#and not get overwhelmed and Exhausted after

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Don’t Blame Me

Evan Buckley x fem!reader

The coffee pot hisses lowly in the background, but you don’t move to pour a cup.

Buck’s standing near the kitchen counter in his uniform pants and undershirt, tugging on his boots like he’s trying to outrun the tension hanging in the air. He hasn’t looked at you once since he walked out of the bedroom. Not while brushing his teeth. Not while grabbing his keys. Not even when you greeted him with a hesitant, quiet, “Morning.”

You’re still in your pajamas, arms crossed tight over your chest, holding your breath like it’ll stop you from saying something you’ll regret.

But he’s the one who speaks first.

“I’m gonna be late,” he mutters.

That’s it. That’s all you get.

Not good morning. Not I’m sorry for last night. Just that distant, flat tone you hate. The one he uses when he’s already halfway out the door, emotionally and physically.

“Then be late,” you bite out before you can stop yourself. “Be late and talk to me.”

Buck freezes with his boot half-laced, finally—finally—lifting his eyes to you.

You expect softness. Regret. Anything.

But his gaze is cold. Exhausted.

“I don’t want to fight with you again.”

“Then stop running away from me every time I try to fix this!” you snap.

The words crack like a whip across the quiet morning, and for a second, he doesn’t move. Just stares.

“You said I make everything harder,” he says finally, his voice quieter, but sharper. “Do you remember that? Last night? When you were mad—you said loving me is exhausting.”

Your mouth opens—closes—opens again. The memory rushes back, half-blurred by tears and frustration. You did say that. Not because you meant it, but because you were hurt. Because you were trying to get him to hurt too.

“Buck…” your voice falters. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

“You didn’t even try to take it back.”

“I—I was upset. You kept shutting me out—”

“I shut down when I’m overwhelmed!” he explodes, and now the room isn’t quiet anymore.

“I know that!” you yell back. “But you shut me out even when I’m just trying to love you! What do you want from me? You want me to give you space? I do. You want me to show up and be patient? I do that too. But you’re never really here, Buck. You’re never fully with me.”

He turns away like he can’t stand to look at you. And somehow, that hurts more than anything he’s said.

“I have a job,” he mutters.

“And I have a heart!” you fire back. “And you’ve been breaking it piece by piece, every time you act like I’m the enemy just because I want more from you than silence!”

He exhales hard, grabs his shirt, and starts pulling it on. “I can’t do this right now. I’m going to work.”

“So that’s it?” you ask, voice cracking. “You’re gonna walk out like everything’s fine?”

“I didn’t say it was fine,” he says over his shoulder. “I just said I have a shift to cover.”

“Right,” you whisper. “Because running into burning buildings is easier than facing me.”

That one makes him stop.

His jaw flexes. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He turns just enough to look at you—but not close enough to bridge the canyon between you.

“I’ll be back tonight.”

And before you can say anything—before you can tell him you’re sorry, or that you didn’t mean it like that, or please don’t leave like this—the door shuts behind him.

Hard.

And just like that, the morning falls silent again.

But now, it’s worse.

Because that’s the last thing you said to him.

And by tonight… you won’t even know if he’s coming home.

———

The first thing you reach for is the cast iron skillet.

Not because it’s convenient—but because it’s his favorite. You haven’t used it in weeks, and the weight of it in your hands feels heavier than it should. Like it knows this meal has more to carry than just calories.

It’s a little after 7:00 when you start the prep, soft music playing low in the background—some jazz playlist Buck said once reminded him of his mom’s kitchen when he was little. You’re not trying to win him over. You’re trying to reach him. To say with this meal what your mouth failed to this morning.

You’re making chicken marsala, his comfort food. The real kind—not the 20-minute kind with shortcuts and cornstarch and cheap wine. You’re talking browned mushrooms and shallots in butter, reduced marsala with stock, pan-seared chicken cutlets finished in the oven. It takes time. Effort. Intention.

Everything you wish you’d put into the conversation you had with him before he left this morning.

⸻

The chicken is sliced and floured by 7:18.

You take your time with the mushrooms, caramelizing them until they’re deep golden and nutty. You remember the first time you made this for him—he said it tasted better than any restaurant. You laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. Then he kissed your cheek and asked for seconds.

Your eyes sting now as you stir.

You glance at the clock. 7:47.

He has two more hours on shift. He said he’d come home after. You want to believe him.

So you keep cooking like he will.

⸻

By 8:10, the sauce is reducing and the house smells rich and warm. You even took the time to roast baby potatoes with garlic and rosemary and steam green beans the way he likes—still slightly crisp. You set the table for two. His side has the glass of cabernet you know he won’t drink more than two sips of.

You’re wearing one of his old firehouse tees. The one that got too small in the shoulders but he refused to throw out.

And while the chicken rests on a warm plate in the oven, you finally sit down at the counter and let yourself think.

How do I bring it up?

You know he hates conflict. You know he gets overwhelmed fast. You’re not perfect either—you push, you poke, you say things to test if he’ll stay. You don’t want to do that this time.

Maybe I’ll start with: I miss you.

Simple. Honest. Less threatening.

Or maybe: I didn’t mean what I said yesterday.

Because you didn’t. You never meant it. He exhausts you sometimes, yes—but you never meant him. You meant the space between you. The way he shuts down. You just… don’t know how to reach through the wall when it goes up.

The smell of dinner still fills the apartment. Everything’s still warm.

8:57.

You fluff the potatoes with a fork and smile. Almost time.

⸻

9:23.

You open your texts. Nothing. You refresh. Nothing.

You click on his location and see the familiar dot at the station. Still there. Maybe paperwork ran late. Maybe someone needed a minute to talk. You know how it goes.

You pour a glass of wine. Just half.

⸻

9:51.

You go ahead and put his plate in the microwave to keep it warm. Not reheat—just enough so it’s not cold when he walks in. You picture his tired face lighting up when he smells the marsala sauce. You imagine him slipping his arms around your waist from behind, whispering “You made this for me?”

You’ll say yes, and then you’ll apologize first. You’ll say it was a bad morning, and you love him, and you don’t want to keep hurting each other every time things get hard. You’ll say “We’re better than this, right?”

He’ll nod. Kiss your forehead.

It’ll be okay.

⸻

10:37.

You’re pacing now. Your stomach’s tight with something halfway between worry and dread. You check your phone again. Still nothing. You almost call, thumb hovering over his contact—but you stop yourself. You don’t want to seem clingy. He said he was coming home.

