#(( I'M SORRY I'M SLOOOW

[viitlumi]

@centuricnis : Continued reply from HERE Vito had grown accustomed to the silence that lingered between them, a stillness only interrupted by the occasional flicker of pain that crossed Levi’s face. Tonight, that stillness shattered.

Levi bolted upright in bed, gasping like a man dragged from the depths of a nightmare—and from the way his body shook, it wasn’t difficult to imagine he was still trapped in its clutches. Vito was already there, hand firm but gentle on Levi’s shoulder, offering a solid anchor without saying a word. He’d learned by now that words often weren’t needed.

Vito waited, his fingers subtly adjusting their grip, not constraining but there, a steady reminder of the present. He knew the Captain would hate being fussed over, but he’d been around long enough to understand what it meant when someone’s nightmares threatened to drag them under. Vito didn’t push, didn’t ask—he simply stayed.

After a few tense moments, the Northerner could recognize Levi’s eyes finally began to open, the haze of fear gradually retreating. Vito met his gaze briefly but didn’t linger. There was no need to add to the weight already pressing down on the man.

When the former soldier's voice finally broke the silence, it was hoarse, the barest thread of a request: “We have any tea or something nearby?”

The brunette exhaled slowly, a subtle release of tension. “Yeah, I’ve got it.” His words were calm, easy—no rush, no urgency, just a matter-of-fact promise that he’d take care of it. Rising from the bed, Vito moved through the dim room with a natural grace, his steps quiet but deliberate. The kettle was where he’d left it, prepped ahead of time as always. He struck a match, lighting the stove with a soft hiss, the flicker of flame casting a brief warmth over the small, yet homely space they were occupying.

In the corner of his eyes, the male noticed that his Captain hadn’t shifted much since he’d left his side, still sitting upright, his hand resting absently against the blankets, knuckles pale from gripping too hard. Even now, the man carried the weight of too many battles—both the ones he’d fought and the ones that haunted him.

Vito didn’t comment on it. That wasn’t his way. Instead, he busied himself with the tea, pulling a small pouch of herbs from his pack. They were something he’d brought with him from home, well, Solveig did—nothing special, but comforting in their simplicity.

As the water heated, he glanced back at Levi, his mind working through the usual thoughts that surfaced in moments like this. He knew he wasn’t going to fix anything—not with tea, not with his presence, not with any damn thing in this world. But maybe, just maybe, he could help make the night a little less unbearable. That was enough … for now.

When the kettle whistled, Vito poured the steaming water into a chipped cup, adding the herbs with delicate ease. The steam rose slowly, filling the room with the faint scent of something herbal and grounding. He brought the cup back to Levi, holding it out without ceremony.

“Here,” he murmured, sitting beside the other once more by the edge of his bed. "It's nothing you'd probably prefer for the future … but it will do its work just fine."

The Northerner shifted slightly, leaning back, his posture relaxed. He wouldn’t press the other man to talk about the nightmare. Hell, if Levi ever wanted to, he would. Until then, Vito would stay right where he was. A quiet, steady presence.

[cntloup]

what do you think simon’s type would be? i love your work btw 🫶🥹

ooh this is interesting😃 thank you luv glad you like my work🥰💗 i'm sorry this got so long i went on a rant about how he would enter a relationship in general🙃

so i think for the most part, he'd avoid relationships altogether. not because he wouldn't want to pass on the curse that has been cast on him to another person. i think he's rational and knows that there's no curse here. yes, he's been unfortunate his whole life but it's something that has just happened. so one reason would simply be that he doesn't have time to maintain a relationship. but of course there's a more profound reason and it's that he's a broken man. he knows that it would be really difficult to be in a relationship with him. and it would be very difficult for him to trust someone enough to let them in. so yeah it would be highly unlikely.

and i don't see him as the type to go for one-night stands that much either. i'd say a moderate amount maybe to release some pent up energy after deployments.

if it ever happens and he falls in love, it will be a slooow burn. like it would take a reallyyy long time. and it would be with someone whom he sees regularly. not necessarily in his own line of work but maybe a neighbor, some coffee shop worker or a librarian etc. someone whom he can form a friendship with first. he needs to dip his toes in to test the waters first before diving into a relationship. so yeah i think it would be friends to lovers for him.

and i don't think your style would matter to him at all. coquette, tomboy, whatever you are, it's your personality that matters to him. of course he would fawn over your style too once you're in a relationship, but it wouldn't be a part of his criteria for entering a relationship.

