#you're welcome/ I'm sorry | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lestappenforever · 6 months

Text

Post Brazil GP 2023 Lestappen drabble

There is a heaviness in his chest as Charles makes his way down a hotel hallway that isn't his own. His eyes feel dry and sore — seemingly completely devoid of any moisture. Not that he's surprised, given the countless tears he's been shedding this afternoon.

He'd qualified P2 in Brazil, still high off his P3 finish in Mexico the week before. Finally going into the race weekend feeling confident for what felt like the first time in ages. When he'd woken up that Sunday morning, Charles had been full of hope. He'd been excited. Happy.

He should have known it would end with engine failure, sending him into the barriers in the formation lap, because it's the fucking story of his life this year.

If only the team had listened to him. If only they'd changed the fucking engine like he'd begged them to.

But no. Instead, he went from P2 to a fucking DNS.

How could he be so fucking unlucky?

He stops outside of a hotel room door at the end of the hall, and he only manages to knock once before the door swings open.

Max is wearing a towel slung low around his waist, his damp hair a mess atop his head. The skin of his chest and face are flushed a soft pink.

If Charles didn't feel so damn empty, he would have been able to fully appreciate the sight. He would have reached out and tugged the knot of Max's towel loose with a swift flick of his wrist and they'd stumble into the room and fall gracelessly onto the bed in a tangle of limbs like they have done so many times before.

But alas, every ounce of desire, of excitement, every resemblance of joy, even for Max Verstappen, was ripped from his grasp the moment his car collided with the barries in the formation lap, leaving only nothingness behind. Only darkness. Only a dull ache that somehow feels situated in his very soul, rather than in his heart.

It's an odd feeling.

Max can tell that he's been crying, but he doesn't say anything — just steps aside to let Charles trudge into his hotel room with his head down and his shoulders slumped, heading straight for the minibar.

Behind him, the door clicks shut. Charles almost doesn't hear it over the sound of the beer he's cracking open.

He chugs the entire thing in one go. Opens another immediately after.

Max is leaning against the wall a couple of steps behind him, arms folded across his broad chest. Watching Charles intently, but remaining silent. Knowing there's nothing he can say; knowing Charles will say something.

The Monégasque downs the second beer. Opens a third before he turns to Max.

There's a light gone from his eyes. Max tries to suppress the shudder that runs through him at the unfamiliar sight.

He's seen Charles sad before. More times than he would like, in fact, especially this season. But this? This is something new. Something that makes something hard and unpleasant lodge in the center of Max's chest.

It's the last straw.

"Call Christian." Charles' voice is cold and flat, devoid of any emotions.

Max raises an eyebrow, heart skipping a beat in his chest.

"Are you sure?" The Dutchman asks, tentative in a way he seldom is.

He knows this is a sensitive topic. With the amount of conversations they've had about the potential of Charles joining Red Bull, Max has long since learned that he needs to tread carefully. But, this is the first time Charles is the one to initiate the conversation. And he supposes that counts for something.

Charles takes a long drink of his beer. Puts the bottle down on the table next to him. Nods.

"I'm sure," he says, voice firm. Certain. "I'm done."

Max doesn't ask another question; just walks over to the nightstand to pick up his phone. He unlocks it and navigates to Christian's contact. Allows himself one final look in Charles' direction, giving the other man one last chance to change his mind.

All Charles does is nod, shoulders squared. He looks solid — unyielding. Steady as a mountain amidst the most brutal storm.

As Max hits the 'Call' button on his phone, he can't help but think how gorgeous Charles looks like this, even though he knows that Charles' heart is broken into a million pieces.

Scuderia Ferrari will forever regret the day they destroyed the final piece of loyalty of their beloved prince — their Il Predestinato, who would have given them his entire life if they'd allowed him to.

"Hey Max," Christian's voice sounds through the speaker, and Max puts the phone to his ear.

"Christian," Max greets, watching as Charles closes the distance between them, holds out his hand expectantly. "There's somebody who wants to talk to you."

Max places the phone in Charles' outstretched hand. The Monégasque places it against his ear without hesitation.

"Christian, it's Charles," he says, green gaze locked on blue. "I'm in."

