#i cannot predict where this is going to go

[lee-hakhyun]

admittedly have not read the side stories yet, and i apologize if you've talked about this before! just wanted to hear your thoughts on SS deciding to continue past the ending of ORV. the end felt the perfect kind of vague but hopeful to me, but the few side story spoilers ive seen have introduced new information that makes it feel like we're losing the open-endedness of the epilogues. do u have any thoughts on that? thank u :))

i do trust singshong has a plan for the side story. their goals are probably similar to what rep kdj has expressed, actually.. wanting to give stories to those who didn't get a chance to in orv. they wouldn't continue writing for no reason

story wise- it was a perfect ending. han sooyong poured her all into orv, and it succeeded. the portal to end the story with their own personal happy ending was there. but she willingly chose to continue on, because there was still a chance to get all of kim dokja back.

also. the fact that the portals existed in the first place, the orv readers transmigrating, the 'kim dokja fragments'. we are an actual part of the story now. i feel like in some part, the side story is

[pansyfemme]

felt peace with the uncertainty of the future today

[theyarebothgunshot]

watching my mom's journey from being part of the GA to a full buddie truther who wants to know the bts tea has been truly fascinating and fantastic for me personally lmao so i just wanted to share some highlights

before 7x4 my mom simply never even mentioned anything remotely hinting at seeing buddie's potential or any queer coding. she did predict that eddie made buck chris' godfather though and i guess thought that was normal behavior idk

during 7x4 however, she kept on remarking on buck being jealous of eddie spending time with someone else. but when tmmy kissed buck, she gasped cause she fully expected buck to not be into it

after that episode she started to think out loud and said "well lately, i have been wondering if buck might like men.... because of how he is around eddie...."

she quickly came to the conclusion that tmmy and buck had zero chemistry, unlike buck and eddie, and she said it was a shame they didn't cast someone else for the role of buck's bisexual awakening lmao

for the longest time she couldn't really see eddie's side of it. but then! 8x6/8x9/8x10 happened. and where she first had said "this is a reeeaaaally slow burn, if they are gonna go there", she changed her tune and said "they are really ramping it up, it's so clear that they are building up that relationship."

[wiskiemonk]

RIP Dozaemon we hardly knew ye

[teabookgremlin]

excitement about moving into my apartment in less than two weeks vs dread about spending money on buying various supplies and also on rent

[atlas-dr0wned]

grief really does change you in the most random and unexpected ways. it’s been nearly 3 months since my nan died and i’m hearing angel in realtime by gang of youths in a completely different way than i did before she passed, it genuinely feels like i’ve never heard it before because it feels so new and cuts deeper

[icewindandboringhorror]

Other Misc. Rambling Thoughts on the topic:

(~ !!!!!!!!! if you're just reblogging this post for the Poll section, please reblog the original post without this addition* lol. ~)

(*not that there's anything super personal or weird about the addition, just that it's meant to be kind of casual Side Commentary, not really part of the Main Point Of The Poll, so it would feel kind of weird for it to be emphasized by being included in reblogs unless the reblogs were explicitly about the side commentary, etc..... if that makes sense.. ANYWAY!)

It's neat to read the written descriptions that people are mentioning in the tags, since it's almost like I can see or conceptualize the idea as well, but it's just.. I'm not SEEING it.

Like for example: I can imagine a vase, it's a muted mint green and slightly translucent, elaborate golden birds sprawled down the side in streaks of thin rough watery paint, the base material shimmers gently in the light, there's a small chip where it's cracked on the handle, etc, etc. .. But as I'm thinking about this I see literally nothing.

It seems like perhaps some people can visualize an object first, and THEN describe what they see. But I sort of work backwards. I am building the object in my mind, I can never see it, but it's a collection of concepts. Rather than visualizing all details as a whole at once, I am adding each detail one by one, building onto the IDEA of the thing.

The vase doesn't have a crack on the handle because I just automatically visualized a vase with a crack. It was more that I cognitively understand the concept of a vase, what they tend to be made out of, how they tend to look and feel, the properties they have. So based purely on that knowledge, I can imagine "a chip is something that a vase could have, it would look this way and behave this way" - more like... I'm constructing a bullet point Fact List about the object rather than seeing it.

So if you tell me to imagine an object, I can, in a way, imagine that object in great detail, but it's just.. I'm not SEEING those details, more just knowing it's qualities in a purely conceptual way. Sometimes in the tags when people are like "yeah I can see the skin of the apple, texture, little dots on the surface" it's like… I can imagine that too, I can know it's there, but just with no visual attached.

I guess rather than SEEING something and going ''ah. I know what this looks like because I have seen it''. I more just skip that visual step entirely and go ''I know what this looks like, I just randomly have a list of information about the concept in my mind.'' etc. Maybe similar to how sometimes in dreams, even though a house may look completely different and be in an entirely fake 'dreamlike' environment, you just somehow KNOW intuitively that it's meant to be your childhood home or something. Even when it looks nothing like it in reality. There's a built-in base knowledge of the properties or information of some things within a dreaming mind, etc.

--

This also makes me wonder about like.. how storytelling and myth is so important to cultures all across time. Or how this could tie also into concepts of religion.. etc. etc. If so many people really can kind of conjure these vivid images in their mind, then maybe that's part of why certain things are so meaningful to them? Like a "religious experience" being something you can actually really SEE/feel/lingering with you in your head, rather than just abstract words on a page, detached purely theoretical ideas, etc... hmmm

.

Plus also just for average emotional stuff too, even outside of broader cultural conceptual attachments..

Like, I don't think there's a direct 1 to 1 link (obviously not all people with mental illnesses that significantly reduce their emotional or expressive capacity also MUST have aphantasia or vice versa), but it's interesting as someone who DOES also have a much more lessened emotional range/pretty flat affect/etc. etc. to think like.. Maybe I WOULD be more emotional, in a way, if I could have these vivid experiences..?

Perhaps memories would hold deeper significance if they could really stay with me vividly. Or storytelling would evoke more of a deep emotional reaction to me if I could really picture and feel the things that are going on. If things were more TANGIBLE in my brain, rather than always merely conceptual highly abstracted ideas.

Kind of like, it's probably easier to get over the death of a pet or something, if after not seeing them for an hour you already don't remember what they looked like (beyond just a vague fact list of traits), and you have no vivid memories or mental reminders of them (beyond just factual information stores). COGNTIVIELY you can appreciate the idea of their absence, of course, you still miss them, but there's just no remaining visceral sensory ties. A very "out of sight, out of mind" sort of thing in terms of attachments, memories, emotions, etc. Maybe certain things are easier to "get over", when you're not having constant mental sensory reminders that occasionally rekindle your feelings about the event or etc.??

(like for example, maybe someone could remain angry about an argument longer if they could vividly replay it in their head over and over again. VS just like.. 'Yes I can factually recall the fact I had an argument, and I do have knowledge stored about what precisely was said, but any sort of sensory data such as sights/smells/feelings, etc. from the actual moment of the event are long gone and can never be conjured again in my mind." etc.)

Which again, I think lessened emotional permanence and image permanence in the mind are NOT inherently linked, can all be caused by different things for different people. And, since I can't visualize anything in my head, maybe I'm misunderstanding how it happens and the effect it may have on stuff like remembering things you miss or replaying arguments, etc. etc. But it's still a little interesting to think about, if they could influence each other to some degree.... :0c --

Lastly, It's also weird because I'm actually pretty good at estimating distance and spaces? I can quickly assemble furniture without an instruction manual, pretty easily have a concept of how much space a chair may take up in a room, how two mechanical parts might fit together - BUT, I am literally not actually visualizing anything. I cannot see 3D objects in my mind at ALL. It's like.. just based on the pure List Of Facts About Things Which I Have Observed.. I can intuitively go "oh this works like this/this is this size" just because.. I know it's that size. I don't have to see anything to know..?

But then on the other hand, I'm terrible at directions without a map (I guess because a 3d outdoor environment has WAY more complexity than like.. "Will this square fit into another square?"etc. lol ).

BUT, I also draw/sculpt/etc. entirely without references, and seem to do mostly okay at that..? Like.. I can't even remember the last time I actually used a reference or looked at anything whilst drawing. It's all muscle memory, and me just adjusting as I go until something "looks right" on paper, I never have a set image in my head (or external reference) before hand.. Hrmm....

AND.. I used to say that I had a photographic memory when I was younger, which I know NOW is not true (I always thought it was just an expression, not that people could literally see things in a photographic way). But what I was describing is, I do often associate information with imagery, just... without imagery....

Like "Oh, I know that I took my medicine earlier today because I have a distinct memory, a snapshot of a moment in time, of me rattling the pill bottle in my hands as I looked up at a stop sign while in the back seat of a car". When I say this, I can't ACTUALLY see/feel/hear a pill bottle, or vividly picture a stop sign, but it's more just a factual recall, of. Even though I don't see these things, I know they happened, the information of them happening (me hearing a sound and also looking at a stop sign at the same time) has been stored in my brain as a memory, a collection of linked facts. --

As for other senses, I cannot taste or feel anything in my head AT ALL.. wild that some people mention that. I mean, again, I can have a purely factual recall as if reading a textbook, knowing the information of 'X item typically has X texture, therefore I can imagine what it may be like to feel it' or 'X usually has this taste' etc. - but I can never actually experience those senses in any capacity in my mind alone. I would say audio is my strongest mental sense (maybe a 2.5 or 3 (if it were translated onto the above scale where 1 is most vivid and 5 is nothing)), then visual (4.5 at most, usually 5), and then taste and smell and such are just complete 5, absolutely nothing, I didn't even know people could experience taste or feeling just in their mind alone.. lol...

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[motorsportbarbie13]

The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Theo's First Race

Having a child changes Max in a way he never could have predicted.

warnings: none, this is 100% self indulgent fluff. Pairing: max verstappen x podcaster!reader word count: 3.1k words

yourusername posted

459,029 likes liked by maxverstappen1, assistantshannon, jennythenanny, and others yourusername texas will always hold a special place in my heart. last year, we learned i was pregnant for the fourth time with what we hoped was our miracle baby. this year we get to bring that miracle baby to the track with us for the very first time. my entire heart is so full watching this all come full circle. i cannot wait to show theo how amazing his daddy is when he gets in that car. maxverstappen1 my two favorite people here this weekend. i can already tell this is going to a good race <3 user0198 i cannot handle the amount of dad max content we get. user111 max carrying Theo kangaroo style in a baby carrier??? sobbing rn >>>user0019 SERIOUSLY jennythenanny ah! so excited to be with you guys this weekend!!! >>>yourusername theo is so excited to be back with his bestie! >>>jennythenanny eeeee! cannot wait! >>>user020 why is this the cutest exchange i've ever read

“Maybe we should leave Theo here with Jenny today instead? Max says, concern settling into the corners of his eyes. 

