Someone else touched up on this but I don’t tag my reblogs so I’ll never find it but like it befuddles me that we cycle through the same ten characters and ten side characters when Konoha is a huge village like just looking at the number of shapeless Shinobi in the war arc like that population has to come from somewhere right?
Like you’re absolutely joking me if absolute max of 50 of this horde of Shinobi are from Konoha (because at the end of the day, there aren’t that many named Konoha Shinobi alive at any given time, not when compared to this picture I mean for real each block here is probably fucking 100 people wide by idk 500 people long)
(The issue here is not the “lack” of named characters cause there are certainly MANY but rather the lack of unnamed characters or the lack of space in canon for unnamed characters you know what I mean? No way Kakashi and co are the only jounins in village. No way Kakashi only had like two teammates in ANBU when really there should be an abundance of people to run missions with and ANBU isn’t genin teams, so long as the job gets done it doesn’t matter if the team members have met before or even know of each other)
And yeah part of what makes KakaObi (and SasuNaru) so devastating is their shared history but imagine KakaObi rivalry as ADULTS, whatever the opposite of meet-cute is, as Shinobi of the same village who haven’t met each other before because do you really know every single person your age in your hometown? A village THAT big, a NINJA village, does not have only one (1) ninja school (imagine living in the bottom left corner of this image, the walk to school must be so long! Idc if you ninja run, what child has the mental capacity to hop over rooftops at 7am??? Certainly not Ino-Shika-Cho!) ((clearly Kishimoto never played simulation games like Cities Skylines or Oxygen Not Included because come on! The population does not meet canon requirements and for it to do so it has to outgrow having only one school for its children!! Also it just needs more children!!!))
The math just doesn’t math
So
Someone please give me bratty genius Kakashi, unchallenged until he meets “genius of hard work” Obito all the way up as a jounin or ANBU, years his senior and determined to maintain his reign of superiority and probably failing spectacularly with added affliction of gay UST to boot
Gay propaganda aside, just imagine the world-building implications. Isolated Uchiha clan further isolated by a school being built near their clan compound, act of malice or not, their kids aren’t welcome around the others anymore. Poor Shinobi children/orphans who live in the same district going to the same school versus rich clan kids going to a different school together. Remember in your hometown when you “graduated” to middle school, kids who didn’t go to your elementary school were icky or annoying or weird or lame? (The correct term here is new or maybe different but children aren’t usually so kind at that age) But ninja elementary school! No canon middle school or higher education of any kind unfortunately but what if they pair kids from different schools into genin teams? Maybe that’s how Kakashi’s team 7 comes to be (Uchiha massacre or not, doesn’t make a difference if the Uchiha have been super isolated what with the police force and their own academy), maybe Neji is somehow worse cause he’s never actually interacted with a non-Hyuga/non-clan kid before. This can apply to Minato’s team 7 as well, prodigy clan heir from fancy clan academy Kakashi paired with the runt of the Uchiha from insular Uchiha academy and idk Rin from whichever school is closest to her civilian house. Like Konoha doesn’t have cars or buses or trains (at this time and I’ve never seen/read boruto no thank you) and there’s not much room for beasts of burden so these children are WALKING EVERYWHERE thank you very much.
Idk rant over, there was someone who explained this conundrum much better than I did but I cannot find their post :P
💐 hi my wonderful birthday girl !! so i was thinking about a dress coded lewis blurb (because i was born a lewis and ts girl) where they just get drunk together and there’s teases flying and stuff. keep it as brief as u wish <333
—you can take it off
lewis hamilton x merc!reader
summ. thank you stephy i love u bad <3 inspo from... ur never gonna believe it... this. hope it's up to your standards my love. 2.7k (kind of got out of hand)
You were half-asleep and half-drunk the night of the Belgium Grand Prix. The air was cool, recycled like all air seems to be in hotels, smelled of too-strong perfume and was filled with the dull noise of elevator jazz. What had begun as a before-we-go-to-bed night cap in the hotel bar with Bono had turned into a seemingly never ending addition of guests.
