat to try and convince people to buy discount wings.

He tucked the suit away in its plastic bag, sighing, and padded into the dining area, rubbing the back of his neck.

And then he saw her.

Y/N.

The new waitress.

She was crouched in front of the soda machine, elbow-deep in the syrup line, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, earbuds dangling from her neck. She was humming something—Fleetwood Mac, he thought—but he couldn’t be sure.

She wore her name tag crooked on her chest, and there was a smudge of sauce on her cheek.

But to him? She looked like she belonged in a painting.

He froze for a second too long, just staring.

God, she was pretty. And he was in a chicken suit just minutes ago. And probably still smelled like sweat and fryer grease. Cool. Real smooth.

She glanced up—and caught him.

Her eyebrows rose a little. Her mouth quirked.

“Robert, right?” she asked, tilting her head. Her voice was warm, amused, like she already knew the answer.

His throat caught. “Uh. Yeah. Bob, actually.”

“Bob,” she repeated, like she was trying it on. “Can you help me with something?”

“Sure,” he said too quickly.

She straightened, gesturing toward a box at her feet. “I’m trying to get this up to the top shelf, but it’s heavier than it looks and my arms are, like, noodles right now.”

He nodded and stepped forward, kneeling to lift the box without much effort. He was wiry, but stronger than he looked. She watched him, subtly biting the corner of her lip.

“Thanks,” she said as he set the box down on the shelf. “You’re stronger than you look.”

He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing his arm. “Yeah, well… spinning a giant arrow for eight hours a day builds muscles, I guess.”

She smiled. “Don’t sell yourself short. That costume? Kinda iconic.”

He turned bright red. “Oh, God.”

“What?” she teased. “I think it’s cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag. “I mean, it takes a certain kind of confidence to dance in a chicken suit and not die of embarrassment.”

He snorted. “More like a lack of options.”

There was a pause—just a second too long.

“Still,” she said, voice softer now, “You’ve got a good smile, Bob.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said, you’ve got a good smile.”

He swallowed, heart hammering for no reason he could explain. She was looking at him. Not through him. Not with pity. Just… seeing him. And it had been a long time since someone had done that.

They started talking more after that.

Little things. Jokes during their shifts. Late-night scraps of conversation while wiping down counters or restocking sauces. She’d bring him a free soda when she noticed him flagging. He’d sweep her section when her feet were too tired to move. Neither of them said it out loud, but it became something—a rhythm, a comfort.

He never told her about the drugs.

But she saw the shadows under his eyes. The way his hands shook sometimes. The way he chewed his inner cheek when he thought no one was looking. She didn’t ask, and he was grateful.

Until that one night.

They were walking out together. The parking lot was empty, bathed in yellow streetlight. The air was thick with humidity. Bob carried his bag over his shoulder, still fidgeting with the zipper.

Y/N was quiet beside him, arms crossed over her chest.

They reached the edge of the lot. Her car was parked beneath the flickering sign.

He stopped. She didn’t.

Then, she turned back.

“Hey,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked. “Uh. No. Why?”

She smiled—and it knocked the air out of him.

“Just wondering,” she said, stepping a little closer. “Because if you don’t… I was wondering when you were going to ask me out.”

He stared at her, stunned.

“I—I mean—I didn’t think you’d—why would you—” he stammered.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Bob. I like you.”

He swallowed. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Even with the chicken suit.”

And then, because his body moved before his fear could stop him, he smiled—wide and real.

“I… would really like that.”

“Good,” she said, walking backwards toward her car, grinning. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

He stood in the parking lot long after she drove away, heart pounding, a dumb grin on his face.

For the first time in years, the night didn’t feel so heavy.

--

Central Park in the early evening was dipped in gold.

The last fingers of sunlight threaded through the leaves like warm lace, casting dappled shadows on the grass. It was one of those rare New York days—cool but not cold, the air kissed with early autumn, the sky a watercolor blend of lavender and peach.

Bob stood awkwardly near a bench beneath a sycamore tree, tugging at the hem of his second-best flannel. His fingers twitched in his jacket pocket, where he kept the meth pipe he hadn’t touched in two days.

He was sweating.

Not from the weather.

From her.

Because Y/N was there, spreading out a gingham blanket on the grass near the edge of a pond, her hair tucked behind her ears, a small cooler bag next to her feet.

She looked like someone who belonged in the light.

He still wasn’t convinced he deserved to be sitting beside her in it.

“Okay,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from the blanket. “Don’t laugh. I made too much.”

Bob walked over slowly, hands in his pockets, watching as she pulled out a series of plastic containers and neatly wrapped foil packets. Sandwiches. Potato salad. Tiny cupcakes with blue frosting that had clearly been made with care. Even folded napkins.

“Holy crap,” he said, blinking. “Did you raid a deli or something?”

She grinned. “No, I made it. I… I like cooking.”

“For me?”

She looked at him like it was obvious. “Yeah. Who else would I be trying to impress, Bob?”

He knelt on the blanket, legs crossed, still a little stiff, watching her with barely restrained disbelief. “I just… I’ve never had anyone… you know. Do something like this. For me.”

She shrugged, setting a container between them. “Well, now you have.”

He picked up a sandwich, still stunned. “You made all this… for a guy who dresses like a poultry mascot?”

She chuckled. “I happen to like that guy.”

Bob opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He just smiled—a shy, crooked thing—and took a bite.

