#also the weights won the battle today

[wookieeoftheyear]

Here’s how my Friday is going

[pucksandpower]

hiii! with the chaos that was today’s career, could I request one with driver reader that she started telling her team that she wasn’t feeling good but still wanted to continue but the next moment she isn’t answering her radio because she fainted in the car and the car goes out, the marshals take her out of the car and she doesn’t wake up, maybe she has extreme dehydration and is hot to touch, etc.

How the other drivers react when they found out, her team, etc.

Thank you

Too Hot To Handle

Max Verstappen x Red Bull driver!Reader

Summary: the Qatar Grand Prix pushed every driver to the limit … and some past the limit

Warnings: heat stroke, dehydration, crash, medical conditions

The Lusail International Circuit hums with electric anticipation, its asphalt ribbon shimmering under the floodlights. The roar of the crowd fills the night but the oppressive heat weighs on everyone, creating a contrasting atmosphere of excitement and cautious apprehension.

Standing alongside your Red Bull Racing car, you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow. In only your first year with the reigning double champions, you already have a record that has quickly become the talk of the paddock. But for all the praise and whispers, there is one voice that stands out.

“Remember, liefje, it’s not just about speed tonight. Keep hydrated, alright?” Max’s voice is full of warmth and concern. His hand rests gently on your arm.

You flash him a confident smile even though you’re battling your nerves internally. “I’ve raced in heat before, Maxie. I won in Singapore. I’ll be fine.”

He pulls you into a quick embrace, the temperature doing little to dampen the spark between you. “It’s different here. This heat ... it’s like nothing I’ve ever raced in before.”

Pulling back, you raise an eyebrow teasingly. “You worried about me, Verstappen?”

He laughs but there’s a hint of steely seriousness in his blue eyes. “Always. Just ... promise me you’ll be careful out there. For both our sakes.”

You nod, touching your helmet to his. “Promise.”

The intercom in your ear crackles to life. “Drivers, to your cars!”

You both exchange a final glance. Racing is in your blood, it’s what brought you together, but it also keeps you apart, if only for the few hours you’re no longer partners in life but competitors on track.

Sliding into your car, you secure your helmet and gloves. The world outside becomes a bit muffled but your focus sharpens. The engine’s purr is a familiar comfort, but tonight, it’s edged with the unease Max’s words left behind.

Your race engineer, Hugh Bird, checks in over the radio, “Everything good, Y/N?”

You take a deep breath, “As good as it’ll ever be. Let’s light up this track.”

“Give them a show.”

Lights out and away we go.

***

The Qatar Grand Prix unfolds with its usual mix of intensity and skill, drivers navigating tight turns and overtaking with precision. But beneath the spectacle, a subtle tension mounts. The oppressive heat, the stark floodlights, and the weight of expectation — all of it seems to be building to something.

In the garage and on the pit wall, your team closely monitors the race and your performance. Hugh occasionally chimes in with updates, “You’re doing great, Y/N. Remember to hydrate whenever you need to.”

You nod even though he can’t see it, “Understood. The heat’s something else in here.”

A pause. Then, “Just keep stead. And Max told GP to tell me to tell you to remember what he said.”

A smile touches your lips, “I always do.”

***

The track is a blur as you push your car to its limits, feeling the adrenaline surge in tandem with the roar of the engines. It’s as if the heat has seeped into your very core, burning with intensity. Each lap feels slightly longer, every turn a tad sharper, as the humid air takes its toll.

“Y/N,” Hugh radioes through, sounding distant and slightly distorted by the pounding in your head, “you’re P2. Great pace. Remember to sip some water.”

A trickle of sweat runs down the side of your face, stinging your eye. Blinking rapidly, you reach for the button that activates your hydration system.

“Got it,” your voice sounds foreign even to your own ears. The water is lukewarm and tastes metallic, not as refreshing as you had hoped.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he urges.

With every lap, the world outside your visor seems to grow brighter, the floodlights shimmering like mirages in a desert. The race has become a battle, not just against other drivers but against the environment and, increasingly, against yourself.

“You’re dropping pace. Is everything alright?” Hugh’s concerned voice crackles through.

A knot tightens in your stomach. “I don’t know. I ...” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as a wave of overwhelming dizziness hits.

You can hear the alarm in your engineer’s voice becoming more pronounced. “Y/N, talk to me. Do we need to pit?”

The heat wraps around you, constricting, making it difficult to breathe. Your hands, slick with sweat, struggle to grip the wheel even through your gloves. “Guys ... I don’t ... feel ...” The world spins and your words falters.

“Y/N? Y/N, talk to me!”

But before you can respond, before you can even finish your sentence, the world tilts and blurs into an incomprehensible whirlwind. The sweltering heat, the relentless pursuit of victory, and the weight of expectation converge into a maelstrom that engulfs you entirely.

Your hands, once deftly steering the RB19, now hang limply by your sides. The car veers off the track, careening towards the barriers. Panic rises in you but it’s too late. Your body refuses to act.

The deafening sound of metal against metal fills your ears, followed by the nauseating sensation of impact. The world outside your cockpit twists and spins, a kaleidoscope of colors and chaos. Then, abruptly, it all goes dark.

In the garage, your team watches in horror as the monitors show the violent crash. The radio falls silent, the connection severed. In that heartbeat, the world goes eerily quiet, punctuated only by the distant echoes of screeching tires and the blaring alarms.

Moments pass like hours and finally the static on the radio clears, replaced by your frantic race engineer, “—please respond. Y/N? Are you okay?”

But there’s no response. Your world remains shrouded in darkness as the circuit comes to a standstill, gripped by an eerie silence that drowns out even the most deafening of cheers.

The track is plunged into chaos. Red flags wave fervently, signaling danger. Marshals rush towards your wrecked car, their fluorescent jackets contrasting brightly against the night.

“Get her out! Get her out!” One of the marshals shouts as they reach your car. Your limp form is carefully extracted and they begin immediate first aid. The severity of the situation is clear — the heat, the dehydration, it’s all taken its toll.

The crowd watches, a collective gasp filling the air soon replaced by a thick, heavy silence. As your unconscious form is stretchered away, the weight of all those warnings crashes down.

Back on the pit wall, four words whispered into the radio are the first of many about to turn your boyfriend’s world upside down.

“Safety car, safety car.”

***

“Max, we’re pitting this lap. Box, box,” the calm, steady voice of Gianpiero Lambiase, Max’s race engineer, instructs over the radio.

Max’s voice is curt, his mind still on the race. “Why? Tires feel fine.”

“Non-negotiable. Safety car is out. We need you to pit now.”

The urgency in GP’s voice is not lost on Max and he immediately senses that something is wrong. “What happened? Why is there a safety car?”

Silence follows for a heartbeat too long. “There was an incident. Just focus on your race.”

An icy dread seeps into Max’s bones. The circuit is massive yet his world feels terribly small at this moment. “Who was it? Who crashed?”

His engineer hesitates, and in that pause, the weight of a thousand possibilities presses on Max.

“Who. Was. It?”

GP wavers, “It’s … Y/N.”

Max’s breathing becomes ragged. Panic and fear flood his system. “Why the hell wasn’t I told immediately?”

“It was team orders. The decision was made to keep you focused on the race.”

Max laughs but it lacks any humor. “Team orders? You’re saying Christian decided not to tell me that Y/N ... my Y/N is hurt?”

“Yes,” the reply is uncharacteristically soft, “It was believed to be in everyone’s best interest for you to be fully focused on the race.”

Max has never felt such white-hot rage. He spits into the radio, seething with fury and pain. “You tell Christian that if he ever makes a decision like that again about someone I love, I’ll cut his balls off with a rusty spoon.”

“Max, I understand you’re upset. But right now, we need you to stay focused.”

Stay focused? When the love of his life is in potential danger? The weight of what that means presses down, threatening to crush him. “I need to see her,” he finally rasps out, voice breaking.

The plea hangs in the air, met by another long silence. Finally, the radio clicks on again, softer than ever. “Y/N would want you to finish. You know that. Win this for her.”

Tears blur Max’s vision, mixing with the sweat already pooling in his helmet, but he nods, a silent assent. The roaring engine now sounds distant, the glinting lights a backdrop to the storm that rages within him. Every second is an eternity, every turn a test of his resolve to keep racing. But Max drives on, pushing his limits for you.

Every fiber of his being silently screams your name, a prayer or a promise or both, Max doesn’t know. All he knows is that the faster he crosses the finish line, the sooner he can be with you.

For the world watching, the race continues, cars whizzing by. But for Max Verstappen, each lap, each second, is a race against his own heart, torn between duty and desperate love.

***

“Her pulse is erratic! Get the defibrillator ready!” A medic shouts as the emergency team frantically works around you, the ambulance parked haphazardly nearby.

Another voice, calmer but filled with urgency, counters, “Wait, give her a moment. She might come around.”

“Come on, Y/N,” A young medic mutters, pressing an oxygen mask to your face. “Don’t do this.”

The ambulance door opens again, the head medic speaking into a radio, “We need an airlift, now. The situation’s deteriorating rapidly.”

Another voice, muffled, replies, “The helicopter’s on its way! Clear the area.”

As the medics continue to administer aid, working desperately to stabilize you, the chief medic tries to maintain order, “Every second counts. This heat stroke is severe, coupled with dehydration ... it’s a nightmare scenario.”

“We should have had more cooling stations,” the younger medic mutters. “The humidity coupled with the heat ... it’s brutal tonight. And we’re not even the ones out there driving.”

The older medic takes a deep breath. “That is on the organizations. We can’t fix there mistakes but we can focus on what happening now and do everything we can to get her through this.”

The thrum of helicopter blades soon overwhelms the noise of the circuit, growing louder as it approaches. Soon, the bright light from its landing spotlight punctuates the night. “The helicopter’s here!” Someone shouts.

“Alright, team, on three,” the chief medic commands. They work in perfect sync, lifting you carefully but quickly, your body still unresponsive.

As they approach the helicopter, the pilot shouts over the roar, “We’ve got the best onboard. She’s in good hands.”

“She’s one of our best,” the younger medic shouts back. “She has to be okay.”

The chief medic, securing you inside, murmurs more to himself than anyone else, “Come on, Y/N. The race isn’t over. Keep fighting.”

***

“You expect me to smile and stand on that podium knowing she’s been airlifted to a hospital?” Max’s voice trembles with rage as he confronts the FIA officials blocking his way.

“Mr. Verstappen, there are rules, procedures,” an official replies stiffly.

“Rules? Y/N might be fighting for her life right now and you want to talk to me about rules?” Max’s hands clench and unclench as he physically holds himself back from throwing a punch.

Another official steps forward, trying to mediate, “Max, we understand your feelings but millions of viewers are watching. The podium is an essential part of the race.”

Max’s eyes flash with anger. “You think I care about a trophy when my girlfriend is in a hospital? Do you really think that piece of metal means anything to me right now?”

“We sympathize— ” the first official begins but is cut off by Max’s heated response.

“You sympathize? Do you even know what that word means?” He’s on the verge of breaking, voice barely above a whisper as he continues, “She is everything to me. Everything. And you want me to smile and wave for the cameras?”

The air grows thick with tension. The two drivers from McLaren waiting for their cue to go to the podium are silent, their eyes darting between Max and the officials.

A new voice interjects , “Let him go.”

It’s Lewis Hamilton, who despite DNFing early in the race, made his way across the paddock after seeing the distress on his rival’s face. “There are things more important than a ceremony.”

The officials exchange glances, clearly not expecting this intervention. But before they can reply, Max levels them with a final scathing look. “Fine me if you must! Penalize me! Suspend me for all I care! But I am going to her.”

And off he goes.

***

A nurse at the desk recognizes Max immediately when he runs into the hospital. “Mr. Verstappen,” she begins hesitantly, “Miss Y/L/N is in the ICU. Room 302.”

He doesn’t need any further prompting to sprint down the hall. Reaching the room, he stops dead in his tracks. You’re there, surrounded by machines that beep and whirr, tubes running to and from you, an oxygen mask on your face. The sight of you, once so full of life, now frail and vulnerable, breaks him.

His voice, when he finally managed to finds it, is a choked whisper, “Y/N ...”

Approaching the bedside, Max gently takes your hand, feeling its clamminess. “Hey, liefje ... it’s me,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles. His tears fall freely, wetting the back of your hand.

“Come on, love,” his voice cracks as he continues, “You’ve got to pull through this. For us.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tracing the familiar curves and lines he’s come to adore. “Remember that time in Monaco? When we snuck out for that secret dinner that our trainers would have killed us for? We promised each other forever that night. You can’t leave me now. Not when we’ve got so many more memories left to make.”