Valtteri was first to join—never could pass up the opportunity to give you shit, to offer you job postings at Alfa Romeo that weren’t job postings at all—and with him around, there’s no casual drinking. You don’t try to keep up, not really, because you know you don’t stand a chance, but also because he would never let you. After all these years of being just a few months younger than him, he still calls you kiddo, still promises to call your parents when you’re out after dark, and always sends you a text after a race with some… questionable strategy decisions you’re catching flack for online.
A brief appearance from Toto and Susie, just long enough for them to know they had no business trying to go drink for drink with Valtteri, and then they’re wishing all three of you a wonderful summer break and retreating to whatever room is considered prestige enough for Motorsport’s it-couple.
And then there was Lewis, the last to arrive, who never called you kid, who never viewed you as one. He sits adjacent you in the red, high back leather booth and takes up a seat and a half, the toe of his shoe brushing against the side of yours, flashing you apologetic puppy dog eyes every time he bumps against yours.
It’s somewhere between drink number five and six that Lewis gets his first, insists on a toast to the summer break that officially began… six hours and fifty-three minutes ago. For a long season this and a too-short summer break that, you lot had a mouthful of things to complain about, but a million more to be grateful for. “To not having work for a month,” Lewis proposes, clinking his glass against yours, offering a quick wink and holding it up properly over the table.
“To no racing-talk for a few weeks,” Bono adds, clinking his glass against Lewis’.
“To summer-fucking-break,” Valtteri chimes in, laughing at himself before the rest of you get the chance to match it.
“To summer fucking break,” you repeat because you know there’s no better way to sum it all up.
Unlike the other two, you slowed down when Lewis joined, wanted to give him time to catch up, to give yourself time to meet him somewhere in the middle. A glass of water and a virgin rum and coke and another water and the night is still young.
“First summer break as the big boss, kiddo,” Valtteri remarks, and you have to squint to hear him through the alcohol-induced thickening of his accent.
“That’s right!” Bono laughs. Your cheeks run hot at their mention of your title, of your promotion following James’ departure earlier in the season. Lewis smiles against the rim of his glass, bumps his foot against yours and doesn’t give you apologetic eyes. No, he raises his brows so slightly you think you’re the only one that notices, which is probably exactly the way he intended it to be. “Little miss queen of strategy is making the big money now, got any big travel plans?”
Lewis clears his throat, and your eyes dart over to his almost instinctively. “You’re staying in London, yeah?”
He’s right. Your summer-break plans consist of four weeks of trying to remember what it feels like to do nothing, failing at that task pathetically, and spending the rest of the time meticulously picking apart every call you’ve made all season and imagining the million and one things you could’ve done differently and their billion and two outcomes.
You pick apart the drink napkin, tear it into tiny little pieces. “Yeah, yeah. Just staying home, catching up with friends and family,” you clarify, try not to sound as pathetic as you feel. It’s hard not to when you’re sitting next to the guy who spends his offseason snowboarding in Antarctica with his celebrity friends and his weeks off traveling to Paris fashion week for front row seats next to supermodels. Anything you say would sound pathetic to someone who makes thirty-five million a year.
“I love it,” he nods, stares right through you and into your soul so you know he’s being genuine. “That’s awesome.”
You nod, swallow hard, purposely angle your body away from his, to the rest of the group. “What about you guys?”
Lewis laughs, soft, quiet, completely under his breath. The kind of laugh that deserves to be bottled into a jar and kept on a shelf for safe keeping. You know he’s always laughed like that, even before he knew you, but in the last few months it just feels different. Good different, like he’s laughing just for you now instead of everyone else too.
You know you’re crazy, that he’s just Lewis being Lewis and you’re just single for the first time in a long time and also drunk. Not half drunk anymore, just drunk—even if you do think you’re meeting him in the middle, you’re not. He’s just chasing after.