and personality wise, he would never tolerate a crybaby at all. someone who whines and wails over minor stuff would irritate him to no end. so it would be someone who has a somewhat rough and tough layer to them. not as extreme as him of course, he wouldn't expect that from anyone.

and of course someone who has a certain darkness within them. so in this case, someone similar to him, with a traumatic past. again, not as extreme as him of course. but to some extent, carrying a bit of baggage. so they would understand the pain and torment he carries within his heart every second of the day and the toll it takes on him. so they can be patient with him as he lets them in gradually to peel off the layers that he has built over the years one by one.

that being said, he would be extremely protective. yes, you're strong and tough, a little fucked up in the head and you can handle yourself perfectly, but that doesn't mean you have to. he would step in the moment he notices your discomfort in any situation. he would take mental notes of every single one of your triggers, however minor, and he'd protect you and take you away from any situation that would cause even an ounce of discomfort to you.

i might change my mind about this in the future but this is my opinion rn :)

[spirit-x-ing]

❝Ugh but what if we run into those... cyber dorks!?❞ she questioned. ❝I...at least I can ghost away but you....psh,❞ she paused with a small laugh. ❝You got nothing but your wits and that little white stick of yours,❞she gestured.

"We'll find another way," he told her, "As long as you know the generation direct, we can wonder around a bit."

[icallhimjoey]

To Have And To Scold

♥ ♥  Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your best friends are getting married, and who else can they ask to be their best man and maid of honour but you and Joe? It’s just that… you don’t really get along all that well, do you? At least, that’s what you think.

CW / disclaimer: sort of enemies to sort of lovers, slooow burn, language, drinking, hangovers, rpf, fem!reader, eventual smut

Author’s note: this took me a good minute, and listen, i promise there'll be smut!!!!!! just, give joey a minute, all right?

Wordcount: 4.7K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight - part nine - part ten - epilogue

Joe didn't sleep a wink. How could he? He was in his bed, in his clothes still, and your behind was pressed up against his front.

All night he'd laid awake. Listened to you. Smelt you. Felt you. Around the 4AM mark, he'd built up enough courage to let his fingertips stroke the skin he could see in front of him, drawing shapes and writing words he was too scared to vocalise.

Pretty.

Sweet.

Hot.

Across your shoulders, down your arms, the back of your neck. He got to freely feel and gently caress, hidden in the dark of night. He only stopped when you hummed too loudly, made a noise that said, yes, more. Joe retracted, silently said, I'm sorry, I shouldn't, and held his breath in fear of you waking up from his touch.

It took everything inside him not to move forward just an inch and let his cupid's bow, that little sensitive ridge above his top lip, rub the soft skin at the base of your neck.

The last time he checked the time, it was close to 5:30. He didn't remember falling asleep - do people ever? - but he couldn't have been asleep for much more than an hour when you rudely awoke him by throwing your body sideways over his. Soft stomach to soft stomach.

Bread.

Joe had to pull strength up from his toes to pretend to be asleep still, as you stayed like that, draped across his torso, slowly eating the bread he'd left out on his bedside table for you.

It was one thing to hear you chew and swallow. It was a whole other thing to feel it in his own gut.

The glass of water followed, and thank the fucking lord, soon after you crawled back to what had now become your side of his bed.

Shit.

That side would now forever be your side of Joe's bed. It didn't matter who else was ever going to be sleeping in it, his bed was now divided in your side and his side.

The hangover was a real one, and after taking a dazed second to yourself, sat up in Joe's bed and looking around the room, you decided you couldn't be in bed any longer.

You needed to sit under a cold shower. Or lay with your cheek on a cool toilet seat. Spray your face with ice water and then go exist in front of an aircon unit for a minute.

Joe felt you move towards the foot of the bed before the mattress leveled out, signaling you'd gotten out completely. Soft footsteps left his bedroom. Joe heard a door open, then shut immediately. Then another. More footsteps, but now coming back, and Joe lifted his head, squinting through an eye to gather what was going on. You were stood in front of Joe's bedroom door, out on the landing, and seemed... lost. Clearly out of it, still. Purely surviving.

"Where's your-" it came out all hoarse, so you cleared your throat, got rid of the raspiness and looked at Joe. "Where's your bathroom?" voice still just as croaky.

Joe let his head fall back into the pillow and just pointed.