The room’s silence is punctuated only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor in a cruel reminder of the fragility of the moment.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs. “Please ... please come back to me.”

Leaning in, he rests his forehead against yours, allowing the weight of his anguish, love, and hope to flow between the two of you in the sterile room.

***

Nothing has changed. The steady beep of the heart monitor still punctuates the silence of the hospital room. Max sits vigilantly at your bedside, his hand gently clasping yours.

It’s been three days since the crash and you still have not woken up. The doctors say your condition is stable but uncertain.

Max leans in close and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Morning, liefje. I’m still here. Not going anywhere.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle as if you might break. In the stark hospital lighting, the dark circles under his eyes are visible. Sleep hasn’t come easy to him, not with you lying here.

A soft knock at the door draws Max’s attention. Hugh pokes his head in hesitantly. “Hey, Max. Any change?”

Max shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Nothing yet. But she’s fighting. I know she is.”

Your race engineer steps further into the room, his expression solemn. “I should have seen the signs earlier. Pushed her to hydrate more. Slowed her pace.” His voice catches, “It was my job to look out for her.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Max says firmly. “Y/N is stubborn. We both know that. She wanted to prove herself.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “It’s what makes her brilliant.”

Hugh pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the bed. For a moment, the two men sit in pensive silence. Then your race engineer speaks again, softer this time. “Has she ... has she responded at all? Squeezed your hand or anything?”

Max clenches his jaw and stares past Hugh at the blank wall. “No. Nothing yet. But I know she can hear me. I tell her about training, the team ... I update her on everything. She’ll want to jump right back in when she wakes up.”

Footsteps approach and a nurse enters, checking the equipment and your vitals. After making some notes on a chart, she offers an encouraging smile. “No change but she seems stable. Just keep talking to her. Familiar voices help.”

After she departs, Hugh leans forward, clasping your still hand. “Hear that, Y/N? You’ve got to wake up. The team needs you. Your fans are all rooting for you. And ...” His voice cracks. “I need my driver back.”

Max looks at him gratefully. “We all need her back.” Reaching out, he gives your race engineer’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Another knock sounds. This time, it’s Christian. His face is etched with guilt and worry. “Max. Any improvement today?”

Max’s expression hardens. He hasn’t forgotten Christian’s decision to withhold news of your crash. But his voice remains even as he responds to the team principal. “Nothing new.”

Christian pulls up a chair next to Hugh. He chooses his next words carefully. “Max, I need to apologize. I made the wrong call that night. You deserved to know immediately about Y/N. My priorities were skewed.” His voice shakes slightly. “Seeing her like this ... I would give anything to go back and change what I did.”

Max studies him for a long moment and some of the hardness leaves his eyes. “I appreciate that. But right now, the past doesn’t matter. All that matters is her getting better.”

Christian nods. Reaching out, he gently smoothes your hair. “You hear that, Y/N? We’re all here for you. Your whole team. Now you need to come back to us.”

A heavy silence settles on the room once more. The three of them remain clustered around the bed … keeping vigil … willing you to show any small sign of recovery.

After some time passes, the ringing of Hugh’s phone snaps the three men out of their thoughts. “Sorry to interrupt,” your press officer’s voice filters through the speaker, “but the team’s on the line. They want to send their well wishes to Y/N.”

Hugh glances at Max questioningly who nods, “Patch them through. Let the whole team remind her why she needs to wake up.”

A smile tugs at your race engineer’s lips. “You got it. Go ahead, team. She can hear you.”

A chorus of voices floods the room. Your mechanics, pit crew, strategists, PR team … everyone chimes in with encouraging messages.

“Come on, Y/N! We need our star girl back on the grid.”

“You can do this, kid. You’re the toughest one out there!”

“We all believe in you. Keep fighting!”

Max grips your hand tighter, emotions threatening to spill over. Even Christian and Hugh have sheens of tears in their eyes.

“Alright,” your race engineer says after the team signs off. “You heard them. Time to wake up.”

And that’s when Max feels it. A short, weak squeeze of his hand.

Then your eyelids begin to flutter.

“Y/N?” Max leaps to his feet, leaning over you anxiously. “Can you hear me?”

Slowly, painfully, your eyes open, taking in the scene around you. Confusion clouds your expression. “M-Max?” You rasp.

A brilliant smile breaks across Max’s face. Relief floods through him so powerful that his knees nearly buckle as he chokes out, “Yes, yes it’s me! You’re back, liefje. You’re really back.”

Hugh lets out a shaky laugh, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Welcome back, superstar.”

You try to speak again but Max hushes you gently. “Save your strength. We’ve got all the time in the world to talk.”

Christian grins, looking years younger. “Oh thank god. I need to tell the team. They’ll be thrilled. Welcome back, Y/N.” He hurries from the room, phone already in hand.

Your race engineer squeezes your shoulder. “Get some rest. We’ll all be here when you wake up.”

As he and the nurse move discreetly out of the room, you gaze up at Max. “You ... you stayed.”

Max lifts your hand to his lips, blinking back tears. “Of course I stayed. I’ll always stay by your side.”

He leans down, pressing his lips against your chapped ones. All the fear, the uncertainty, the heartache of the past few days melts away.

You’re back. You’re really back. And Max knows, without a shred of doubt, that your lives from this day on will be greater and more meaningful than all your wildest dreams.

***

In the following days, drivers from across the grid make the pilgrimage to your hospital room. They come bearing gifts — flowers, balloons, even a nearly life-size plush race car. But more importantly, they come bearing a message.

“That race should never have happened,” Lewis says solemnly, handing you a get-well card covered in signatures. “The heat was dangerous. We should have acted sooner.”

Esteban grips your hand tightly. “I’m sorry, Y/N. We should have spoken up about the conditions sooner. We all suffered but you suffered most.”

“Your crash woke us all up,” Lance adds. “No trophy is worth risking drivers’ safety even more than we already do each race.”

You’re moved by their solidarity but sigh knowingly. “The FIA would never have listened to just one driver saying something. But maybe they’ll listen to all of us.”

Max’s jaw clenches, residual anger simmering beneath the surface. “They have to listen. We won’t race in unsafe conditions again.”

The other drivers nod, They know the power that you all wield together and for the first time in a long time, you are going to use it.

In a show of outspoken unity, the GPDA drafts a strongly worded letter condemning the lack of caution around extreme heat and demanding tangible changes to make sure drivers aren’t put in avoidable jeopardy.

All twenty of you threaten to strike.

To your surprise, the FIA not only apologizes for the oversight but pledges to implement the requested changes immediately.

“Your crash was a wake-up call,” the FIA president says solemnly during a visit to your hospital room. “We should have protected you better. That will never happen again.”

When he departs, you let out a long breath, leaning back against the pillows. The anger and hurt from that night haven’t disappeared entirely but you feel a sense of hope, that some good has come from the experience.

Max clasps your hand between both of his. “What you went through is unacceptable but you used that to make the sport safer for every driver out there. I’m so proud of you.”

You give him a tired smile. “We did this together. All of us.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest. When you’re better, we’ve got plenty more checkered flags to take. Side by side.”

The long road to full recovery still lies ahead. But with Max by your side, and all the drivers behind you, you know everything will be okay.

The race goes on but it will be a safer race thanks to you.

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

I’m having too much fun with this someone stop me—

Important to note that I have wanted a speech-capable bird as a pet for pretty much my entire fcking life and have yet to have had the opportunity. Parrot, crow, raven, I care not, just. Chatty bird please.

I did get to meet a parrot one time when I took my niece trick-or-treating and I was dressed as a pirate who tf woulda guessed right not like I have a ton of clothes in my closet that I can use to throw together an impromptu pirate costume at a moment’s notice or anything hahahahaaaaanyway, and one of the people handing out candy was this older gentleman dressed as a pirate WITH AN ACTUAL FUCKING PARROT AND I GOT TO HOLD IT ISTG I ALMOST CRIED

My niece and I got extra candy out of the deal, too. Best Halloween ever.

ANYWAY. Writing a character in animal form is always a shitload of fun, and I am living for this nonsense.

And how mad this sassy mfer is going to be when he figures out what's going on SCREEEE

Flight Risk

Young!Mihawk x Marine!AFAB!Reader

Ch.5 of who even fcking knows,probably at least seven at this point

Brief summary of The Story So Far: Your mission, as a Marine and Zoan type devil fruit user (gray parrot), is to gather intel on Dracule Mihawk, a pirate on the Grand Line who has become a thorn in the Marines' side over a relatively short period of time.After finally arriving at Kuraigana Island after months of training, you discover that the Red Hair Pirates are also docked there while their Log Pose syncs and they repair their ship after a small battle...and, on the verge of fighting with Mihawk after spending the past half an hour or more taunting him, Shanks is the first to notice you perched in a nearby window in your devil fruit form.

Previous chapter, First chapter

Next chapter

SFW for now, but not in later chapters

No Trigger Warnings in this chapter. Possible future Trigger Warnings for imprisonment, mild torture (definitely psychological, maybe physical)

Tags: Enemies to lovers, eventually NSFW, idk maybe more later

Word Count:3,618

Taglist:@i-am-vita

♫♬Acid Jazz Singer- The Fratellis♬♫

And it’s one time, keep it slow, wind them up and here we go

Get it right today and you may still be here tomorrow

Your entire world slowed around you as you considered the situation you had just embedded yourself into. Not one, but three powerful pirates, two of whom were staring straight at you.

One of whom looked as though he had just won his weight in gold at the mere sight of you.

Your act, you had to remember your act, your persona, a simple pet of one of many ill-fated pirate crews on the Grand Line. Fear was surely still a reasonable enough reaction to the sight before you, then.

So, without another thought, you ruffled your feathers out into a defensive stance, throwing your head back and flapping your wings rapidly, shouting, “Danger! Danger! Danger—”

“Oh—no, no, no, no, no danger, it’s—stop that, I’m busy—”

Shanks shoved Mihawk’s sword away and slowly sheathed his own sabre, holding his hands up as he slowly inched toward the window you were perched in, as if to show that he posed you no thread.

“It’s fine, we’re all friends here,” said Shanks went on softly, hands still raised, inching ever closer to the window of the castle you remained perched in. You took a cautious step back in spite of yourself, your eyes darting around, quickly assessing the situation at hand.

Mihawk was all but gawking at Shanks in a mix of utter disbelief and quickly growing rage—Shanks had, after all, spent the past half hour antagonizing him into a fight, only to withdraw the moment he was distracted.

Beckman’s gaze remained far more level, his brow furrowed as he watched your reaction to Shanks’s approach.

So you quickly ducked backward into the darkened room of the castle behind you, hiding behind the corner.

“N—no, no, don’t hide, it’s alright—we were just having a little a fun, isn’t that right, Hawkie?”

“I swear to God, Red-Hair—” you heard the other pirate respond through gritted teeth, clinging to the wall just inside the window with your talons, your heart racing.

“See?” Shanks went on, ignoring his murderous tone. “Just a little fun, that’s all, you’re safe—”

You stared in growing trepidation as he reached his hand slowly through the window, and the moment it was an inch away from you, you bit down hard on one of his fingers.

“Ow—” He pulled his hand back in an instant, and you could practically hear him pouting when he spoke again. “...it bit me.”

“What the hell did you think it was going to do, join your damned crew?” said Mihawk, giving a derisive scoff.

“Yes,” said Shanks, defensively.

“No,” said Beckman firmly.

“But—!”

“I spend enough time cleaning up your messes, I’m not cleaning up bird shit all over the ship on top of it.”

“I’d clean up after it.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, come on—Hawk-Eye, you’re part bird, help me get it—”

“I’m not part bird, you complete moron,” snapped Hawk-Eye. “Get the damned thing yourself.”

Shanks was quiet for a long moment as you fought to gain control of your breathing, to calm your racing heart...and then—

“Fine, if you wanna clean up bird shit all over your castle—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake…”

You heard quickly approaching footsteps following the irritated grumble, and part of you considered ducking further back into the castle...but you knew you couldn’t. You shouldn’t. This was your opportunity.

A moment later you let out a strangled squawk as his hand closed around your neck and he jerked you away from the wall you were clinging to. He held you out at arm’s length, still scowling. Shanks slumped back against the castle wall, still pouting. “How come it didn’t bite you?” he complained.

“Because I was smart enough not to give the damned creature a chance to,” he shot back, tossing a brief glare at Shanks before turning his yellow eyes back on you.

You steeled your nerves before tilting your head to the side and blinking a few times, and forced out in the most chipper tone you could muster, “Hiya!”