#Lestappen #Lestappen fic #Lestappen drabble #Lestappen gate 2023 #You're welcome or I'm sorry I guess #My writing #Charles to RBR

349 notes · View notes

bakuhatsufallinlove · 7 months

Text

Katsuki’s return is imminent, we all know this.

But do we all remember one of the last things ShigAFO said to him before he went down for the count?

Chapter 360

This line was officially translated for the English release with Katsuki being called “Izuku Midoriya’s hanger-on—a minnow in One For All’s wake,” but notice the bit highlighted in orange? That says 金魚の糞 (kingyo no fun), meaning goldfish poop. It is a pretty, uh, visual idiom that “hanger-on” and “minnow” are both trying to capture.

But here’s the thing, someone else has said something like this to him before.

Chapter 164

Gang Orca calls all the remedial course kids ダボハゼの糞 (dabohaze no fun), meaning goby poop.

Do you remember how Katsuki responded back then?

Listen to me

Look into my eyes

I want that boy to pop back up on the battlefield, covered in blood, after more than forty chapters and a whole year of real-world anticipation, so he can dramatically show up at Izuku’s side just in the nick of time,

and I want him to look ShigAFO straight in the face and say,

#you're welcome #I'm not sorry #I am so serious about this #it would be so funny and correct and good #Katsuki is the funniest motherfucker in the series he deserves this comeback #mha spoilers #bnha spoilers #mha 360 #mha 164 #final battle predictions

217 notes · View notes

monarchisms · 7 months

Text

geoff coming back to the let's play channel to play video games like, 5 years after leaving AH because he got burnt out on video games:

#sorry/you're welcome if you found out this way #i found out through a tweet from andrew that f**kface was taking over like. the moment i woke up #there's also more information on reddit #geoff ramsey #achievement hunter #f**kface podcast #i'm not making another summary post for this one #because i stopped listening to the podcast a year ago 🎉#rooster teeth

215 notes · View notes

leupagus · 22 days

Text

I firmly believe Stannis is the Westerosi equivalent of the dad who hates cats, doesn't want to get a cat, makes a big deal about not liking the cat, and ends up being the cat's absolute favorite (except instead of a cat it's a huge fuckoff direwolf with boundary issues)

The door to the workroom opened and Ghost bounded inside, snuffling at Stannis's hands. Lady Stark, following behind, narrowed her eyes at him as she closed the door.

"You fed him something recently, didn't you?" she said. Ghost, finding nothing, gave a disapproving huff and flopped down by the fireplace.

He had, but that was besides the point. "What are the Knights of the Vale doing here?"

"Just don't give him chicken, we had a terrible problem with the henhouses when they were puppies," she said absently, and circled round to sit at her chair on the far side of the work table. "I brought them here for you."

Stannis, still standing, paused. "For me?"

"Yes, for you. I can't bend the knee, Your Grace. Not yet. But I'm not entirely useless."

"Of all the adjectives I've thought to describe you with, 'useless' has never been one of them."

She smiled at that and looked down at the papers strewn across the table. "Littlefinger — Lord Baelish," she corrected, "had plans for the North. Marrying my Aunt Lysa and becoming Lord Protector of the Vale wasn't enough for him; he wanted more."

"How much more?" Stannis asked as he took his seat again. He was already well able to guess the answer.

"Everything," she answered, a distant look in her eye that Stannis did not like. "He wanted to marry me off to the Boltons. I think the plan was for you you to come sweeping down from the Wall and either take Winterfell or kill out enough of the Bolton forces to weaken them. At which point Littlefinger could come riding to my rescue with the Knights of the Vale. He'd have a ward at the Vale who looked to him for approval, and a new Lady of Winterfell who'd be grateful to him for saving her from monsters twice over." She nodded at his moue of distaste. "Yes, well, he always did consider me one of his cyvasse pieces, to be moved around the board as needed."

Stannis had avoided Baelish at King's Landing, insofar as he could while both of them served on Robert's Small Council. But he well remembered how Baelish spoke of women, how effortlessly he used them and used them up. What damage had he inflicted on a young, friendless girl while he'd had her in his custody? No wonder Lady Stark had fled from him at the first chance of escape.