You look over at him, eyebrow raised, from your seat on the floor of the hotel suite. In front of you, five month old Theo is on his tummy staring up at you with his signature gummy little grin. The three of you were in Texas for the US GP, which was supposed to be Theo’s first time in the paddock but apparently, your husband was having second thoughts. 

“What? Why?” You ask, confused. 

Max had checked the weather (multiple times) this morning and had declared that it wasn’t going to be too hot for Theo to be out and about. The sun was out and there was a gentle breeze whispering through the trees outside your hotel room. Max was leading the championship for the first time this season and he was starting on pole. COTA was historically a really good track for him and you were confident in his chances at winning. Plus, COTA meant a lot to you. It was right here in this very hotel that you had found out you were pregnant with the little elf that was babbling up at you right now. 

Max wrings his hands together, casting a worried glance down at his two favorite people in the world. With how dramatic Theo had come into the world so early, Max had found himself being a little extra protective over him. And you for that matter. He had refused to hear any talk about bringing Theo to the track before this weekend and after seeing all of the crowds at the track yesterday for the practice and sprint qualifying, he was having second thoughts 

“There were just so many people and I don’t want him to get lost.” 

You chuckle before reaching forward to take Theo in your arms. Standing up, you cross the room to where Max stands and hand him his son. Max instinctively reaches out, cuddling Theo to his chest. Watching Max become a dad over the last five and a half months had been one of the most rewarding things you’d ever been privileged to witness. He had slipped into the dad role so effortlessly it had surprised Max, probably due to his own childhood and difficult past with his father. You weren’t surprised though. You had known the moment that Theo was born that Max had been born to be a father. It really was that simple. 

“Baby, he can’t walk. He won’t get lost, I promise he’ll never be out of his sling for more than five minutes.”

“No one holds him other than you and Jenny?” 

You blow out a breath, unsurprised at how he’s gone into papa bear mode. You had seen it on his face yesterday during sprint qualifying. He had surveyed the paddock crowds with a deeper than usual frown on his face, making comments whenever he heard an errant cough or someone clear their throat. ‘Cesspool of germs’ was a phrase he used more than once, now that you thought you it. 

“Yes, my love. He will stay in the sling with me and Jenny no matter what. I have his ear defenders here too and we’ll keep to hospitality. But I know he’d love to see where daddy works. You know how much the sound of those engines sooth him.” 

Max pokes a finger into Theo’s chubby cheek, cooing nonsense at him as Theo giggles back. His mind flickered back to one particularly hard night right after you had brought him home from the hospital during the summer break. Theo had been a bit of a colicky baby back then and the hours between 1 and 3 am were often the worst. He would scream and cry for hours, unable to be soothed back to sleep despite all of his needs being met. This night, in particular, was difficult and you had been on hour four of trying to get him to settle. In a desperate attempt to try something, anything that might work, Max had turned on an old race, but just the ambient sounds of one of his wins from YouTube, without any commentators voices. The sounds of the engines revving had instantly calmed Theo down. 

Both you and Max had stood there in your apartment, lights dark with the exception of the glow emanating from the tv in front of you, as Theo had stared unblinkingly at the television, tears still puddled in his little neck folds, but totally quiet and enthralled. 

Max’s eyes dart over to yours and you smile, reaching out a hand to touch his elbow. “I know you’re nervous, baby but Theo will be fine. He’s going to have so much fun, and I know once you get to the paddock with him in your arms, you will too.” 

He sighs, knowing that you’re right. You usually are when it comes to matters involving Theo. “Okay, but first person to cough on him gets banned from the paddock.” 

The Miami sprint race had been your first race all those years ago when Max had swept you off your feet that very first weekend he flew you to him so it seemed fitting that Theo’s first trip to a race was also a sprint race weekend. Max parked the sensible but giant Ford Explorer that he had insisted on driving this weekend in his designated spot before hopping out, telling you not to move. 

You giggle to yourself, amused that even after all this time, Max still insisted that you never touched a door handle while he was with you. Even on hectic days like these, you and Theo were always in the front of his mind. 

When Max opens your door, his hand immediately finds yours as he helps you out of the tall car. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” He asks, dropping a kiss onto your forehead before moving to the back seat to get Theo from his carseat. 

“I’m so excited to be back, it feels like it’s been forever.” 

Which was true. After Theo had been born, he had needed to stay in the NICU for quite a while. Max had nearly missed the race in Spain the weekend after Monaco because he had refused to leave your side. In the end, it had been Daniel that had convinced him that missing Spain would be detrimental to his championship hopes. Max trusted Daniel with his life and knew that his friend, someone who he knew had a good head on his shoulders, wouldn’t give him bad advice. He knew what missing a race would mean to everyone on the team and back at the factory. 

He had won the race with a 15 second lead. 

Your credentials hang heavy around your neck as you pull the diaper bag out of the back of the car, Theo already nestled securely in Max’s arms. It always made you chuckle, the way Max always seemed to have Theo. You swore whenever he was around, that baby never touched the floor or his crib. 

The pressure in your chest squeezes as you watch Max tote his little boy towards the paddock entrance. Both you and Max had made a conscious decision to keep Theo’s face out of your social media, with the exception of very carefully curated images that you and Max tightly controlled so this was the first time Theo would be photographed by anyone but you and Max. You knew the fans, both yours and Max’s, wanted to see Theo and you hoped that bringing him into the paddock despite him being so young was well received and a positive experience. 

“Max! Who’ve you got there?” A photographer yells the moment Max scans his badge at the paddock entrance. Several photographers are standing by the gates, waiting on the driver arrivals. Max is dressed in his team kit, of course, and you’ve got your traditional navy blue on, today in the form of a loose maxi dress that would allow you to maneuver while caring for Theo during the race. Even Theo had a Red Bull onesie on with gray shorts pulled on over his chubby little legs. 

“The best team mascot in the paddock.” Max jokes, a smile crinkling at the corner of his eyes as he pauses to show off a now giggling Theo. 

Your heart catches in your chest when you see the look of pure happiness on your husband’s face. There were few things that brought out a smile that bright on Max and the fact that him showing off your baby to the world was one of those things had your heart hammering in your chest. You watched as Max showed Theo off to several of the photographers and Red Bull staff members, seemingly forgetting all about his hesitations from earlier. Theo loved it too, the sights and smells and sounds were so much for him to take in and he was so content to be in his daddy’s arms just taking it all in. 

“Mon petit lion!” A voice rings out as the three of you walk towards Red Bull’s garage. You grin, watching as Charles fusses over Max refusing to give up custody of Theo but eventually relents. “Give me my godson, you heartless man. Keeping the poor little man away from the track for five months! Horrific!” 

“He’s a literal infant, Charles.” Max argues, a full on pout popping out of his full bottom lip. You suddenly have to quell the urge to bite it, he looks so handsome. 

“Your gorgeous wife told me how much he loves the sound of my Ferrari.” Charles argues back, bouncing Theo up and down, eliciting a peal of giggles tumbling from your baby’s lips. 

Max shoots you a glare that has ‘you’re a traitor’ written all over it. All you do is reach up on your toes to peck him on those full lips of his, completely ignoring the annoyed look he still regards you with. 

“It was the sound of my Red Bull that calmed him the first time.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, Max.” Charles chuckles before handing Theo back to you, giving you a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m so glad you two are here, the paddock ins’t the same without you.”  

“Thank you Charles.” You say, cuddling Theo into your shoulder just a little tighter. 

As the three of you continue on, your final destination being the garage so Max can check on the car, your pace is just a bit quicker than Max’s. He watches you for just a moment, the way Theo’s chubby arms wrap tightly around your neck as he takes in the buzzing activity of the paddock. His heart squeezes fiercely at the way your hips sway back and forth as you carry his baby on your hip. This was how it was always meant to be: his wife and his child at his side while he worked. He had always pictured this day in a way that always seemed like it would come sometime in the future. That was the strange thing about how life progressed. Suddenly, some day is here and you’re watching your wife cuddle your miracle baby. When Max thinks of that afternoon in London all those years ago when he made his way into the recording studio to be on some silly little podcast, he had no idea that this was where that interview would lead but here he was, every single one of the fantasies he had dared to hope for right in front of him. 

You turn back to Max, sensing that he’s fallen quite a bit behind. The look of awe on your husbands face as he watches you has your heart aching. You knew that the past few months had been hard on Max. He hated being away from you, had even tried to float the idea of retiring mid-season. You had flatly refused, saying that everyone in the factory and the garage was counting on him and eventually, he had agreed. But you knew being here was a balm to his lonely heart and you were wildly happy that Theo was finally old enough to accompany Max on this triple header. 

But looking at the way his eyes shined with unshed tears as he stands stock still in the middle of the paddock, just staring after what you know is his entire world, you feel something lock into place. Something that you’re going to have to discuss with him later tonight. 

“Come on, Maxie.” You call as you hoist Theo up higher on your hip. “You’ve got a meeting with Horner and I don’t want him yelling at me because you’re late.” 

Max seems to snap out of the trance he’s in then and chuckles. “Christian is terrified of you, liefje. He’d never yell.” 

You shrug, “I suppose you’re right.” 

Max slips his fingers into yours before giving them a squeeze. “Come on, let’s introduce the little lion to the garage.” 

Max wins the sprint that day, just like the first sprint you watched him win all those years ago. The nostalgia you felt watching him pull up into that first parc ferme spot had something twisting deep in your stomach. It was so satisfying watching Max do what he loved while you held his little boy in your arms. 

It was a whirlwind of media after his win and then he was swept off for race debrief before qualifying for the Grand Prix the next day. By the time Theo’s bedtime rolled around, Max was still busy in engineering meetings. You sent him a quick text telling him you were taking Theo back to the hotel to put him down. Max had wanted to tell you to wait, he’d be right there, but he had known this wasn’t true. He knew that it was going to take several more hours to wrap up all his duties on the track so he reluctantly agreed. 