Shank’s jaw dropped in borderline outrage, but Mihawk only lifted an eyebrow. Beckman gave an amused scoff as he ashed his cigarette. “Looks like you made a friend, Hawk-Eye.”

“That’s not fair,” said Shanks, pushing away from the castle wall and approaching. “I was being nice and—”

As he drew closer, you ruffled your feathers out again, shouting, “Danger! Danger!”

“I’m not the dangerous one, he is!” Shanks shouted back, gesturing at Mihawk.

“Yelling probably isn’t going to help, Cap,” Beckman pointed out, crossing his arms and smirking at the spectacle. Mihawk was still holding you at arm’s length as you continued shouting, his yellow eyes shifting between you and Shanks. He shifted his arm, holding you further away from the redhead, and you quieted down. Then, just as slowly, with the slightest spark of interest in his expression, he shifted you closer to Shanks again.

You immediately resumed shouting.

“I don’t think it likes you very much, Red Hair,” he said, his lips curling into a smirk at the dejected look that fell over Shanks’s face. Mihawk held you further away from him again, his grip loosened around your neck now, and you expelled a sigh, your feathers smoothing back down. You still remained tense, well aware that he could easily snap your neck in a moment’s notice if you made a single wrong move...but his amusement at Shanks’s disappointment was likely a good sign. If all you had to do was continue to insult him, then you were sure you could manage.

“Stupid bird,” Shanks complained, kicking at a piece of rubble and slumping back against the pile of stone next to Beckman, crossing his arms.

“I’m fairly certain there’s only one birdbrain in the immediate vicinity, Red Hair,” said Mihawk.

“Birdbrain!” you repeated, and his eyes shot back over to you as Beckman gave a snort of laughter. You tilted your head again. “Hiya!”

“...Hello,” he said dryly—and finally released you from his grasp without any notice, causing you to drop to the ground before you could so much as flutter your wings. You quickly hopped back up to your feet, ruffling your wings out a bit to shake the dirt off of them, and flew back over to the windowsill you had been perched in, turning your head around to preen your feathers while the three pirates watched you in bemusement.

“Strange creature,” Mihawk commented after a moment, turning and striding back over to the broken wall and taking a seat again.

“I don’t think they usually talk in wild,” said Beckman. “Probably came from a ship.”

You turned your head quickly at the word ship, squawking out, “Wind in your sails! Wind in your sails! Hard to port, boys!”

“Aaaagh!” Shanks groaned again, flopping his head back dramatically. “It’s not fair, I want it—”

“Birdbrain!”

“Oh, shut up,” he snapped, and it wasn’t entirely clear whether it was in response to your comment or Mihawk’s small chuckle of amusement.

“Well.” Beckman straightened out, stubbing out his cigarette on the crumbled stone behind him and flicking the butt away. “I think it’s pretty clear the locals don’t want us here, Captain.” Shanks tossed a glare at his first mate, but straightened out himself, arms still crossed over his chest, lips still pursed in a pout.

“Fine…” he sighed, his arms falling limp at his sides. He rolled his eyes over to Mihawk, quickly regaining his composure and giving his so-called ‘friend’ a debonair grin. “I look forward to our next little visit, Hawk-Eye.”

“That makes one of us,” Mihawk commented in his typical dry tone, laying his sword out across his lap again without so much as glancing up.

You watched from the corner of your vision as Shanks and Beckman disappeared into the shadow of the surrounding dense forest, relaxing only the slightest bit at their departure. You had managed to fool all three of them so far, and evidently made a good first impression on your target. That was good. That was progress. You turned your gaze back toward Mihawk slowly, swallowing, debating on your next move.

And froze when he lifted his head suddenly, looking directly at you as if he had sensed your gaze.

He then rolled his eyes and went back to detailing his sword.

“You’re free to leave any time,” he said.

You quickly perked up, letting out another excitable, “Hiya!” He let out a small growl of annoyance in response, grumbling something under his breath about that idiot Red-Hair, to which you responded, “Birdbrain.”

He let out another amused chuckle, before freezing and looking back up at you with a frown. “Stop that. Just—shoo.”

It seemed his annoyance stemmed more from his own reaction to you rather than toward your presence itself, from the fact that he was already interested in you and your presence seemed to threaten his solitary existence.

This could be a good thing, you decided. If nothing else, he was intrigued, and you knew you could work with that.

Once he had turned his attention back to his sword, you hopped down from the edge of the window and to the dusty ground below, keeping your eyes trained on the pirate as you inched slowly closer, sidestepping against the edge of the castle wall.

Freezing in place when his eyes shot toward you again.

Inching a little further, a little closer when he lowered his gaze again.

Freezing yet again when he looked up. He frowned at you for a long moment, standing still as a statue, your gray plumage blending you right into the stone castle wall behind you. Several tense seconds passed before he heaved a sigh, leaning back the slightest bit. “You’re a persistent little pest, aren’t you?” he said, lifting an eyebrow...and then slowly, almost reluctantly, he raised his arm, holding it out toward you.

Progress.

You fluttered your wings, flying the short distance over and landing on his forearm near his wrist, wrapping your talons around carefully to keep your balance. He lifted an eyebrow at you as you perked up and let out another enthusiastic, “Hiya!”

“Yes, hello,” he said, almost dismissively.

“Hiya!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he grumbled, shaking his head and running his free hand back through his hair. “What are you even doing here? Lost your old crew?” He gave a small scoff as you tilted your head. “What were they? Pirates? Marines?”

As if prompted, you immediately ruffled your feathers out around your neck, flapping your wings in agitation—”Danger! Danger! Dan—”

He jerked back the slightest bit at your reaction, and you snapped your beak shut at the sudden motion. He turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing, his expression more curious than annoyed. After a moment he spoke, almost carefully. “Pirates.”

He was testing you. You ruffled your wings a bit, and turned your head around, preening your feathers without showing the slightest sign of interest.

“...Marines—”

“Danger! Danger! Hard to port! Fire at will! Fire—”

“Alright, alright, enough,” he snapped, shaking his arm, wincing a little as you tightened your talons a bit. He heaved a sigh when you settled down. “I suppose it’s safe to assume you’re not particularly fond of...er, the bureaucracy.” He lifted an eyebrow as you loosened your talons, and inched sideways across his arm, your movements slow and cautious. “What are you doing?” You inched a bit further, keeping your eyes trained for any sign of him striking out—and you saw none.

A little closer, until you were nearly on his shoulder, deciding to push your luck to gauge his reaction.

You leaned your head back, and let out a dramatic, “Mmm-mwah! Pretty bird.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression deadpanning, blinking at you slowly.

“You’re worse than Red-Hair,” he said finally.

“Birdbrain!”

“Indeed he is,” he agreed—and then shook his head, shifting his shoulder toward you as if to shift you further away. “Why the hell am I talking to a bird—shoo already—”

You gave a startled squawk, shifting quickly back down the length of his arm, settling closer to his elbow and tilting your head to the side. His mouth fell into a frown, and he shook his arm a bit, in more an experimental manner than an aggressive one, testing your reaction again.

“Shoo,” he said once more, far less firmly.

You lifted one of your wings, ducking your head back behind it...and slowly lifting it to peak out at him, noting the small spark of interest in his gaze despite his best attempt to continue appearing annoyed.

“Pretty bird!” you exclaimed once more, a bit more quietly this time, before ducking your head back down behind your wing again.

He remained silent for some time, and you remained still, waiting for any sign of reaction from him. Finally he heaved out a long sigh, his posture relaxing again. You lifted your head to peak out over the top of your wing again as he looked at you with an irritated sort of resignation. “Yes, fine,” he said dryly. “Pretty bird.”

“Pretty bird!” You folded your wing back behind you, bobbing your head up and down a couple times, your own tension easing as he let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. “Pretty, pretty girl,” you added, punctuating the statement with a low whistle.

“Oh, so you’re a lady, are you?” he said with a wry smirk. “I suppose I should apologize for my rudeness.” Despite his clear sarcasm, he gave another small chuckle, tentatively lifted his free hand toward you, and lightly brushed his index finger across the gray feathers at the side of your head. “You know, you’d likely have been far better off following that idiot Red Hair back to his ship.”

“Birdbrain!” you commented, tilting your head toward his hand as he gave a small snort of amusement.

“Yes, the birdbrain,” he agreed with another light chuckle, his wry smirk shifting toward a small, genuine smile. He went on stroking your feathers idly for a moment, shaking his head. “And what, precisely, am I supposed to do with you?”

If nothing else, it was comforting to know that his violent nature didn’t extend beyond humans. He was warming up to your presence far more quickly than you had anticipated he might, but your own knowledge was limited solely to the intelligence the Marines had gathered from his reign of terror and bloodshed across the vast expanse of the Grand Line. His interactions with Shanks suggested he certainly preferred a solitary existence, and that his initial dismissive attitude toward your presence may have been more for show than anything, for the very sake of keeping up his reputation.

Nothing about his present demeanor suggested any of that. The fondness in his eyes as he surveyed your own reactions was almost comforting in itself, almost familiar—you had seen the same look in you mother’s eyes when she cared for the birds at the aviary, felt the same fondness for the creatures when you helped look after them.

It took some effort for you to remind yourself that you were dealing with an incredibly dangerous pirate, dangerous enough that the World Government considered him a threat.

“Pretty bird!” you said again, cooing the words out, watching as he let out a huff of amusement.

“What a vain creature you are,” he commented, smoothing back the feathers at the top of your head. “Though I doubt you can survive on compliments alone. And if Beckman’s correct, you’re likely not suited to living in the wild...the humandrills don’t particularly take kindly to any new creature in their territory…” You only tilted your head in response as his words turned toward introspective mutterings, his mouth turning down into a thoughtful frown.

At length he let out a sigh, rolling his eyes and lying his head back for a moment. You tensed as he stood up, lifting his sword with one hand and resting it back across his shoulder, clearly making an effort to hold his opposite arm steady in front of him as you remained perched there, still frowning at you with an air of resignation.

“I suppose I have some reading to do if you aren’t going anywhere,” he said.

You could hardly believe your luck as he shook his arm out slightly, directing you to shift over to his shoulder. You followed the wordless instruction quickly, your talons grasping lightly at the fabric of his shirt to keep your balance as he stooped down to pick up his plumed hat. Rather than the obstacle that Garp and Bogard had assumed they would be, the brief presence of the Red Hair Pirates on the island had practically ensured your initial success at winning over the otherwise reclusive target of your mission.

If you managed to come out of this mission alive, you were going to be certain to rub that in both of their faces.

Minutes later you were perching in one of the high windows of the castle, watching as Mihawk drew his fingers across the rows upon rows of dusty books in the orange glow of the candlelight in the library, his head tilted and his sharp yellow eyes scanning across the titles etched into the spines of the innumerable tomes.

“Nothing about birds so far,” he said, mostly a quiet utterance to himself, but he still glanced toward your silhouette in the window as he spoke. “I do hope you don’t end up being more trouble than you’re worth, bird.”

You ruffled your feathers a bit, tucking your head down and nearly closing your eyes. He gave a small scoff at the sight of you relaxing, rolling his eyes before resuming his meticulous perusal of the books in the library.

“You’d best hope I find something if you don’t want to starve to death,” he commented. “I have no intention of going out of my way to accommodate you.”

“Pretty girl,” you responded, along with a brief series of kissing noises and a low whistle, and you would have been smirking yourself if you could have when he let out a quiet, amused chuckle in response to your commentary.

“Yes, yes, we’re all aware you’re a pretty girl,” he responded airily from behind a row of books.

Some time passed before he finally gave up, propping his sword against one of the many shelves and falling back into an armchair near the empty fireplace at the center of the room. You hesitated at your perch on the window for some time, watching him run a hand back through his dark hair in clear, stretching his arm out across an arm of the chair and strumming his fingers, his lips turned down in a thoughtful frown.

You finally decided to join him there, flapping your wings a few times to gain enough momentum to glide over and perch at the edge of one of the arms, tilting your head when he glanced over at you, waiting to see whether he would shoo you off or welcome your presence. He frowned at you for a long moment, before finally rolling his eyes and holding out his hand.

“Troublesome creature.” His tone was still light, almost affectionate, his mouth curving into a small smile as you crept from the edge of the chair to perch on his arm. “I suppose I do need to make port for supplies soon. It wouldn’t be too much of a hassle to learn a bit more about you, would it, pretty bird?”

“Pretty bird,” you responded, inching closer, settling yourself just above his elbow.

He brushed his knuckles against your feathers at the side of your head, giving a small chuckle as your eyelids drooped in response to his touch, before tucking his hand behind his neck and shifting back into the chair, his eyes slipping shut.

“Yes, pretty bird,” he repeated in a resigned sigh, his tone quiet and almost gentle.