Bob sat on the edge of the picnic blanket, chewing slowly, trying not to look too shocked by how good the sandwich in his hand was. “Okay,” he said between bites, “you’re going to have to explain to me how you made this taste like something from an actual restaurant. What’s in this?”

Y/N grinned, tucking a napkin under her leg to keep it from blowing away. “Nothing fancy. Chicken, basil, a little Dijon, homemade aioli—”

“H-homemade? Who even makes aioli? That’s, like, elite-level cooking.”

“I like cooking,” she said simply, with a shrug. “It calms me down. Helps me feel like I’ve got control over something, you know?”

He nodded slowly, finishing the last of the sandwich. “Yeah, I get that. It’s like spinning that dumb arrow—kinda zen, if you ignore the back pain.”

She laughed. “That’s tragic. I cook to relax, and you give yourself arthritis.”

“Hey, I’m not proud.”

She passed him a small container of fruit salad, their knees brushing slightly under the blanket. There was a breeze picking up, threading through the grass, fluttering the corners of the gingham cloth. In the distance, a dog barked, and somewhere near the pond a violinist had started playing faintly.

“You live with roommates? Alone?” Bob asked suddenly, trying to picture what her place might look like. “Your kitchen’s probably better than mine. Mine’s got, like, one working burner and a fridge that sounds like it’s dying.”

She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “Actually… I live alone now.”

His brows lifted slightly, sensing the shift in her voice.

“I didn’t always,” she continued. “My ex boyfriend and I used to live together, in this little apartment off Bedford. It was cramped, noisy, walls were paper-thin… but it was kind of cozy. It felt like ours.”

Bob stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“He left about nine months ago,” she said. “For someone else. Someone with shinier hair and a ‘real’ job, probably. I don’t know. One day he said he didn’t love me anymore, and that was that.”

Bob’s chest tightened.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She waved a hand, but her smile was tinged with something older than the moment. “It sucked. But if he hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have taken the job at Cluckin’ Bucket. Wouldn’t have ended up on night shifts. Wouldn’t have met you.”

He blinked, thrown. “That’s… wow. You really think that’s a good trade?”

She shrugged again, but this time with a little smile. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

Bob looked down at the cupcakes, the homemade food, the folded napkins. All for him.

He cleared his throat. “I just don’t get it. How someone could be with you and let you slip through their fingers. That guy had the f—freaking lottery ticket and he just… walked away?”

She glanced at him, visibly surprised by the fire in his voice.

“I mean it,” Bob said, quieter now. “If it were me… I’d never let you go.”

The moment stretched between them, warm and tender.

She looked at him for a long time, something soft and wounded behind her eyes.

“You’re sweet, Bob,” she said quietly.

“I’m not,” he replied without thinking. “Not really. But I want to be.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something else, but instead she reached for another sandwich.

They sat in silence again, this time heavier.

Then Bob spoke, his voice rough.

“I don’t have anyone either,” he said. “No family. No ties. Just a bunch of mistakes and a backpack that smells like old socks.”

She looked at him. “No one at all?”

He shrugged. “Not since my mom passed. My dad was… not really in the picture. I’ve kinda just been floating since then.”

“Me too,” she said. “It’s like… we’re both ghosts in a city full of people who have somewhere to be.”

That hit him harder than he expected.

He nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I always thought,” he murmured, “that maybe I was just built to be alone. Like I was meant to burn out early. Some people are just… too messed up to fit.”

She leaned toward him, brushing a thumb gently against his hand.

“You’re not messed up,” she whispered. “You’re just… lost. And that’s not the same thing.”

His heart nearly stopped.

“You’re the first person who’s ever said that,” he admitted.

“Then everyone else was wrong.”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the sunset or the food or the warmth of her fingers against his—but he turned toward her, and for once, he didn’t feel ashamed.

“Can I… see you again?” he asked.

Her eyes crinkled with a smile.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

--

present day

The apartment was still.

Still in the way a place only gets after someone is gone—not just physically, but really gone. Like the soul of the place had followed them out the door and taken all the warmth with it.

The late afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dusty blinds, casting long stripes across the bed where Y/N lay curled on her side. Their bed. His side still had the indent of his body, even after months. She hadn’t brought herself to sleep on it, like maybe the dip in the mattress could hold his shape long enough for him to come back and fill it.

Her hand cradled the curve of her growing belly. Just past four months. She was showing now. Her body knew, even if the world didn’t care.

Across from her on the nightstand were the pictures—cheap Polaroids and one dog-eared photo booth strip from Coney Island, taped crookedly to the wall. Bob’s stupid half-smile grinned back at her in every frame. The one where he was pretending to flex with a corndog in hand. The one where he looked away, caught off-guard, cheeks red from laughing at something she said.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the picture. Her throat burned.

“God, Bobby…” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

A fresh wave of tears pressed from behind her eyes and spilled freely down her cheek, soaking into the pillow. She clutched the blanket tighter with one hand and her belly with the other.

“You left,” she murmured. “You really left.”

She bit her lip so hard it nearly split, the ache in her chest unbearable.

“I defended you. I told them you’d never run. I called every hospital, every shelter. Put up posters with your face in every goddamn corner of this city. I begged the police to keep looking because I knew something was wrong. I thought maybe you were in trouble, or hurt… or…”

Her voice broke, raw and low.

“Turns out you were just gone. Just—just done.”