This was the part of racing he hated. The late nights, the long flights to every corner of the world except to where it mattered most, the danger that lurked on the track. He hated being away from you, had always hated being away from you. Despite his reservations about you quitting your job all before you had gotten pregnant with Theo, he was glad that you had spent those few years traveling with him. It wasn’t about the fact that you ‘followed him around’ like some publications liked to taunt. It was the fact that Max was able to do what he loved while providing for his family and keep you close at the same time. 

But things had shifted when Theo had been born and his priorities had changed. Having you at the track wasn’t an option anymore, not with how little Theo was. And even now, at 5 months old, he knew that this wasn’t sustainable. The options of what to do after this season all played in his head as he got into the car late that night to head back to the hotel. He knew he had a big decision to make, one that had been many years coming. 

It’s dark by the time Max fishes the keycard to the hotel room out of his back pocket. You have a two bedroom suite booked this weekend so he’s not worried about waking Theo, although he still holds out a little hope that he might be awake. It’s been hours since Max has seen him and the only thing worse than being away from you for an extended period of time is being away from both of you. 

The door whispers open and Max spots you laying down on the couch, staring blankly at the tv in front of you. On the coffee table sits the baby monitor and a bottle of wine. 

When you hear the door snick closed, you pick your head up, blinking sleepily towards the door. “You’re home.” You whisper, sitting up so Max can join you on the couch. 

He immediately pulls you into his lap, nuzzling deep into your neck. “I’m home.” He breathes, letting your perfume settle over his senses like a warm, familiar blanket. 

“I’m so proud of you. Sprint win and P3 for tomorrow.” 

“Thank you, schatje. How was your night? How’s the baby?” 

You hum softly, your lips finding Max’s in the dark. They’re warm and inviting and everything that sets your soul on fire. You’re fairly certain that you’ll still feel this way when you’re 90 years old kissing Max late at night. “He’s good. Just finished his last bottle of the night, went down like a champ.” 

“That’s my boy. I’m sorry I missed bedtime tonight.” 

You pull away so you can look at Max’s clear blue eyes. You’re a little surprised to see a bit of sadness sitting in those baby blues you love so much. “It’s okay baby. He did just fine without you.” 

Max frowns before pulling you closer. “And that’s what breaks my heart. I don’t want him to grow up without me.” 

You chuckle, “Oh, Max. He’s not going to grow up without you. If you really want, you can do the middle of the night feeding. He’ll be up in a few hours anyway.” 

Max nods, he usually did those late night feedings anyway. He loved the way the entire world was hushed and asleep. He felt cocooned in the most calming way and those nights where it was just him and Theo were some of his favorite. 

Silence stretches out between you. Your heartbeat matches up with Max’s eventually and your eyes get a little heavy with his warmth pressed up against you. You’d missed this kind of calm presence that Max brought to your life. It was always there, of course, but sometimes it was a little further than you liked during the season. Having him here now was so soothing, making you feel like you could conquer anything that came your way. 

After a few quiet moments, Max’s deep voice finally breaks the silence. 

“I think I’m done after this season, liefje.” 

You’d had this conversation countless times over the years, so much so that the words don't even make your heart race anymore. There’s something different in Max’s voice tonight, though. He sounds tired, worked over, resigned. Like the years spent on the road are finally catching up to him and you know, deep in your chest that it’s time. 

“I know, Max.” You whisper, dropping your forehead to his before brushing a kiss against his nose. “Come home to us. Theo and I are ready to have you all to ourselves now.” 

And that's exactly what happens.

maxverstappen1 posted

5,039,504 likes liked by yourusername, redbullracing, f1, and others maxverstappen1 this sport has been part of my life for most of my time here on earth. i started in karting not long after i started walking. motorsport brought me to the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. 7 championships. the love of my life. my child. this sport has brought me to all of the most important milestones of my life. but all good things must come to an end. i've achieved everything i set out to do all those years ago and my priorities have shifted. at the end of may, i became a father and suddenly that pull to retirement got stronger. @/username knows how many times i threatened to quit mid-season so it wasn't a surprise to her when i came to her after texas and told her it was time. after twelve seasons racing in the pinnacle of motorsport, i'm officially announcing my retirement. to my team, thank you. you have forever shaped who i am. to my wife, i love you. you are all the good things in this world and i am so lucky you chose me to be your husband. to my theo, you changed me in a way no one else has. being your dad is the most important job i've ever had. i can't wait to watch you grow into the person you're destined to become. to my fans, thank you. your devotion means the absolute world to me and i would not have made it to where i am today. thank you, from the bottom of my heart. yourusername theo and i are so so proud of you. welcome home, my love. >>>user9292 *sobbing* charlesleclerc congratulations on a lifetime of acheivments. can't wait to see what you do now, my friend!! lando congrats GOAT. excited to finally not be asked 'how does it feel to lose to max verstappen?' EVER AGAIN >>>charlesleclerc now it'll be 'how does it feel to lose to charles???' >>>lando stfu redbullracing we're not crying, you're crying!!! lewishamilton you will be missed, max. enjoy retirement with that gorgeous family of yours!

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[mekatrio]

SHOOTING DEATHBEAMS AT SETOMARY WEIRDOS ugh kagepro has amazing dynamics that so many people want to ruin soooo badly by being WEIRD. like no they are not going to get married do not be fucking weird..... anyways their dynamic is amazing can you imagine if your friend from when you were 13 continued to look the exact same? wouldnt that be fucking crazy? time passes and you grow up and get jobs graduate uni whatever and your friend is unchanged. that is so interesting but people want to make it WEIRDDD. but anyways yeah i love these two. an unchanging pure love is so good.... the love between friends when youre young is SO....

also this is only tangentially related but this is why im a Short Haired Mary Truther like post-STR mary REALLY SHOULD have short hair. cuz like that shit burns off when she goes medusa mode and it only grows back when she resets time.... but post-STR will be like the One Time she doesnt reset time. so it should stay short. and also itll be The one aspect of mary that Actually Visibly Changes.. and kido cuts her hair short for herself obvs but also to grow her hair out with mary. yes. this is my truth.

[baeshijima]

mr reca fic where he’s suffering a creative slump due to the lack of good scripts (by his standards) from various screenwriters. he feels himself going positively insane with every script he’s given.

it’s too dull. it’s too predictable. this one has no creative flair whatsoever!! that one just doesn’t spark enough imagination!!!

it’s troublesome, really. some think he’s really going through it, while others believe the scripts he’s been given won’t bring him enough money. but really, who cares about monetary value when it is he who cannot even begin to picture himself enjoying the process that comes with each script?

and so that is how he finds himself wandering around aimlessly. sometimes the outdoors is necessary for the mind, and who knows? perhaps he really will find something that will give him a spark. hmm, those trees are looking a little dull. the sky overhead is too cloudy. hm? did he just hear thunder—

something collides into his chest, a choked “oof!” following soon after. he stumbles backwards a little, papers flying through the air around him. he blinks once, twice, at the sight of you on the ground, muttering something under your breath before a sharp gasp escapes you, hastily scrambling to gather the papers fluttering and strewn around.

one such paper falls into his hands. he glances over its contents, skimming through it as he goes to pass it over to you with an apology at the tip of his tongue, only to freeze.

this… this is genius! this is absolutely the pinnacle of writing!! while a little rough around the edges (as drafts usually tend to be), his once clouded mind is now clear, giving way to a blank canvas which slowly depicts the imagery your writing induces. idea after idea pours into his brain as he can visualise exactly what he wants, his body trembling and heart pounding as he insantly fixates on your panicked form still collecting all the fallen papers.

“yes… yes! this is what i was looking for! everything about this is pure artistry! the possibilities are endless, the sky is the limit!!”

this is possibly the happiest and freest he has felt in what seems like eons! seriously, compared to those other mind-numbing scripts this truly is the pinnacle of writing itself.

a laugh full of pure, unadulterated glee escapes him, careful not to crinkle the god-sent paper cradled in his palms. “you! you’re a genius!”

“i’m a wha…?”

he whirls in the direction of the source of the voice, further praises and a proposal for a collaboration on the tip of his tongue, only for his breath to catch in his throat.

you… you’re so radiant! even with that disheveled appearance and absolutely adorable confused expression you’re giving him, he never realised such beauty existed! not only does your writing fill him with endless creativity, but his pounding heart, parched throat and warming skin tells him you’re definitely the main character!

but wait! if you were to be the main character, then would that make him the main character’s love interest? surely he wouldn’t have had such a cliché meet-cute like bumping into each other if he wasn’t the love interest! but what if there is a second love interest? no, no, he can oust them…

you, on the other hand, believe you’re about to get whiplash instead of the man, baffled at how he instantly switched from a maniac to stark silence to muttering senselessly with a dreamy expression.

well, each to their own. you have more pressing matters, and that’s to quickly return home and continue fantasising before you forget the idea! but first, you have to get the last piece of paper back…

“um… sir? can i have my paper back, please?”

in an instant, he kneels in front of you. now that you’re at eye level, he certainly is very handsome. if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought this was some movie or drama plot with him as the main lead! oh, but why is he holding your hands—

“yes, i will spend the rest of my life with you.”

“…what?”

tldr; you’re just a silly writer who daydreams far too much for their own good, and somehow managed to bag top-tier director mr reca with the power of said daydreams. (his ever-growing obsession with you is concerning to say the least but, hey! what genius isn’t at least a little insane?)

[physalian]

3 More Character Types the World Needs More Of

Or at least, I do.

1. The denied redeemed villain

I need this. So badly right now. So, so, so many “redemption arcs” are half-assed and carry undertones of guilt by the heroes, gaslighting them into thinking the villain “wasn’t all that bad” right before they make some big heroic sacrifice, as if that’s ever enough to make up for the damage that was done.

But you know what I never see? A villain who’s done some awful shit, wakes up to reality, tries to apologize and… is denied. No, it’s not enough to be sorry. No, you’re not absolved of your crimes just because you cry really hard on your knees. Yes, you have to work for it. Yes, even if you work for it for the rest of your whole life, those you hurt are not obligated to forgive you.

Example that sadly did not happen in canon: Enji Todoroki

2. The liar revealed who loses

This fucker lies and cheats his way into his lover’s arms (and liars revealed are always men, because their love interests are always women put in the place of “but he tried really hard and you need to forgive him uwu” unless it’s gay). Similar to above, no, you do not get rewarded just for feeling sorry.