You spent far too long in the bathroom for Joe's liking. It gave him way too much time to think about how this morning was going to go. Too much time to go back and forth between what he thought he should do. For now, he was still very tired, wanted to remain in bed in desperate need of more sleep, but he was also very aware that the polite thing to do was to at least offer you breakfast. To go downstairs with you once you were done doing... whatever you were doing in there. The tap of his sink had been going for a while.

It was because you were busy with the very necessary task of letting cool water run over your face sideways, sometimes sucking in enough water to swallow a good moutful. You know, total normal people behaviour.

It had gotten to the point where Joe thought he should at least get out of bed and get into a pair of joggers and a T-shirt. To appear a little more presentable, even though he desperately wanted to get into a shower first. However, his thoughts were interrupted when your phone started ringing. Joe looked, and saw your opened bag still on the floor next to him. He could see how your phone lit up the inside of it.

You'd heard it too, and came rushing in.

"Morning," you smiled through squinty eyes, all self-deprecatingly, holding a towel that you used to dry your face and how the fuck were you still this wildly gorgeous?

"Nice bedhead," you pointed out from your crouched position next to the bed, finding your phone and turning on your heel and making your way back over to Joe's bathroom as you answered.

It made Joe raise an insecure hand into his loose curls, doing his best to push them back into place, where they'd usually sit.

You left the towel there, on the floor, and Joe saw how your make-up had left behind the same coloured stains as were on the sleeve of his shirt, still. Not as prominent, but definitely there. It felt like you were leaving your mark to advertise your presence, claiming your territory and Joe thought, yea that's right, you might as well, though no need, because it was already all yours anyway, wasn't it?

"Hey,"

You answered, and spoke so flatly, Joe guessed it was Mark calling.

"Yea, big one,"

You'd left the bathroom door open this time, and using context clues, Joe thought you'd just been asked if you had a hangover.

"Not much– I think I remember enough to know I'm an awful person,"

Joe eavesdropped.

"Except, I am an awful person,"

The tap turned on again, and Joe heard you take sips. Good, he thought. Rehydrate.

"Okay, thanks, but I kind of still am, though,"

"Let's agree to disagree, then. Is Poppy mad at me?"

"Oh, that's good."

"Yea, lunch is fine, can we go and get burgers or something?"

Joe couldn't help but grin to himself. This was exactly how apologies worked with him and Poppy as well. They were always strange sort of non-apologies, where you both vaguely acknowledged something and quickly moved on. Sometimes Poppy and Joe could be livid with each other, and not speak for a few days besides passive aggressive texts back and forth, and then, suddenly, skies would clear up and Joe'd ask if Poppy wanted to come with to some event, and she'd reply, asking what the dress code was and everything would be forgotten and forgiven.

"Noon's a little soon, gotta give me some time to pull myself together,"

"No,"

"Yea, that should be fine,"

"All right,"

You were rounding off your chat, and Joe realised you hadn't mentioned you were over at his place. Not once. Not even slightly hinted towards it a little.

Maybe you didn't want Mark to know.

Oh fuck, Joe'd done the wrong thing by bringing you over to his house, hadn't he?

Of course you didn't want Mark to know.

The sudden rush of panic made Joe finally get up and out of bed.

Quick. Get out of these clothes.

No, wait. Apologise first.

Fuck.

God, you'd woken up in a bed with Joe, probably not even properly remembering how you'd gotten there and obviously, Joe was an awful person. A terrible friend. What the fuck must you be thinking of him right now?! Joe should at least–

"Sorry,"

Joe was stood in front of his wardrobe, both hands on the doorknobs, internally screaming at himself, when suddenly you interrupted the silence from the doorway.

"No, it's–... no worries," Joe shook his head, frowning a little.

"For the mess," you gestured at your own forearm, making Joe look at his own. "I would offer to pay for the dry cleaning, but it'll come out fine in a regular wash, I promise,"

Joe gave a small, crooked smile. The careful kind.

"And, sorry for ruining the wedding shower too, I got way too–"

"I said, no worries,"

He tried. He tried so hard not to make this moment awkward for you. To have it be somewhat normal. Casual. Like he didn't currently actively hate himself for the choices he had made on your behalf.

"Well," you stepped inside, got closer and then picked up your bag from the floor, along with your shoes. "At least let me say sorry for hogging your bathroom for ages then,"

With both hands on the doorknobs of his wardrobe still, Joe's eyes followed you moving around his bedroom like a hawk.

