also dont even get me started on the tv direction of the entire crash. like yeah here's 5 different angles of max verstappen crashing and into the wall. what? you want to know if hes ok and out of the car? sure here's a shot of ferrari engineers celebrating and another one of george russell hollering on the radio and lets just skip straight to the parc ferme cameras. why not.
you know how i found out max is safely out of the car? by a FOOTNOTE THEY PUT INTO THE INSTAGRAM REEL OF RUSSELL CELEBRATING HIS POLE LIKE HE DIDNT JUST PASS A MAJOR CRASH TWO CORNERS AGO.
summary: wilbur initiates lots of physical contact with his friends.
a/n: (and ranboo doesn’t know how to ask for it. thats the fic). one day my one word titles will get old and i’ll start using song lyrics
—
Ranboo very quickly learns after meeting him that Wilbur is rather affectionate.
He’s usually touching someone. It’s subtle most of the time, like sitting just close enough to Niki so that their shoulders brush together or him nudging Fundy with his leg. Other times it’s more direct; ruffling Tommy’s hair and wrapping his arm around Tubbo’s shoulder (or attempting to, at least, since Tubbo ducks away every time).
It makes the atmosphere feel very familiar, in some way. The only issue that Ranboo (selfishly, maybe) has is that none of it is directed at him. He knows it’s likely because Wilbur doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, and he appreciates it, but still, he can’t help but be a little jealous.
They’re sitting in Wilbur’s studio, and they’re all talking about something that Ranboo is only half paying attention to. What does catch his attention, however, is sudden loud laughter.
Tommy squirms in Wilbur’s grasp, bubbly giggles pouring out of him as he shoves at the hands digging into the spaces between his ribs.
“ShihIHIT! Whahat did I dohoho?” he whines, shoving at the older man’s arms. Wilbur only grins, giving no response.
Ranboo looks on in amusement. No one else seems to be caring too much about it, which makes him think this is a regular occurrence.
It startles him when he hears his name. “RahAHANBOO!” Tommy begs. “HEHelp mehehe!”
“How do you expect me to do that?” he asks with a smile, although an idea does pop into his head. Hesitantly, and a bit experimentally, he reaches out to poke Wilbur’s side a few times.
It works. Wilbur jumps, letting himself be distracted just long enough for Tommy to get away.
Ranboo doesn’t stop, though. He continues to wiggle his fingers up and down Wilbur’s side and causes high pitched giggles to spill out from the man, until the musician grabs his wrists.
He looks up, an apology on the tip of his tongue before he notices Wilbur’s face.
His cheeks are slightly flushed (which is an accomplishment, Ranboo thinks. He made Wilbur flustered), but his eyes are only filled with mischief, and something about his smirk fills the teen’s stomach with butterflies.
“Ranboo,” he says in a voice that’s far too teasy for Ranboo’s liking. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Ranboo tries to stammer out some kind of response, but he can’t manage a complete sentence. Wilbur smiles for a moment, a genuine kind, and gently pushes Ranboo on the ground and sits on his thighs before he can scramble back up into a sitting position.
He doesn’t pin his arms up, which Ranboo is a little grateful for. Still, the situation is embarrassing, and he can tell his cheeks are already pink.
He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to prepare himself. Keyword being tries, as he still bursts into laughter as soon as he feels Wilbur’s fingers dancing over his sides.
“W- wahahait!” he giggles frantically, unsure whether he wants to hide his face or protect himself. “I’m sohohorry!”
“Are you sure? You’re laughing quite a bit. How can you be serious if you’re laughing?” Wilbur says doubtfully, but his expression makes it clear he’s just playing dumb.
“Becahause yohohou’re tihick— Wihihilbuhur!”
Wilbur begins scribbling on his stomach, his eyes lighting up in excitement at the louder laughter it produces. “Because I’m what? Because I’m tickling you? Are you a little ticklish, Ranboo?” he coos.
Ranboo wants to curl up in a hole out of embarrassment, and he’s grateful that no one seems to be paying any attention to them besides a few entertained glances. He can’t really bring himself to protest much, though. This is what he wanted, isn’t it?
He ignores the realisation that he doesn’t hate being tickled as much as he thinks he should. He blames it all on just liking the attention.
But still, as much as he enjoys it, he has a limit. Not being tickled in years has given him low stamina, and if Wilbur doesn’t stop focusing on this one spot just below his ribs that makes him squeal, he thinks he might die.
Desperately, he pleads, “SohOHOHOMEWHEhere ehehehelse!”
Wilbur pulls away, though the look on his face shows that he has no intention of stopping completely just yet.