This character builds an entire relationship (and it’s specifically romance that I take such an issue with) on a lie. They are not who they say they are, specifically, they lie about their identity because they know their lover would not let this happen if they knew the truth.

It’s one thing to lie about something inconsequential, or to lie about something unrelated, but to lie deliberately to present yourself as the perfect suitor—and these are never little white lies, these are usually entirely false identities, or secrets so damning that risking the truth could mean arrest or even death—just. Why?

Yeah, okay, you never thought you’d get this far. Cool. You don’t have to tell her the truth, but you have to leave before you trick her into sleeping with you.

It’s just. So squicky. And the lesson always is that he deserves love, that he makes up for it with everything else, that he’s just got a winning personality. She always forgives him, even if they fight about it, it’s so, so predictable.

Examples that did not lose: Aladdin, Evan Hansen

3. The paragon who loses faith

I don’t know that we need a whole bunch of these characters, but so many paragons are painted as heroes with unshakable loyalty to their causes and I’d love to see a devolution of character where they just can’t keep smiling and pretending it’s alright. That there is a limit to how much shit they can take.

They don’t have to go full villain, but maybe they just stop caring, maybe they get cynical, maybe they just don’t show up for work the next day, maybe they’re not there when they’re needed the most.

There’s a few stories I can think of where the masses realize they’ve screwed up and show the hero that their faith has been rewarded (Nolan Bats being one of them) but I mean really a hero who just cannot take it anymore, throws in the towel, and walks away knowing it’s the hardest thing they’ve ever had to do.

Example: (kind of) Captain America

—

Sorry this list is kind of a bummer. It’s a bummer kind of week.

[pineconepie]

This was an ask I got a while back, but either I can't find it or accidentally deleted it. But to the anon who asked for a scenario like this, here you go! :D

TW: Amnesia, parental/platonic yandere, forced infantilization, drugging, implied kidnapping, manipulation

"Help! Please help!" you cry, running as fast as you can throughout the dense forest. Branches and sharp brambles scrape your cheeks and catch onto your clothes.

You stop for a brief moment to pick the twigs out of your disheveled hair. The small cuts sting horribly but it doesn't deter you from pushing onwards.

Sweat beads down your forehead and you wipe at it furiously. Your chest is heaving, desperately trying to take in more oxygen.

"(Y/n)! Stop!" His booming voice echoes throughout the forest.

He's getting closer to you. You have to keep running, keep moving, keep—

Something hits you, something cold and metal. You barely have enough consciousness to realize it was a car, on the dirt road path. Your vision swims, and your head feels ready to burst.

Your ears ring incessantly. All you can hear is that horrible noise, but it doesn't completely drown out him calling for you.

And suddenly there are strong arms around you. "Oh! My baby! What have you done?!" Someone picks you up. They yell to someone else, but their voice is fading out.

Your vision fades to nothing.

...

When you wake up, there's the sound of something beeping. It's a comforting constant rhythm, steady and predictable. You think you know what it is, but your head feels all muddled and foggy.

Something cool and soft presses against your forehead, and you lean into the soothing touch.

"That's right, honey. Nice and easy," a voice speaks above you. Its light, with a subtle hint of an accent you can't recognize. A thumb gently rubs at your temple, massaging it with care and ease. "That must've been a pretty bad fall you took. Don't worry, I've got you."

You open your eyes. Hovering above you, is a man with long messy brown hair, light brown eyes, and a slight stubble of facial hair. He looks to be in his early to mid forties or so.

There's something familiar about him. You should know who this person is... but your brain cannot come up with a name.

"There they are!" the man coos. The corner of his eyes crinkle. He has crow's feet around them. You think those mean someone smiles often. You stare blankly back at him, mind still groggy from what happened earlier. He hums a melody, and gently brushes his fingertips along your arm.

"What..."

"Hush now, don't talk just yet," he murmurs. His other hand is behind your head, propping you up in its palm. "Had quite a nasty fall there. Scared me half to death!"

"Where am I?" You blink, still slightly disoriented.

"Shhh..." He kisses your bandaged forehead. "You're here in the hospital, sweetie. Just got done doing x-rays on your head." The room around you is stark white. There are various machines around you and one is beeping at a constant rhythm. It smells of chemicals and medicine. "I know you hate being scolded, but (Y/n), you know better than to play in the forest so late at night..." He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.

You squint at him, trying to jog your memory as to who this guy even is. Is he perhaps someone important? Someone you're supposed to know?

As hard as you try, no answers come to mind. And now that you're thinking about it, you really can't remember much at all besides your name and general sense of self.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" you awkwardly ask.

The man freezes. His eyebrows raise up in surprise before furrowing with concern. "Wh—(Y/n), sweetie," he looks at you. "Can you tell me who I am?" You shake your head. He stares at you for a moment, like frozen. Only when you awkwardly look down, does he do too. "The doctors mentioned possible memory loss, but..." He looks so torn; eyebrows twisted up sadly. You almost want to reach out and hug him.

The only thing that stops you is the IV, and the fact you don't know him, despite what he says.

"What's the last thing you remember, baby?" he asks again.

You wrack your brain. "I don't know. I know my name... and that's about it."

A flash of pain shoots through his gaze, though he seems to keep himself collected. "Okay. So, sweetie... I'm your dad." He reaches out to clasp your hands. "My name is Hugo Harrison. You're (Y/n) Harrison."

"You... don't look very much like me..." You realize that might be a rude thing to say. "Sorry, I didn't mean that in a mean way."

Hugo chuckles. "It's okay, there's not a mean bone in your body, kiddo." He pauses, like contemplating his next words extra carefully. "I'm your adoptive dad. Now, we could go into a lot more detail, but let's not strain that noggin of yours for today, hm?" He tenderly touches your wrapped forehead. You must have injured it severely, which explains the splitting headache and memory loss.

"Oh, that makes sense," you murmur. You take in his appearance more. He has a tattoo peaking from below his collar shirt, and looks a bit rugged, with muscular arms that have a few scars. He even has an eyebrow piercing on his left.

Despite that, he seems so... sweet.

"Do you have any photos of us?" you ask. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but mostly just because you don't know what else to say.

His eyes soften, and he pulls out his phone to immediately show you his lock screen.

Sure enough, there the two of you are, smiling at the camera. It doesn't look like it was too long ago. You're both indoors, wearing some kind of brown and periwinkle uniforms.

Noticing your confused expression, he explains, "I own a cafe, sometimes you help out. That's where this photo is from. One of my favorites."

He scrolls through his camera roll and shows another picture of the both of you. In this one, you're sleeping on his lap, his hand covering the side of your face in an apparent attempt to block you from seeing the flash.

You nod mutely, trying to soak it all in. All you know of this man is from these two images.

So far, there's nothing overtly suspicious. Nothing that triggers alarm bells or raises red flags. At this point, you have no reason not to believe him.

So why do you feel so unsettled?

"How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Not good," you mumble, bringing a hand up to your head, cringing from the pain.

He presses a kiss to your hair, holding it for several seconds before pulling away. "Oh, sweetheart..." His voice wavers with emotion. "I'll talk to the doctors again. For now, you rest up, okay?"

With such a splitting headache and sore body, you have no trouble obeying his commands. Your eyes flutter shut, and the last thing you hear is a sigh coming from him, as well as something about wanting to take you home.

...

"Easy," Hugo soothes, letting you lean on him heavily as he walks you to his house. Everything hurts from your body to your head. The medication from earlier wore off halfway to his home.

Speaking of his house, it looks pretty much like a standard home, if not kind of cute, almost reminiscent of a cottage. It's beige with dark brown trimmings. Ivy climbs around the windows.

Flower beds line along the pathway to the front door and a vegetable garden sits near the shed in the back. There's wind chimes hanging near the entrance.

"I wish I could remember any of this," you mutter as he situates you on the couch. "Sorry."

"No, no," he reassures, rubbing your upper arm. "Don't apologize, okay? It's not your fault that this happened."

"What was I doing out in the forest, anyway? You mentioned something about that... is that something I typically do?" you ask.

Hugo looks confused for a moment, then nods. "Ah. Well, it was something you'd usually do, but hopefully that will be the last time. Sometimes you get... impulsive. You do things that are reckless. That's why I'm so protective of you. This isn't the first time you got injured like that." He shakes his head and laughs. "Stubborn kid you are..."

"I see." What else can you say, really? You wish your brain would hurry up and recall something. Right now it just feels blank. All you have to go off of is Hugo. "I know I can't remember, but I'm still sorry. For what I did. Or, uh, do."

His gaze softens even more, looking like the definition of fond. "Like I said, sweetie, you don't need to worry about a thing. It's all in the past now. What matters is that you're here now, safe with me. How about I take you up to your room? You can get a nap in while I make dinner. Sound nice?" He brushes his thumb over your temple.

You wordlessly lean against him. He chuckles and helps you back up, mindful of your injuries, and leads you upstairs.

Again, it looks like a completely normal household. Nothing stands out to you besides perhaps the large number of photographs littering the walls.

Your bedroom has pastel blue wallpaper with stars decorating the top half of the wall.

There's a bunch of stuffed animals lining the bed, as well as pillows with galaxy themed pillows. The carpet is plush and your feet sink slightly in them.

"This was... mine?"

"Yes!" He seems less happy about it when he sees your expression. "Do you not like it? You decorated it yourself..."

"Isn't it kind of, uh, childish? Nothing wrong with that, of course, just doesn't seem like something someone older would want," you lamely explain.

Hugo takes another moment to mull over his words. "Well... you've always been a bit childish for your age, sweetie. I think it's adorable, and you seemed content with this room before... but if you really want to change it up, I don't mind at all." His strained smile tells you that he does, in fact, mind it.

"That's okay. I think I do like it, now that I've seen it longer," you reassure him. Part of it might be because you feel bad. You hobble over to the bed with his assistance, and watch him choose a cutesy beige pajama set. The sleeves are longer than your arms and the pants are covered in sheep patterns. "Do I normally wear that to bed?"

"More like just your typical lounge wear," he answers. "Do you need help, or can I leave you to it?"

"Um, you can leave me to it." You watch him open the door to leave. "Oh, by the way... what do I call you? By your name? Dad? Papa?"

A large smile stretches across his lips. "You call me 'Papa', but really anything works with me. Just want you to feel comfortable, bud. Oh, and dinner'll be ready soon. Tomato, chicken noodle, or cream of mushroom?"