He promised.

⸻

11:02.

You call.

Voicemail.

You wait five minutes. Then call again.

Still voicemail.

You open Eddie’s contact. Then Chim’s. You don’t press call, but your thumb hovers. Maybe they’d know. Maybe something’s wrong. Maybe—

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not him.

It’s a  text from one of his coworkers:

“Hey Y/N, thank you for being ok with Buck canceling your dinner date tonight, my baby is sick and we’re taking her to the hospital. I really appreciate both of you.”

Your breath leaves your body like a punch to the ribs.

Third shift.

Third.

That means 9pm to 7am.

And he didn’t tell you.

Not a single word.

⸻

The anger doesn’t hit all at once. It builds—slow and hot, like the marsala sauce did earlier, except now you’re burning from the inside out.

He looked you in the eye and told you he’d come home tonight.

He let you wait. Let you hope. Let you believe that maybe he wanted to fix this too. And the whole time, he knew. He knew he wasn’t coming.

You grab the to-go container from the top shelf of the cabinet—the one he uses when he packs leftovers for shift. You fill it with the marsala. The potatoes. Everything.

You don’t care that it’s after 11.

You don’t care that you’re not wearing shoes yet.

You’re going to the firehouse.

You’re going to look him in the eye and ask him why.

——

The firehouse is alive with the usual noise — radios buzzing, boots clacking, men focused on their shift.

You burst through the door, the cold container of chicken marsala digging into your palm. The food’s cold, just like your patience.

Buck’s sitting at the table with Eddie and Chim, playing cards like it’s some damn party and not a damn job.

You don’t hesitate. You throw the container on the table with a slap loud enough to stop the whole room.

“Are you serious right now?” Your voice is sharp, venom dripping from every word.

They all look up, startled. Buck’s face goes tight — but you don’t care.

“You said you were coming home,” you spit, stepping closer, rage burning in your chest. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’ll be home after shift.’ And then you pick up another goddamn shift and don’t even have the decency to tell me?”

His mouth opens, but you cut him off.

“I waited. Two fucking hours—waiting for you to walk through that door. Waiting for you to show up so I could finally fix this damn fight. And all I get is silence.”

You’re shaking now. The fire’s burning so hot it’s almost painful.

“Do you know what it feels like to cook your favorite meal for an hour and a half, spend every second thinking about how to not start another fight—and then find out you didn’t even come home?”

Buck’s jaw clenches. You see the guilt trying to crawl out, but you don’t give a damn.

Before things can get worse, Bobby steps in between you two.

“Y/N, enough,” he says, calm but firm.

You laugh, bitter and loud. “No, Bobby. I’m done. Done pretending I’m not fucking furious. Done waiting on someone who can’t even text me.”

You turn sharply and walk out, leaving the cold food and the broken silence behind.

The street is nearly empty—just you, the hum of the engine, and the boiling silence inside your chest.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. Your pulse is still racing from the firehouse. From him. From the way he sat there laughing, like you hadn’t been home, pacing in the kitchen for hours with a full plate of his favorite food going cold on the counter.

A sob claws its way up your throat but dies before it reaches your mouth.

You’re so caught in your spiraling thoughts, you almost miss the headlights screaming toward you from the side.

Almost.

Too fast.

Your head whips to the left—brakes screeching—but it’s too late.

The other car slams into your passenger side at full speed, a T-bone hit with the force of a missile.

Metal screams. Your body jolts violently as the impact rips through you like lightning. The car spins uncontrollably, tires screeching, glass exploding like gunfire.

Time slows down.

Your head whips forward, then back, as the car spins once—

Twice—

Then slams sideways into a tree with bone-crushing force. The passenger side caves inward, the entire right half of the car crushed like paper.

Your head hits the driver-side window with a crack, blood immediately pooling from your temple. The airbag deploys a second too late to save your ribs from the force. Pain sears through your abdomen—blunt trauma, maybe internal bleeding. You can’t tell.

The door won’t open. Your hands won’t move.

You taste copper.

You can’t scream.

The cold rushes in through shattered glass. Somewhere outside, someone’s shouting.

A pair of headlights flicker in the distance. A car screeches to a halt. Someone runs toward you.

“Oh my God! Call 911! Call 911 now!”

Another voice: “She’s still breathing—barely!”

You’re fading fast.

“Miss? Stay with me! Stay awake—hey, look at me. Look at me!”

A stranger presses on your side. It hurts so badly you nearly black out. The pain is unbearable. But you’re too weak to fight it.

Blood coats your seat. Drips down your wrist. Puddles on the floorboard.

Your car is unrecognizable.

And you? You might be dying.

Somewhere close—only three blocks away—sirens are screaming louder and louder.

The 118 is coming.

So is he.

But you don’t know if you’ll still be awake when he gets there.

——

(Station 118)

“Motor vehicle accident—two vehicles involved. One critical. Location—”

Buck hears the dispatcher say the street name and his body freezes.

He knows that road.

He knows who drives that road home from the firehouse.

“Buck,” Bobby says quickly, already picking up on it, “Don’t jump to—”

But Buck is already running. Helmet in hand. Vest half on. Sprinting to the rig like his life depends on it. Because it does.

The rig tears through the streets. It’s barely been three blocks. That’s how close she was. That’s how stupidly close—

Chim is driving. Eddie’s beside him. Hen’s checking gear.

And Buck is staring out the windshield, praying, pleading, bargaining.

Please don’t let it be her car.

Please don’t let it be her.

Please. Please. Please.

They turn the corner—

And he sees it.

Her car. Or what’s left of it.

A mangled, twisted wreck of metal, glass, and blood. The entire passenger side crushed like a soda can against a tree. Her car is barely recognizable—but Buck knows it. He knows the shape, the color, the dent on the rear left bumper from that time she backed into a post.

He jumps out of the rig before it’s even in park.

“Buck!” Bobby yells. “Wait!”

But he’s already running.

And then—he sees her.

Slumped sideways. Blood all over her. Her face pale. Her eyes half-lidded.

“No—NO—”

He drops to his knees by the driver’s side as Chim and Hen rush in.

“I’ve got no access here!” Hen shouts. “We need to cut her out!”

“Vitals are crashing!” Chim yells.

Buck’s voice shreds open as he pounds on the glass.

“Y/N—HEY—HEY, STAY AWAKE, BABY, STAY AWAKE—”

She flinches faintly. A moan. Barely.