Your eyes slowly drifted back open, watching him as he relaxed, your mind racing in spite of your own exhaustion. You hadn’t expected it to be this easy. Your target was supposed to be a terrifying, murderous sociopath with no regard or concern for any life apart from his own, an enigma that the Marines regarded as an unfeeling monster. Instead you found yourself staring up at a perfectly normal, albeit somewhat reclusive man, his mouth still curved into a small, fond smile in response to your presence. His smile lingered even as his breathing grew slower and deeper as he drifted off to sleep, just as your gaze lingered on his features.

He had been far kinder to you than the vast majority of your supposed comrades even had.

He could have easily snapped your neck the moment he first touched you...but he hadn’t.

Once more you shifted up his arm, perching yourself on his shoulder, and just to test his reaction, you nuzzled against his neck.

He lifted a hand in his sleep to absently swat at the disturbance, his expression twitching toward irritation for a moment—and then softening as his hand settled lightly into your feathers, his fingertips brushing across your wings before his arm fell across his lap, still fast asleep.

Little as you liked it, you were quickly becoming as interested in finding out more about him as he seemed to be interested in learning about you.

You liked it even less that you already felt comfortable enough to let your own eyes drift shut, the sound of his own slow breathing lulling you toward sleep.

Next chapter link again, for your convenience

[icyowl]

Bluelock Cuddling headcanons

ft. Isagi, Chigiri, and Kunigami

Request: none

A/N: one of my racehorses won a race today so here’s a little gift to celebrate my good mood!

—————

Yoichi Isagi

the respectful kind

his favorite is half-cuddle — him on his back, you curled up into his side, head on his chest. Does his arm fall asleep? Absolutely. Will he stop? Never.

make his heart wobble any time you look up and about how much you like this — spending time with him, being close like this, knowing he cares about your opinion enough to ask so frequently for it.

Isagi is the kind that likes to cuddle the nights before a stressful thing. He gets to talk out his troubles and generally feel better about whatever anxieties he's got. Also, he genuinely seeks your life advice. He talks through his problems, that's who he is, and with you like this it feels like such a private time of vulnerability.

You habitually play with one another's fingers and hands. Usually it's sweet, but sometimes it devolves into thumb wars, arm wrestling, and even all out tickle battles. Sometimes he even lets you win

If he's lucky he can get you to fall asleep before he does. Reason? He likes watching you doze on him. Something about you falling asleep to the dip and rise of his chest makes him all giddy and humble at the same time.

Inevitably someone walks in on you two only to be greeted with the terror-inducing glare he pins them down with. Wake you up and they are not long for this world.

Hyoma Chigiri

the timid kind

go-to is the traditional spoon. It means you don't have to look at him and whatever embarrassment he's gotta be showing while being this close to you.

As time goes on, he starts to get almost too comfortable with it. On the phone? Playing a game? Fuckin' doing laundry? Doesn't matter. When he's lying on any bed or couch, there is a distinct bubble of space, and if you invade the bubble, you're within striking distance. His arms are nearly as fast as his legs. Chigiri will latch onto you, will pull you in, and will interrupt whatever it is you wanted to do so he can spoon you.

Rub his hand or intertwine fingers while he's got an arm draped over you and he is GONE

There have been times when he's pushed you away, and though it makes sense — he's always been the kind to close himself off, turn vile and harsh when he's hurting — it breaks you. When you're both ready to reconcile, somehow it ends with your back to his chest, his legs mixed with yours, and his warm hand holding you snug to his body.

Also likes this position because it lets him nuzzle in right on the wispy hairs at the bottom of your neck or the big vein on the side.

Turn the tables on him by flipping over in his grip and facing him head-on. It's also a nice way to get even closer to him when you've had a bad day. A kind of haven can be found in nestling under his chin. He's alright with this — it means you can't see his face and the obvious love-sick tint to his eyes.

Rensuke Kunigami

the kind that doesn't know his own strength

best likes the space-saver, aka, one person laying on top of the other. Boy doesn't care which of you is on top. He likes supporting your body or you supporting his — something about being the other person's strength makes the back of his head tingle.

first time he lays on you, he doesn't check his weight at all, just flops down. Immediately thinks he's broken you when you squeak. After that he's almost too wary about hurting you. Am I too heavy? Can you breathe okay? Do I need to get up? You can get on top if you want. Relax Kunigami, just don't fall from orbit and you'll be fine.

Icing on the cake is when you play with his hair. Dude could be angry as an ox, ready to rip someone in half, and two minutes of your fingers in his hair has him fighting to stay awake and spend time with you. What was he angry about again?

One time you fell asleep on his chest, all blissed out and comfy, only to wake up in a shiny puddle of your own drool. You were, understandably, mortified, but the embarrassment turns to affection when he casually disregards the whole thing: it's just a shirt, it'll dry.

You figured you repaid the favor when several weeks later he was one on top of you, head burrowed unceremoniously into your stomach, arms underneath your back, refusing to look up or speak. The reason revealed itself when he finally met your eyes.

Tears. Tiny sniffs too. Four words: I failed my team. That was all he said before digging his face back into your skin. It took time, and a lot of encouragement, but he did eventually snap out of the funk and even apologized for messing up your clothes. It'll dry, you said, and you shared a little snicker.

[bloodylullaby]

Pairing: Noah x Reader

Word Count: 1886

MasterList

Author's Note: A continuation of If You're There ALSO - Let me know how you like this; I've been battling whether to keep doing cute things like this (I don't see as many cute things) or try to branch out to other things.

It’s finally happened. Noah finally realized that he was extremely burnt out and running on fumes, which led him to cancel his highly anticipated European tour. You had seen this coming for months but couldn’t convince him to take time for himself due to his relentless work ethic and a one-track mind. Despite your best efforts, his hard-working drive kept him pushing forward until he could no longer ignore the exhaustion.

Even though Noah is finally home, you haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks and have barely heard from him, which is unusual and increasingly concerning. You start to worry more and more, as you have never seen him in such a state before. His silence and isolation are alarming, making you realize just how serious his condition might be. With all the times Noah has gone out of his way to help you out of a rut, you know deep down that it's time to return the favor and be there for him. Today, you decide that you are going to go over to his house and show him so much love and support that he has no choice but to get better. You are determined to help him through this challenging period with your unwavering presence and care.

You pack two giant tote bags of things you know he enjoys, hoping to lift his spirits. One of the bags is stuffed with his favorite sweets, treats, and drinks, from gourmet chocolates and artisanal cookies to his preferred craft soda brand. You even include a few savory snacks that he always raves about. The other bag is filled with items that hold personal significance, things of yours that you know will help him feel more comfortable and connected. Among these is the stuffed animal he won for you at a carnival last summer, a cherished memento of happier times. You spray your signature scent on it, ensuring it carries the comforting fragrance that reminds him of you. Additionally, you include a cozy blanket you've often shared on movie nights and a couple of your favorite books he has shown interest in. You hope these familiar items will create a sense of warmth and closeness, even in your physical absence.

On your way to his house, you stop by the store and pick up a video game that he’s been wanting but has always been too busy to grab and play. Once you secure it, you continue to his house, hoping this small gesture will brighten his day. When you walk up to the house, you are greeted by Nicholas with a warm smile. He steps aside and lets you in, welcoming you with a friendly, reassuring nod. As you go to Noah’s room, you exchange greetings with the others in the house, receiving sympathetic looks and encouraging words. The familiar surroundings and friendly faces bolster your resolve as you approach Noah’s door, ready to offer him the comfort and support he desperately needs.

With a gentle knock, you enter his room and are greeted by a messy space, clothes strewn about, and empty bottles scattered on the floor. Closing the door behind you, you step further into the room, spotting Noah lying in bed, his hair gently poking out from the cocoon he has rolled himself into. You carefully set everything down by his gaming chair, ensuring not to make too much noise. Quietly, you walk over to his bed and gently sit on the edge next to him, trying not to cause too much of a stir as the bed dips under your weight. You rake your fingers through his hair, feeling the softness under your touch, and he begins to stir slightly, a faint sign of awareness.

“Baby?” he murmurs slowly, sleep evident in his voice. You gently hum in response and watch as he slowly turns toward you. Your heart breaks a little when you see his face—heavy bags under his eyes and a look of brokenness that makes you want to cry. But you hold it together, giving him a small smile that he tries to return. Without warning, he pulls you down so that you are lying beside him, placing his head on your sternum and wrapping his arms tightly around your torso. You feel his grip, desperate and seeking comfort, and you instinctively wrap your arms around him, hoping to provide the solace he needs.

As you hear sniffling, your shirt starts to feel damp. You rub little circles on his back and let him cry, offering silent comfort. His body trembles with each sob, and you can feel the weight of his sorrow pressing against you. “Why am I like this?” he asks, his voice cracking with pain and confusion. Your heart shatters at his words, the anguish in his question tearing at your soul. You hold him tighter, wishing you could somehow absorb his hurt and make it disappear.

"It's okay, baby," you whisper, your voice soothing and steady. "Everyone goes through tough times. It's not your fault." You continue to rub his back, the repetitive motion a small but comforting gesture. His grip on you tightens as if he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go. "You're not alone," you murmur, kissing the top of his head. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

He cries harder, the dam of his emotions entirely breaking, and you can feel the full force of his despair. You just hold him, knowing that sometimes words aren't enough, and the best thing you can do is be there, offering your unwavering support and love. "We'll get through this together," you promise, your voice filled with conviction. "One step at a time."

As time passed, his sobs lessened, gradually becoming soft sniffles. You continued to hold him, your fingers gently caressing his back, until he finally calmed down. Once he was done crying, he lifted his head and looked at you with red, tear-stained eyes. “I love you to the moon and back,” he murmured, his voice tender and filled with emotion.

You leaned down and gently kissed him, pouring all your love and reassurance into that moment. "I love you more than anything," you whispered back, your words a heartfelt promise. He nestled back into your arms, and you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth, both finding solace in the shared silence.

“What’s in the bags?” he asked, his curiosity piqued, causing you to giggle.

"I brought you some surprises," you say with a smile. You gently extricate yourself from his embrace and reach over to the bags you had placed by his gaming chair. "One of these is full of your favorite sweets, treats, and drinks," you explain, pulling out a bag of his favorite candies and a bottle of his preferred soda. "I know how much you love these."

He watches with a faint smile as you continue. "And in this bag," you say, lifting the second tote, "are some things to make you feel more comfortable." You pull out the stuffed animal he won for you at the carnival, now freshly sprayed with your signature scent. "I thought this might help you feel a little better," you say, handing it to him. 

You also pull out a cozy blanket and two books you love. "And I made a stop on the way here," you add, pulling out the video game he's been wanting. His eyes widened in surprise.

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice filled with emotion. "You always know how to make things better."

You smile and give him another kiss. "That's what I'm here for," you say softly. He sits up entirely and stretches, the tension in his body starting to ease. Getting up, he pulls you into a warm hug, murmuring sweet nothings into your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

Eventually, Noah lets go and turns his attention to the bags. With a newfound energy, he starts pulling everything out, his eyes lighting up with each item. "This is amazing," he says, a genuine smile spreading across his face as he inspects the sweets, treats, and stuffed animals.

When he gets to the video game, his excitement is palpable. "I can't believe you got this!" he exclaims, looking at you with gratitude and joy. "This is exactly what I needed."

You smile, feeling a warmth in your heart at seeing him so happy. "I thought we could have a fun-filled night," you say. "We can play the game, eat some snacks, and relax together."

Noah nods eagerly, his earlier sadness starting to fade. "That sounds perfect," he says, and you can see the spark of his old self returning. 

As he sets up the game, you both make yourselves comfortable on his bed, surrounded by the remnants of the snacks you brought. After a little while of playing together, you decide to take a break and opt to watch him for a while. Grabbing the blanket you brought over, you drape it over yourselves for extra coziness. You also grab one of the books from the bag, intending to take turns between reading and watching him play. As he navigates through the game, you find yourself engrossed in the story, occasionally glancing up to see his reactions to different challenges or victories.

You offer verbal support whenever he encounters challenging situations, your words of encouragement ringing out in the room, echoing his determination to overcome obstacles. When he finally manages to defeat a particularly demanding boss, you can't help but join in his celebration, the room filled with shared laughter and triumphant cheers as you revel in his success together.

As the night wears on and the hour grows later, Noah decides to take a break from gaming and suggests transitioning to a movie instead. With a smile, he guides you to the bed, where you both settle in comfortably amidst the plush blankets and pillows, sinking into a cocoon of warmth and relaxation. Noah orders a pizza, ensuring it's topped with all your favorite ingredients, and arranges an array of snacks and drinks within arm's reach, creating a cozy haven for the two of you to enjoy. The room is enveloped in the comforting aroma of freshly baked pizza, and the soft glow of the screen casts a warm light as you snuggle up together.