“You only want me to move, then, not stop?” he teases. “Does that mean you like being tickled?”
If Ranboo’s face wasn’t bright red already, it certainly is now. “Shuhush!”
Wilbur hovers his hands by the teen’s sides, and Ranboo definitely does not squirm towards them. “Choose a spot.”
“Wh- what?”
He chuckles. “Well, you asked me to move, so you get to choose where.”
“Try his hips!” Tubbo’s voice calls out.
Ranboo’s eyes widen. “You trahahahaitor!” he cries. He brings his hands up to muffle his laughter, but they quickly shoot back down when Wilbur begins drilling small circles into his hips.
“You’re so ticklish,” Wilbur points out, as if it wasn’t obvious already.
The teasing combined with the terrible feeling at his hips flusters Ranboo more than he’d like to admit. He doesn’t think it can get any worse, at least.
And then he feels a hand squeeze right above his kneecap.
It can get worse, actually.
He turns his head to look, seeing Tommy sitting beside him with a fake innocent grin. Both of his best friends have betrayed him. A terrible day.
“NohOHO fahahair!”
It’s not long after when Ranboo’s bright laughter is reduced to almost entirely hiccups, which is Wilbur’s (and Tommy’s) sign to stop. Ranboo curls up, trying to regain his composure while still giggling at the remaining feeling.
“You both suhuck,” he grumbles. “I- I hehelped you!” He glares at Tommy.
Tommy giggles. “Yeah, but it was fun to watch.”
Wilbur, still with an adoring smile, runs a hand through his hair, which helps calms him down a considerable amount. Even if he does get a little too close to his neck sometimes.
Ranboo got his affection in the end, he supposes. And maybe he’d go through getting tickled half to death in order to get it again.
-better off not knowing. I always start my days halfway through a sentence and from there i write the poem: my morning monolouge is always metaphor, metaphor, metaphor, until my mouth goes numb. My friends all have blunted teeth, have sharper tonuges to spite that. They write their love across my palms and i say, this is what holy is, this is what light and life and loyalty look like, held and beheld in my trembling fingers. All love and no restraint. Beetlewing iridescent. Liquid poetry, all symbolism and no language. It curls under blunted teeth, in jaws shut tight against secrets. It revels in my dreams. It gnaws at them. My poems sink their teeth in and halfway into wakefullness poetry spills across the ledge of morning and turns to written word. I fall into it, half sleeping still and yet my hands are writing poems, wrapped in love like tape around a knocked out boxer’s knuckles. I write it all out and wonder what i dreamt about, what the sentence started as. I think, perhaps i’m-
For the Jewish headcanons meme - either Bob Ross (if you're comfy with RPF, sorry I can't remember if you are!) or Scully. And if it's not too much trouble, can it be about conversion? Thank you!
Thanks for checking, anon! I’m absolutely comfortable with RPF in general, but I don’t really know much about Bob Ross as a person, and if his religion is important to him, I don’t know that I’d feel okay writing him turning away from it.
I do, though, think there’s a lovely story to be told in how, no matter his religion, his art is a beautiful example of tikkun olam. He is literally re-creating the world as a kinder, gentler place, where nature is breathtaking and mistakes can be turned into trees and birds and wonder, and that is exactly what we strive for.
That said, here is a Scully headcanon for you:
Religion has always been important to her. It’s the one place where it’s been her belief and Mulder’s doubts in conflict, rather than the other way around. Her belief that God is real and that miracles are possible has never wavered.
But one thing we’ve seen in Scully is her fierce protective streak, especially for the vulnerable, and I think there are any number of reasons that she might turn away from the Roman Catholic church, which has protected so many but caused so many others so much harm.
But I don’t think that Scully would turn away from God, or from religion in general. I think she’d look at other forms of Christianity, as well as- perhaps- Judaism.
it’s easy to point out that Judaism is a good religion for science; we favor gathering evidence and using that to make our point. We don’t look for unquestioning faith, and one thing we have seen Scully struggle with is how to maintain her faith in the face of so much tragedy and so many obstacles.
But I think there would be tremendous reward for Scully, who has had to fight for rationality every damn day with Mulder, and had to fight for belief, every damn day, for religion, to be able to sit down and say “I don’t know what I believe.”
Imagine the relief for her of a rabbi nodding and saying “That’s okay. You don’t have to have answers. Whether or not you decide Judaism is right for you, asking the hard questions is its own form of faith.”
After eleven seasons and a lifetime, I feel like the ability to not KNOW is what Scully needs more than anything.