You grinned at his silence.

Deep breaths, Joe.

"All right, I'll get out of your hair," you said, stopping in his doorway and turning back to look at him, jokingly adding, "Because it clearly needs a wash."

Oh. So, you weren't going to mention it, Joe thought.

"Do you want some– I could make you some breakf–" Joe started, but you winced at the mention of food, clearly nauseous still.

"That's all right, I'll find my way out,"

You really weren't going to mention it at all, were you? Waking up in Joe's house. In his bed. Laying on top of him for a second there... it just... it hung in the air between the two of you. It got no acknowledgement from you whatsoever. Well... Joe wasn't going to be the one to mention it either, so who was he to talk, really.

"I'll see you, um," you squeezed your eyes tightly shut for a second, "When's the stag do?"

"In two weeks,"

"I'll see you in two weeks,"

And with a little wave from the top steps of the stairs as you made your way down, you disappeared completely from Joe's view.

Joe forced himself not to wait and listen til you'd close his front door behind you, and instead took insisting steps into his bathroom where he hoped he could wash all this nervous energy down the drain. Scrub himself free of the embarrassment of you not telling Mark you'd slept in his bed. With him, no less.

Now there was a secret between the two of you.

Another secret Joe was going to have to keep from Poppy.

Awful. He was an awful friend.

But if you wanted this to stay between the two of you, Joe was going to respect that, and he would absolutely keep this a secret. Joe could hate himself for what he did and not talk about it to anyone, sure. No problem.

And that was that. Decided. Done.

About thirty minutes later, Joe stepped into his own kitchen, freshly showered, and hungry, and he found an empty yoghurt carton along with a dirty spoon on the side.

Grinning to himself, he traced your steps, found more evidence of you in the empty glass that had been placed in the sink, and, looking back into his hallway, the doormat that had slid out of place.

As Joe went to move it back into its correct spot, perfectly centered in front of the threshold, he was hit with a realisation that knocked the breath right out of him.

On your way out, you must have seen it. Can't have not noticed it. You had noticed it before, and had had it on your mind enough to mention it days after having seen it. There was no way that you hadn't seen that Joe's hallway no longer held the framed cropped photograph of himself and Poppy.

It hadn't even been replaced, he'd just... taken it down the night you had mentioned it and hadn't known what to put in its place.

Joe sighed, realising it was yet another thing he hadn't told Poppy about.

So, three secrets, then. Fine.

The weekend of the stag do came around quickly. The hen do happened simultaneously, and because Poppy had been sad over the fact that she hadn't been able to have you as one of her guests, you'd all decided to finish the night at the same bar. To meet up and 'round off together.

You'd have all of your separate fun, make Mark and Poppy dress up at least a little stupid - Mark was forced into a foam costume of a beer bottle, Poppy just got given a tiara that read Bride To Be - and would make them take belly shots off of strangers before eventually meeting up and having them do a belly shot off of each other.

Maybe not exclusively belly shots. You were sure you'd come up with more creative ways of drinking hard liquor. But shots, none the less. And whoever got most in, would win, and Poppy was hell-bent on winning.

"I'm going to get so drunk," she'd almost said it like it was a threat when Joe came to pick her up that afternoon.

"Oh yea?" Mark had been far too cool about it for Poppy's liking.

"There's not a chance you'll do more shots than me,"

"We'll see,"

And you did see.

It was just past 11 when your group of drunk men followed you into a basement bar after a long pub treasure hunt. You were met with shrieking girls, a very drunk Poppy, and a fairly sober looking Joe.

"Twenty-one!" Poppy shouted, her tiara all tangled up in her hair whilst she held up a bunch fingers that didn't mean anything.

"Shut up," you laughed, reached up to fix her hair a little, "You did not have twenty-one shots,"

"Twenty-seven if you count all the ones I dropped or spat out, too,"

You looked at Joe who smiled at you and shrugged as if to say, she did it. Mark had gotten maybe nine in, you'd lost count if you were honest, and his brain could barely remember his body had two feet down at the end of his legs.

Mark was drunk drunk. The beer bottle costume had been torn to shreds, and was now just a brown weird cropped vest over his clothes. Like an odd lifejacket created by a fashion student.

"Congratulations then," you squeezed Poppy's cheeks as she smiled, but got quickly pushed to the side by Mark who attached himself to Poppy's face, diving in tongue first.