If that's what had truly happened. The story from the Riverlands was that Baelish had been killed by his own men, and there was no reason to doubt it — such a treacherous man would have succumbed to treachery sooner or later. But Lady Stark had proven herself capable of surprising things, these past months.

It didn't bear thinking of too closely. He cleared his throat. "The Vale, the North — if Baelish wanted the Iron Throne, he'd have needed more than two kingdoms at his command."

"The Riverlands probably would have been next," said Lady Stark with a frown. She pawed through the papers and pulled out a book. "I've been going through the maester accounts, such as they are, from the time my father left Winterfell until now," she said, flipping through it. "There are gaps, obviously, but Maester Wolkan's been keeping remarkably faithful records. Including copies of every raven scroll." She passed the book over to him, tapping at a particular passage. "This was sent to Roose Bolton from the Twins, only a few days before we began the siege."

"'The Blackfish traitor has stolen Riverrun from us. In the name of fellowship among the new Lord Paramounts and the victors over House Stark, we ask for your aid in catching this damned fish and roasting him on a spit.'" Stannis set the book back on the table with the peculiar urge to wipe his hands clean. "Walder Frey was always a craven. Wanting everyone else to fight his battles for him."

"He didn't even have the courage to murder my brother himself," said Lady Stark, taking back the book and closing it with a snap. "Though I've been told it was his son who murdered my mother. A great warrior family, clearly. Plus he doesn't know it's 'Lords Paramount' and not 'Lord Paramounts.'"

Stannis had seen flares of temper from Lady Stark before (on any number of occasions), but the icy rage in her voice gave him pause. Not for the first time, he considered how very merciful she had been with him, in the end. A man responsible for his own brother's murder, when she herself had lost her brother to the very basest of treachery — what might she have done to him, if he'd been anyone other than the rightful king?

Even as he wondered, he knew that his titles had not been what had stayed her hand in judgement. The Starks had never been particularly pragmatic, mostly to disastrous ends, and for all her intelligence Sansa seemed to have inherited a fair helping of the Tully pig-headedness on top of the Stark romanticism. King Stannis would have had no better luck against her judgement than Lord Stannis or Ser Stannis or even Goodman Stannis; it had been for some other reason she had spared him. He wondered when the bill would come due, and if it would ever be in his capacity to pay it.

Lady Stark had continued on. "I haven't found any record of a message sent back to the Twins, but I doubt the Boltons sent one. Lord Bolton were never much for rousing himself for anyone else's interests, even before he betrayed my family. I sent a raven to House Mallister of Seaguard; he sided with Robb during the war, and the Mallisters have always been loyal to House Tully." This time she handed over a scroll, flattened out but still curling slightly at each end.

It was only a bit longer than Walder Frey's, and about as useful. Blackfish holds fast; they have supplies within to last two years or more, and the siege set by the Freys will not last half a season. Brynden has not called the banners of the Riverlands, for Lord Tully is still hostage to the Freys. But if Lady Stark should call, Mallister will answer.

"'If Lady Stark should call,'" he repeated wryly.

"Lord Mallister bounced my mother on his knee when she was a babe, Your Grace," she said, equally wry. "All the oaths of fealty in the world can't replace the bonds of family and friendship between the northern Houses, even those not in the North itself."

"So I am beginning to understand," he said, handing the scroll back. "So the Twins are undefended at present."

"Most likely — Lord Frey is still there, but the bulk of his army will be at Riverrun." She leaned forward. "I've spoken with Lord Royce; he swears to me that Lord Arryn will bend the knee if you lead the Knights of the Vale and your own army and take the Twins. From there, you'll be able to break the Frey's siege at Riverrun — you'll have both the Vale and the Riverlands in a matter of months."

It was a fine strategy, but Stannis couldn't help but feel vaguely offended by it. "Do you mean to tell me that because you refuse to bend the knee, or promise any of your own army to my cause, you've delivered the Knights of the Vale and a promise of House Arryn's fealty as a...consolation prize?"

Lady Stark shrugged. "I suppose so," she admitted. "But a prize, nonetheless. I've only known Lord Royce since I was a guest at the Eyrie, but he seems an honorable man."