You look down at your lap, where your pajamas lay. "What ever I liked most, I guess."

He hums in affirmation. "Sounds good."

Before long, you've changed and situate yourself on your bed, the stuffed toys huddled around you like a cocoon. Though everything seems fine and cozy, it all feels too new, too strange, for it to feel exactly right. It's supposed to be yours, you know this. And yet, it feels so... foreign.

This should make sense. Logically, it does. But your intuition keeps whispering doubts, despite Hugo giving you nothing but warmth.

...

Two weeks pass, and go by pretty uneventfully. He cares for you like you are a toddler, but he assures you this is how he used to act around you.

Still, your memory seems stubborn in recovering, and each night you pray for the morning to finally reveal a clue as to your past.

So far, nothing has shown up.

And being confined within the house doesn't help, either. Hugo refuses to let you go outside unsupervised, claiming how he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if you wound up in danger again.

And really, who are you to refuse him? You don't have any memories, any other friends (he's told you they've moved away years ago), and you have no money to sustain yourself. He's all you have.

"Where are you going?" you ask one morning, to see him slinging on a jacket. His hair is also tied up, which you've gathered he only does when he's going out somewhere.

"The cafe," he replies, though you can tell something is off by the way he smiles. "There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, okay? Stay inside, and I mean it."

"Can't I go with?" you suggest. Maybe seeing the place could bring back some recollections. Plus, sitting alone all day isn't fun at all, especially when there's nothing to distract you with besides watching TV or reading. Neither of those interests you that much, not to mention a majority of the books and shows catered to people less than half your age.

"Not with those injuries," he chuckles, but there's some firmness in his tone.

"I feel fine! My ankle isn't sprained anymore, and my ribs hardly bother me," you counter. Your face isn't bandaged anymore, either. Instead, only faint scars remain.

"Honey, the answer is no."

"I just want to leave the house!" you blurt. His eyebrows raise up at your outburst. "It's boring staying cooped up all day! I don't want to watch cartoons again or read a comic book or play with action figures."

He purses his lips. "But you love doing those things..."

"Yeah, sure. I don't doubt that I like those activities. But maybe sometimes I'd like to do something more, I dunno, mature." It's not that you hate the stuff Hugo's given you, but you aren't mentally ten years old or whatever age he's assuming you are. So reading picture books and playing with kiddie games get dull real fast. "Please? I don't have to do any physical labor, just wanna get outside the house..."

"(Y/n)..."

Maybe it's a tad bit manipulative, but you've found it works pretty well on him. "I just wanna spend time with my papa... if I can't remember old memories, I was hoping we'd have more time to bond..."

Hugo looks torn for a split second, before giving you a gentle grin, reaching out to pinch your cheeks. "Allllriiight," he drawls. "Wear something warm. It's chilly out."

"Why not my uniform?"

"Because I don't want you working, silly."

The drive there is an hour long, and has you wondering how on earth he makes these long treks there and back five times a week.

By the end, you're yawning and leaning against the window. He laughs, shaking you awake, helping you walk inside the cafe.

In the break room, he situates you on the couch. "I'll get you something to snack on soon. Banana bread, blueberry muffin, brownie, or chocolate chip cookie?"

You weakly smile. "What ever was my favorite?"

He snorts. "Gotcha. I'll be back soon. Don't leave this room, 'kay?" He doesn't wait for a response, quickly busying off towards the counter, throwing his apron back on.

When he's out of view, you try to relax, but as time passes on, you get bored with the things he's given you.

A coloring book, a children's storybook, and crayons litter around you. Sure, they're fun for a little while, but then you're back to square one.

You briefly contemplate if this is the reason why you kept running off to the forest often.

If he's been anything like this normally, you can imagine why you've been searching for more fun things to do.

You peak your head from the break room, to see him tending to another customer, making conversation.

"Oh, (Y/n), that you?"

You look to see one of the customers. He's a person about your age, smiling at you like you guys are friends. When you return the look awkwardly, it morphs into confusion.

"Hey, you alright?" he asks, walking closer to you. "Don't tell me you're working. Hugo told me you had a nasty fall, dude."

"Oh, I'm just here while he works," you shrug. "My memory is a bit weird, still. Who are you...?"

He blinks. "Oh. I'm Weston. We're friends. You must have it pretty bad if you can't remember me."

This is all so confusing. Hugo told you that you didn't have any friends... "Oh. Well, I'm just in the break room while Papa works." You cringe at your own wording. Still feels a bit weird, despite having grown more accustomed to calling him that now. "After he's done, we're probably just gonna go home."

Weston frowns. "Your dad? Are you talking about Hugo?" When you nod, he gives a dry laugh. "(Y/n), he's not—"

"What are you doing?" The deep voice startles you both. You turn around to see Hugo staring between the two of you, jaw tensing with some suppressed emotion. He forces a smile at Weston. "Hey, Weston, sorry, they're going through a lot as you can tell. Still in a state of constant confusion. Sorry. Did you want your usual? Croissant and cappuccino?"

He takes a small step back, but is still clearly defensive, like he's waiting for something to happen. "Yeah, no worries, Mr. Harrison. I know they hit their head hard."

Hugo nods. "I'll get started on that in a sec." He drags you back to the break room, almost slamming the door shut behind him. "Kiddo. What did I tell you?"

"I didn't technically leave... I just poked my head to see if you were busy, and that guy... Weston, I think, recognized me..." You realize his breathing sounds labored. "He said he's my friend."

"That kid?" he says incredulously, laughing. It doesn't sound humorous. It's dry and cold. "No, no, no. Sweetheart, I know everyone in this town and he most definitely isn't friends with you. (Y/n), look, you really can't trust your judgment right now." He grips your shoulders. "You gotta understand that you're hurt. Your head's not working correctly. Okay?"

You wish you could let it go, but something else he said makes you anxious. "He sounded like he was about to say you aren't my dad..."

"He's misinformed. Don't let him fill your head with lies. Now, I gotta get back to work."

"But—"

"For the love of God, just shut up, will you?" he snaps. "I barely let you come along! I should've followed my instincts, why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?"

The glint in his eyes scares you. It reminds you of something terrible, even if you can't remember. You flinch so hard you fall off the couch.

As soon as Hugo's anger came, it dissipated when he saw you trembling, backing up. You shield yourself away with your arms, expecting him to explode.

Even though you have no memory in your head, it's like your body remembers, judging by the way you recoil away from him. It's all instinctual. Even when his expression turns from angry to worried, to guilty.

"Oh no..." He kneels beside you. "Oh, I am so sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me. Here, take my hand," he offers. You reluctantly take his calloused, scarred hand. "Shh... I know, Papa can be scary, huh? I shouldn't have yelled like that. It's just that you made me so mad, scaring me like that... he's a bad person. This town is filled with them. That's why I'm so protective of you."

He's always making up excuses.

"I just wanna be left alone," you rasp. "Please."

"Okay. That's fair. If that's what you want." You expect him to fight it, but instead he gets up slowly and leaves after mumbling one final apology. After the door closes, you exhale, burying your face into your hands.

Something about what happened triggers a flashback.

"You just never know when to stop, do you? How many times have I asked you not to hang out with them?"

"Hugo, come on, you can't dictate who I hang out with. I can handle myself just fine. Now please, let me just do my job. People are staring."

"Keep up with this attitude, (Y/n), and we'll have problems."

"If you're going to fire me, might as well do so. I'm close to quitting myself."

You don't remember anything after that.

But whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

The ride home is relatively silent. Not that it's much different from his normal quietness, but it's a different kind of quiet. Deafening. Tense.

All because he lost his cool earlier. Your shoulders hunch as you try to avoid eye contact.

Finally, Hugo speaks. "Still upset?"

"Why do you care?" you mumble.

His fingers tense against the steering wheel, before relaxing. "Of course I care. I care about you more than anyone else." His eyebrows furrow with concern. "Just because I got a bit snappy back there doesn't mean I love you any less. If you weren't so reckless... but even then, I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that." He sighs deeply. "I'm sorry."

Something tells you if you don't forgive him now, he'll give you hell about it later. "It's okay."

That seems to quell his stress immensely, and he breathes out shakily, like a huge weight was taken off him. "Thank you," he murmurs. "We'll do something special tonight, okay? Movie night, maybe a pillow fort?"

"Sure." You're too tired to argue.

...

The next day, he leaves to get groceries, taking another day off work. You take that as an opportunity to snoop around, for the two hours or so he'll be gone.

Maybe something is fishy about Hugo; the way he keeps trying to keep you restrained from leaving the house is suspicious enough. And the lack of communication to the outside world, even before the fall.

No computer, internet access, cell phone... maybe your memories won't have to return for you to discover some clues.

Searching his bedroom provides nothing useful, so you continue towards his desk area.

Opening drawers, there's lots of random papers inside, which you flip through and scan through as carefully as you can.

That's when you realize one of the letters is a letter of resignation... from you, addressed to Hugo. The date isn't too long ago; in fact, it's the day before you remember having the accident.

You read through it, each sentence causing you more and more distress, until the paper is trembling in your grip.

Hugo,

I appreciate everything you've done for me since I first started working with you, but unfortunately our differences are causing more trouble than it's worth.

The incident last week truly opened my eyes. I didn't realize how toxic and controlling you were. You have isolated me from society, refused to allow me freedom, and tried to control who I hang out with and what I do.

You're my boss, but you insist on acting like my father, despite how many times I've told you that is crossing a boundary of mine.

Therefore, I regretfully inform you I will no longer work with you. This will be my two weeks notice. I'm sorry.

(Y/n)

The paper flutters to the ground. You're sweating. Isolating, controlling, manipulative behavior... it fits to a T of what Hugo's been displaying to you since the accident. Except it started long before that.

You glance around the hallway, suddenly feeling like you're in enemy territory rather than your home. But can you even call it that anymore?

All's you know, is you need to get out of here.

Running back downstairs, you begin planning what supplies to bring with you, but movement from outside catches your attention.

Rushing to the window, you see a familiar figure walking up the driveway. Your blood runs cold.

It's Hugo, carrying bags from the grocery store.

You must've lost track of time. You stumble to your room and pretend to be asleep.

Listening carefully to the noises coming from downstairs, he brings in the bags and rustling follows.

Now that you know the truth, every tiny noise causes anxiety. Why is he doing all this? Was this really all an elaborate lie, this entire situation?