She sat up slowly, wiping her face with the sleeve of Bob’s old hoodie—still too big on her, still faintly smelling like him, like cologne and smoke and something warmer.

“You saved up that money. You actually planned this,” she whispered, hollow. “You looked me in the eye… kissed me goodnight, touched our baby, and you already knew you weren’t coming back.”

Her breath hitched as her hand moved over the swell of her belly, as if trying to protect the child from the truth pressing in.

“You knew I was pregnant. And you still left. That’s what makes it worse. Not the addiction. Not the lies. That. You knew, and it didn’t stop you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I gave up everything trying to find you, Bobby,” she said, louder now, choking on the grief. “I drained what little savings I had. Every cent I scraped together went to flyers, gas, private search sites. I even hired some guy off Craigslist who said he could ‘track people down for a price.’ That was three hundred dollars I’ll never get back.”

She laughed bitterly through her tears.

“I work double shifts now just to stay afloat. Still serving greasy food to assholes who think I’m invisible—coming home to this empty fucking apartment, sleeping in a bed that feels like a coffin.”

She fell back onto the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.

“I really thought you were different,” she whispered. “I did. I thought… maybe this time, it wouldn’t end with someone leaving. I really get left for everything else at this point, not good enough, prettier women, drugs. And maybe that’s worse. Because at least he looked me in the eye and said goodbye. Or maybe…did you find a better woman Bobby?”

Her lips trembled as another sob escaped.

“You said you loved me. You said we were in this together. We made something together, Bobby. We made a life. And you just… vanished.”

She reached for the ultrasound photo tucked into the drawer and held it to her chest.

“I swear he moves and grows everytime I cry,” she whispered. “Like he knows I need a distraction.”

She ran her hand down her belly again, slower this time.

“But I won’t let them grow up thinking he or she was a mistake. Or unworth staying for.”

The room felt unbearably quiet now. Still, again. But this time, colder.

She closed her eyes and curled tighter around herself, the photos, the baby. Everything she had left.

“I’ll do this without you,” she said softly. “Even if it breaks me.”

And in the stillness, in the tiny home they had built, she stares at the ceiling. Thinking. Doubting. Is this all that life can be ? How would she be able to take care of a little human? Maybe this baby wasn't meant for her. Maybe it was someone else's place to be their mom.

Maybe that's it.

Then I will wait. Just until the baby comes.

[jo-com]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆➛ Baby Fever

Charles Leclerc x fem!reader x Alexandra Saint Mleux

Summary: The three of you raised a child together, and for two years you guys kept it a secret, but after thinking it through, you guys decided that it was finally time to show your daughter to the world.

Genre: Fluff, throuple, pregnancy, overall adorable

words: 890

TW: just some sweet rotting fluff, some grammatical error, not proofread, google translated french cause i can't speak french, sorry if i wrote it wrong.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ➛ My Masterlist

─────── ─ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ─ ───────

After finding out that the three of you were pregnant, both Charles and Alex were over the moon—excited to meet their unborn baby. The baby hasn't even come out yet, but she/he has already been loved by all three of the parents.

Time had gone by easily; the once small bump in your tummy was now growing like crazy, it was like the size of a watermelon. Your back hurts like hell whenever you stand up but lucky for you, you had the most thoughtful girlfriend ever; always helping you up when you need to. Of course charles was also helpful but he was away most of the time leaving you and alex at home-- you didn't mind though, it was his passion and he loves it plus that's what keeps food at the table so yeah.

And just like that, nine months have passed; it felt like you were just pregnant yesterday and are now ready to give birth to the growing baby in your belly.

For nine whole months, both of them were supportive and caring throughout the whole pregnancy, always being there and staying by your side whenever you needed them.

...

"Are you sure you're ready, mon amour?" Charles asked, softly caressing the roof of your daughters hair.

"I am 100% sure, cha. I am ready to show Béatrice to the world, I think we kept her a secret for a long time now."

"We agree with you, mon cœur, but we just want you to be certain. We can still hide her from the rest and live this perfect little life of ours, just the four of us," Alex said with a worried tone. 

She grabbed your hand and intertwined it with hers, slowly brining it up her lips and softly kissing the top of your hand. "Nous nous inquiétons juste (we just worry). 

You softened at her touch and smiled. "I know you guys are worried, but I just want to show the world the love of my life and that I am living my best life with the two most important people in the world."

Charles and Alex looked at you with awe. They too want to show others the perfect life you guys have; they just worry that some people won't agree with what the three of you have. But they love that you're always optimistic about things, seeing the bright side of even the worst situations.

...

The very next day, you guys decided to watch one of Charles's races, of course, bringing Béatrice along with you.

Charles was already in the paddock, doing practice laps, leaving you, Alex, and your daughter to get ready.

"Are you ready to go, ma belle?" Alex asked, peeking her head in the door frame.

"One sec, love, I am just tying her shoelaces," you replied, tying the knots of her shoes and styling them up like a little bow.

"And....done!" Alex smiled at your adorableness and walked towards to where you and béatrice sat.

Alex was now standing beside you, helping you to carefully stand up. "You look so gorgeous, mon amour," she said, resting her hands on both your waists and slowly leaning closer to give you a kiss. 

You leaned in to the kiss, your hands travelling to rest on her shoulder.