“Back home, too,” Bono concludes. “Take a breather, might head up to the country with the family.”
“You’ll take pictures, yeah?” Lewis asks, starts to pick up the pieces of your napkin tear pile and move them in front of him like a kid who isn’t patient enough to share or destructive enough to rip up his own. You watch in your peripheral, the way he fiddles with the wet paper, gets it stuck to his fingertips. You can’t laugh, so you don’t, but you want to. You think he knows you want to.
Bono scoffs, nods while swallowing a sip of his drink—something dark, something pungent. Not what you would have pegged him for ordering, even after knowing him as long as you have. “So I can compare with the likes of you lot and,” he turns to Lewis, leers around you to emphasize the eyeline, “your million dollar vacations or,” and then the other way, back to Valtteri, “your olympic cycling events?”
Valtteri smiles, swirls his drink—gin, you think. Expensive. “Yes.”
“No chance.”
“I’ll be sure to send you a picture of me having a meltdown when I think about our side pods from the beginning of the year,” you chime in, because it’s not like they all don’t know you well enough to know exactly what you mean by spending time with friends and family at home.
“What sidepods?” Lewis chuckles.
“Fucking exactly,” you add, mirror his mannerisms without even realizing it, all the way down to readjusting in your seat when you’ve had your laugh.
“Could be worse,” Bono offers. “Could be last year.”
Lewis nods, holds his drink up in the direction of Valtteri across the table. “We never should have let you leave.”
He smiles, weak, lips pursed. “I could have told you that.”
The night continues on, all drinks and laughs and yawns, occasional remarks that it’s about time I head up, followed by another round, another joke, another comment about this, that, or the other thing.
You’ve always liked Lewis when he’s a little tipsy. He lightens up a bit, you can actually watch the stress drip from him like sweat, all the titles and the wins and the losses, they all just fall away when he’s relaxed like this. You’ve always liked him like this. Always. Before he was king of the world and before he was the prodigal son and every moment in between.
After every joke he makes—or, after every comment he makes that he thinks could be considered a joke—you find yourself laughing, because it’s Lewis and you have a crush on him and of course you do. And, without fail, everytime you laugh, he winks, like you’re in on some inside joke even though he’s making it to the whole table, like there’s some double meaning to all of his words that are meant just for you, just for the two of you to understand.
Somewhere in it all, it comes back to Lewis, because, well, it always does. “Is your back still bothering you?” Bono asks, and you think you already know the answer. You think you know, because you can’t remember the last time you;d seen him take careful consideration of his posture when he sits. Not even now is he sitting up straight, with his legs perfectly spread a shoulder’s width apart and his feet flat on the floor. Instead, he’s taking up more room than he needs to, all relaxed and comfortable on the leather booth bench.
He swipes his thumb over the condensation of his glass, looking up from the action at you, and then to Bono. “No, no. All good there.”
“All good?” Bono prods, because he was on the receiving end of a year and a half of complaints from Lewis.
Lewis nods, clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “No Paracetamol in a month.”
Across the table, Valterri chimes in. “None?”
“None for my back,” Lewis says, and the whole table laughs. You just watch him, though, because who laughs better than he does? You could wax poetic about it without a second thought, the way that his lips upturn and his cheeks round and his eyes crinkle and go soft in a way that makes you feel like you’re the funniest person in the world even when you’re not making a joke. The way that his smile is brighter than anyone’s you’ve ever seen, and the way that if you look at it for too long, you think about how it would feel to run your finger along the gap in his teeth.
“That’s what I thought,” Valtteri mutters off the end of his laugh. “You're getting old.”
“Not too old to make half a million.”
The entire table’s heads fly to him. You gasp, an embarrassingly wide smile on your face. “You didn’t!” You almost yell, smacking his upper arm with a weak hand.