He’s never felt fear like this. Not during the ladder collapse. Not during the tsunami. Not during lightning strikes or bomb threats.

This is worse.

This is her.

Bobby grabs him, yanking him back as they start cutting open the door.

“Let them work, Buck!”

“She’s bleeding out—she’s bleeding—”

“She’s alive,” Eddie says hoarsely, eyes locked on her. “But she won’t be for long if you don’t let them do their job.”

The door peels open.

It takes every ounce of strength Buck has not to fall apart when he sees the blood soaked into her seat, the way she gasps when they touch her abdomen, the deep gash on her temple.

She looks at him—just for a second. Eyes glassy. Barely there.

He reaches for her hand.

“Hey… hey, baby, I’m here. I’m right here, okay?”

Her lips move. He leans in. She’s trying to say his name.

Then her eyes roll back.

The monitors scream.

“She’s coding!” Hen yells.

“Go, go, go!” Chim shouts.

They hoist her out on the board, blood dripping to the pavement, and Buck runs after them—bloody hands shaking, lungs heaving, heart breaking wide open.

As the ambulance doors slam shut, Buck is left on the street, on his knees, shaking and sobbing—

Whispering over and over into the dark,

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The hospital lights are too bright. Too white. Too sterile.

Too clean for how bloody his hands still are.

Buck hasn’t sat down.

Not once.

He’s pacing—back and forth, back and forth—the soles of his boots leaving faint red smudges on the white floor, reminders of how he held her, how her blood soaked into his skin, his sleeves, his soul.

It’s been twenty-two minutes.

Twenty-two minutes since the double doors swung shut behind the gurney.

Twenty-two minutes since she coded in the back of the rig and Hen fought like hell to bring her back.

“She’s got a pulse!” Hen had shouted.

“Go, go, go!” Chim had banged on the ambulance wall.

They’d barely made it.

Now, she’s in the OR.

“Any update?” he asks the nurse at the desk—again.

She looks up. Same look of sympathy. Same rehearsed, practiced tone.

“She’s still in surgery, Mr. Buckley. The doctor will come out as soon as they can.”

He nods, but it’s barely a movement. His jaw clenches. His hands ball into fists at his sides.

He can still see her face.

How pale she was.

The blood in her hair.

The way she looked at him like she was already slipping away.

And all he can think is: I was supposed to come home. I was supposed to eat dinner with her. I was supposed to say sorry.

Not scream at her.

Not make her feel unwanted.

Not send her home in tears.

His stomach twists as the weight of it crashes down on him. He shoves his hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the to-go container.

Her handwriting on top.

“Your favorite. Still warm. I love you.”

He breaks.

Eddie finds him in a chair, head in his hands, the note clutched to his chest. His shoulders shake with every quiet sob.

“She was trying to make things right,” Buck chokes out. “And I—God, I didn’t even give her the chance.”

“Buck,” Eddie says, crouching beside him, voice steady but wrecked, “She’s strong. She’s in there fighting. But you’ve gotta hold it together until she wakes up.”

“If she wakes up.”

Silence.

Then:

“She will.”

Buck sits there, numb and bloodied and broken, staring at the doors like he can will them open.

“Ten more minutes,” he whispers. “I’ll ask again in ten.”

And he will.

Every ten minutes.

Until someone tells him the only thing he wants to hear:

That she made it.

Buck sits hunched over, forearms resting on his knees, fingers twitching against one another like if he stops moving, he’ll come undone.

Eddie sits in the chair next to him, silent, steady, like he always is. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t prod. He just waits.

And eventually, Buck cracks.

“It started over something stupid,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t even remember what. Something about the way I didn’t respond when she asked if I was okay.”

Eddie glances at him, quiet.

“She asked, and I brushed her off. Said I was tired. Said I had a long shift ahead.” Buck lets out a bitter laugh. “She tried to get me to talk about it, and I shut down. Again.”

Eddie’s silence isn’t empty. It’s full of understanding. Full of memories.

“She said it felt like I only let her in halfway. That sometimes I didn’t even try.”

Buck swallows hard. His voice softens.

“And she wasn’t wrong. She never is when it comes to me.”

He wipes his palm across his mouth, shaking his head.

“I snapped at her, man. She was just trying to talk, to understand, and I told her I didn’t want to do this before work. I told her, ‘we’ll talk tonight.’ Like that was enough.”

“She believed you.” Eddie’s voice is low, even.

Buck nods. His eyes are glassy again.

“She asked me if I was still in this with her. If I was still trying. And I just stood there. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t answer her, Eddie.”

Eddie looks over, eyes dark.

“And then I walked out. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like she didn’t mean anything.”

The words sting coming out. Buck flinches at the truth in his own mouth.

“I was already halfway to the firehouse when I felt it. That regret. That voice in my head screaming at me to turn around. But I didn’t.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, gently.

Buck’s voice is barely a whisper.

“Because it was easier to go to work than it was to tell her I was scared.”

He swallows hard.

“Scared that I don’t know how to be loved like that. That I don’t know how to hold something so good without breaking it.”

Eddie leans back, sighs through his nose.

“You think picking up another shift was gonna keep her from seeing that?”

“I think it made it worse,” Buck whispers. “I think she cooked my favorite meal as an apology. I think she wanted to make it right and I didn’t even give her the chance.”

“You didn’t know she’d show up.”

Buck finally looks over.

“I shouldn’t have had to. She always shows up.”

His jaw tightens, grief crawling up his throat.

“And I didn’t.”

Eddie looks away. Doesn’t speak. Because he was there—when she walked into the station, shaking, eyes red-rimmed, voice raised with fury and heartbreak. He saw the way Buck froze, silent and stunned.

He watched her drop the container on the table, the note taped to the lid.

He heard her voice crack when she said, “I waited for you.”

Buck squeezes his eyes shut now.

“She left like I’d torn her in half. And I let her go. I just let her walk away.”

The waiting room door buzzes open in the distance, but no one comes out. Just a nurse crossing through.

Buck leans forward again, elbows on his knees, hands laced together.

“If she dies…” His voice catches. He swallows thickly. “If she doesn’t wake up, that’s the last thing I ever said to her. That silence. That nothing.”

Eddie’s voice is quiet but certain.

“She’s fighting. You have to believe that.”

“I do.” Buck wipes at his face. “But I also know… if she doesn’t make it, it’s not gonna be the accident that kills me.”

Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder, firm. Steady.

“You’ll get to tell her all of this, Buck. You’ll get to say everything you didn’t. Just hold on.”

Buck nods, jaw clenched.

Another ten minutes pass.

He stands again. Walks to the nurse’s desk.

“Any update?” he asks, voice breaking.

This time, the nurse looks back at him, expression softening—

“The doctor’s coming out now.”

The waiting room had never been quieter. Not even when Bobby had been under the knife. Not even when Chim had coded. Not even when Buck had nearly died himself.

Because this time, it wasn’t him on the table.

It was her.

And he couldn’t do a damn thing.

His palms were still sticky with dried blood.

Her blood.

He’d been pacing when the door opened. The air shifted. He felt it before he heard it.

The soft click of shoes on tile. The rustle of a white coat.

Buck turned.

A doctor. Older. Stern, unreadable face. The kind of look that didn’t tell you anything until it told you everything.

“Evan Buckley?”

Buck took one step forward so fast Eddie reached out, as if ready to catch him.

“Yes,” Buck said, voice hoarse. “That’s me. I’m—She’s my—”

He swallowed.

“I’m with her.”

The doctor nodded. “Let’s sit.”

Buck didn’t want to sit.

He wanted answers.

He stood stiff and cold and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

The doctor didn’t force it. Just exhaled slowly.

“She was brought in with severe abdominal trauma, a major concussion, and internal bleeding. Her spleen was ruptured. There were signs of blunt force trauma to the ribs, a laceration on the liver, and she had lost significant blood volume on the scene.”

Buck could hear himself breathing. Could feel Eddie standing behind him, but he couldn’t look away.

“The impact was… catastrophic. The passenger side of the vehicle wrapped around the tree. She was partially crushed between the door and the seat.”

Buck closed his eyes. His fault. She shouldn’t have been in that car.

“But,” the doctor said, voice softening just a hair, “she’s alive.”

Buck’s eyes snapped open.

“She’s in critical condition. We were able to stabilize her for now. She’s intubated and on a ventilator. Her vitals are holding, but it’s going to be touch and go for the next 24 hours.”

“Is she awake?” Buck rasped.

“No. We placed her in a medically induced coma to let the brain swelling reduce and give her body time to fight.”

Buck swayed where he stood. Eddie’s hand pressed between his shoulder blades.

“You said she’s stable?” Buck asked, and his voice cracked like a boy’s.

“For now,” the doctor repeated carefully. “There’s no guarantee. Her body is in shock. But she’s young. And she’s strong.”

Buck nodded like his neck was made of splintered glass. “Can I see her?”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “Only for a few minutes. Let the nurses get her settled in ICU. Then we’ll bring you back.”

Buck breathed out like he hadn’t in hours.

The doctor started to turn away. Buck stopped him.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. “For saving her.”

The doctor paused, gave him a look he’d remember for the rest of his life.

“She’s the one who saved herself,” he said. “She held on longer than most could have. Might be something worth holding on for.”

Then he walked away.

Buck stood there. Frozen.

“She’s alive,” he whispered. Like maybe if he said it out loud, it would stay true.

“She’s alive,” he said again, and this time he turned to Eddie, who had tears in his eyes too.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, gripping Buck’s arm. “She’s alive.”

But Buck didn’t feel relief. Not yet.

Because she hadn’t opened her eyes.

Because she hadn’t heard him say sorry.

Because she’d still left thinking he didn’t love her.

And that might be the part that killed him first.

The ICU was too quiet.

No sirens. No radios. No alarms.

Just the slow, soft beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor keeping her alive.

Buck stepped into the room and felt the rest of the world drop away.

She looked so small in the bed. Tubes and wires tangled in her arms, tape at her mouth, bruises blooming purple and red across her temple and shoulder. Her skin was pale, almost waxy. The kind of stillness that didn’t belong to someone like her—someone who laughed with her whole chest, someone who kissed him with all her soul.

The nurse gave him a nod, quietly closed the door behind him.

He took one step, then another. His boots felt too loud against the floor.

“I—” Buck started, then stopped.

His throat was too tight.

“I didn’t think it was real,” he said softly, sinking into the chair by her bedside. “I saw the car, and I—I thought you were gone. I thought I lost you.”

His hand hovered near hers for a second before he finally took it. It was cool, limp, fingers slack.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. “God, I’m so sorry.”

His other hand came up, dragging across his face like he could rub the shame out of his skin.

“You were trying to talk to me, and I shut you down. You made dinner—you made my favorite, and I just… I stayed at the station because I didn’t want to face you. Because I was afraid I’d say something that made you walk away.”

He let out a weak, bitter laugh. “And I said nothing. And you still walked out the door.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles.

“I never wanted you to think I didn’t love you. That you weren’t enough.” His voice trembled. “You’re everything.”

The machines kept beeping. She didn’t stir.

He leaned closer.

“Please wake up. Just… please. I’ll do anything. I’ll say everything I never said. I’ll tell you every day for the rest of your life how sorry I am, how much I love you, how—how I don’t know how to breathe without you.”

His forehead dropped to the edge of the bed, hand still wrapped around hers.

“I didn’t come home, and now you might never come back to me.”

There was silence for a long moment.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Barely there.

The ventilator hissed. A monitor blipped.

And then—a twitch.

Her fingers.

They moved.

Buck’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Hey. Hey—are you—?”

But before he could call for the nurse, the heart monitor spiked.

And then,

flatlined.

[subtlenighttribute]

Too Cute to Function

Selkie AU | Love and Deepspace boys x Reader

Reader gets babied after triggering cuteness aggression

First request finished in a while 🫠 lets see if I still got it

---

You’re just having a chill morning.

Tea. Blanket. Big sweater. Your hair’s all fluffy from sleep. You yawn, rubbing your face, and shuffle outside to sit on the porch like always.

And that’s when they all freeze.

Five seal boys, mid-sunbath, staring at you like you just punched them in the soul.

You blink. “...What?”

---

🐺 Sylus

He makes a tiny murder seal noise.

You barely have time to react before he launches at you like a fluffy, snuggle-possessed torpedo.

Bumps into your legs.

Climbs your lap.

Wedges himself under your hoodie like it’s his personal pocket dimension. One thought going through his mind.

“You look so soft today I am going to DIE if I don’t smother you immediately.”

You're pinned. Your tea is lost. He is smug.

---

🫧 Rafayel

Rafayel was mid-flop when he saw you.