"Maman, ouf (ew)," béatrice said, making you guys break the kiss and look at your daughter. Her tiny nose scrunched up to a frown. She was trying to look disgusted, but with her chubby cheeks, it was hard to tell; she looked like a bunny trying to twitch her nose. Alex only giggled and playfully rolled her eyes. "Tu es juste jaloux (you're just jealous)." "No!" your daughter argued, standing up and lightly smacking Alex's leg. Alex then picked her up and tickling her side making béatrice giggle out loud.

Y/n smiled contentedly, her heart feeling so full of love--there's nothing more heartwarming than the sight in front of her. 

"Ok break it up you two, we have to go now"

Alex smiled and put their daughter down. "Yes, ma'am!."

...

The three of you walked hand in hand in the paddock, earning a few quite shocked faces and jaws dropping from the sudden pressence of your guys's daughter. 

Charles spotted you guys and excused himself from the interviewer. He then quickly made his way to you guys.

"Ma vie, you made it" He said cheerfully; he smiled from ear to ear and just couldn't keep it on how happy he was that you guys were there. 

"We didn't want to miss it, béatrice Je voulais soutenir son père (wanted to support her daddy)" you said, caressing his broad shoulder.

Charles couldn't contain his excitement and kissed the two of you on the cheek. 

...

Throughout the day, you guys were bombarded with questions to which you politely replied. 

All the cameras were pointed directly at your daughter; there were people who were supportive, and there were just some who weren't, and it was alright with you guys. The only thing that mattered was that your baby was the life of the paddock; everyone turned their heads whenever she passed by, earning a few aws and coos from around the pit.

"I am glad we did this," you said, intertwining Alex's hands with yours. 

"Me too," she answered, resting her head on your shoulders.

...

Charles_Leclerc just posted!

Liked by y/nursername, AlexandraSaintMleux and 2,539,236 others.

Mon monde💗💋

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…

Short fluff, idk hope this is good also😭😭, thanks for the love that you guys showed on my last post!! Really boosted my confidence in writing!!💋💋

[dog-park-dissidents]

i don't know what to do

First of all, stay alive.

Second of all, be fucking obnoxious. Do not let this unqueer you. Hiding and moderating didn't do shit so go absolutely feral. They think you shouldn't even exist? Fuck it, fisting is SFW now and rotate through a new unpronounceable neopronoun every time someone even slightly misgenders you. They want you to fucking die so live each day like it's your last and stop giving a shit.

Third of all, STAY ALIVE, DO NOT ACTUALLY DIE, specifically do not do it to yourself, ever. You will be okay. And if they want to murder you let them do it with their own shitty little hands, not yours.

Anyway. Take a deep breath and realize that we don't know how bad things are actually going to get. These people are terrifying but they are NOT smart. They have spent the past four years brooding and scheming and making it look like they were coming up with some kind of evil master plan that will actually be effective christofascism this time, but they're still monstrously incompetent. Everyone who was present during the first Trump regime who actually knew how to run anything at all has defected and left. True, they were also the people telling this fuckin nutcase not to nuke North Korea, but that is a level of apocalypse completely beyond any of our control like the fuckin sun exploding randomly, and always has been. Barring random armageddon, it is entirely possible these losers will trip over their own shoelaces trying to actually legislate you out of existence.

Honestly their first priority is probably blowing up the entire economy by putting tariffs on China and closing the border with Mexico. The price of eggs and smartphones are about to get ridiculous, a lot of people are going to lose their jobs, and all of this is going to suck but it very well may suck so much that they'll just forget to ban HRT.

Keep in mind the incoherence of what happened on election night. Trump won and so did a bunch of red state abortion protections. The first trans person made it into Congress. The people voting for the Leopards Eating Faces Party also voted for minimum wage increases, so when the leopards start actually eating their faces it's not going to go over very well. This is probably less America's Hitler and more America's Brexit, where life is going to get noticeably shittier and everyone who voted for it is going to be very shocked and confused about why everything is shittier, but we also won't all die.

Whatever happens it is not above your ability to survive. Hold your friends close. Connect to your local community. If you don't have a local community or you're legitimately stuck someplace where you're the only queer person, then it's okay to run away and never look back, but find yourself your friends, your chosen family. Stick by each other.

Our love will help us break through.

[pilferingapples]

Re: the story about Charlemagne and the ring, I grew up with that story! It's a German folk tale, with no clear origins besides handwavey "oral traditions". I never thought to look it up before, but Wiki says it's called the "Fastradasage" & that (like so many of our folk tales) it ended up in a bunch of German folklore collections in the 19th century, but I can't imagine those are the oldest written accounts. It also says Petrarch mentions the story in like the 1330s? Either way, it's def in the canon of fairytale-esque German folk tales :')

Thank you so much !! I was about to get totally lost in the Search Tabs, I would not at all have known the origin point to look for! This is so cool!

[melshifting]

HYPER-SPECIFIC HABITS/QUIRKS TO SCRIPT !! ꔫა

01 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You twist your ring—or whatever’s on your finger—clockwise when you’re excited and counter-clockwise when you’re nervous.

02 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You smile every time your phone battery hits exactly 69%. Doesn’t matter the context. That number’s got a chokehold on you.

03 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You have a special way of tying your shoelaces that makes people comment on it every time.

04 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You always turn the volume to an even number. Or a multiple of 5/any other number.

05 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You always fold your hoodie or jacket before sitting down at a café, so it becomes a soft little cushion on your chair.