"He's an able commander, which is more to the point," Stannis contradicted absently, frowning down at the desk as he mulled it over. Two thousand men was no very great sum — but the Knights of the Vale were one of the best cavalry forces in the kingdoms, for all that they rarely strayed outside their mountains. With the Knights, Stannis's army could divide and take each half of the Twins in a pincer. It would be over nearly before it began.

"Of course, how foolish of me to consider such petty things as honor," grumbled Lady Stark.

Stannis ignored that. "Which leaves the Iron Islands to deal with. Has Lord Greyjoy sent any word?" Even the honorific stuck in his craw. Balon Greyjoy, the only other "king" to survive the war. Stannis had regretted the man's existence ever since the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Lady Stark shook her head. "Nothing. We've beaten back the last of the Ironborn holdouts, but I doubt they'll begrudge us that. My father always said the iron price never spent well. And they rightly blame the Boltons for whatever might have happened to Theon."

Which was still a mystery, so far as Stannis could tell. Theon Greyjoy had not been found among the dead at Winterfell, nor at the Dreadfort. If he'd escaped, there'd been no sightings reported. "No doubt you'll wish to execute him yourself, if he's found, but it would be better—"

"Execute Theon?" she said, her brow furrowing. "I — no. I don't wish that."

He leaned back in his seat. "You surprise me, my lady. I wouldn't have thought you squeamish after all this time." Perhaps that was his answer: she'd spared himself and Lady Brienne not out of principle but cowardice. In a way, it might be a relief: or at least it would be easier to understand.

She looked away. "Father did always say that whoever passes the sentence should swing the sword."

"That's not an answer. Your kindness does you credit, my lady, but if you show too much your people won't fear you. Which means they won't follow you, when the time comes." He'd said the same thing to her brother, more than a year ago when they'd argued over the fate of the wildlings and the drawbacks of mercy. The Lord Commander hadn't heeded the advice; was it a Stark family failing?

It must be, for Lady Stark sighed in frustration and said, "I don't want to be feared, Your Grace. And though you've failed to notice, I'm in no need of anyone following me anywhere. I'm staying—" She broke off and shook her head. "This always happens," she muttered, an odd smile tugging at her mouth.

He frowned. "What always happens?"

"This," she said, gesturing vaguely at the distance between them. "We can't go five minutes without arguing about something."

"That's not true." She sighed again and he reconsidered. "Perhaps if you didn't contradict everything I said."

"Perhaps if you had sisters, growing up," she countered. "My mother always said Arya and I were more trouble than all five of the boys put together." Her expression darkened and Stannis followed her thoughts — Theon had been one of those five boys. Raised alongside the rest of them, within these very walls.

"I thought you would want him dead," he admitted. "More than anyone else in the North."

She got to her feet and went over to the window, resting her arms on the sill as she looked out onto the courtyard. Stannis rose and joined her: down below were a dozen carts piled high with hay. All around them men and women were busy unloading the bales and stacking them up in a corner, where more workers took them away in a brisk line deeper into the Keep. Each cart was in the courtyard only a few minutes; when it was empty, the driver mounted up again and drove slowly out through the great gates, replaced by another cart yet more heavily laden. Supplies from the Northern Houses, to lay in for the oncoming winter.

"I don't want Theon dead," said Lady Stark after a long while observing in silence. He glanced over to her, but she was still looking down at the carts. "I don't want anyone dead, Stannis — there's been so much death. And more coming, if what Jon told you about the White Walkers is true."

She'd never called him by his name before; indeed she didn't seem aware she'd done it. "I believed him," he replied. "I still do. Your brother didn't seem the sort to make up stories."

"He always was honest to a fault," she said, turning to look at him at last. Her blue eyes were bright — tears, unshed. "I wish he'd come with you."

So did he, he realized. Not for his skill in battle or his perception or bravery: but only so his sister would not look so devastated at his loss. "He took an oath to the Night's Watch," he said, cursing at himself for his clumsy words even as he did so.

"I know that," she huffed. "Five minutes without arguing, is that really so difficult?"