One glance—your sleepy eyes, your messy hair, your too-big hoodie—

And he made the softest wheeze-squeak you’ve ever heard from a seal in your life.

He doesn’t rush.

No.

He glides up like a graceful manatee prince and then dramatically collapses onto your lap.

“Mon dieu, you’re too precious today. What is this? Who allowed this? How dare you.” He tried to say, but it just came out in glubs and gegs.

He gently noses your cheeks. Multiple times. Then your fingers. Then your knees. He’s basically tasting you at this point.

“Too cute. Illegal. Do it again.”

---

🪨 Zayne

Zayne watches you like a man witnessing the birth of the sun.

You shuffle out in your blanket like a sleepy marshmallow. You sit. You mumble a soft good morning.

His entire seal body goes rigid.

Then—

He slides toward you like a refrigerator being pushed across a linoleum floor and curls around you like a fuzzy, living barricade.

“Zayne—”

Flop. Protective grunt.

“Shh. No more words. You are delicate. I am shield.” All you heard was, eeehhhg pffft eggh eg.

You’re not allowed to move for the next hour.

---

☀️ Caleb

He screeches.

Like, actual baby-seal scream of pure overwhelmed affection.

You drop your spoon. He belly-flops onto the porch and frantically tries to climb you.

“AAAAAAAAHH WAAAAAAA.”

Translated.

“TOO CUTE—TOO SMALL—MY HEART—HUG OR DIE—”

He wiggles under your hoodie. Tries to tuck himself into your arms like a seal-shaped stuffie.

Your blanket? Stolen.

Your tea? Shared now.

Your dignity? Gone.

“No chores. No walking. You sit there and be adorable. That’s your job now.”

---

🌊 Xavier

Xavier freezes.

You walk out holding a mug with both hands, blanket trailing behind you, eyes still half-lidded—and he stares.

His seal form doesn’t move for ten full seconds. Then—

A squeak.

He flops over. Completely. Like the sight of you killed him.

“...Xavier?”

No response.

He slowly wriggles up to you like an exhausted noodle and leans his seal body against your side. Refuses to move. Occasionally makes tiny breathy seal sighs like he’s barely surviving your cuteness.

His little gurgles translate to “She yawned while blinking. I am destroyed.”

---

You, 20 Minutes Later:

Buried under five seals.

Pinned to the porch.

Sipping lukewarm tea through a silly straw Caleb brought you for “convenience.”

“This is ridiculous.”

A flipper pats your head.

Someone squeaks.

Rafayel, in his human form, hums.

“You’re lucky we didn’t start grooming you.”

“Wait. You were gonna what—”

[twd-bee3]

His Worst Fear

Summary: After an intense argument about your recklessness and sobriety, you overdose. Daryl is the one who has to fight for your life.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, graphic descriptions of drug use, overdose, addiction, descriptions of performing CPR, near-death experience, trauma, HEAVY angst, established relationship, female reader (she/her), season three, no use of y/n

Word count: 1.2k

A/N: If you have struggled with addiction in the past, this post may be triggering. Please proceed with caution and make the decision that is right for you. You know yourself best. I cannot stress this enough. I included graphic descriptions of the reader shooting up, and there is a possibility that it will be too distressing for some people. Your mental health comes first, and I will not blame you for skipping this one. Here is a hotline that you can contact if you are in the US and struggling with drug addiction: 855-378-4373. It is one of many resources.

“You don't fuckin' get it, Daryl. There is a deep aching emptiness inside of me, and getting high eases it. It gives me a moment of peace.”

You'd been fighting about your sobriety for over an hour now, and Daryl was exhausted. He'd never heard you talk about your life with so little care. This was his girl, and it felt like you were drifting further and further away.

“I know it hurts, baby. I know. Ain't gonna sit here and pretend that I've been through this shit - I haven't. But that emptiness that you're describin'? I've felt that. Please just let me help you.”

“That's what you ain't understandin'. There is no savin' me. It feels like you're fuckin' suffocatin' me. I can't breathe with you always on my ass!”

You were beyond overwhelmed, and you wanted nothing more than to numb the ache. You knew that you were being unnecessarily harsh, but you couldn't stop the venom flowing from your lips.

Hearing your words, Daryl flinched like he'd been struck. You had never spoken to him like this, and it hurt. It really fucking hurt. He was fully aware of how the apocalypse was affecting you, but this was different. The anger in his baby's eyes was completely foreign to him. You'd been together for years, and he had yet to see you act like this. He was at a loss for words.

Watching him fall silent, you knew that you had messed up. A flicker of remorse crossed your face, and you softened her tone. You took a hesitant step forward and reached out to touch his arm, but he quickly pulled back.

“Don't touch me right now.”

You recognized that you had hurt him, but his rejection of your touch stung. You were hit with a wave of shame and guilt.

“Shit, baby. I ain't mean to yell at you like that. You ain't deserve to be spoken to that way.”

“You're right. I ain't deserve to be treated like that.” Feeling triggered and tired of fighting, he paused before speaking again. “I think I'm gonna take a walk.”

Without saying another word, he turned and walked out of the prison cell. He felt sick to his stomach, and he needed space.

You waited until he was out of sight before allowing yourself to break down. You sat on the cot and began to sob quietly. The argument had only served to make your desire to use stronger. There was no point in resisting it now. Knowing what you needed to do, you lifted the thin mattress and dug out your kit. It was a small pouch that held a few pre-loaded syringes filled with dope.

Removing your belt, you tied it around your arm and felt around for a good vein. You'd been an addict for years before this most recent relapse, so your veins were scarred. It took a moment and some frustration, but you finally found a usable one. Taking a deep breath, you slipped the needle in and made sure that you got some good blood return. You pushed the plunger down and felt the familiar warmth of the heroin wash over you. The world around you softened, and you let your head rest against the concrete wall.

Everything was on track until you felt a weight settle in your chest. Something had shifted, and your body grew heavy. There was no panic, though - you were far too high for that. You tried to keep your eyes from closing, but it was no use. Your eyelids kept fluttering, and it was harder to open them each time. It felt impossible to take a breath, and through the haze in your mind, you thought of one thing - Daryl. How would he react when he found you?

Then everything went dark, and your body stilled.

Daryl had only been gone for ten minutes, but it was enough for you to make a fatal mistake. He knew that he needed to make things right and walked back into their shared cell, blissfully unaware of what he was about to find. He was rehearsing what he wanted to say in his head, and he was determined to make amends.