"Yea, all right, that's fine," you scrunched your nose up at the sight and made your way over to the bar to get beers for the lads. Joe joined you.

"Half of those were water, but don't tell her," Joe said over the music. "She'll be devastated."

"Still more than Mark," you laughed. "She's a fair winner."

You both looked back at them as they ate each other's faces.

"What a couple," you jokingly said.

"Very romantic, this," Joe agreed, and you both laughed a little.

You'd just had enough alcohol to be sort of all right and normal around each other. Not drunk enough for Joe to not be hyper aware of the fact that when he'd last seen you, you'd slept over at his place. But, he could pretend not to think it was a big deal.

It was a secret, after all. Had to keep it that way.

You got an order in with a bartender for nine pints, and you took a moment to yourself to feel satisfied with the evening. To feel proud of yourself. Everything had gone exactly according to plan; all the guys that had been invited had shown up on time, Mark's brother was gracious and didn't make any spiteful jokes about him not being the best man, and everyone was having actual fun? And that on a stag do thrown by a woman? What a wild concept.

You started passing out lager, calling names over the music and handing over pints, when suddenly a random dude pretended to be part of your group and jokingly reached for a beer you were about to give to someone else. It made you laugh, give him a face as you avoided his hand, and before you knew it, you had him slurring unintelligible things into your ear.

Drunk men were like this. Predictable like toddlers. The antics of a child.

You kind of let him talk, and tried to decipher whatever he was saying. Tried to find an excuse or joke hidden in his slurred words about him getting one of those drinks from you, as you held a glass out to Mark.

Mark shot you one look and didn't even really see the drink.

Instead, what Mark saw was you being bothered by a drunk stranger that needed to back the fuck off if he knew what was good for him.

He was beside you in an instant, and used an arm to snake in between the two of you, wedging himself in between, his back turned to you, fully staring this guy down. The alcohol in his veins made him feel dangerously immortal, and his face gave nothing away, but the lack of humour displayed said plenty.

"Sorry mate," the stranger held up both palms and stepped back.

"Here," you tried to distract Mark by holding his drink out in front of him, which he took from you, but he kept his eyes on the guy who made his way back to his own friends.

"Mark, it's fine, he was only joking," you smiled, finding it both a little endearing and a little annoying that even in this state, Mark would make sure you were okay. He completely misread the signs, but still. It was kind of him.

When Mark turned around and let his exterior soften a little, you both had your attention directed to a furious Poppy who looked like she was just about ready to smash her glass on the bar and slit someone's throat.

Whose throat, though? you wondered.

"Why do you always do that?!"

Ah. Mark's throat.

"Do what?" Mark seemed unfazed by Poppy's outburst.

"Stop cock-blocking her all the time! She doesn't need you to always be all up in her business!"

Oh no, Poppy was going to go to war for you. An undeclared one, too – you hadn't called for troops. Especially not drunk, emotionally unstable ones.

But Mark retaliated with his own ammunition.

"Um, clearly she does. I take my eyes off her for a second and she ends up in Joe's bed,"

You heard an audible gasp come from the other side, and saw Joe, mouth agape, brows in a deep frown. Shocked, offended, dismayed, and not being funny about it.

"Excuse me?!"

For a second, you saw Poppy question herself as her eyes shot to you, asking, "Didn't you?"

"She did." Mark answered, giving you accusatory eyes.

"Mark!" you scolded.

"You told them?!" Joe couldn't quite believe it.

What was happening right now?

"And so what if she did?" Poppy got back to her war, aiming the barrels of her guns right back on Mark. "She can decide for herself if she–"

"She was drunk!" Mark said it like he was sober himself, which, you know, he very much wasn't.

"Nothing happened!" You looked at Joe, needed him to confirm that nothing had happened, just to settle this whole ordeal. But Joe was trying to follow whatever Mark and Poppy were even talking about with confused eyes, puzzling things together.

"Wait, you didn't tell them?" Why wouldn't Joe tell his best friend about it? That made everything so much weirder.

"Of course I didn't!"

Oh. Wow. Cool way to let you know Joe didn't want people knowing you'd seen the inside of his bedroom. Very subtle. Not at all hurtful in any way. You ignored the misplaced sparkle you felt in your lower stomach when you made direct eye-contact with Joe's wild eyes.

Jesus.