06 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You instinctively lean into the person next to you when laughing, even if you haven’t known them long.

07 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You say “bye”/“hi” twice on the phone.; once regularly, and then again softer like a whisper.

08 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You lightly knock on wood or metal after saying something risky/cringy, even if you're just alone with your thoughts.

09 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You always eat the broken chips first, like you’re saving the perfect ones for a moment of glory.

10 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You give objects pep talks before using them: “don’t crash now,” “come on pen, one more sentence.” It’s pretty effective tbh.

11 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You always add exactly three shakes of sauce/spice/other to your food. Not two. Not four. Just three.

12 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You won’t drink from mugs that are too thin or have weird handles.

13 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You always check the fridge one last time before leaving, just to make sure it knows you’re coming back.

14 ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ ― You crack your knuckles in a very specific order—thumbs, then index, then the rest. Feels wrong if it’s out of sequence.

[rosierin]

stem wars | atsumu, osamu, suna

synopsis; osamu can tie cherry stems with his tongue so atsumu, suna and (y/n) try to one-up him.

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

It started innocently enough.

The four of them were gathered around the dining table, bowls half-full of fruit, the soft drone of an animal documentary playing on the TV in the background. The narrator’s voice was mellow, British, and mildly bored:

“The leopard uses stealth to approach its prey, crouching low in the tall grass…”

Atsumu had one leg propped up on the chair, slowly chewing on a cherry, fully engrossed in the program. Suna sat opposite, slouched with his hoodie half-zipped, eyes flickering idly between the screen and the bowl. (Y/n) had a cushion behind her back and one of her legs tucked under her, snacking contentedly. Osamu was methodically pitting cherries and lining up the seeds on a napkin like some sort of serial killer.

The mood was calm. Peaceful. Nobody saying a peep—until a rogue thought crossed (y/n)’s mind.

Then—

“Hey,” she piped up, chewing thoughtfully.

She earned a chorus of hums, all varying in pitch and interest.

“Can you guys do that thing where you tie a cherry stem with your tongue?”

The documentary kept droning in the background.

Atsumu blinked. “That’s a thing?”

Suna glanced over. “Can’t say I’ve tried.”

Osamu didn’t even look up. “I can.”

(Y/n)’s eyes lit up, her grin spreading like wildfire. “You can??”

Atsumu looked personally offended, cast his brother a judgemental stare. “Since when?”

Osamu shrugged, picking out another cherry. “Since I’ve been eatin’ cherries.”

Suna nodded slowly, twirling one of the fruits between his fingers. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“I ain’t buyin’ it,” Atsumu scoffed. “I don’t see how it’s even possible.“

“No,” (y/n) insisted, leaning forward now, “it’s a legit thing! Some people can just do it.”

Osamu raised an eyebrow and plucked a stem from the bowl. “Wanna see?”

All three of them responded in unison:

“Yes please.”

“Yeah.”

“Duh.”

With all the nonchalance of someone tying their shoelaces, Osamu popped the cherry in his mouth. His jaw shifted slightly. A few seconds passed.

He stuck out his tongue.

The stem was tied in a perfect little knot.

Atsumu dropped his cherry pit onto the table. “What the actual hell—”

Suna blinked. “Damn. He can actually do it.”

(Y/n) let out a breathless laugh. “That’s sick!”

And just like that, the table descended into silly competition.

Everyone suddenly had a cherry stem in hand.

Atsumu was determined. He shoved one in his mouth, brow furrowed like he was solving a math equation.

“How the fuck are ya supposed to—”

“Don’t choke,” Suna warned, already working on his own attempt.

(Y/n) giggled. “Okay, wait—how do you even start? Do you fold it or just like… twist it around?”

“Use your tongue, obviously,” Atsumu snapped, still mumbling around the stem. “What else are ya s’posed to use?”

She snorted. “It’s harder than it looks!”

Osamu leaned back with his arms folded, watching like a proud sensei. “Just takes practice.”

Then, without warning, Suna casually stuck out his tongue—and lo and behold, his stem was perfectly knotted too.

“WHAT?!” Atsumu practically shrieked. “How’d you do that?!”

(Y/n) gave him a look, mocking his tone. “By using his tongue, duh. What else are ya s’posed to use?”

Atsumu shot her a glare.

Suna shrugged, completely unfazed. “I’m multi-talented.”

(Y/n) gasped. “Okay, what is this? How are the two of you so good at this?!”

Atsumu spat his stem onto a napkin, clicking his tongue irritably. “Mine broke. This is rigged.”

Osamu, grinning now, lazily spun his tied stem between his fingers. “Guess I’m just better at usin’ my tongue. No big deal, guys.”

(Y/n) choked on air.

Atsumu’s head whipped around. “Fuck off—”

Suna’s smirk grew three sizes as he brandished another perfectly knotted cherry stem on his tongue.

(Y/n) gawked, cheeks hot as she looked between the very smug Suna and casual-as-ever Osamu.

“What?” he said, too innocently. “Just statin’ facts.”

Atsumu looked personally attacked. “Nah. You both know what yer doin’.”

Osamu bit into another cherry, lips quirking. “Can’t help it if you’ve got a dirty mind.”

(Y/n) giggled helplessly, chasing the less-than-appropriate thoughts from her head.

Atsumu reached for another stem, undeterred. “One more. I swear ’m gonna do it.”

“Give up, 'Tsumu,” Osamu drawled. “Some people just don’t got it.”