Observing Noah's mood shifting more positively fills your heart with relief and happiness. The weight of his earlier struggles seems to dissipate, replaced by a lightness and ease that brings a genuine smile to both your faces. In this moment, surrounded by superficial pleasures and each other's company, you find solace in the shared moments of peace and contentment. As the movie plays softly in the background, you both sink deeper into the comfort of the bed, the warmth of each other's presence enveloping you like a gentle embrace. The worries and stresses of the outside world fade away, leaving only the tranquility of the present moment.

Eventually, the day's fatigue catches up with you both, and you find yourselves drifting off to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. The soft rhythm of your breathing syncs harmoniously, creating a symphony of peace that washes over you both, carrying you into a restful slumber filled with nothing but serenity and love.

[itsgiovanna]

proud of you

pairing: fem!f1driver for mercedes x mason mount

type: one-shot

requested: yes

summary: can you please write an imagine where y/n is an f1 driver and she just won her first championship from max for the first time and she drives for mercedes. mason tells how proud he is of her and how much he loves her (...)

notes: f1 and mason, everything i need. i changed some things from the request so it’d match the time of the season when the last race happens. btw: i'm not an expert on f1 strategies so it's probably lame, lol. also, there might be a pt.2, there might not… let me know in the comments! :)

warnings: fluff and more fluff, that’s all.

As soon as you’ve entered the paddock in Abu Dhabi, journalists gathered around trying to take pictures of you, being the first woman in F1, since 1976, completely changed things. From people wanting to know who you’re dating to the press speculating about the future in the Mercedes-AMG team alongside the Seventh-Time World Champion, Lewis Hamilton. He’s been someone you’ve created a friendship with, not to mention the fact that he’s a legend and you’re privileged to be learning from him. Also, he’s the reason you’re dating Mason, after he threw a party at his apartment in London you’ve got to know the Manchester United’s footballer and found out Mason is one of the most kind and gentle guy you’ve ever met, it’s been two years since you’ve met and it’s your 2nd year driving for Mercedes, everything happened fast and now you’re battling for the 1st place in the championship against Max Verstappen.

“Darling.” you’re quickly embraced by your mom’s arms in a tight hug. “We’re so proud of you, Y/N.” she says, looking at your dad.

“Thank you, mom.” you’re smiling, remembering all the things they’ve sacrificed so you’d be in F1. It’s worth it, and it’s all for them.

"It's gonna be alright, kid." your dad says, he knows you're nervous and they're too, anything is possible, in a bad way, when you're driving a car at 372.5 km per hour. "You're the best out there, sweetheart. It's a matter of time until you're winning that throphy, we'll always love you, regardless of what happens, Y/N."

"Shit, this is too much, dad." you're practically crying, but it's true, they've always been here, cheering when you're winning or supporting when you're losing.

"We love you, honey. You've been amazing this season. Have fun. Ok?"

"I love you." after a hug on both of them, you're off to the garage. It's showtime, and you're definitely not missing this one.

(...)

"Hey, you." Lewis greeted as soon as you've entered the garage.

"Hi, Lew." you're trying to be calm, despite the fact that the race is in twenty minutes, but he notices you're not 100% as you're used to be in other days.

"What's wrong?" he says, putting his phone away to properly look at you.

"I had a fight with Mason last night." you admitted, quietly, as if saying it out loud might make it more real. "I can't concentrate, Lewis. I'm terrified of what's going to happen out there today. It's not like the other races, it's the last one and I'm competing for the championship!" you're saying everything at once, taking the weight off your shoulders.

"Hey, it's ok." he hugs you as soon as you're having difficulties to breath. "It's natural to have worries, especially before a big race like this. But you're an incredible driver, and you've got the skill to win this. Whatever's going on with Mason, we'll figure it out later. Right now, focus on the track. Ok?" you've nodded, anxiety beginning to decrease. And, he was right. You couldn't let personal problems overshadow professional commitments, it's something you've always been grateful for: his friendship. While you've been emotional these past two years, Lewis is the balance for it, being rational, but caring. "If you ever need to talk or just take your mind off things, I'm here. We're a team, and that means supporting each other, on and off the track."

"Thank you, Lewis. I appreciate it more than everything, really." you've managed to give him a smile.

(...)

Mark, one of the engineers, tapped his tablet, bringing up the data from the previous races and the specifics of the circuit. "The circuit here in Abu Dhabi is known for it's challenging corners and long straights." he explained, his fingers dancing over the screen. "We've seen that tire management will be crucial, and the pit strategy needs to be timed perfectly."

"I need a car that's agile in the corners but fast on the straights. We need to find the perfect balance." you've said, getting approval from the other engineers.

"We're leaning towards starting on the hard tires to build a gap and switching to the soft, it'll probably give us the edge." Bono's voice echoes in the room. "And we'll need to be flexible with the pit strategy, especially if the weather complicates things. We'll be monitoring it throughout the race, though."

"Remember, you've got an incredible team behind you, but this race comes down to you. Max is going to push hard, and we'll need to be ready for any surprises. We believe in your abilities, and we know you can do this, Y/N." Toto spoke up, his voice unwavering.

You could feel the weight of the championship, but you're ready for the challenge. The teamwork, the strategy, and the unwavering support of your team brought you to this. You know that, together, you're predestined win.

"Let's execute it flawlessly, and let's win this championship." the team cheered, giving the confidence that you've been searching for.

(...)

The season had been a rollercoaster of emotions and challenges, but now it all came down to this race, the championship is at stake and the anticipation in the air is apparent. Everything you've worked for, the sacrifices, the late nights in the simulator, it's all worth it now.

You've glanced over at the other side of the grid, Verstappen is already in his car. He's a tough competitor, known for his aggressive driving style and determination, the battle between the two of you've become legendary, with fans around the world excited to see who's gonna win.

Then, as the lights went out and the race beggins, the thrill of the acceleration and the deafening noise of the engines filled your senses. The first few laps are difficult but you've managed to get a good position, overtaking competitors and focusing on Max, who's in front of you, not too far. The race progresses, and the championship battle intensifies. He's a relentless opponent, matching every move you've made. At any moment, the fight for the trophy could've been over. But you won't let pressure take over. With each turn, you're more confident. You've found rhythm and the car is responding to the commands, and is at it's limit.

As the final laps of the race approached, you've made the move. There it is, the opening. A shot to pass Max, and you've took it. The crowd erupted in cheers as you've surged, the two cars racing side by side, inches apart. It's the battle of the century, a test of skill and determination. With the checkered flag in sight, you've gave it all. Powering past the Three-Time World Champion, and crossing the finish line, the sound of the crowd erupting in Abu Dhabi. You've done it. You're the first woman to win an F1 championship, in the most amazing way, it's history for the books.

Tears of joy filled your eyes as you've slowed the car and got out, putting the arms in the air as the people cheered, Lewis is right behind, conquering the 3rd place on the race, and as soon as he looks at you, you're practically jumping on him with a hug.

"You've done it, Y/N!" he holds your helmet. "And, it's fucking amazing!"

"Thank you, Lew. I couldn't win the championship without you." you're crying, looking at him through the helmet's visor.

Then, you've rushed to the team, the ones who had worked tirelessly to make this dream a reality. The mechanics, the engineers, the strategists, they're all waiting with smiles, giving a tight hug, celebrations filling the air. Next, you've looked out for Toto, who believed in you from the beginning. He embraced you warmly, his eyes filled with pride. "You're a champion, Y/N!" he said, his voice choked with emotion.

In the end, on the the podium, the British National Anthem played, and the championship trophy was given to you, under the watchful eyes of the world, you've finally raised it, jumping on the stand, screaming to the top of your lungs, you're a champion now and someone who's gonna be the inspiration for future generations of women in racing, seeing the team, your mom and dad, the crowd... it's the most happy you've ever been.

Then your eyes've found something way too important to shrug off. Mason. He's got a smile on his face, probably tears in his eyes and you couldn't be happier to look at him. As you've met at the edge of the track, you've took off the helmet and gloves along the way, then jumped on him, hugging him tight and totally unconcerned about the fact that you've kissed while there's hundreds of photographers looking at both of you.

"I'm so proud of you, love." he says as he's wiping the tears from your face. "I'm sorry, I didn't think straight last night, Y/N. You're too important to me and I..."

"Mason, it's ok. You're here, and this is my greatest victory, you." his heart swelled with emotion as he's gazing back at you.

"I've loved you from the moment we met, and that love has only grown with time. But today, seeing you out there, I realized that my love for you isn't just about being with you. It's about believing in you, admiring your strength and determination, and celebrating your victories as if they were my own." tears welled up in your eyes as you've felt the depth of his affection and the sincerity in his words.

“I love you, you’re everything to me.” you kissed him with passion, Mason’s hands on your waist and photographers flashing what was about to be the photo on your phone’s screen.

“I won’t let go of you, ever.” he says, breaking the kiss.

“Don’t, I’ll pretty much enjoy that.” you're laughing, feeling him closer.

In that quiet, heartfelt moment amidst the noises of the track, you've affirmed both of the love you've got, a love that is as powerful as any victory on the track. You're celebrating the championship, not only with the world, but with the love of your life, Mason.

(...)

[honestsycrets]

The Brat | [Ivar the Boneless x Reader]

❛ pairing | king Ivar x wife!Reader

❛ genre | drabbly bits

❛ summary | he loves the blood, you hate the blood. but you do so love him. maybe he can persuade you.

❛  warnings | mentions of violence, sexual themes, fulfilled request, king!ivar.

Ivar reeks.

And he loves it. Whether fresh from the battlefield or dealing with insurrections at home, he loves the scent of iron. It embodies his accomplishments, a cruel overcoming of the sort of men who would have mocked him if not for his noble father. They all cried Ragnar when they encountered there could be so-- so much worse. 

He was worse. 

And so, blood-soaked, battle-worn, and revved up-- he looked for his honeysuckle. His sweet honeysuckle who just so happened to detest the scent of blood tacked against his skin. As he pushed apart the flaps of the tent, he spotted your face furrowing. Ah, yes, another fight to be won. 

“Ivar,” you hissed. “Why bother washing in the stream if you are only going to wipe the blood off your eyes?” 

He cackled and brought his bloodied war hammer to scratch the side of his head. Then, moving forward, he dropped his weight on his crutch with every step. “So I can see. The blood blurs my sight, my sweet. And I am but a lowly--” 

“It also reeks.” 

“An unfortunate consequence.” 

You folded your arms. A jingle of foreign bracelets met his ear. It was adorable the way you stood there donned in gold, silks, and furs and made a mockery of the exact thing that enabled him to dress you so richly. Such a brat.

He collapsed on his favorite chair to remove his calibers. You’d surely waste the next day scrubbing out of pure aggravation for his defiance. “Ivar the Boneless,” you threatened. Closer now. His fingers thumped against the blood spattered metal. 

“My name sounds beautiful from your lips.” 

“Have you not had enough fighting for one day? Not enough bodies sent to the gods?” 

“Mm,” he sucked on his teeth. “Never.” 

“Go bathe,” you implored. “I’ll fetch the water myself. You’re making a mess.” 

He drew his tongue along his upper teeth. He knew you hated it when he dragged the rank of the battlefield home. It wore on his skin in a delicious scent of sweat, blood, and fear. Or shit, whatever. His hand came upon his thigh, ringing a loud sound throughout the tent. “Nevermind that. Come sit down.” 

You moved with your hands affixed to your hips. Oh, he knew this game. Your long, flowing gown tickled his dusty boots with the lightest of teases. Yet your face peered into the distance. A tease… as if this repulsive man had no chance to have a delicate princess on his lap. 

“Come here, I said.” His fingers grazed the ties of your dress. He turned his ties in circles around his fingers.

“You’re wet!” Bloody.

“What of it? You act as if these clothes will stay on long.” Moist, bloody, nasty. All the things that he knew you hated to love and loved to hate. Although you bitched now, he knew it would eventually turn with the soft caress of his cheek, caressing the stubble that you so loved. His eyes searched the soft curve of your waist, smoothing up, then down again. You flushed in embarrassment. “Undress.”

“Taking off clothes solves nothing. If I want to love you,” you whispered. His smile gathered wider and wider. “I’ll be loving every other warrior that you’ve slaughtered today.” 

“Don’t excite me.” 

The man was impossible-- his affections, his interactions, unbearable in his very nature. Yet, you loved him for it. The slightest chuckle slipped form his tongue, hissing delightfully as you slid over his thighs while drawing your skirts over your knees. Oh, he already knew he won his fight-- yet again.  