That was probably just the drink. Had to be the drink.

"I'm only making sure that she's okay!" Mark defended himself to his fiancé.

It was a wild crossfire. A whole big cluster-fuck of raised voices and slurred words. Poppy and Mark opposite each other, you and Joe in between on either side.

Poppy was saying all sorts of things on your behalf that you didn't need her saying aloud. Things like, "She's fine! She's an adult woman with a sex life!" and "She doesn't need you to act like a jealous boyfriend!", getting things out that had been festering within her for what seemed ages.

Mark defended himself, and mocked facial expressions the whole time, shouting things like, "I'm sorry for being a great friend," all passive aggressive, which only angered Poppy more.

In the meantime, you and Joe had your own fight going.

And Joe had heard what Poppy had just said, had just implied, and get the fuck out, you were so fucking cute when you got all feisty.

You accused Joe of always being so weird, and fucking rude, whilst he accused you of making him lie to Poppy, causing him to be weird. Like it was your fault that he hadn't been honest, that he had pretended he'd dropped you off at your flat that night, and it offended you to no end.

You were not going to take any blame for this – you'd obviously immediately told Mark that afternoon, when you'd gone to have burgers with him for lunch. The whole conversation had been about the wedding shower. Staying over at Joe's was hardly something you could've left out. And why should you have? You'd both fallen asleep in your clothes. Nothing had happened! And Mark had reacted very calmly to it as well. You'd mentioned it, Mark had gone, "Huh," and that was that. You'd carried on talking about the gifts they'd gotten, and the insane amount Poppy's family had spent on them.

It hadn't been a big deal. At all. So, the fact that Mark brought it up now as if it was a big deal kind of stung.

You were about to direct some anger towards your best friend, but it was difficult to get in between whatever Mark and Poppy had going.

"You always do this!" Poppy pointed an angry finger at Mark, who immediately grabbed onto it with a fist, making Poppy flail her arm to break free from it.

"I've taken shots from mouths of random men tonight and you've not once–" Poppy started, but got interrupted.

"You've done what?!" This was news to Mark and so definitely the wrong thing for one drunk person to say to another drunk person.

"You could've at least let me know," Joe got your attention again, and made you scoff.

"The fact that you even thought it was something to keep secret is fucking weird, Joe!"

No, not cute. Scratch that.

It was hot.

You got hotter when you turned pissy and spat Joe's name into his face. He kind of wanted to keep this going just for the off-chance of you saying his name like that again.

But before Joe could say anything back to rile you up any further, Poppy and Mark both lurched forward and channeled all of their pent up anger into filthy kissing. They just started grossly tongue fucking each other and fuck, wasn't that the right idea?

When Joe took a step to the side to continue whatever conversation he was having with you, he saw that you'd turned around and were moving towards the exit.

Escaping.

Just, walking out. Leaving.

Like you always did.

"Fuck you, I love you so much," Joe heard Mark groan into Poppy's mouth, and Poppy moaned so loudly, Joe could hear it over the music and, yea, all right, maybe leaving was the right idea.

You were fast. Already outside, walking backwards along the edge of the pavement as you eyed the street for an available cab.

Joe stumbled out of the bar and called your name when he spotted you.

You sighed, grumbled some swearwords to yourself as Joe jogged up.

"Listen, it's clear that you fucking hate me," you started when Joe got into ear shot. "And I'm sorry that I told Mark about staying over, I wasn't aware that you didn't want anyone to know,"

What?

"I'm sure it's all very embarrassing for you, but don't accuse me of making you lie – I didn't make you do shit,"

Oh no.

You got it all wrong.

"No, I–"

"You lied on your own fucking accord, don't rope me into shit like that, that's not cool,"

You raised an arm when you saw a cab pull up a little down the road after people had just gotten out.

"But no worries, Joe," you got all sarcastic, and the deranged combination of your frown, tight jaw and the mention of his name again made Joe have to close is eyes for a second.

Deep breaths.

Always and forever, deep, deep, deep breaths.

"I'll make sure to never mention to anyone ever again that I sometimes spend time in the same room as you,"

The cab stopped next to you, and you were quick to duck down and speak to the cabby. Gave him your address before moving to get inside. You saw Joe step closer then, and you immediately raised a finger.

"Don't," you warned, and Joe froze.

You didn't need Joe accompanying you home. You'd be just fine by yourself. Had he not just listened to Poppy going off inside, saying you were fine?