Suna tossed a cherry into his mouth, casting a sly glance at (y/n). “Then there’s those who do.”

Atsumu groaned at his third failed attempt, lobbing the seed at the wall like it was the cherry’s fault.

Osamu clicked his tongue. “Ya better pick that up.”

Atsumu huffed, picking up another cherry with unnecessary force. “Not until I figure this shit out.”

(Y/n) stilled, tugging on their sleeves. “Guys—guys—the leopard is hunting.”

Nobody paid attention.

[inbabylontheywept]

so i was having fun going through your lore tag, reading stories. most of them I read out-loud, cause reading tumblr posts to my not-tumblr husband is how i show love. the gopher-boming one brought me to tears with laughter cause of the vivid imagery and as someone who also grew up in arizona I know exactly the kind of person your grandfather was to hate gophers and cactus with such a passion. after all, i had several family members like that too. It's also been pretty neat realizing you're the guy behind a bunch of other posts I'd loved. the raw eggs one, the zombie chili garlic mint coco, the shoe incident. this was like christmas, finally overcoming my dumbass inability to recall names and faces that extends to usernames and avies in a way that blessed me with knowing it was YOU that cut all those worms in half and cried in a tree about it as a six year old. this has been fucking awesome.

anyways i started getting into your more recent stories and having fun with those, because well my husband is in the air force. so telling him stuff like the soviet pigeons one just had him nodding along solemnly as he is quite aware of the bullshit that goes on in government buildings. especially classified ones. as I got into the fridge hording one that mentioned you working on MISSILES - he realized something. there was a gasp from my side, and when i looked over a sort of dawning horror? delight? possibly both. and he said "oh my god. i've probably fucking met that guy. they do tours of the bases. oh my god" and I suddenly remembered that oh yeah, there's only like four places in the country people like you and he can work on that job.

when i reminded him you were in Utah now with that "woman that gunned it into the curb as was foretold" story he closed his eyes slowly in again the sort of realizing-and-coming-to-grips-with-that way. like he was remembering the stupid shit I'd been reading him since last night and hyper-aware that he's shook your hand at least once. he said there's no way hes ever going to meet those groups of you guys again without wondering which of them is babs. he's going to start complimenting their shoelaces. he's going to be thinking about the butter duck sculpture every time. and then he went to get his hair cut since its been out of regs for like a week

im not going to describe my appearance more than my abundance of cowlicks i mentioned before but he's gonna know when he meets babs. its not subtle.

[elodieunderglass]

I received an extremely informative and well-researched ask on the topic of the modern UK cavalry, referencing a question about how Killie would do in a cavalry AU. I didn't have much of an answer myself, but a really informed person popped into my inbox with an essay about modern warfare!

It goes to my heart to anonymise the research as the asker should receive credit for their hard work, but that’s what they asked for and I would hate to be the vessel of work shoelaces stolen from the president, etc.

Hi, hello, I'm so sorry for the lengthy special interest lore dump but I saw the "Killie in the cavalry" post and couldn't hold back from my chance to contribute to a possible Killie AU.

Please consider anonymising this, because a work friend follows you, I've so far successfully concealed my Tumblr from them and if they see this ask they will KNOW it's me--

So yes absolutely the UK still has a cavalry!

I’ve popped the rest behind the cut with a TW for military discussion.

I am not a supporter of any military, or the military-industrial complex, but I fully appreciate it as a topic of research (I could easily get obsessed with bits of it myself) and I think it's important to be informed about how the world operates. I'm very appreciative of the information and the time it took to compile it.

Today the cavalry's operational role centres around armoured combat i.e. getting in tracked, heavily armour-plated vehicles and using them to fight the enemy.

This pretty much comes in two flavours: heavy vehicles like the Challenger tank

which are designed to fight, and light reconnaissance like the Jackal

which is designed to go forward, look at the enemy, and then run away before they can get blown up.

I can see Killie in either of these roles - obviously the instinct is recce (light, fast, sneaky) but one mustn't underestimate the extent to which a main battle tank has elements in common with a thoroughbred! It's a highly advanced and specialised killing machine which can nevertheless go *catastrophically* wrong in the most unexpected ways.

For example, tanks break down every few hundred miles, so reliably that they're followed by a huge baggage train of mechanics ready to replace the broken bits; this is a standard part of all military planning and so "normal" that any officer would look at you funny if you suggested you might perhaps be able to drive their beloved vehicle, say, half the length of the UK without calling the tank equivalent of the horse vet.

The Challenger sometimes throws a tantrum if it's too wet ( https://www.msn.com/en-ie/money/other/britain-s-challenger-2-tanks-face-setbacks-in-ukraine-war/ar-AA1uC047 ) and if something goes wrong (drove over barbed wire too quickly) the crew have to spend hours "track-bashing" - removing the tracks by hand and putting them on again:

Main battle tanks like Challenger have incredible and highly advanced armour, but once something goes wrong with them in combat, it tends to go horribly wrong. The ammunition for the main gun is all carried inside the vehicle, and if enemy fire DOES penetrate the armour, it often "cooks off" the explosive ammunition inside, leading to a chain reaction. Not a good time to be inside a sealed box.

Space is VERY tight inside even modern tanks. Four people (loader, gunner, commander, driver) are working in a space smaller than the average box room full of lethal recoiling and rotating metal that loves to eat fingers (sound familiar?). Small troopers are at a big advantage here - Killie is the ideal size; tiny enough to fit comfortably in all the crevices but strong enough to sling the (20kg) rounds for the main gun around (biceps!).