And the most chilling part... was he responsible for your accident? Has it ever been an accident in the first place? As these thoughts race in your mind, your ears strain to listen to what he's doing below you.

Footsteps approach the staircase. Your heartbeat quickens and you burrow further underneath the covers. They ascend slowly.

Eventually they're right in front of your bedroom. Then, it sounds like they turn and head towards his room instead. You have to stifle a relieved sigh when he doesn't enter your room.

The relief doesn't last long.

Did you put everything away where you found it? Did you shut the drawers properly, did you cover up your tracks?

A few minutes go by, until there's a knock on the door. "Sweetheart, I'm getting started on dinner. How does mac 'n cheese sound?"

"Sure," you say, so quiet he almost doesn't hear you.

You wait until you hear his footsteps descend, then sneak into his room to make sure you put everything up.

To your relief, it looks like it, so you shuffle back downstairs, trying to put on the best neutral expression you can manage.

The last thing you'd want him to suspect is that you're onto his twisted game.

"There they are! Come sit at the table. Almost ready." He ruffles your hair gently when you take a seat. It takes everything in you not to squirm away from his touch. To keep pretending that you're blissfully oblivious. "How long were you napping for?"

"Not too long." The less you talk, the better.

"That's good." Hugo serves you a bowl full of macaroni and adds a glass of juice next to it, sitting across from you. Something about his demeanor seems different. You're sure that's just the anxiety talking. "Is something wrong, buddy? You're quieter than normal," he notes.

"Just... still kinda tired." You pick at the macaroni, hoping he doesn't press on about this.

"Awww... well, eat up, okay?"

Despite the lack of appetite, you force down the food. Every bite tastes like mush.

But if you don't finish it, you have the sinking feeling he'll know something's up. So, you force everything down, as well as the juice, which washes it down easier.

Within moments, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. "H...Hugo..."

Hugo gives a lopsided smile, somewhat apologetic. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't want to do that, but found you messed with some of my stuff. My fault, I've been putting off getting locks for it. I swear, I'd lose my head if it weren't screwed on!" He laughs. It borders on hysterical. "All I want is to be your dad... for you to let me care for you." He reaches out, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. "But no need to worry. I doubt you'll remember any of today, anyway."

"No..." You try to stand, but end up collapsing forward. In the haze, you register being pulled upwards.

"You just can't help but be stubborn," he chastises. "Guess you got it from your old man."

"You aren't..." Your tongue begins to feel heavy, just like the rest of your body. "Not my..."

"Sleep, baby. Sleep. When you wake up, this will all just be a silly nightmare. Papa's got you. He'll always have you."

And despite your desperate attempts to stay awake, sleep eventually claims you, as black engulfs your vision.

The last thing you sense is your head being tucked underneath his chin, and hearing him hum the same melody he hummed in the hospital.

[prlssprfctn]

Bruce being the man he is will have this need to check on his kids while they sleep. Most parents stop doing this as they get older and especially when their kids move out but not Bruce.

He can't not check all of his kids when he is like this, even if it takes hours. And when he's there he'll just stand in the corner to make sure everything is good before disappearing in the night.

Now Damian is the easiest since he still lives im the manor. When Dick and Cass are in town they also stay in the manor but he is not afraid to drive to Bludhaven or take a flight to Hong Kong to calm his nerves. Steph, Duke, and Barbara all live with their families so it isn't the hardest to track. Tim has his apartment that he stays in which is a fast drive away. But Jason, oh Jason, while he does have a nice apartment, he frequents his safe houses more than his siblings. It makes it so Bruce has to run down a list of known locations hoping Jason didn't find a new one.

If he can't find one them after exhausting the list of possible locations they could be at it reaffirms why he has to check each of them whenever he can. Before he can jump into paranoid detective dad they'll walk in with tacos from down the street, averting a crisis.

i just KNOW Jason doesn't help Bruce's paranoia with his random disappearances. Bruce tries to cope by just checking his location, because he did promise Jason some space, but Jason is always on random ass side quests, so it usually goes like this:

Bruce: i hadn't seen Jason since the morning. i need to check his location. Bruce: Bruce: Alfred: is everything okay, master Bruce? Bruce with his eye twitching: what a one does in Sri Lanka all of a sudden? Alfred: ...uh.

Bruce: your trackers stopped working, Jason! I couldn't find you! do you think it is okay?! Jason: okay, damn, it is not like it was intentional, and i can explain??? Bruce: oh, be my guest. explain how come they just turned itself off by themselves and started working magically! Jason: see? you already know the answer - magically! Jason: so, lol, i actually travelled in the past by the accident. Bruce: WHAT

Bruce: Jason's GPS cannot name the location he is in for an hour now. can't help but wonder what it is now. Dick: bet on some magic quest Tim: it happened yesterday. i think he is helping Al Ghuls today Damian: no, Todd had a banter with Ra's, so i doubt he would go for that. Cassandra: All-Caste? Duke: lmao, would be really funny if GPS just broke Stephanie: put your money in the hat, ladies and gentlemen... Bruce: *sighs* Jason, a few hours later: guys, you won't believe what just happened. so, i crushed my airplane by the accident - no, Bruce, wait, that is not the point - and you know where it landed? in FUCKING Hanging Gardens of Babylon???? IT APPARENTLY EXISTS!!! LIKE NOT REMAININGS A FULL MAGIC AHH GARDENS STAIGHT FROM TALES- Stephanie, sliding all money to Alfred: dang. how could you predict something so specific? Alfred, who got selfies from Jason: oh, well, I am an excellent butler.

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ad perpetuam memoriam II

I II

summary: you enroll at night raven college one year after the original yuu. a heartslabyul event and a mysterious letter type of post: series includes: ace, deuce, riddle, silver, sebek additional info: platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not yuu, this is all AU, not making predictions for how twst will end

"Leave me be,"

The hollow sound of knocking and the rasps of weary sighs end. Finally. You pull your blanket back over your head, content to sleep through the rest of the morning.

BANG!

The door splits itself apart, sparks of magic and smoke flying through the cool air.

Sebek Zigvolt, vice housewarden of Diasomnia, pushes his magic pen into the slim opening of his pocket before he comes inside.

"Up,"

He demands, curtly but not coldly, a hand on his hip. "I have no patience for your disrespect. Silver has been far too lenient with you."

Lenient. If lenient meant sending birds and squirrels through your window, then yes. If lenient meant trying to talk to you in your sleep, then certainly. If lenient meant sending his vicewarden to split your door in two, then Silver was the most lenient housewarden this dorm ever had!

...Not that you'd know.

"Lord Malleus would have torn this room apart, stone by stone, days ago," Sebek says. "You cannot shut yourself away as though you are some... sleeping princess in a tower! UP!"

Cold air touches your sweaty, crumpled body, and your blanket falls at Sebek's feet as he pulls it from you.

"You're ill," he asks, though it's more of a statement than a question.

You say nothing, and he scoffs.

Sebek leers over you, the soft gray light of morning casting his shadow over your body. "You should consider yourself fortunate, that Silver has not thrown you out of this room yet. You are making a mockery of the Housewarden,"

With some difficulty, and, surely, some disgust, he lifts your sweaty, cold body from the bed.

Fwump.

Sebek sits you in the lounge, forcing you to keep upright with a hand on the nape of your neck. With the other, he holds a cracker to your lips. His hand doesn't move until you've eaten the entire thing.

"Sebek... What are you doing?"

Both of your eyes, sharp and wide, crusty and tired, turn to Silver.

"What does it look like?" the vicewarden scoffs. "Feeding your pet."

Silver looks taken aback, crystalline eyes reflecting your sordid state, and he hurries to your side.

"Gentle," he instructs his vicewarden, taking your hand in his. You can't seem to understand why he's so kind to you. You don't ask.

"Are you ill?" he asks (genuinely, this time). "You must be hungry..."

Sebek rolls his eyes, though even he looks a little uncomfortable at the thought, shifting where he stands.

"I'll prepare something," he mutters.

"Thank you, Sebek. That would be good,"

Silver's thumb draws lines and letters over the back of your hand, soothing you. He must have learnt that somewhere. You wonder what his parents are like.

"You've missed several days of classes. I've had some of your classmates collect your work for you. But don't worry about that now,"

You look away, eyes tired and barely open. Sick, yes, that's what you are. It's not that you'd been avoiding everyone... you're just... sick.

"Riddle wanted me to give this to you," Silver says, taking a delicate, elegant paper from his pocket. Had he been carrying that all weekend?

"It's an invitation for an unbirthday party, which-"

"I don't want to go," you don't even let him explain. Though you're not sure of what you want, now. Except for this headache to go away...

Silver frowns. "You should. You should make friends, or at least... talk... to someone. Deuce has been asking Sebek about you,"

For some strange reason, that makes your headache worse. Is it obligation? Guilt? Pity? Do these people think that if they care enough, one day they'll look at you and finally see someone else?

Is it so hard to believe that you're cared for?

Yes. It is.

"You should tell him I'm fine," you snap, though without meaning to. "I don't have to be friends with him, you know."

Silver winces, and you overflow with guilt. Something about him, the only person to, so far, treat you as a human and not a shadow, makes your stomach twist and turn.

"You're right. But he's trying. Really,"

"That's what they say," you relent.

"Yes. It's not easy for everyone," Silver dabs at some of the sweat and grease on your forehead with a handkerchief. "Especially those who were close to... never mind. Don't worry yourself about it. You have nothing to feel bad for, you belong here just as much as anyone does."

His gaze becomes hazy, unfocused, as he speaks. He may as well have been talking to himself.

"Soup!" Sebek announces, as if it were some kind of culinary battle cry.

He sits at your side in the comfortable darkness of the lounge and sets the warm bowl in your lap. It smells good.

"You cook?" you ask, absent-mindedly stirring the broth.

Sebek smirks. "Certainly. We both do,"

"We learned because Lil- er, my father is a terrible cook," Silver explains with a smile. "You're lucky he isn't here. He'd insist on making you his "specialty" and you'd end up worse than before."

You snort at that. "It can't possibly be that bad,"

"It is," the two say in unison. Sebek shudders at some memory, or another.

"He'd love you," Silver says. "So would... well... Malleus would understand."

Malleus. Your stay in Diasomnia has been haunted by that name, spoken into every conversation and implied between each breath.

Something about the way they spoke of him told you he wouldn't like you. You're not sure why.