You were slumped against the wall, and your head was lolling to the side. He immediately picked up on the familiar signs that you had used again, but he assumed that you had simply nodded off. He felt a pang of anger and drew a rough hand over his face. Daryl's assumption was disproven when he approached you and saw the pale blue tint of your lips. Terror rushed through him, and he gently shook your shoulder. There was no reaction. He shook you again - harder this time, but there was no change.

Placing two trembling fingers to your neck, he felt the absence of your pulse and fought the urge to scream. His expression was broken, and his voice wavered as he spoke.

“No, no, no. Fuck. Baby, what did you do?”

You were still gasping softly, so he knew that you weren't completely gone. Yet. Daryl gently picked you up, and his heart broke as he realized how lifeless you felt. He laid your limp body on the concrete floor and tilted your head back to clear your airway. He placed his shaking hands against your chest and began pumping desperately.

“C'mon, baby. Please. Don't you leave me yet.”

He wasn't even sure if this was working, but he refused to give up. After a round of thirty chest compressions, he pressed his lips against yours and blew into your mouth. He was putting everything that he had into breathing life back into you. He was so focused on his task that he hardly felt the hot tears flowing down his face.

“You can't fuckin' die on me. I won't survive it. You're my whole world.”

Daryl repeated the cycle two more times before you finally took a breath. Your breathing was weak at first, but it gradually grew in strength. Letting out a ragged sob of relief, he gathered you in his arms again and sat against the small bed. You were still unconscious, but you were alive, and that was enough for him.

“That's my girl. Just keep breathin' for me. Please stay with me.”

It took a few more minutes, but you stirred in his arms and whimpered softly. Daryl didn't rush you to speak and slowly rocked you. He wasn't fully aware of what he was doing, but it seemed to soothe both of you. His whole body was still trembling from the adrenaline rush.

Even though your eyes remained closed, you instinctively knew that it was Daryl who was holding you. His embrace felt like home, and you continued taking those small breaths. The thick fog was clearing from your mind, and your eyelids fluttered open. After a moment, your weak voice broke the silence.

“I'm sorry. Ain't mean to fade on you.”

“I know, sweet girl, but you did. I- I almost lost you. You stopped fuckin' breathin'.”

He wasn't saying this to shame you - he was terrified. This was the closest that he had ever come to losing you. Daryl wasn't sure where to go from here, but he knew one thing for certain. He was never going to walk out on you again.

[ashthesalamipiece]

Can you do where reader and izukus daughter gets pregnant and how they care for her and help her though her pregnancy and labor and after labor ?

Through Every Step — A Midoriya Family Story

The moment your daughter told you and Izuku that she was pregnant, the world shifted — not in fear or panic, but in a quiet, emotional upheaval. You saw her eyes glistening with both joy and anxiety. She was young, unsure, and full of questions.

Izuku was the first to move.

He pulled her into a warm hug, his hand gently cradling the back of her head. “You're not alone,” he whispered. “We’re here — always.”

---

First Trimester: Adjusting and Accepting

You both helped her schedule her first doctor’s appointment, sitting with her as the ultrasound showed the tiny flutter of a heartbeat. Izuku held her hand tightly while you wiped her happy tears.

You helped her change her diet, cooking balanced meals even when the nausea kicked in and all she wanted was pickles and ice cream. Izuku researched prenatal yoga classes and convinced her to try meditation when her stress spiked.

There were nights she’d cry quietly in her room, scared about becoming a mother. You’d climb into bed beside her, reminding her that being afraid didn’t mean she wasn’t strong — it just meant she cared deeply.

---

Second Trimester: Planning and Preparing

With energy returning, the three of you prepared for the baby's arrival. Izuku, ever the analyst, made spreadsheets for finances, doctor appointments, and baby gear checklists.

You took her baby clothes shopping — something you hadn’t done in decades. She asked you questions about your own pregnancy with her. You shared both the beautiful and hard parts honestly, never sugarcoating, always reassuring.

When she started feeling the baby kick, Izuku burst into tears — full-on “proud grandpa already” tears — as he pressed his ear to her belly and whispered to the baby: “We’re all waiting for you.”

---

Third Trimester: Love and Labor

Her back ached. Her mood swung wildly. There were days she snapped, frustrated and exhausted. You reminded Izuku to give her space when needed, but also helped him understand how to be present and patient.

When labor finally started, it was Izuku who remained calm, guiding her breathing while you packed the last-minute hospital bag. At the hospital, she clutched both your hands, sweating and shaking as the hours passed.

She screamed. She sobbed. She almost gave up.

But then she heard both of your voices — steady, loving, constant.

“You're doing so well. We’re right here. We’re not leaving you.”

And she didn’t give up. She brought a beautiful baby into the world, and all three of you cried — overwhelmed, proud, changed forever.

---

Postpartum: Healing and Growing

The sleepless nights came fast. But you and Izuku took turns helping with night feeds, diaper changes, and lullabies so she could rest and recover.

When postpartum blues crept in, you sat beside her and reminded her that asking for help was strength — not weakness. Izuku brought her tea every morning, holding the baby so she could shower in peace.

You helped her gently ease into motherhood, never forcing, always guiding. Izuku was a devoted grandpa — clumsy, doting, and wildly in love with his grandchild.

---

The Midoriya home was full of love, soft lullabies, and the scent of baby powder.

Your daughter had become a mother — and she did so knowing that she was wrapped in unwavering love, support, and belief. Just like you and Izuku had always promised her.

[sualette]

hi!!! i just found ur page and I AM IN LOVE.

I don't know if ur taking reqs or not but I'd love to see u write something like a second chance thing with exhusband!jake with like angst and smut. THANKS

HI WHAT THANK YOU SM !! + my comeback

warnings : smut, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), second chance ??

you didn’t mean to end up at his door.

but the city felt too cold, your chest felt too tight, and the only number you could dial when your hands were shaking was his.

he looked surprised when he opened the door. hair messy. shirtless. gray sweatpants slung dangerously low.

“...you okay?”

your throat clenched. “no.”

he stepped aside without a word.

and you walked back into the place you used to call home.

same scent. same hallway.

same picture frame on the shelf — your wedding photo. still dusty. still facing out.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said after a beat, voice low. careful.

you laughed—bitter. broken. “i know.”

he stared at you. like you were a ghost. like he’d been haunted by you every night since the divorce.