Big tanks have personalities in the way that small recce vehicles don't. Some regiments also have traditions of naming their tanks - this is more of a US thing in modern times (the UK did it in WWI but I'm not aware of it happening today) but you could absolutely bend reality a little. And O Holy Thunder is a *great* name for a main battle tank.

(Side note - in WWI, tank names started with the same letter as the squadron they belonged to. So "F" Squadron tanks would all be called things like Frolic, Firespite, Ferocious. I can see a skit where the crew desperately want to call their tank Holy Thunder but the boss won't permit it because they are part of "O" Squadron, leading to...)

Going a little further, you can put Killie in the modern cavalry and STILL have him on a horse! The Household Cavalry have a dual role as operational and ceremonial troops ( propaganda here: https://www.army.mod.uk/learn-and-explore/about-the-army/corps-regiments-and-units/royal-armoured-corps/household-cavalry-regiment/ ). Troopers rotate between the two roles. The soldiers you see outside Horseguards patiently stopping their horses from eating unwary tourists are from the Household Cavalry - Killie could be one of those troopers one year, and deployed in the desert in an armoured vehicle the next.

Note that again, while those horses are trained to be disciplined, patient and very smart, when they go wrong, they do tend to go horribly wrong, sometimes in distinctly Thunder-esque ways. You may remember the Household Cavalry horses who ran amok in central London twice last year, streaked in blood and getting into fights with buses: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c886qel3wdxo

You may also remember Obelisk, the Household Cavalry horse who got sufficiently bored that he started luring pigeons in with oats dropped from his mouth and then stamping them to death. He was subsequently taken for "psychological re-training". Peak Thunder behaviour.

As a final note, while you rightly mention the class boundaries that would make a cavalry *officer* an unlikely career for Killie (these still exist today, albeit unofficially - Cavalry officers tend to be "Country Life" types from good families called Tarquin and Hettie), there's no such restriction on the soldiers, whose demographic skews more working class and urban.

Cavalry regiments tend to have wonderfully evocative and antique names (Queen's Dragoon Guards, Royal Lancers, King's Royal Hussars) and bags of tradition, battle honours, and ceremonial kit and champagne bills that cost a good deal more than the average officer's monthly income. You don't have to have an independent income - but it helps...

If the AU needed Killie to be an officer, he'd be more likely to serve in the Royal Tank Regiment, which is armoured but *not* Cavalry. This distinction is entirely a matter of tradition & history, not operational role. The RTR is the youngest armoured regiment (founded during WWI, barely 100 years old, Johnny-come-lately compared to the 3- and 400-year legacies of the Queen's Dragoon Guards etc) and nicknamed the "Chav Cav" because it does the same job as the Cavalry without any of the class hangups.

I'd suggest, however, that Killie's... style... is more suited to Trooper Killie than Lieutenant Killie. I can't really see him dealing with the pressures and strains of being responsible for the leadership, discipline and welfare of 30 young Troopers and their vehicles. He'd have a heart attack, the poor boy.

I don't even know if Tumblr will post this monster ask but the Spirits seized me and demanded I post it before going to find breakfast. I hope it brings some joy!

Thank you very much for sharing your knowledge!

[auroraharper]

Paper Rings - Maxiel

Summary:

Every team dinner, Max slides a paper ring in Daniel's finger. But the grid(except Checo) thinks that's platonic, until Max slides a diamond ring.

It’s another team dinner. One of those long, slightly-too-formal things where sponsors pretend they care about the drivers and the drivers pretend they’re not itching to go home.

Daniel’s laughing at something—something Lando said, maybe? Max isn’t sure. He’s not really listening. He’s watching.

Daniel’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, and there’s this little dimple that only shows up when it’s real—the kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep and uncontrollable. Max thinks it’s his favorite thing in the world. No, he knows it is.

Quietly, without even looking down, Max tears a strip from the napkin resting on his lap. His fingers move automatically—twisting, folding, looping. He’s done this a hundred times. Maybe more.

By the time Daniel turns toward him, grinning, Max is ready. He lifts the delicate little ring and gently takes Daniel’s hand, sliding it onto his ring finger with practiced ease.

Daniel doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t ask.

He just looks at Max like they’re the only two people at the table.

Like they’re always the only two people at the table.

“Fits perfectly,” Daniel murmurs, voice low enough that only Max can hear.

Max gives the tiniest smile. Barely there. “Of course it does.”

They sit like that for a moment too long—Max still holding Daniel’s hand, Daniel still staring at the makeshift ring like it means more than it should.

Maybe it does.

Around them, conversation buzzes. Someone clinks a glass. Checo mutters something under his breath and pointedly looks away.

But none of that touches them. Not here. Not in the quiet little bubble they’ve built out of soft glances and shared smiles and paper rings that aren’t supposed to mean anything.

They don’t need to name it.

They just need this.

………

Everyone in the paddock knows Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo have that weird intimacy.

That unnameable closeness. The kind that doesn’t need words. The way Max softens around Daniel, the rare smiles that stretch wider, linger longer. The way Daniel’s laugh seems to be Max’s favorite sound. On track, Max is a monster—ruthless, focused, untouchable. But off track? With Daniel? He’s a whole other creature. A quieter one. A gentle one.