His hands slipped underneath the tumbling fabric and shifted it over his firm arms. Through his thick fabric, you felt his bulge against your trimmed curls. His thumb prodded your lips, smearing dried blood across your nub as he rubbed you with soft, patient thumbs. The care, tinted by his usual feral nature, made you slick. In place of fear, comfort. “See? And you wanted me to go.” 

“Why are you like this? You are so arrogant.”

“And you’re beautifully spoiled.” Ivar settled a kiss upon the pendant beating at your chest. “Is this blood not what provides for this? Or secures your safety?” 

It was. But perhaps that wasn’t something you readily addressed. Rather, your lips pursed in response to his words as your hands curled on his armoured shoulders. He found himself laughing again, and again, and perhaps it was that laughter of your princessly charms that drove Ivar’s excitement. 

“Shhh.” 

He slid away from your sweet spot. As if on cue, you lurched against him, trained as you were. Perhaps you talked a great deal, but when it came to it, you longed for his touch all day. Ivar leaned back in his chair to enjoy the fruits of his efforts.

After a long day, there was nothing so right as the warmth of a beautiful wife to come back to. Your complaints, slight as they were, faded into meer murmurs of submission. At last, he hushed: because per usual-- Ivar always won.

[missingmayuri]

In light of the fantastic news of the soon arrival of this fine fellow I thought I would share all information I have regarding Mayuri from the official Bleach Bootleg for those who may have never seen it or haven't owned it

Squad 12 itself represents three things

Vengeance

Austerity

Independence

Mayuri's Profile

Birthday: March 30th

Height: 5'9"

Weight: 119 LBS

Coat lining: Olive Green ( Tokusairo)

Hobby: Experimenting

Special Skill: Experimenting on humans specifically

Likes Saury

Dislikes Green Onions

Spends his days off reading the Bulletin cover to cover ( Which is also his favourite reading material)

Battle Data

Attack: 70

Defense: 70

Mobility: 40

Kido: 100

Intelligence: 100

Stamina: 50

Described as not physically strong but his intelligence and kido powers are superior

Mayuri has been known to receive fan letters for his collum in the Bulletin which seems to be rather popular and people enjoy reading about it in every issue that's published.

Today is a joyous day for us Mayuri fans for today we won!

[veryace-ficrecs]

looking for voltron (legendary defenders) found family or klance, i love some good banter. i’m also always up for some good angst but no pressure there

I can sure do that for you!

Voltron Fic Recs

This Is The Part Of Me (That You're Never Gonna Ever Take Away) by negativefouriq - Rated T

Lance finishes reading the file, then turns to face Shiro. Shiro braces himself for an onslaught of questions, and readies himself to message Coran — “Is this your way of quietly kicking me off Voltron?” — and freezes. Huh? “Pardon?” Lance swallows roughly, eyes trained on his fidgety hands. “Um, I asked if this is your way of kicking me off the team,” Lance repeats. Shiro has never felt more like his brain was completely empty, because he has no fucking clue what to say. --- OR: Shiro and Lance have a misunderstanding. But Shiro wants nothing except for his kids to be happy, so he clears things up as quickly as possible.

Singularity by this_book_has_been_loved - Rated T

AU where instead of landing in the trash nebula, Pidge finds herself on the same planet as a certain Galra prison camp

The Lost Paladin by dinosuns - Rated T

If he doesn’t leave, all of him will be reduced to cinders. But if he leaves, all of him will be undone. A course that he will choose to chart, no matter how it breaks his heart. It’s a battle that cannot be won. - Their names burn inside him, seared onto his soul. Black coal sits in the centre of his chest, fuelling a fire that was soon to be smothered by the very people that set it ablaze.

Bad Diagnosis by ElfGrove - Rated T

Pidge has been having bad headaches for nearly a week straight, so she decides to see if the infirmary has some sort of Altean Advil. The actual news is not so great.

Tag in, tag out by Rangergirl3 - Rated T

When a teammate is in danger, Keith doesn't stand by when there is something he can do to help - even if it might cost him his life.

Family Can Be 2 Aliens and 5 Ex-Paladins by Lilacs_and_the_sea - Rated G

The war is over, and everyone's back home with their family. Everyone except Keith.

i'm family? by seph_bites - Rated T

“You were right when you said I shouldn’t be leader. All of you were right and Shiro was wrong. I can’t be what you guys need,” he said quietly. “No,” Hunk said defiantly. “You’re the one who’s wrong. Because you’ve been there for us. You didn’t want to be the leader of Voltron but you did it anyway. For us.” “And I almost got all of you killed in the process! Look, once Shiro can pilot Black again, what would I stay for?” “Us! You’re supposed to say us, you asshole!”

A Family By Any Other Name by Calacious - Rated T

Lance and Keith discover a lone survivor on a planet whose inhabitants have been wiped out by a virus brought to them by a visitor from another universe.

the perfect pair by polypinneaple - Rated T

“Don’t– you know it’s not different Shiro, Pidge and I work just as much if not more and what, they can just skip practice today because they’re homesick, or what, tired? This is a war!” “If they can’t pull their weight then maybe they shouldn’t be here. No! I don’t want to hear it, I’m going to go train.” ••• Hunk wasn’t an angry guy, he wasn’t short tempered or easily poked. But something about the way Keith spoke about Lance made him furious, he didn’t care what these people thought about him, but his Lance? Hunk would go to war and die fighting if it meant Lance was happy. AKA Lance and Hunk deal with feeling like outsiders to Team Voltron during their first few weeks in, it doesn't go well.

It's Okay by TerrificTea - Not Rated

It was supposed to be a simple intel mission. In and out. Simple right? But this is Voltron, and now Lance and Pidge are trapped after an explosion, leaving Pidge concussed, confused and with a rapidly growing concern for her teammate.

Voltron Means Family, And Family Means No One Gets Left Behind by Spazzcat - Rated G

Five times the merchant vessel Castle of Lions gained a new crew member, and one time they all refused to leave.

Family, Then and Now by NightPurity - Rated G

Hunk likes to bake, but sometimes, his thoughts get a tight hook into him and start to pull him down. Coran, he happens to stumble upon a hurting Hunk. Sometimes, it hurts thinking about those you've lost, but also, it helps to talk about it. Of course, hope can help keep you afloat.

[player1064]

Love your drabbles! I cannot stop reading and sharing them. I have another prompt if you are still taking them! It would be interesting to see Gaz defend his Jamie when he is invited as a special guest to that CBS show Jamie is on. Would love to see protective Gary against Kate Abdo with Big Meeks laughing in the background and Titi being torn between helping Kate or (rightfully) knowing when a battle is lost. Maybe a dib at Kate how being a host is easy money compared to being actual pundits & analysts

kinda obsessed w this prompt being sent like a day before Jamie ran his big mouth on live tv and got in trouble for it (though tbh he's ALWAYS running his big mouth and what he said abt kate not being loyal wasn't even up there with worst mistakes imo it's just the one that happened to go viral). but also YES I am obseeeeessed with the UCL Today gang's dynamic the banter.... the thinly veiled dislike between Jamie and Kate.... chefs kiss

Also, this ficlet can be considered part of the wife-gary saga and having said that I'm wondering if I should have that as a tag so the other prompt fills in that universe are easier to find......

---

“Joining us in the studio today is one of the most decorated British footballers of all time, with over a hundred appearances in the Champions’ league and two titles to show for it, it’s Gary Neville. Gary, welcome to the show.”

Gary, who’d been grimacing awkwardly through Kate’s introduction, shakes his head around a bit and then gives her a smile. “Glad to be here, I –”

“—hold on, hold on,” Jamie interrupts, “can we go back to the ‘two titles’ thing for a second?”

“Yes, James, I have two Champions’ league medals,” Gary says, turning to look at Jamie with one unimpressed eyebrow raised. “As many as everyone else in this studio combined, I believe. What’s not clickin’, can you not count that high?”

To Jamie’s left, Micah doubles over with laughter, but Jamie just shakes his head, reaching a hand out to Gary’s chest, pushing him back in his seat. “No, no, Gary, why don’t you tell our audience how many games you played to earn that second medal, eh?”

Before Gary has a chance to defend himself, Kate primly says “about thirty more across his career than you did, Jamie,” which sets the whole table off laughing again while Jamie sits glaring in the middle of it all.

*

Jamie, as the lone Scouser in the cast and the only one not to have won a Premier league (besides Kate, obviously, but she doesn’t count), often feels ganged up on at CBS. And to have Gary on as a guest, even though he’d agreed to the idea (and quite enthusiastically, though don’t tell Gary that), feels like an extra kick in the shin.

Because not only is Gary, Mister Manchester United, getting obvious favouritism from lifelong United supporter Kate, he has the more crucial advantage that nobody in America knows who he is.

This means that Gary on CBS is not ‘below-average defender who only achieved what he did through obsessive hard work and sucking up to Fergie’, no, Gary on CBS is ‘best full-back of his generation, Manchester United and England legend, one of the top 10 most decorated British footballers of all time, and David fucking Beckham’s best mate.’

When you look at it like that, it’s a lot harder to find something to tease him about.

Jamie still manages, of course, he’s spent the past decade making a career out of insulting Gary Neville and he’s damn good at it. Over the course of the show he’s able to get in a few digs about his nose, his hair, his weight, his dress sense. But that’s all appearance stuff, which is easy – one look at Gary and the jokes basically write themselves.

What that says about Jamie, the idiot who went and married him, he’s not sure.

Everyone around the table is joking about Istanbul, which is easy enough to do if you weren’t there, which none of them were, and it’s enough to get Jamie’s blood boiling. He’s getting ready to launch into a rant about how it was one of the greatest games in footballing history when Kate cracks a line about how Jamie’s successes were all dumb luck, and Gary’s face scrunches up in displeasure.

“Oh, I’m – I’m not sure that’s fair, really,” he says quietly, glancing back at Jamie as he does. “Don’t get me wrong, that Liverpool team were nowhere near Champions’ league winner quality, I’m sure James would agree w’me on that –” Jamie, very reluctantly, nods. “—I mean, they finished fifth in the league that season, got knocked out of the FA cup their first game. There’s always a bit of luck to be fair, gettin’ to a Champions’ league final, but credit where it’s due – they were a scrappy little team, and that win was well deserved.”

On Gary’s right, Thierry nods in agreement, which is quite possibly the highest praise Jamie’s ever received from the man, and even Kate gives Jamie an awkward little smile once Gary’s done talking.

Under the desk, Jamie drops a hand to Gary’s knee and gives it an appreciative little squeeze.

*

As soon as the cameras are all off Jamie wastes no time in grabbing Gary by the wrist to pull him onto his lap, where he sort of half-perches half-hovers because he’s nervous about putting all his weight on Jamie’s knees (even though Jamie keeps telling him it’s fine).

Gary makes no complaints at being manhandled, just smiles fondly down at Jamie and pinches his cheek. “Look at you, you vain fuck. What I said were barely complimentary and it’s still got you all over me.”

Jamie ignores this (because they both know it’s true) and surges forward to kiss Gary instead, paying no mind to the others still in the vicinity of the desk while they get their earpieces and microphones unhooked. He hears a groan from Micah, and an exasperated sigh from Titi, but they can both go fuck themselves because Jamie’s horrible bastard of a husband willingly said something nice about Liverpool on live television, and if that’s not cause for celebration then he doesn’t know what is.

When Gary breaks the kiss with a pleased little hmph and gets up to wander over to the snack table, Jamie is left to face his colleagues, all three of them looking at him with faces twisted in an attempt to suppress their laughter.

“Man like Jamie,” Micah says gleefully, clapping his hands together. “I knew you was bringin’ the missus on for a reason, this is like foreplay for the two a’yous, innit?” As soon as he finishes the sentence, he shudders at his own words, then adds “oh, ew, that’s like thinking about your parents, don’t want to know any more.”

“I think you’re onto something there, Meeks,” Kate laughs, “and here I was thinking he’d brought him on to show off his trophy wife.”

Jamie wants to protest that he did not bring Gary onto the show, he’s not the one who made the suggestion and it’s definitely not showing off or foreplay or whatever else his colleagues can come up with, but then Kate’s nudging him in the side with a smirk and saying “Trophy wife, Jamie, get it? Because he has a lot more trophies than –”

Jamie stomps off to go find his stupid annoying and very very successful trophy wife before Kate is able to finish the thought and prompt him to say something he might regret.