“i tried to move on.” you whispered it like a secret.

his jaw tensed. “did you?”

you shook your head.

silence. thick. heavy. painful.

and then he crossed the room and kissed you like he hated you for showing up, hated you for leaving, hated himself for not stopping you.

your back hit the wall. his hands slid into your hair, gripping tight, tilting your head back so he could bite at your bottom lip, steal every gasp.

“you don’t get to show up like this and look at me like that,” he muttered against your mouth, breath hot, voice sharp.

“like what?”

“like you miss me.”

you whimpered when his hands dragged down your waist. “i do.”

he growled low in his throat—a sound of frustration. grief. want.

“take it off,” he ordered. fingers already yanking at your shirt. “everything.”

you didn’t argue. just stripped. and he watched you like it hurt.

"fuck," he breathed when you stood bare in front of him. “still so fucking pretty. still mine.”

“jake…” your voice cracked.

he kissed you again, hard, and this time he didn’t stop.

you ended up half-dressed in his sheets, legs spread for him, his mouth between your thighs like he’d been starving.

he sucked your clit with slow pressure, two fingers deep inside you, curling until you were panting his name like a prayer.

“that’s it,” he murmured. “god, i missed how you sound.”

you tugged at his hair. “please.”

he came up, mouth shiny, eyes dark. “you want me to fuck you?”

you nodded. desperate. “please, jake.”

he slid in without teasing—one slow, thick thrust that made your back arch and your mouth drop open.

“still fit me so good,” he groaned into your neck. “like your body never forgot.”

you clung to him—nails down his back, thighs locked around his waist, heart shattered all over again.

he thrust into you like he had something to prove. rough. deep. his hand wrapped around your throat just enough to hold your gaze.

“tell me you didn’t stop thinking about me,” he whispered.

“i didn’t,” you choked out.

“tell me you still love me.”

you cried. nodded. whimpered, “i love you, jake.”

his hips stuttered. his hand slid down to your stomach, pressing where he was deepest inside you.

“feel that?” he panted. “i’m right here. i always was.”

you pulled him in for a kiss—sloppy, teary, needy —as he fucked you harder. your orgasm hit like a wave, legs trembling, fingers gripping the sheets.

he didn’t stop. kept thrusting through it. chasing his own high with a raw, ruined look on his face.

“can i?” he breathed. “inside?”

you nodded. too overwhelmed to speak.

and he came with a broken moan—buried deep, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear again.

when it was over, he didn’t move. just stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you sweaty and quiet and exhausted.

“you never stopped being mine,” he whispered.

and you didn’t dare argue.

© sualette

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Hii 💕💕💕

Tell me more about

- bad weather

- Buck grief breakdown with Phillip there

- ❤️🪐

Bad Weather is yet ANOTHER grief fic sdfghjk but not specifically a Buck breakdown so not listed as such. Concept: the summer after Bobby dies there are a bunch of unseasonable storms and Eddie is sleeping really badly but cant remember his dreams. Buck is doing bad and okay and bad and okay. They fight! They make up. They do chores at 3 am. Eddie finally admits he does remember what the dreams are about but Buck has kind of figured it out already (Eddie sleeps especially badly the nights it storms, maybe its conceited of buck to assume but its gotta be the lightning strike, right?) and they kiss about it. Here’s a little bit!

Part of the thing about insomnia is how goddamn boring it is. Torture, of such a mundane, shouldn’t-be-this-bad sort. Eddie lays in his bed as rain hits the roof and stares at the ceiling like if he looks hard enough he’ll evaporate the drops through the beams and shingles and thinks sleep, please sleep, please SLEEP as it feels like his eyeballs are lighting themselves on fire in protest of- all of this. He almost screams when he looks over at his alarm clock and another hour has crept by, silent and exhausting, and he can’t stay still and horizontal one more second.

Buck finds him in the bathroom, holding a caulk gun and looking, probably, deranged. He observes the bathtub, where Eddie is hunched but hasn’t actually done anything yet.

“You gotta clean that first,” he says, nodding to where tub meets tile and opening the high up cabinet where they keep cleaning supplies. “Or you’re just gonna trap mildew in.”

Already posted a bit of Phillip fic here ! Still kind of sorting it all out in my mind but yeah… want to explore an angry, sullen, not willing to deal with his issues but still overwhelmed by them Buck who’s purposefully avoiding his family to kind of stay in the mire of all these problems instead of moving past them, and who’s there in the pit with him but his own father who did this so hard for so long Buck didnt know he had a brother till he was 30. Not a recipe for success, maybe… but they’ll get somewhere I think….

[npookie0]

luca as a fnaf security guard. -dj

Survive The Night

Your favourite accidental murderer ends up getting a scammy job after he lost a bet with his surfer buddies. How will the night go for poor Luca?

words [ 1165 ]

cws: idk luca being luca mixed in with fnaf, also some mentions of blood, guts and weirdly decay like reeking animatronics <3

Luca was standing in from of the pizzeria restaurant he was supposed to work a nightshift at. His surfer friends dropped him off and rode off into the night, shouting him a good luck. If only they knew that this man really did need some luck in his life.

"You've got this Luca, Feli said that she'd stream you a game when you come home. And besides these are just robots that you need to look at, no reason to panic." He said to himself and pulled out the keys to the building from his pocket.

Luca opened the door and was met with the smell of pizza. He smiled to himself. "Yeah, it's just a restaurant, nothing to be terrified of haha." He said happily as he entered the place and locked the door behind himself.

The owners told him to use a flashlight instead of turning on the lights during his work to use less battery. He thought that it was weird, but didn't ask any questions, maybe the owner was just crazy about paying electricity bills.

"Oh fuck, this looks sick!" He said once he was in front of the main stage, looking at the animal looking animatronics, a chicken holding a cupcake, a purple rabbit playing a guitar and a bear with microphone. "Man I have take pictures to show to the server guys later! They will go crazy once they see this!" He exclaimed and took out his phone, taking a picture of the animatronics on the stage.

Luca continued his walk around his new place of work, he saw the pirate cove, but seeing that midnight was approaching he had to go to the security guard office.

"Huh, it doesn't look half bad." He sat down in his chair and looked at the desk in front of him. "Oh? What's this?" He picked up a cassette and turned it around in his hands until he found a player for it and put it in.