He mocks your gasp, makes it somehow more dramatic and over the top and laughs sweetly, shrugging your hand off his arm and letting his hand fall to your leg, bumping your foot with his again. “I didn’t.” The table chuckles, you pout, and then you realize that his hand is on your thigh, that it’s staying there quite comfortably, and that you mind it less than he does.
“Don’t be a tease,” you sigh, take a swig of your drink. Your knees are suddenly weak, like you know you wouldn’t be able to stand up if you wanted to. It’s like he can sense your change but can’t quite read it, because then he’s moving his hand back to his own lap, interlocking it with the other and resting it there.
He nods, suddenly shy, suddenly guilty. “It’s as good as done.”
Valtteri laughs. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” You hear what he says, but you’re not listening, not really. Lewis stares into you like he wants to look anywhere else—apologetic eyes and a fear he’s taken a misstep. He hasn’t, you want to tell him. You haven’t, put your hand back, please. Silently, you try to convey what shouldn’t dare be spoken. “I’ll believe it when pen is on paper.”
He snaps his eyes away from you, back to Valtteri. You don’t follow suit, stay fixed on him, on trying— hard—to get your message across. “I’m telling you, they’re announcing it after the summer break.”
“Whatever you say, Mate.”
Bono nods around a mouthful of alcohol, sets his half-empty glass down with an incidental thud. “Who’s to say we still want your geriatric ass?”
Lewis raised his interlocked hands from his lap, to the tabletop, resting his elbows on the wood grain and rattling the empty glasses when he does it. He leans in towards the center of the table, even though the only person separating him and Bono is you. “Would you tell Schumacher ‘no?’”
“What was that?” You ask, your words a convenient excuse to lean in closer, to settle into a spot that much closer to him without raising any brows. To brace for the shift, you leave your hand on his thigh with less subtly than your original movement, but it’s okay. It’s okay—only Lewis knows where your hands are, and you don’t want it to be subtle, don’t want anything to be lost in translation. “I can’t hear you over your ego,” you smile, and your fingers dance up his leg just a few, careful inches.
He drops back into his seat, drops his hands back into his lap. Under the table, he grabs yours and laughs, but it’s stifled, stunted, not quite relaxed. “Very funny,” he humors, and moves your hand back. His stays too, though, and he crosses one leg over the other under the table. His thumb moves over the fabric of your slacks in shudder-worthy circles.
“Someone’s gotta check you,” you smile, nod in the direction of your tablemates without ever looking away from him. “These two won’t.”
Bono scoffs.“Are you kidding?”
Your smile grows. “How do you want me to answer that, Peter?”
“Damn,” Lewis laughs so hard he coughs. “She Peter-ed you. That’s cold.”
“You’re the one comparing yourself to Michael fucking Schumacher,” Bono scolds.
“I didn’t say that, but,”
“But!” You interject.
“But,” Lewis laughs, threatens to continue even though all at the table know he won’t, knows that no matter how often the media and the girlfriends and the friends and the family tell him he should put himself up there with the greatest, he’ll never quite see himself in the same light. “But it’s about time I head up, I think.”
“Ah, see,” Valtteri chuckles. “Old man Hamilton can’t hang.”
“No, he can not,” Lewis remarks, pulling his phone and his hotel keycard from his pocket, setting the latter on the table and if you were feeling a little crazier than you are, you’d swear he nudges it ever so slightly out of his bubble and into yours. He types away rapidly at his phone, and you try to pay attention to the jokes Bono and Valtteri throw around, the pokes at Lewis they make, but suddenly you’re feeling like it’s a good time to head up, too. You try to shake the crazy, to leave it with your backwash in the final sip of your drink, and you do. You do.
You do, but then he’s slipping his phone back into his pocket. He’s leaving his glass just beyond his keycard and telling you to feel free to finish it. He’s saying his goodbyes while he moves out of the booth and his hotel room key is still sat on the table next to you. It stares at you—the hard, thin plastic. Stares at you in its white paper pocket with the intricate printing of the hotel label and dares you to look at him when he walks away.