"I guess that's good enough," you relent. Silver smiles, and Sebek pats your head, not knowing how else to show his approval.

"I'm unsure if this is entirely necessary-"

You catch yourself talking in that voice and just as soon shut your mouth. Have you always mirrored the others, or is it only a symptom of mania?

Perhaps you've been locked in that room for too long, after all.

Riddle doesn't seem to notice that you were mimicking his voice, or he doesn't say anything of it, at least, instead fixing the white and red sash of your scratchy uniform over your shoulder.

"It is. It's custom to be dressed in the Heartslabyul dorm uniform for an unbirthday party,"

"But I don't think that-"

"Hush," he pins the sash in place.

Riddle takes a step back, his chin comfortably cradled in his gloved palm. "Perfect. Now, let's make haste. It'd be uncouth for the Housewarden to be tardy,"

Great. Is that what you sound like??

You follow after him, the heels of your tight, pinchy boots click click clicking on the tile in rhythm with his.

"I would have had Deuce tend to you, as the former vice housewarden would have, but..." Riddle sighs. "He's doing his best, he's doing his best..."

You glance at him as he mutters the mantra to himself, fingers twitching around the magic pen in his pocket.

He withdraws them. "Of course, Ace has been of no help, either,"

Ace. A thought of a figure in red and white comes to mind, faceless and apprehensive. He was the one who had hugged you at the orientation ceremony.

You hadn't seen him since.

"Has he fallen ill?" you ask, still sounding all too like the housewarden.

"No," Riddle says. "Yes. It's... an affliction of the mind. Ahem. Never mind that."

"Oh,"

"Yes. Well, Deuce will have you. It was he who wanted to extend the invite... ever charitable,"

Yuck. The apprehension in Riddle's voice makes your skin crawl, even if it's not entirely aggressive.

"...Right,"

Riddle leads you through a door with a mockingly smiling face engraved on the knob, and into the gardens.

In another world, you might have liked it here. The tall, handsome hedges, the perfectly kept grass, the painted roses which seemed to sing in the golden sunlight... and, of course, the tables, one set after the other, in pinks and whites and greens and gold, a spread of teapots, tarts, jams, sugar, butter, on each one.

"Hey!" a merry, little-too-loud voice beckons from behind. You would have jumped, but a sudden hand on your shoulder keeps you tethered to the earth.

"There you are! I'm so glad you could come!" Deuce Spade smiles. "You look great... the uniform really suits you!"

"You think so?" you ask, feeling more like a circus clown than a student of the strictest dorm in school.

Deuce nods enthusiastically (a little too much so) and his hand slides to your wrist. "Oh, man, I have so many people to introduce you to,"

Dread. As much as you would have liked to run back to your room, or mingle on your own terms, or simply say no, you don't.

"...Great,"

"Great!" Deuce echoes, dragging you over the manicured lawn.

There is, at least, some comfort in the confusion, apathy, and meager care of Deuce's Heartslabyul dormmates. The disinterested greetings, the humble waves, the looks of pity, as if you were anyone but yourself. Then, at least, you can pretend as if you belong here.

"And one more person!"

You glance towards Riddle, scolding a first-year for spreading his jam "offensively" (whatever that means). You haven't had any food, yet. Or water. You haven't even sat down.

The taste of Sebek's soup is still stuck to your tongue. That was last night.

"Ace, over here!"

Dread. If there was anything in your stomach, it surely would have introduced itself to the front of your shirt.

Deuce drags you through the grass, caking your pointy shoes in mud and debris. Why, you? Why? He pushes and pries himself (and you, attached at the wrist) through a crowd of ooh-ing and ah-ing first-years. "Ace, look who it is!"

A boy with spiky, red hair, not unlike the hedgehogs Riddle had introduced you to earlier, bristles. The lively cards between his fingers die on his palms, and the table falls silent.

"Yeah?" Ace asks.

He doesn't seem too excited to see you.

"Look who it is!" Deuce repeats, as if Ace hadn't heard him the first time. He definitely had. "Finally decided to come!"

Ace shuffles the deck, slotting each card together, and then separating them again.

His eyes, narrowed, dark but fiery, like molten iron, never stray from Deuce. He doesn't even look at you.

"So?"

"So?" Deuce says. "Wouldn't you like to say hi?"

You tug, trying to break your wrist free of the binding of his hand, your body making some futile effort to escape.

Deuce doesn't budge.

Ace's eyes finally lower to his cards. "Nah, I'm good,"

The table seems to let out a collective sigh of relief, but the tension isn't done with. Ace's casual response had only thrown a blanket over the corpse of this conversation.

"...Oh. Okay," Deuce says, withdrawing from the first-years. "Sorry." he says to you.

You shake your head. "I should get back to Diasomnia, anyway. Silver needs me,"

He doesn't. No one really needs you.

Deuce doesn't have to know that.

"Oh, well..." he looks at his feet. "Um... if you... need anything, Riddle and I would be glad to help, 'kay?"

"...Sure,"

His grip is gone, and cold, afternoon air embraces your wrist. His palms had been sweaty, you grimace.

You leave the dorm uniform where Riddle had given it, dressing yourself in the familiarly unfamiliar clothes that Crowley had dumped on your doorstep days ago.

Though they're not really yours, they're still something you can call your own.

"Mind yourself," the strict sound of Riddle comes from the kitchen. "I can't recall having excused you."

Your mouth dries. "Did I... need to be excused?"

He comes into the light. At least his expression is softer than his voice.

"Well, you could have at least said good-bye,"

"...I didn't think anyone would notice-"

"Nonsense," his face goes red. "I would have. Are there no manners, where you come from?"

You open your mouth, but only breath comes out. Riddle coughs, taking out an embroidered handkerchief (you swear you've seen like, eight of those so far. This school is weird) and breathes into it. His face returns to its proper color.

"...And... breathe," he sighs. "Now... as for you. You mustn't think so lowly of yourself. You were invited to this event, were you not?"

You nod.

"Then you are wanted. I have heard from Silver that you haven't adjusted?"

"No one would," you mutter. Which seems logical to you. Who would "adjust" to being magicked into another world?

Riddle looks away for a moment. "...To some, it comes easier than others. Forgive Deuce for not knowing how to behave. He's... trying,"

You raise an eyebrow. Riddle sighs and waves off your look with his handkerchief.

"Trey would have known exactly what to do with you..." he says. "He would have had you bake something with him. Explained the rules, given you that... ugh, what was it? Some kind of sauce? As a practical joke... all very immature, yes, but it worked on the first-years.

And Cater, of course. He would have treated it like a holiday. Sevens, my head hurts just imagining the hashtags..."

You snort, if only at Riddle's memories, names and faces you didn't know.

He smiles. "I suppose Deuce sympathizes with you, in that way. You both have certain expectations to meet. The difference is that you didn't ask for yours... ahem. Take care,"

You walk back to school feeling unlike yourself. Your chest is light, your feet don't seem to meet the earth, and your mind is elsewhere. Not here, but not at home, either.

Riddle's awkward words of comfort were gauze to your bleeding heart, though it bled on nonetheless.

But they gave you something to imagine. Something to soothe your mind.

What was this place like before?

Most days, the school felt more like a museum. Dates and titles, portraits without faces in golden frames, hung above your head and hands, unreachable, untouchable.

Everything, every conversation, every question, every word of solace, every smile, was a test you hadn't studied for. A funeral for a person you hadn't known.

No one has lifted the lid of the coffin. Maybe that person has been mangled beyond recognition. Maybe that person is you.

You stop.

There is the dilapidated dorm called Ramshackle, and the one light in its foggy window. The lingering smell of mildew feels like a lullaby. It sings, come in, come in and enjoy the quiet, this is your grave.

Your foot turns, the toe of your shoe dragging across the beaten cobblestone, toward the lullaby, the singing, and the quiet.

Then, there's a hand on your shoulder.

"Lost?"

You would have screamed, but you're suddenly bound by another hand, this one larger and colder than Deuce Spade's, and you're beckoned back into the school.

"Oh, don't fret," the Headmage chirps. "It's an absolutely labyrinthine campus! I've had to collect twenty-six lost students this week alone. I've considered maps, but think of the cost... print is not free, you know!"

You steady yourself, finding your breath and balance again.

It feels more as if the Headmage is talking to himself than to you, and so you don't speak, following him (not of your own will, of course) through the dark, abandoned halls of the school.

"...And I resolved to doing it myself, but it really is such a hassle... I am a busy man, you know," he says. "Though, never too busy for you! Housewarden Vanrouge has come to me with some concerns about your socializing... or, rather, lack of it. Oh- now, don't give me that pout! I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that I told him to forget it. I said, not all magicless students from another world will be spry, sociable sixteen-year-olds! And it gives you more time to focus on me- ah, your studies. But now that you've mentioned it, I do have a few cabinets that could use sorting..."

Crowley stops before a door, as tall and dark as he, but without any ability to speak, which makes it slightly more tolerable.

"Here we are," he smiles.

"Here... where?"

"The mail room," he takes a key from his ensemble and slots it in the imposing door. "Now, wait here."

You raise an eyebrow. Mail room? It's getting dark- the shadows on the walls are slanted, and the sun had given its last breath while he was monologuing. Surely, he's not asking you to sort anything now...

"You know, I thought letter-writing had fallen out of fashion," Crowley says, returning from the depths of the dark. "What, with the emails, and the text messages, and the... ah, that reminds me, I'll have to procure you a phone for emergencies... er, but later. Here, for you."

He hands you an envelope, cream-colored and smooth. There is no name, nor return address on the back. It is simply addressed to the "Residing Second Magicless Student of Night Raven College."

You feel the rich, creamy paper under your thumbs. It smells like smoke.

"Now, don't look at me," Crowley says. "I haven't the slightest clue of who might write you from outside the college. In fact, it makes me worry about our campus security... ah, I'll have someone look at that tomorrow. Good night, dear."

He leaves you there in the hall, envelope in hand, a frown on your lips.

It's dark now. The light has vanished beyond the imposing walls of the school, the shadows have become long-limbed and monstrous, and the sky is blue and red in the blood of the setting sun.

You turn the envelope over. There is still no name. A single wax seal, imprinted in the shape of a bell, is the only sign of life.

Weird. All of this is weird.

You walk home in the dark and cold.