"I don't hate you," Joe blurted out quickly before you'd get into the cab and would disappear into the night.

He couldn't quite let you leave yet.

Not when Joe felt like this.

You just pressed your lips into a polite smile, clearly not buying it and just looked at him a second, then, by ways of saying goodbye, said, "I won't be a burden to you any longer."

You were leaving.

Climbed into the cab and were actually leaving.

No.

Absolutely not.

Joe saw you get into a seatbelt, attention diverted, and decided, fuck it, before he swung the door open again and climbed right over you.

"Joe, what the fuck,"

Joe ignored you, loudly gave his own address to the cab driver too, then instructed to drop you off first as he buckled up.

You stared at him with wild eyes, not quite believing that Joe couldn't just let you go home by yourself.

"I don't hate you," Joe said again, calmer now. "I never said you were a burden to me - you're not a burden to me." Much, much softer.

You, not so much.

"I don't need you to take me home, I can take care of myself!"

"I know you can," Joe's voice was low. "And you have done. Still do."

All fight seemed to have left him completely, and it took you off guard a little. Your breath hitched on an inhale, and you were unsure of why you felt the muscles in your stomach work when you looked at Joe.

But you were stubborn.

"I don't need people looking out for me, I know Poppy's plastered, but she was right – it's so unnecessary," you were genuinely annoyed that Joe couldn't have just let you get a taxi to your flat by yourself. You were tough, God damn it.

"It's just..." Joe trailed, and let eye-contact linger.

"No, it's not just. I don't need you to take care of me!"

You weren't just going to give in. You were going to get Joe to agree with you and then apologise.

"I know you don't!" Joe raised his voice slightly to match yours a little, before he brought it back down again, and said, "But what people need is hardly ever what they want,"

Oh.

Oh shit.

That shut you right up. You felt that sparkle again and it made you clench your thighs.

"And what people want..."

Joe moved in closer a little bit, and fuck all the way off. You wanted to kiss Joe.

"...is hardly ever what they need."

Needed that mouth on yours, and when Joe inched closer, you didn't move back. Did the opposite, actually and looked at his lips.

It was all Joe needed from you.

"Did you know that when you blush," Joe said, voice just above a whisper now, and his nose nearly touching yours, "It goes all the way down your neck?"

---

The Taglisted: 

@ghostinthebackofyourhead @dirtyeddietini @jasminearondottir @josephquinned @cancankiki @sidthedollface2 @dylanmunson @munsonsgirl71 @thefemininemystiquee @alana4610 @emmamooney @thatonefan-girl @paola-carter @figmentofquinn @haylaansmi @thewondernanazombie @munsonmunster @kellysimagines @mybffjoe @chaoticgood-munson @sherrylyn628 @bdpst-massacre @05secondsofsexgods @lovelyblueness @adoreyouusugar @nadixq @prozacandnicotine @munsonswhore86 @alwayslindie @breddiemunson @eddie-joe-munson @ali-in-w0nderland @pepperstories @phyllosilicate-s  @thebellenouvelle @luvrsbian @joesquinns @choke-me-eddie @alizztor @jnnyrd @did-it-work @capricornrisingsstuff @quinnsmunson @frogers @kennedy-brooke @daleyeahson @eddielives1986 @harringtonfan4 @sadbitchfangirl

(taglist currently full, sorry)

[lyralu91]

Chapter update - The river that connects us

"How much longer?"

"As long as it takes, James."

Sorry for the wait, my lovelies!

I'm making daily progress on the chapter but it's slooow 😅 Thank you for hanging in there! ❤️

[pynkhues]

I'm really sorry you and your sister are dealing with that

(no pressure to publish this, not that there should ever be pressure to publish an ask if you don't want to, of course, but just wanted to say I hope you're doing okay)

Ah, thank you, anon, it's okay. It's been a while now (court moves slooow), but we're getting hopefully close to the end. She filed in Family Court December 2022, and we've had about five interim hearings with final trial (finally) scheduled over four days next month, so fingers crossed! But yeah, it's been A Time. He's financially and emotionally abusive against my sister, and both those things as well as medically negligent against their children (who are only six and eight and both have special needs), so it's been....rough. To say the least.

But on a lighter note, have one of my new favourite photos I took of my nephews at the jellyfish enclosure at the aquarium last month!