"Hello? Hello, hello?" A voice came from the player, a man's voice, different from his employer's. He sounded exhausted. "Uhh, I wanted to record a message for you... to help you get settled in on your first night. Um, I actually worked in that office before you. I’m... finishing up my last week now, as a matter of fact, so... I know it can be a bit overwhelming, but I’m here to tell you: there’s nothing to worry about. Uh, you’ll do fine! So... let’s just focus on getting you through your first week. Okay?"

"Chill out dude, what bad can happen in old pizzeria?" Luca commented and pulled out his phone, he didn't pay much attention to the tape.

"So yeah, know that you have to close the doors when you see the animatronics 'cause they'll try to put you in a suit f they'll see you." This sudden warning of possible death caused Luca to jump up in his chair.

"What? What the fuck man?!" He looked at the player as it if was supposed to answer him, but instead of an explanation he got a 'good luck, goodnight!' and the recording was over.

"It has to be a joke... There's no way these robots will kill me." He said and turned on the camera, at first there was nothing weird until he looked at the stage. "One, two." He counted and was about to switch the camera but then.

"Wait a damn second! Two? Where's the Bonnie guy?" He looked over all the cameras until he found the robot walking through a corridor. A corridor to his office.

"Oh hell nah brother, ain't no way this thing is coming here." Luca got up and closed the door on his right side. "Ah yes, safe and sound." He was about to sit down again until he noticed that there was a battery percentage showing on one of the screens and it was falling rapidly. "No way man... Ughhh how am I supposed to keep those damn bots outside if I can't keep my doors closed?" He groaned and opened the doors again.

"Man this is bad!" He fell down on his seat and looked at the cameras again. The chicken was next to move from its place, he could hear it making sound on the kitchen camera that was broken for some reason. "Okay diva, eat up or something, just don't come here."

Luca continued sitting like that, checking the cameras all the time and closing the door when an animatronic was getting to close. One almost entered the office and Luca had a close meeting with it.

"Wait. Why did that fox reeked of decay? What the fuck man?" He was very confused and didn't know what was going on. Why would a child friendly restaurant's robot smell like that? "Okay Luca, don't think about it. Just do your job and go home... It's only... one hour left! Fuck yea-" He was ready to cheer until the room turned completely dark, all screens turned off and he had only his little flashlight as a light source.

"No. Fucking. Way." He ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck!" He shouted and paced around the room. "Fuck I'm out of power, fuck, fuck, fuck!" He kicked the chair.

Hor Hor

Luca turned around hearing a weird melody coming from behind him and he yelled. There was an animatronic behind him, only its eyes and mouth lit up by the lights inside it.

"Holy shit man, is it over? Haha, no, it's not. It can't be fucking over." While Luca was panicking over his sad fate, the animatronic made its way towards him and when it was ready to attack it suddenly backed away.

Luca looked at it in confusion and a mix of fear, but then suddenly the giant bear turned off.

"What the?" He stood up from the ground and walked around the robot. "It's not turned off tho? Like it's still on? Luca what the fuck are you trying to question here? It tried to kill you!"

He shook his head and grabbed his things, making his way out of the office. He has to get out of the place and go home.

Luca met another animatronic, a fox, it jumped on him, but mid air it froze and fell to the ground with a loud thud. It looked like an electricity shock went through it.

"Okayy, that's fucking weird."

The next two animatronics Luca met, met a similar fate, freezing and breaking down when they were supposed to attack Luca. He didn't actually pay much mind to it, running out of the restaurant and calling for his friends to pick him up.

Once he was home he send a long voice message to the server and sent pictures of the animatronic. He was obviously panicking and terrified.

He wanted to wait for a repones, but passed out.

<goreboy> [5:56] i Guess it's your Bad Luck that saved ya heh how Fortunate

meowww

i love this thing it's funny >w<

and yes i had to put ronin in SUE ME (don't </3)

love ya

Nathan <3

[jackals-ships]

autism therian overlap actually i need to find it Again bc messy room help me but i have a chewy ring

actually it's This One

biting and shaking it is a) soothing when im overwhelmed b) Just Really Fucking Fun

[starry-bi-sky]

on a completely separate note; shizun luo binghe with a disciple shen yuan who fell into the abyss??? *thinks about LBH canonically stealing SQQ's corpse for 5 years* he'd hallucinate i think. like, like visual and audial hallucinations.

Keeps thinking he's seeing SQQ in the corner of his eyes, or wandering between the trees, amongst a group of disciples. Thinks he hears him calling for him, but its just the wind or another disciple.

Gets Xiu Ya reforged but patently fucking refuses to make a sword mound. Because his disciple Is Not Dead :))) There was No Body. He's Not Dead. And If You keep Insisting That He Is, He's Gonna Skewer You :). He's holding onto Xiu Ya so he can return his most favored disciple's sword when he returns. It's on his hip right next to Zheng Yang where it's supposed to be.

Also this motherfucker?? does not sleep btw. He has the image of SQQ, wide eyed and hysterical and standing at the mouth of the abyss burned into his fucking eyelids. Can't use the dreamscape to escape it either because he keeps trying to save him and either he does and it's an incredibly cruel trick to wake up to, or he doesn't and he gets his heart broken in several different pieces again.

There is no convincing this man that Shen Qingqiu is dead. Absolutely nothing at all. He is buried so deep in denial that moles would be jealous of how deep he is. He keeps making tea for two in the bamboo house only to remember that it's just him. SQQ's fans are hiding everywhere, little reminders of his presence. He goes to wake up SQQ on the mornings he sleeps in-- only to find the room empty.

[gxtzeizm]

the fact that me, as a fan of both lando and oscar without any bias (maybe a bit on lando but not that much), is going to witness both "oscar fans, lando antis" and "lando fans, oscar antis" posts all in my one dash 🥲🥲

also the fact that atp i couldn't even bother enough with this same situation on both lewis and george. now it happens on lando and oscar as well which got me like....

[faroffsong]

I just don’t know anymore.

[nabaath-areng]

jesus christ i need to stop being so nervous about this screams

[moe-broey]

The. (2)

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

Going to watch Thunderbolts on the third. I wish I could watch it tomorrow, but alas, life gets in the way.

[strangefable]

jfc tumblr was not meant to be viewed in high def on a giant curved monitor. this is terrifying

[rickety-house]

guiiwgghauaiauagguaiaghjjghjjjhhhh

this didn’t fit in the hashtags but donr rb or comment I’m just screaming to myself atm I’ll probably delete this shit tomorrow goodnigjt fuck everything live vs kill