You do, begrudgingly, subtly, and his eyes are already on yours. They’re expressionless, and yet, say so fucking much. You hold the remainder of his drink in his direction before downing it in a single gulp and then he winks at you. He looks at his keycard on the table, and then to you, and then he winks, and you’re sure you’re absolutely crazy.
You swallow.
“Oh, fuck,” Bono says, reaches over you to grab the keycard from the table. It’s like you were zoned out and he snapped in front of your face, the way it pulls you from Lewis to the table. “He forgot his key.”
“Oh,” you squeak, and then louder, “I can take it to him.”
“No, no, It’s okay,” Bono says, and he makes you stand up to get out of the booth. “I should be heading up anyway.”
“Really,” you half-insist, trying to convince him you can handle it without letting him in on why you’re convincing him. “It’s no problem.”
Bono pulls out his wallet, flips through the pockets of it and fiddles with his bills. “Our rooms are right by each other,” he insists, tosses his share onto the table. “I got it.”
“Okay,” you nod, accept your defeat. “Yeah, I should be heading up, too, I guess.”
THE ASKS ON UR ASK BLOG SEEM TO BE OFF (at least for me) but like. I sorta gotta know if V and Al have or at least HAD beef because of their respective families’ beef with each other (IF I’M MAKING ASSUMPTIONS ABOUT THEIR SURNAMES CORRECTLY). Idk just the concept of a Dracula and a Van Helsing having to cooperate with each other seems so funny to me
Al: I thought you were supposed to know how to run one of these blogs.
Dorian: shut up 💙
Al: …
Al: Anyway, to answer the question, I never knew my family since I was taken to the Bank at a young age. There were a lot of rumors though, that my family was a famous one. Lots of tales of them taking down vampires and bringing peace to those who suffered under their reign. I’ve always wanted to meet my ancestors.
Al: and I’m only cooperating with V because I promised Cas I’d save him for last. And because our goals align for now. Otherwise he’d be dust.
V: They always say that. But yes, the Van Helsings and the vampires did “have beef” as it were, due to the Van Helsings being the most prominent vampire hunting family in the business. They were most prominent around the time I turned and, as such, I have had a few run ins with Van Helsings in my past. However, being a prominent house is always a dangerous bargain, and what was that phrase? Something about power and responsibility?
Lazarus: “with great power comes great responsibility.” Although I don’t think that’s the right phrase to use here.
V: Regardless, the vampires that remained banded together and eradicated most of the Van Helsing lineage, even those who no longer carried the Van Helsing name. As far as I am aware, Al is likely to be the last remaining Van Helsing.
V: And in terms of Al and I’s differences, it has much more to do with Al’s past than them being a Van Helsing. I will not elaborate further as that is Al’s story to tell.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Hey. Y’all. Chapter 2 is up. :D
Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke (Dragon Age)
Characters: Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mage Rebellion, Anders Positive, Guns, Canon Typical Violence, Mrs. and Dr. Hawke, Post DA2, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Misc. Illegal Activity, outlaw au, (is that really AU though), Explicit Sex, Soft Relationship Vibes, Comfort Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex, adoration, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Theft, Threats, Estranged parent
Summary:
Flames line the night sky. Among the charred rubble of a city in ruin, the air is filled with a litany of prayers falling from the lips of the desperate faithful.
Pleas for protection. Fervent and tearful petitions for deliverance.
Hawke hasn’t believed in any of those things for a very long time. All Kirkwall has ever done for her was take, and life on the run is beginning to exact a heavy toll on what’s left of the man she loves.
He’s a dead man walking. She’s determined to keep him alive.
Inspired by the album Feel.Love.Thinking.Of by Faunts.
For my dear friend @becauseanders, because, well. Anders. ❤️️