[bipolarman2022]

Parte uno " LAS DUNAS" **Title: "The Warrior of the Dunes"**

Deep in the Arabian desert, where the dunes rise like mountains of gold and the sun burns with the fury of a thousand fires, lived a man known as Malik, the Warrior of the Dunes. His name was feared by his enemies and respected by his people, not only for his superhuman strength but for his ability to survive in the most inhospitable desert. But today, Malik was not an indomitable warrior. Today, he was a man kneeling in the sand, his fists clenched, his face lifted toward the sky, trapped in a storm of pain and loss.

Malik's legend had been forged in battle. From a young age, he had learned to fight, not just with a sword but with his wits and his heart. He had defended his village from invaders, led caravans through sandstorms, and won countless battles against warriors who outnumbered him. But no enemy had been as relentless as the one he now faced: the pain of loss.

Just days ago, Malik had returned to his village after a successful campaign against the bandits who plagued the region. But upon his return, there were no customary celebrations. Instead, there was silence. A heavy silence, broken only by the wind whispering through the tents and the sound of stifled sobs. His brother, Amir, his soulmate in this ruthless world, had been killed.

Amir was not just Malik's brother; he was his confidant, his closest friend, the only one who understood the weight the warrior bore in his heart. They had fought together since childhood, sharing dreams of a better world, a world where their people could live without fear. But all that had ended in the blink of an eye. Amir had been ambushed while Malik was away, his life taken by the sword of a traitor seeking vengeance against the Warrior of the Dunes.

Malik had rushed to the place where his brother's body lay, but he arrived too late. He found Amir lying in the sand, his eyes still open, looking up at the sky as if waiting for someone, or something. Malik fell to his knees beside him, embracing him with a heartbreaking cry that echoed across the desert. In that moment, there was no Warrior of the Dunes, only a man broken by the loss of the one person who had been his true home.

Now, alone in the desert, under a sky covered in clouds that promised a storm, Malik cried out to the gods, to the spirits of the desert, to any force that might hear his plea. "Why? Oh, great gods of the desert, why have you taken my brother from me?!"

The sand swirled around him, whipping his body as if the desert itself felt his pain and wanted to punish him. His face, marked by wind and sun, was covered in dust, but his eyes burned with a fury that would not be quenched. His muscles tensed with every word he shouted, his hands dug into the sand, and the air around him vibrated with the intensity of his grief.

The wind began to howl, and the sand began to dance around him in a furious storm. But Malik did not move. He stayed where he was, on his knees, defying the storm, defying the very gods he felt had betrayed him. Every grain of sand that struck his skin was a needle of pain, but it was also a testament to his endurance.

"Amir!" he shouted, his voice a roar lost in the wind. "We promised to protect each other! We promised to fight together until the end!"

Tears streamed down his face, but in his fury and pain, he barely noticed. At that moment, Malik felt the sky darken even more, as if the universe itself were crying with him. He looked up, searching for answers, but found only more questions.

In his desperation, he felt a change in the wind, a whisper that did not come from the storm. It was a soft sound, almost imperceptible, but full of a presence he recognized. Amir's voice, carried by the desert wind, barely audible, but unmistakable.

“Live, Malik,” said the voice. “Live and fight. Do not let my death be in vain.”

Malik closed his eyes, letting the tears flow freely now. He felt the sand piling up around him, burying his knees, his feet, but he did not care. In his heart, something began to change. The pain was still there, an open wound that bled with every beat, but alongside it, a spark of determination began to burn.

"Amir," Malik whispered, his voice soft but firm, "I promise you that I will live for both of us. I promise that I will keep fighting, that I will protect our people as you would."

The storm began to subside, the wind calmed, and the sand stopped swirling around Malik. He opened his eyes and looked toward the horizon, where the sun began to rise, casting a golden light over the dunes. He knew his journey would be long and full of challenges, but he also knew he was not alone. Amir's spirit would always be with him, a beacon in the darkness, guiding his steps through the desert of life.

With one last look at the sky, Malik slowly rose. His legs were heavy, his body ached, but in his chest, his heart beat with newfound strength. He took a step forward, and then another, moving toward the dawn, toward a new day, with the promise to never forget, but always to keep moving forward.

[bumblesimagines]

Headcanon:

Being friends with Daisy Jones

Request: Yes or No

I graduated today!!

And I'm exhausted lmao. I'll try to push out the next part of Under The Moonlight on Sat or Sun!