[22ayla21]

Hiii I just read your pregnancy fic and it was amazing✨️ so I wanted to request a fic about their reaction to reader giving birth if you don't mind ( ￣▽￣)

First Birth

Their reaction to their wife's first birth

Mydei is used to keeping himself under control, but for the first time in his life he feels like he is losing control of the situation. He is used to protecting her from enemies, from conspiracies, but the pain she is going through is something he cannot fight. Despite his stern character, he does not leave. He is not the one who will leave her alone in a difficult moment. Even if he cannot ease her suffering, he will be there until the very end.

Outwardly, he remains cool, but inside everything is boiling. He understands too well how fragile life is, and the thought that something can go wrong drives him crazy. If even one of the doctors shows disrespect, hesitates or does something wrong, he looks at them in a way that makes their hands shake. Yes, he does not scream or make a scene, but his silent threat hangs in the air.

When the baby is finally born and his screams fill the room, the tension in his shoulders disappears. He doesn't move right away, just closes his eyes for a split second, letting the realization sink in. For the first time in a long time, he sees her so tired, so exhausted, but at the same time the most beautiful. And in that moment, he understands that no titles, no wars mean more than this moment.

When they give him the baby, he freezes at first, afraid that his hands, used to holding a weapon, might do something wrong. But when the baby barely squeaks, his heart is gone forever. He doesn't speak loudly, but his wife hears him whispering something quietly to the baby. Maybe it's a promise to protect, maybe just a word that he will never forget.

He won't say out loud that he was afraid, that he was about to burst with emotion. But his actions will speak for him: a gentle touch, carefully covering her with a blanket, a warm look that he has only for the two of them. When his wife finally falls asleep, he stays close, holding their baby in his arms. And at that moment he understands: now he has the two most precious things in the world, and he is ready to burn everything to protect them.

Anaxa is a man who is used to analyzing, planning and controlling everything. But childbirth is chaos that he cannot fully predict. He has studied everything about the process in advance, found the best doctors, prepared the ideal conditions... and still he is nervous, because this is not an area where knowledge gives complete certainty

On the surface, he remains collected and reasonable, as always. He does not panic, does not interfere with the doctors, does not make sudden movements. But his fingers may be clenched a little tighter than usual, and in the depths of his mind he carefully analyzes every sound, every movement, every change in his wife's facial expression. He understands that pain is inevitable, that childbirth is a natural process, but seeing his wife suffer is a test even for him. An inner voice insists that everything is going according to plan, but his heart sank at every cry.

Even if tradition or protocol may ask him to leave, he finds a way to stay. Perhaps he convinces the doctors that his presence is useful, or his wife simply grabs his hand and does not let go.

When she squeezes his hand so tightly that it almost breaks his bones, he doesn't even flinch. When she screams something angry (maybe even promises him a painful death), he accepts it calmly. "Yes, my love. Of course, my love. I'm not going anywhere."

The moment he hears his baby's first cry, something changes inside him. He hears that sound - loud, demanding, alive - and he knows that this is it, the miracle he's read about, pondered. This isn't just a theory. This is his baby.

When he's handed the baby for the first time, his hands automatically adjust to the fragile body. He studies every feature, peers into the face, as if scanning data, but it's more than analysis. It's acceptance. It's the realization that he now has a new responsibility, a new foothold in this world.

He may not be a man who gives grand speeches, but his gaze is enough. When he looks at his wife after all he's been through, there will be respect, gratitude, and recognition of her strength in that gaze.

Phainon, accustomed to being in control of the situation, feels completely powerless for the first time. He is used to solving problems, but now he can neither fight, nor negotiate, nor find a diplomatic solution. He paces nervously, clenches his fingers, bites his lip, trying to remain calm, but panic is visible in his eyes.

Even the thought that something could happen to her paralyzes him. He does not go far, constantly asking the doctors if everything is okay. Perhaps for the first time in his life he prays, even if he does not believe in gods, if only everything goes well. He is torn between the desire to hold her hand and the fear that his presence will only distract her. If she allows him to stay, then he endures all her cries to the last, squeezing her hand, even if she breaks his fingers.

He has lived through battles, seen destruction, but he has never heard her scream like that. It makes him turn pale, and a chill runs down his spine. He wants to help, but he knows there's nothing he can do to ease her pain, and it's killing him.

When the first baby cry is heard, he freezes abruptly. His heart skips a beat for a moment, and then a wave of relief washes over him. He exhales deeply, as if he'd been holding his breath until that moment.

As much as he longs to see his firstborn, the first thing he does is check on her. She is alive, exhausted, but smiling. Only then does he turn his attention to the child, and in that moment he is overcome with such tenderness that he forgets all his fear. He looks at the tiny creature in his arms, trying to comprehend that this is his child. The whole world ceases to exist for a moment, leaving only him, his wife, and the baby.

He gently touches the child's cheek, feels the warmth, and in that moment he makes an oath to himself - to protect his family, no matter the cost. Let Amphoraeus collapse, let the gods interfere, let the whole world turn upside down - he will not allow anything to happen to them.

Up until this moment he has held on, but now all the tension subsides, and he feels that he can barely stand on his feet. If his wife allows it, he presses her to himself, showers her forehead with kisses, whispering how strong and incredible she is. He looks at his sleeping wife and baby and realizes: he is no longer just a husband and not just a warrior. He is now a father. And even though it scares him to the core, he has never been happier.

[moonstruckme]

hi, how are you?

really move your writing, it has def helped me through tough times, so thank you for that so much, I cannot tell you how much appreciation I carry for you

I was wondering, since you are okay with writing about self harm scars (I think, if I understand your list or off-limit request stuff correctly, if not, sorry, then just ignore this) if you would maybe write something with Sirius x reader, where maybe r isn’t feeling all that great abt her scars (preferably on her thighs, but if not also totally fine) and Sirius draws on them and reassures her and all that stuff

Hope you have a great day, sending you lots of love

Sending love back angel <3

cw: past self harm, discussion of scars

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 922 words

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“Gorgeous, you can cut the shit. We both know I’m a modern Poussin.” 

You smile, radiant in the sunlight spilling into your sitting room. You came here to read, but Sirius was hellbent on distracting you, and as always he’s succeeded. Your book has been long since closed, the two of you lazing the day away with kisses and go-nowhere conversations while Sirius draws on your skin in black ink. 

“You’ve just said some obscure artist to show off,” you accuse. “You know I don’t know who that is.” 

“Yes, well, two can play at the game of belittlement.” 

Sirius is quite obviously drawing clouds. They live in the crook of your elbow, and they’re perfectly nebulous. You’re only pretending not to know because you enjoy playing with him. Luckily for you, Sirius enjoys letting you. 

“Is there going to be a sun?” you ask after a while. 

“Don’t need one. That’s you already, sunshine.” 

You make a phony groaning sound, clearly delighted. “You’re so cheesy.” 

“I know. See what you’ve done to me?” Sirius grins, tilting his head up for a kiss. 

You indulge him. You’re in an indulgent mood, all sun-warmed and languorous, reclining against the cushions like a goddess. You wouldn’t likely let him doodle all over you otherwise. Sirius is taking advantage of a rare opportunity. 

He goes back to work, adding some raindrops and then stars trailing up your arm. He thinks you’re dozing, but when Sirius turns to look at you again your expression has gone solemn. You’re looking down at your own lap like it’s a piece of gum stuck to your shoe. 

Your scars bother you, sometimes. Sirius can never really predict when those times will be—it depends on your mood, how often you’ve been thinking about them, and a slew of other things inside that lovely head of yours—but here in the sunlight he can see how you got hung up. They’re showier than usual, light and shimmery in the crease of your thighs. Faded, but there. 

Sirius puts his hand over them. Not to cover, but to caress. 

You seem to snap out of your reverie. “Sorry,” you say. 

“What for?” he asks. 

It’s a trick question and you know it. You’re silent for a time. Silence is not usually Sirius’ favorite thing, but he lets it lie, stroking his index finger over your leg. 

“I’m just,” you admit in a soft voice, “not liking them very much lately.” 

“Yeah?” He looks up at you, seeking. “Have you been feeling okay?” 

“Yeah. I have, really.” 

“You’d tell me if not?” 

You nod. Not quite looking at him, but Sirius knows that’s more evidence of shame than dishonesty. You trust him, and he trusts you. 

“I don’t think you have to like them, baby.” He kisses gently beside your chin. “I’d like it if you didn’t hate them, but I know you can’t always help it.” 

“I don’t know if I hate them.” Your eyes seem glued to where Sirius is rubbing your leg. Your voice is small. “I just…sometimes I don’t care if people see them, but other times they feel so embarrassing.” 

Sirius scoffs. “Well, that’s silly.” 

You frown. “Why?” 

“Because,” he says, uncapping his pen again. You don’t stop him when he starts drawing small flowers over and in between your lines. “I—look, you’re allowed to feel any way you want about them, okay? Obviously. But the way I see it, they’re just something that happened to you.”

Admittedly, Sirius didn’t always feel that way. When he first saw them, he’d been angry—at you, at your brain, at anyone and anything that had ever made you feel awful enough to do this to yourself—but it hadn’t taken long for that initial wrath to deliquesce into a wet, formless sorrow. Sirius doesn’t like not having anyone to blame. He likes thinking of the people he loves hurting even less. But it was a reality for you at one time, and there’s nothing either of you can do about it now. All Sirius wants now is to keep enough light in your present that maybe someday it washes out the past. It may never happen, but he can hope. And he can hold your hand no matter what.

He twines the fingers of his free hand loosely with yours, making looping lines for petals on your leg. 

“I don’t like that they did happen,” he admits, “but I don’t like that I broke my arm in fourth year either.” He senses your eyes going to the scar on his forearm. Once large and long, but now faded. “Nothing we can really do about them, though.” 

You hum. “Yours was an accident.” 

“I know,” Sirius murmurs. He looks at you. “I know they’re not the same thing, baby. But I don’t think you wanted your scars any more than I wanted mine, right?” 

You hold his eyes this time, your gaze tentative but full of love. “No.” 

“Right.” He kisses you. Lingers until you soften into it, your lips parting for him. Sirius pecks the corner of your mouth once he’s done. “So, you just keep talking to me, and I’ll tell you when you have something to be embarrassed about. Okay?” 

Your smile comes almost unwillingly, your eyes slipping from his to look at the blooming garden covering your legs. “Okay,” you say. 

“There’s my girl. Now, do you think it would tickle terribly if I drew a circus on the bottom of your foot?” 

“Yes.” 

“Perfect.”