Every team dinner, without fail, Max would tear a strip of tissue paper, twist it into a ring, and slide it onto Daniel’s finger with the kind of care you’d expect from someone proposing for real.

And Daniel? He always says yes.

They never talk about it. No one does. Because they’re just friends, right?

Right.

Ask anyone and they’ll laugh, shake their head, and say “yeah, they’re just really close.”

Except if you ask Checo.

Checo doesn’t laugh. Checo doesn’t shake his head. Checo just sips his drink and mutters something in Spanish that sounds suspiciously like “por favor, ya cásense.”

Because whatever Max and Daniel are, it sure as hell ain’t just friends.

But when Checo says this to anyone in the paddock no one believes him.

Lando Norris: "I mean, yeah, Max smiles more when Daniel’s around. But that's just 'cause Dan's funny, right? Max never smiles at me, but that’s normal. I think. Anyway, I’m sure it’s nothing. They’re just bros. Bros who make each other jewelry out of napkins. Bros who hold each other like they’re in a Nicholas Sparks movie. Totally normal."

Charles Leclerc: "Max gave Daniel his hoodie once. Said he was cold. And then watched him wear it for the next four hours with this soft, creepy smile on his face. But… that’s just friendship, no? Very… intense friendship, peut-être. But friendship!"

George Russell: "Look, I don’t see anything odd about it. Max brings him coffee, Daniel ties his shoelaces when he’s wearing gloves, they share hotel rooms even when they don’t have to—classic best mate behavior. My mates would do the same for me. Probably. Right?"

Carlos Sainz: "Max let Daniel rest his head on his shoulder after a long day and played with his hair for, like, fifteen minutes straight. But that’s… comforting! Supportive! Healthy masculinity! Muy platónico, bro."

Oscar Piastri: "They kissed on the cheek at the last afterparty. But I think it was European. Or Australian. One of the two. Or both. Definitely not romantic. Probably. But…maybe"

Checo Pérez, 100% done with everyone: "They’re married. They’ve been married for years. Max makes him fake rings every week like he’s manifesting a proposal. I once saw Daniel wipe sauce off Max’s face with his thumb. With his thumb. They do the forehead touch thing. The intimate forehead touch. Wake up, all of you."

Toto Wolff: "They’re together? That’s news to me."

Sebastian Vettel, peeking in from semi-retirement: "Wait, they’re dating? I’m confused."

Checo, whispering to himself as Max gently tucks Daniel’s hair behind his ear and kisses his temple: "This is how I go insane. This is it. This is my villain origin story."

……….

Daniel was in the middle of an animated rant with Carlos, half-laughing, half-offended about something Lando had said earlier—something about “Australian jokes not being funny unless you’re the one making them.”

Across the table, Lando was dramatically sulking, arms crossed, while Oscar looked on with the kind of calm amusement that only made Lando more dramatic.

“He’s ignoring me,” Lando muttered loudly to no one in particular. “He’s neglecting me. I am being neglected. Emotionally starved. I’m in a relationship famine.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “I brought you cookies.”

“They were oatmeal raisin,” Lando deadpanned. “Do I look like a man who wants to suffer?”

Carlos just rolled his eyes.

Daniel was still chuckling when he felt the familiar tug on his left hand—gentle, insistent. Max’s fingers closing around his wrist like they always did.

Without thinking, without even looking, Daniel held his hand out.

It was muscle memory at this point.

Max always made him a ring out of napkin or straw wrapper or whatever was within reach. And Daniel always played along—wore it like it mattered. Because somehow, it always did.

But this time… this time the ring wasn’t soft.

It was solid.

Cool against his skin. Heavy.

Daniel blinked and turned his head—

And nearly choked on air.

Because Max wasn’t sitting anymore.

Max was kneeling beside his chair, one knee to the floor, eyes locked on Daniel’s like no one else existed. He was holding Daniel’s hand with a kind of tenderness that made Daniel’s heart stutter.

And there, slid perfectly onto his ring finger, was a diamond ring.

A real one.

Shining. Certain.

“Daniel,” Max said softly. “Will you marry me?”

The whole room froze.

Carlos’s mouth dropped open. Lando gasped. Oscar blinked. George dropped his fork. Charles let out a scandalized “Mon dieu!” under his breath.

But Daniel?

Daniel gasped, eyes wide and glassy. “Are you—Max—OH MY GAWWWD.”

And then, louder, dramatic, in classic Daniel Ricciardo fashion:

“YES! Yes, you beautiful idiot, of course I’ll marry you!”

He pulled Max up in one quick motion and kissed him like they’d just won the championship. No hesitation. Just joy. Pure, radiant, ridiculous joy.

The table exploded.

Lando shrieked. “What the—!”

Carlos covered his face. “OH MY GOD.”

George was malfunctioning. “Are they allowed to—? Is this even legal here—?”

Oscar nodded. “Told you the tissue rings were symbolic.”

And Checo?

Checo stood, raised his glass, and yelled over the chaos, “TOLD YOU! TOLD ALL OF YOU! I WAS RIGHT AND YOU WERE BLIND!”

Everyone else was still in shock, eyes wide, jaws dropped.

But Max and Daniel? They didn’t even hear them.

They were lost in their own bubble again—foreheads touching, fingers intertwined, smiling like it was only ever going to be them. Like it had always been them.

Because yeah.

They weren’t just friends.

Not even close.