TW: Addiction mentions

Pretty short

~~~

Daisy Jones is the definition of a hot chaotic mess. From her fashion to her wild mostly uncombed hair to her self-destructive tendencies. Daisy Jones is a wrecking ball in all the good and wrong ways.

Liking her was easy. Daisy was easy-going and sweet with a feisty side that came and went. She had a way of making your day by just flashing one of her dazzling smiles or encouraging -more so forcing- you to go out to enjoy the day.

Hating her was easy too. Daisy's addictions were always a losing battle, and her stubbornness didn't help. She was assertive in a way, putting her foot down but for things that did her no good. Drinking, taking spills, doing a line, Nicky. She believed her problems made her better. But when she was too erratic to care about her wellbeing or when she spat venom cause she felt backed into a corner... It was hard to believe that.

Being a friend of Daisy's often felt like babysitting a child. Always glancing over to check on her or grabbing her hand before she could go chew someone out for being dismissive.

But those tender, vulnerable, and sweet moments made up for it. The times when she'd rest her head on your lap and talk about her lonely childhood. The times she'd get on stage and dedicate a song to you with the biggest smile on her face. The times she'd break down in your arms and cry until she fall asleep cause she couldn't hold it in anymore.

Of course, those moments were also combined with the moments you questioned her sanity and her age.

Because being a friend of Daisy Jones meant your place got broken into. Often. Hidden key? She'll find it. Open window? She'll climb through it. No available entries? She'll make one.

Her spontaneous- and albeit erratic- nature had to be one of her more... charming traits. She could wake up one morning with the idea of skinny dipping in Teddy Prices pool and she'd do it. How many shots can one take before they think they can dance on a table without falling on their ass? She'll find out.

Quite frankly, there was never a boring day with Daisy Jones. Even when she had writers block and paced around the place groaning and huffing. She'd always find something to give her the boost of inspiration she needed. Sometimes it came in the form of a certain white powder. Other times it meant debating what would happen if she hopped from the roof and into the pool.

And after some exhausting years of dealing with her, there came the tear-jerking time when she won her battles. The moment when she got herself clean and started fresh. The moment when she became a mother despite her worries and doubts. The moment when she finally breathed without weight on her shoulders.

[awsugar]

sorry to ask for life advice on tumblr again when i hardly post! but i’ve been wanting to lose weight for ages and also i spent a while actively trying but with my current situation of work hours and living alone i’ve fallen way off. one of my biggest problems is ordering delivery…both detrimental and i my health and bank account. the issue is that i live alone, already had an issue with binge eating, and now i have no one to hold me accountable or comment on what i’m eating or to eat with or anything and i have very poor impulse control especially around food. i won the battle against the doordash demons today but i wish there was a way for me to permanently delete or ban doordash/grubhub from my phone….does anyone have suggestions on how to have more self control in a situation like this?

[onboardsorasora]

5 times Daniel cheered for Lewis + 1 time he couldn't

😈

Ooh this was hard Mael😅

Let's go back to 2019 when Lewis won in Canada because Seb got a penalty. He'd snickered at Seb's dry 'really?' and shrugged because that was his new boyfriend

When Lewis won in Jeddah in 2021, Daniel cheered and threw his fist in the air while going into parc ferme. He ignored the online discourse about what he had to cheer for

When Lewis got pole in Hungary 2023, Daniel kissed him near the back of the garage away from the cameras

When Lewis announced his move to Ferrari, Daniel was there reposting and liking every post from his spot on the couch, Roscoe's comfortable weight on his belly

When Lewis got awarded for his successes in the sport but also his off track mission work, Daniel waiting in their hotel room excited. He'd kissed Lewis soundly before he left and wrapped around him like a squid happily when he came back

+1

Daniel stood on the halo of his car and flexed his muscles in a long awaited celebration. He jumped off the car and ran to his mechanics. It was a rough as fuck battle but he won. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see Lewis' purple helmet atop his red shoulders. He didn't even know what position he finished in but he knew Lewis would cheer for him today.

[sicknessbysalem]

Request: 2 girls get the stomach virus. Both are in a vomitey/feverish/bone crushing chills of a mess to do anything else but be sick. One gets sick while at work and then gets sent home sick. The other cares for her a little bit before also getting sick at work the next day.

tw emeto, fever, stomach bug

Vanessa adjusted her police uniform, the familiar weight of her badge and utility belt a comforting presence. She glanced at Lucien, who was eagerly checking his gear for what must have been the hundredth time that day. Vanessa couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. She always loved seeing the new recruits before everything happened last time. Before she stepped away from police work.

Now, she was back. She was training Lucien and honestly, she was really enjoying it. She enjoyed it most days. 

But not today.

As they set out on patrol, the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the city streets. Vanessa's stomach was doing somersaults of its own. She clenched her jaw, determined not to let any sign of discomfort show.

Lucien chatted about their upcoming assignments. Vanessa nodded along, offering occasional words of guidance. But with each step, the queasiness in her stomach intensified.

She knew the feeling all too well. But, this felt different. She was accustomed to feeling sick, but this felt different.  

As they patrolled the neighborhood, Vanessa's grip on her composure tightened. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, suppressing the urge to double over. Lucien, oblivious to her internal struggle, continued to talk animatedly about their patrol route.

The minutes stretched into hours, and Vanessa's determination not to show weakness battled against the relentless waves of nausea. She stole glances at her watch, counting down the minutes until their shift would end. Just a little longer, she told herself. She could endure it.

"Vanessa," Lucian said, "Are you okay?"

"Hm?" Vanessa questioned. He told her something, or asked her something, and she hadn't responded. 

"Are you alright?" Lucien asked again, "You're awfully quiet tonight."

"Yeah, yeah," Vanessa said, "I think I'm just tired or something."

"Well," Lucien said, "Let's stop for coffee or something then."

As Lucien suggested stopping for coffee, Vanessa's stomach clenched in protest. She hesitated for a moment, considering the potential consequences, but her stubbornness won out. "Coffee sounds good," she replied with a forced smile, hoping the caffeine might stave off the impending storm within her.

They stepped into a nearby café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the sounds of chatter and clinking cups. Vanessa ordered a strong black coffee, hoping it would provide a temporary reprieve from her nausea.

As she took a sip, the bitter liquid scorched her throat, momentarily distracting her from the rising discomfort in her stomach. But the relief was short-lived. A sudden wave of dizziness swept over her, and Vanessa's grip on the coffee cup faltered.

"Vanessa, you don't look so good," Lucien said. 

"I'm fine," Vanessa insisted, her words sounding hollow even to her own ears. She attempted another sip of coffee, but the bitter taste only intensified her nausea.

Without warning, Vanessa's body rebelled. The familiar sensation of bile rising in her throat sent panic coursing through her veins. She stumbled away from the table, hand clamped over her mouth as she hurried towards the restroom.

"Vanessa!" Lucien called after her, his voice filled with worry.

But it was too late. Vanessa barely made it to the restroom before the first wave of vomiting hit her with brutal force. She doubled over, retching uncontrollably as her body purged itself of everything she had consumed.

The sound echoed in the small restroom, a stark contrast to the bustling café outside. Vanessa felt utterly defeated as she leaned against the tiled wall, tears stinging her eyes from the force of her illness. 

As she heaved, she felt someone pat her back.

"No… no fuck off…" Vanessa coughed. She hated any sort of anyone looking over her. Well, unless it was Willow. Willow, she didn't mind. But this was not her girlfriend, and the last thing Vanessa wanted was her rookie to see her so vulnerable.

"I'm sorry, Vanessa," he said softly, gently wiping her forehead. "I couldn't just stand out there knowing you're in here alone."

Vanessa's eyes stung with tears, a mixture of gratitude and frustration overwhelming her. "I don't... I don't need your help," she mumbled, but her tone lacked conviction.

"I know you're strong, Vanessa," Lucien replied, his voice unwavering. "But even the strongest need support sometimes."

Vanessa wanted to argue, to push him away and retreat into the shell of her pride. But as Lucien continued to offer quiet reassurances and comfort, she couldn't deny the relief of not facing this moment alone.

After what felt like an eternity, the waves of nausea finally subsided, leaving Vanessa drained and shaky. Lucien helped her to her feet, his support a steadying presence as they left the restroom together.

"Come on, I'm taking you back to the precinct," Lucien said, "And you're going home."

-

As Vanessa made her way to the apartment she shared with Willow, she couldn't shake the sense of defeat that lingered from her public display of vulnerability. She dreaded the thought of facing Willow, knowing how worried her girlfriend would be.

The last thing Vanessa wanted was for Willow to know. Willow was overworked, she was always overworked. Vanessa didn't want Willow to feel a need to work more. 

The apartment was quiet as Vanessa let herself in. She tiptoed through the living room, trying to be as silent as possible.

But fate had other plans. As Vanessa reached the hallway leading to their bedroom, a sudden wave of nausea hit her with such intensity that she staggered, barely managing to grab onto the wall for support.

She had to run, to bolt to the bathroom. Like the times before, Vanessa could feel the way the heaves and gags ripped through her, tearing her throat and leaving her shaky as she violently lost what was left in her stomach. 

Vanessa's resolve to hide her condition from Willow crumbled with each heave that wracked her body in the bathroom. The sound echoed in the small space, a stark reminder of her vulnerability. She hated being weak, hated needing help, especially when she knew how tirelessly Willow worked as an emergency nurse. Willow was sleeping. Willow needed to be sleeping.

Willow, however, was already awake, her instincts honed by years of caring for others. The moment she heard the retching sounds from the bathroom, her concern kicked into high gear. Ignoring Vanessa's protests and attempts to downplay the severity of her illness, Willow rushed to her side.

"Vanessa, love, let me help you," Willow's voice was gentle but firm as she knelt beside Vanessa, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.

"I'm fine," Vanessa insisted weakly, even as another wave of nausea washed over her, leaving her trembling.

Willow ignored her protests, focusing instead on easing Vanessa's discomfort. As she rubbed Vanessa's back, her trained senses picked up on subtle cues – the clamminess of Vanessa's skin, the elevated temperature radiating from her body.

Vanessa spit, her breathing ragged as she tried to catch her breath. Willow placed a hand on Vanessa's forehead. 

"You have a fever my love," Willow said softly, her tone tinged with worry.

"No.. no I'm just hot from work…" Vanessa said, "I… I just…. I'm fine."

Vanessa's stubbornness warred with the undeniable fact that she was in no condition to argue. She leaned heavily against the bathroom wall, feeling utterly drained and defeated.

Willow dampened a washcloth to cool Vanessa's forehead. Gently, she brushed her girlfriend's hair out of her face.

"How long have you been feeling sick my love?" Willow asked.

Vanessa shrugged, "Since I started, I guess."

"Did you get sick before this one?" Willow asked. Vanessa wanted to lie, but the look on Willow's face told her to think twice about it. 

"I got sick earlier," Vanessa said, "Just once. Lucien and I thought I was just tired and hungry, We got coffee and-"

"You should know better than to drink coffee if you're feeling questionable like that." Willow said.

"Yeah," Vanessa said, "But you should know better, that I never learn."

"Well," Willow said, "I guess you're just lucky then that you got me as your girlfriend. Come on, let's get you to bed, okay?"

-

Against her better judgment, Willow went back to work. Vanessa was stable, Willow knew that. But also, Willow knew her girlfriend. 

“Let me put this in terms you will understand,” Willow said, “You are under house arrest.” 

"That's not fair," Vanessa whined, "You can't do that."

Willow rolled her eyes, "You'll live. I'll be home after work."

Willow returned to her demanding job as an emergency nurse. She had to go back, two days off probably killed her colleagues, they probably had to scramble to fill her position.

As a safety measure, Willow wore a mask. She felt fine, but she knew she was exposed to Vanessa being sick. She needed to be safe. 

But as the day wore on,  Willow began to feel a familiar queasiness in her stomach. She tried to push through it, dismissing it as fatigue or stress from her hectic schedule.

The nausea intensified, accompanied by a throbbing headache and dizziness. She struggled to focus on her tasks, her concern growing with each passing hour. She tried to keep up with everything, to distract herself. But, it was hard to focus. She felt sicker and sicker and she hated it.

Milan had noticed first. He was almost attuned to Willow, sensing when something was wrong. Willow was the same with him, they both frequently joked it was the only thing to come out of sleeping with the same guy. But, regardless, he noticed before everyone else. To a degree.

"Hey, you look like you should get something to eat," Milan said, "Let me take your next few rounds, go grab something."

Willow did. After all, maybe she was just hungry. But, she could hardly drink from her water bottle without feeling like she was going to throw up. She was back on the ward, doing her best to isolate by checking over patient folders and files and scheduling tests. 

Doctor Nguyen, a seasoned physician and Willow's mentor, noticed her pale complexion and the way she seemed to be forcing a smile despite her obvious discomfort. He approached her quietly during a brief break between patients.

"Willow, are you feeling alright?" Dr. Nguyen asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Willow tried to brush off his concern, but a sudden wave of nausea cut her off mid-sentence. She stumbled slightly, clutching the edge of a nearby counter for support. An assistant passing by with a cart seemed to hit at the right moment, Willow snatched one of the sick bags off the cart.

As Willow snatched the sick bag off the passing cart, her stomach rebelled with such force that she barely had time to reach for it before she retched into the bag. Doctor Nguyen's concern deepened, and he quickly guided Willow to a nearby chair, signaling for another nurse to take over her duties.

"Willow, you need to rest," Dr. Nguyen insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Willow, feeling weak and embarrassed by the sudden turn of events, nodded reluctantly. She handed the filled sick bag to an assistant and allowed Dr. Nguyen to lead her to a quiet corner where she could sit and recover.

"I'm sorry," Willow murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she leaned back in the chair, feeling drained and shaky.

"There's nothing to apologize for, Willow," Dr. Nguyen said kindly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Your health comes first. Let's get you home."

Willow wanted to protest, to insist that she could push through the sickness and continue working. But the queasiness in her stomach and the pounding headache made it clear that she needed to heed Dr. Nguyen's advice.

Reluctantly, Willow nodded, realizing that she needed to prioritize her own well-being. Dr. Nguyen arranged for another nurse to cover her remaining shifts, insisting that Willow go home and rest.

As Willow made her way out of the hospital, her steps unsteady and her head spinning, she couldn't shake the feeling of guilt for leaving her colleagues short-handed. But Dr. Nguyen's words echoed in her mind, reminding her that taking care of herself was just as crucial as caring for others.

The journey home felt like an eternity as Willow battled waves of nausea and exhaustion. But, Willow was glad she made it.

Vanessa was in the kitchen, preparing a simple meal when she heard the front door open. She glanced at the clock, surprised that Willow was home earlier than expected.

"Hey, you're home early," Vanessa said with a smile as Willow entered the kitchen, looking pale but determined.

"How are you feeling?" Willow asked, coming in after taking off her shoes, going to grab some water from the fridge.

"I've only thrown up once today, so that's an improvement," Vanessa said, "I thought maybe trying to make something small would help my stomach a bit, I didn't expect you home so soon so, do you want something?"

Willow shook her head, "Not hungry."

Willow wasn't. In fact, Willow was the opposite of hungry. Willow felt horribly nauseous.

Vanessa leaned in to kiss Willow's forehead, a gesture of comfort and welcome. But as her lips touched Willow's skin, Vanessa's eyes widened in realization. Willow felt warm – too warm.

"Willow, you have a fever," Vanessa said, concern lacing her voice as she pulled back slightly.

Before Willow could defend herself or rationalize why she felt warm, a sudden wave of nausea gripped her with such intensity that she had to lurch towards the kitchen sink.

Vanessa reacted swiftly, pulling Willow's hair back and rubbing soothing circles on her back as Willow retched into the sink. Despite the discomfort, very little came up, leaving Willow feeling even more queasy.

"Easy, love," Vanessa murmured, her voice filled with empathy as she continued to support Willow. "Just let it out."

Willow clung to the edge of the sink, her body tense with nausea but unable to expel much. She felt utterly miserable, the combination of fever, nausea, and fatigue overwhelming her.

"Here," Vanessa said gently, handing Willow the glass of water. "Try to finish it. It might force your stomach one way or another."

Willow nodded weakly, taking small sips of water as Vanessa rubbed her back in a soothing rhythm. Vanessa could feel the tension in Willow's body, the strain of trying not to be sick despite her body's insistence.

"Maybe a change of position will help," Vanessa suggested, guiding Willow to sit at the kitchen table. She stood behind Willow, wrapping her arms around her girlfriend in a comforting embrace. "Here, let's see how this works for you."

Vanessa stood behind Willow. She hugged Willow from behind. She rubbed Willow's stomach with her hand, putting pressure on her girlfriend's abdomen.

Willow followed Vanessa's guidance, leaning forward slightly as Vanessa hugged her from behind. The gentle pressure and warmth of Vanessa's embrace, coupled with the rhythmic motion, gradually eased the tightness in Willow's stomach.

After a few minutes, Willow felt a release. She burped, once. Vanessa rubbed her stomach harder and it was like a dam was opened. Willow felt hot, chunky liquid rush up her throat. Vanessa let go briefly to turn the sink on, to run it, before going back to Willow's stomach and continuing to rub it. 

"Alright baby girl," Vanessa said, "Let's get it out, and then get you to bed."

[certifiedbitch777]

Don't Touch My Hair... I MEANT IT!!!

Entry Date: 1/18/2024 11:03 pm

Today's topic is 'Don't Touch My Hair,' and I mean it quite literally. I am tired.

Tired.

Tired.

I'm so tired of this shit, and I want to cry and scream and more.

My hair is something I've struggled with since I was a kid. It's a very sore spot. When asked what their ideal hair would be growing up, most girls would point out things such as a difference in texture, thicker hair, or even extra length. For me, it sucked because I didn't have any of the desired traits.

My hair was a lot different than my siblings. Their hair was much fuller than mine. My hair is low density, aka it's hella thin... Man, is it really thin. Reflecting on what I know about my hair now, my hair also has low porosity, while my siblings seemed to have medium porosity.

My mother struggled to plant the proper seeds to make my hair grow and be healthy. She didn't know how to take care of hair like mine. With my siblings having thicker and much more resilient hair, it was no reason why their hair seemed to flourish in different settings; meanwhile, mine would break off at the most minor inconvenience.

For the majority of my life, I grew up with short hair and even went through the phase in middle school of lying about my length so that I wouldn't be ridiculed. I would go to extreme lengths to manipulate my hair in a particular way to feel more feminine and aligned with the beauty standards. None of that would be able to erase the many years of humiliation I would feel from my peers or even my external family (grandma, aunties, etc.). It was like a running joke...

I felt so ugly for many years, but I still held the idea that my beauty was tied to how my hair looked. Even now, in my early 20s approaching my mid-20s, I still struggle with this. I struggle with prioritizing my physical appearance, though I know the beauty within is what counts the most. And trust, I do focus on building my internal world and shifting the harmful internal dialogue, but it's just so hard when the world is built on all superficial matters.

I've won over certain battles that I faced regarding the beauty standard. For example, I have big boobs. Big boobs, by nature, sag due to gravity, skin elasticity, genetics, and so many more factors. I thought something was wrong with me during my teen years. I mean, why the hell was my boobs frowning if I didn't even birth any children?? But the older I got, the less I started to care. Shit neither does my partner, so I just learned to embrace this difference within myself. But when it comes to my hair... it's the battle I'm struggling to win over the most.

I shaved my hair in the summer of 2022. It is now January 2024, and I'm still baldheaded.

Granted, the past year, for me, has been highly stressful. I suffered hair loss due to stress from work, my weight was fluctuating, and my health over was in the gutter. Due to this, I started balding in random spots. However, it's been MONTHS since I stopped balding, and my hair is not even 5 inches...

It makes me feel so ugly.

So masculine.

I mean, I've been with my boyfriend for 2 years, and since we've dated, I've been taking care of his hair. His hair is now mid-back length, drastically different from his mini afro. And yet, here I am, his girl, with shorter hair. It just makes me feel so undesirable. I feel the need to wear a full face of makeup every time my hair is out. That is just utter bullshit!

I'M JUST SO FUCKING TIRED!!

And I'm so hurt.

This never-ending battle with my feminity tied to something as trivial as my hair is draining me. If anybody asked me if I was over all of my hair struggles that summer of 2022 before I shaved it, I would've said yes!! But I'm clearly not and don't know what to do.

Outside of being overpriced for simple services, these new-age stylists LOVE adding a pile of product, mostly thick gel, to our hair and straightening it for basic styles... How are these styles being labeled protective??? My hair just simply won't thrive in those conditions.

And what sucks is I love styles such as mini braids or twists, but hair is such a low density, I end up looking like Cynthia from rug rats LMFAOO. Just 3 goddamn braids on my hair.

I want to know how do I feel pretty with my hair in its current state. That's the question no one knows how to answer, and I don't expect them to. The answer should come from me and only me, but this battle just feels so lonely...