"Evidently," he conceded, and she laughed. A watery sound, and she pressed the heels of her hand to her eyes quickly as she turned back toward the table, but laughter nonetheless.

#got: bitches get stuff done #game of thrones motherfuckers #I do love sansa accidentally endearing herself to stannis via being a bitch and also a fellow grammar pedant #what's that meme?#'whatever souls are made of yours and mine are the same stuff (derogatory)'#that's the vibe I get from these two assholes #anyway for reference this is post-regaining-winterfell #and post-stannis-and-brienne-being-dumb-and-sansa-yelling-at-them-a-lot #it's way after most everything else I've posted but I just finished this scene and was very proud of it #so as ever: you're welcome/I'm sorry

82 notes · View notes

dalkyum · 3 months

Text

YUGYEOM LA SOL MI M/V

132 notes · View notes

amanitacurses · 2 months

Text

88 notes · View notes

blindmagdalena · 1 month

Note

Heeyy a bit of a self indulgent ask here but I had a phobia/trauma trigger today and it caused me to have a messy sobbing panic attack. Do you have anything on how Homelander would deal with his s/o having a panic attack like that? almost completely inconsolable. I know this is self serving and indulgent and I’m sorry for over sharing homelander is a comfort character for me and you write him exquisitely. If you’re not comfortable with this just ignore

Homelander was sixteen when he had his first panic attack. He'd flown further and faster away than he'd ever had the freedom to and collapsed in a dense woodland, sobbing and rocking his body against the cool forest floor.

He'd pulled his hair so hard it should have come loose, grit his teeth so tightly they should have cracked, and choked so badly on his own constricting throat that it should have caved in.

They didn't. He's invulnerable, after all. As solid as marble.

It was the first attack, but not the last.

That's how he recognizes it so quickly in you.

"Hey," he says, ears attuned to the rabbit-like pound of your heart. "Heyy, hey, it's okay. I'm right here, you see me? Hey." He's only just found you, he doesn't know yet what your trigger was, but he can ascertain that later.

Your staccato breaths and sharp sobs, the sea salt smell of tears streaking your cheeks, are nearly enough to rouse his own panic by proxy. He needs it to stop. He needs you to stop. He cares about you too much for you to scare him like this.

"Hey, you hear me?" He asks, cupping either side of your face. You can't answer through it. Your tongue is gnarled with panic and you're sobbing so hard he fears you'll choke yourself on it. He's not even sure you see him.

He takes you into his arms, one moving smoothly around your waist while the other cups the back of your head. He holds gently at first, grip gradually tightening, compressing your body against his in the hopes that the hammer of your heart will meet and match the steady beat of his own.

"Sssshhhhhhh," he shushes by your ear, lifting you just enough to keep you on your feet, but take from you the weight of your own body.

"I've got you. Whatever it is, it's okay. It's okay. I've got you. M'gonna take care of it, alright? Ssshh," he says, rocking you the same way he used to rock himself in the corner of the bad room, soothing himself with the thump of his own skull against those sterile white walls.

He knows it's working when you slip your arms around him in turn. He continues to hush you, whispering more honeyed assurances in your ear, the core sentiment always the same.

I'm here. You're safe. I love you.

It's everything he can think that he always wanted to hear in these moments of raw, horrifically human weakness.

Eventually, your breaths begin to even out, though your heart continues to thunder in his ears, still convinced that the danger hasn't yet vanished. He tries not to take that personally and scoops you up the rest of the way into his arms.

"That's it, just like that," he coos, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead. "Breathe. Breathe. Good... Light as a feather now, okay? Like you can fly," he tells you, sharing the greatest comfort he's ever known. His only real escape has always been his weightlessness, the ability to shed gravity at will. He uses his strength in an attempt to share even a sliver of that sense of freedom with you.

Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. All he knows is that your heart starts to slow alongside the flow of your tears. He kisses your wet cheeks, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. He whispers praise and love with each one, voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry," you choke out. He's appalled that would be your first instinct.

"Don't," he says firmly, though his voice is still low. "Don't. I can carry it for you. Carry you. What's the point of super strength otherwise?" He murmurs, a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

You almost smile back, and that's enough for him. He kisses the crease between your brows until it smooths, and the highs of your cheeks until the tears dry up, and your lips until they're ready to speak again.

He'll hold you for as long as it takes your body to realize the threat was only ever in your mind, and that there isn't a thing in this goddamn world he would ever let hurt you.

#i'm so sorry you experienced that today my darling ilu #i hope this helps i tried to get it out asap #he would take such good care because he knows what it's like to be fucked up by your own body #you don't ever have to apologize to me i promise #i'm all for self-indulgence and comfort #you're welcome and safe here!!!#homelander x reader #homelander x you #x reader #darling anon #ask and you shall receive #my writing

115 notes · View notes

dog-beast · 21 days

Text

#i'm sorry and/or you're welcome #the second i saw the water slide on the invoice i knew what i had to do #btw this file is titled forthegoodofthetrust.gif #but it's really for the good of us all #imelda goldfinch #moc weepe #midst podcast #midst #gif

87 notes · View notes

bbnibini · 10 months

Text

I wonder if it's a design choice or the devs themselves can't make up their mind, but why did Solomon's eye colour "change" in NB? The chibi sprites in the OG show his eyes are shades of grey to brown/almost gold-bronze.

The NB chibi sprite shows his eyes to be dark blue and brownish-gold.

Don't even get me started with the cards and merch that can't make up his effing eye colour

To my Solobesties (I'm calling Solomon stans this now. I think we formed a strange kinship after lesson 17 even if we never interact lmao), especially artist solobesties, hats off to you and your service to the community.

My personal HC is kinda a spoiler for uhhhh something I'm writing, but here it is:

"It's just…your eyes are like you: I can't figure them out." "MC, I-" "No! No! Solomon, I'm sorry! No…it's not like that, I promise! Look at me, won't you? Please look at me." So he did. His eyes trembled as he met with yours. How could he have hidden this part of himself for this long? How could you not notice? How could you forget? How could Father be so cruel to him and you for simply existing? You traced the corner of his lips with your thumb as you held him by the cheek. He was leaning onto your right hand, unable to maintain his gaze. He was surprisingly bashful. Adorably shy without his facades. But he looked like he would crumble even with a gentle word so you did not say anything. He looked at you expectantly, then looked away as your gaze burned onto him for too long and muttered, "You can't figure me out?"in almost a whisper, after a long-drawn out silence, weighing in his words, watching your expressions and body language. Afraid, so deathly afraid. You smiled. "It's like I'm looking at a mirror. Sometimes it's silver, sometimes it's midnight. When you look at the world around you and then look back at me, I feel like you've captured the sky and the oceans in your eyes. It's beautiful." His face was red all over, even to the tips of his ears. It was such a shame. You haven't even said everything you wanted to say to him yet. That he was the moon and the stars to your daytime; gold and silver gazes, looking after you from afar in the many branches of realities he couldn't be as honest with you as he was now. Ah. What will you do without him now? How can you give this up after remembering everything? You knew it was selfish, but you love him. Both of him. Every part of him just as much as he loved you and every part of you that existed. But now, you had to say goodbye. Again. How truly unfair.

#is this supposed to be a plot twist in NB? Like there are 2 Solomons maybe even 3. Solomon is the new Saber from FGO with his iterations lol #is Nightbringer like...a Solomon from a darker timeline? /hj has it been the Solomon we're living with for the entire time?#does that mean the Solomon we called early in the prologue is the actual OG Solomon and he's trapped somewhere dimension hopping?#idk anymore this man lives rent free in my head #obey me #obey me solomon #sorry for the spoiler jumpscare to those who know *waggles eyebrows* it won't be out in like an ice age later. I have so many passages #of my solomon brainrot. im quitting soon so i'm just posting it here willy nilly i apologise or should I say you're welcome? /s sdljflfhfgh #TAG EDIT BUT IF MY FIRST TAG IS THE CASE THIS IS JUST A NEW FLAVOUR OF ME AND LOVING SABER BUT THIS TIME IT'S A DIFFERENT TRAGIC KING #THIS IS COMEDY sjkfsdkgdsfjsdf MOM I HAVE A TYPE but anyw can Solmare make a separate game for him too lmao /jk unless

189 notes · View notes