[snapecentric]

For the Snape asks: 3, 13, 23, 33, 43 :)

Sorry I'm so behind, since you asked last Octorber! :o  

3. Which Disney character, according to you, is most like Snape?  I haven’t watched a lot of Disney, but maybe Grumpy from Snow White

13. Do you think Alan Rickman contributed to your love for Snape?   I was a Snape fan before I was an Alan Rickman fan, but I do enjoy some of the iconic things he brought to the role. That billow, the slooow delivery, and many other little things are so enjoyable.  We will talk more about that on our February Snape Chat episode…

23.  What do you think Snape wore under his robes?  I think after SWM, he wore trousers.  No need to repeat that trauma

33.  Top 3 songs you think will show up in Snape's most played? Pass.  I’m not good with music

43.  What's your favourite headcanon about Snape? I swear that he called Petunia Tuna.  Fight me

[profchamomile]

Evening Tea

//another off-screen scene; been a while since I've done one of these

There was a knock on the door.

"In a minute- Chai no. Chai NO. DROP IT! DROP- ah forget it I'll deal with you later."

After having chased a rambunctious Fuecoco around the house, Chamomile scrambled to the door to open it. There, Raifort stood with her arms crossed, smirking at Chamomile with a raised eyebrow.

"Buenas noches," said Raifort, "Judging by the sound I just heard, I take it that raising starter Pokémon has been going well?"

"Cloe, heeeeyyy!" Chamomile laughed nervously as they leaned on the side of the doorway, their legs crooked as their knees pointed inward. "Buenas noches... What- what brings you here?"

"Well, I haven't seen you in a while, so I thought I'd stop by for a visit," Raifort explained, "There isn't a lot of people worth talking to at the academy, you know."

"Yeah, sorry about that," said Chamomile, "I've been working on recall training with the starters... F- figured it'd be good to get that down before I went anywhere, you know?"

"That does sound like the most logical decision to-..." Raifort's smirk faltered as she furrowed her brows in concern. "... Where are your mobility aids?"

At that moment, a Fuecoco attempted to rush past Chamomile with one of their crutches in his mouth. However, the small reptile failed to account for the size of the crutch, and whacked the back of Chamomile's legs, causing them to stumble right into Raifort's arms.

"Oh shoot- I'm so sorry," said Chamomile, struggling to stand up. "I didn't mean t-"

"Don't worry about it," said Raifort, as she helped Chamomile up, "Here, you can hang onto me."

The Fuecoco, confused about what could've possibly made Chamomile fall, stopped in his tracks and stared at them with concern. Suddenly, he got picked up by an invisible source and dropped the crutch in shock as Queenie walked out with a serious expression.

Queenie let out an exhasperated "Slooow," as she telikenetically levitated the Fuecoco back into the lighthouse and brought out Chamomile's wheelchair.

Chamomile sighed with relief. "Thank you, Queenie," they said, as they reached towards the wheelchair, only to be picked up telekinetically by Queenie and gently set down in the wheelchair.

Raifort chuckled. "Thank Arceus for your slowking."

Chamomile let out a tired chuckle. "Yeah, no kidding..." They looked over at Queenie. "Thanks again," they said, before looking back ag Raifort, "I'd let you come in, but... The place is a bit of a mess right now."

"I'm sure it's nothing compared to the state of my own place," said Raifort, "It seems like you need a break, anyway. I could help you tidy up and handle the starters if you'd like."

"Oh no- no, I couldn't possibly," Chamomile objected, "I got it handled, really... Some days are just. Like this."

As Queenie used psychic to turn Chamomile's chair around, Ignis stepped out of the door to push his handlers wheelchair through the door from behind.

"Besides, I'm the one who's supposed to be learning from this experience," Chamomile continued, not quite realizing they were being brought inside as Ignis pushed their chair over to the table, "The league and the academy are counting on me to find better ways to keep them in a school dorm room setting."

Raifort stepped inside as she listened to Chamomile talk, silently heading to the kitchen to prepare the kettle as well as a couple mugs for tea.

"How am I supposed to figure that out if I need help all the time?" Asked Chamomile, "Support isn't exactly something everyone has... I need to find ways that are self sufficient."

"I just... Worry about whether or not I'm doing my job right." Chamomile looked down to notice Belle at their leg begging to pick her up and put her in their lap. "I don't think anything I could do could begin to amount to what the Professors before me did. So I-..."

They sighed. "I'm sorry. You came to visit and here I am venting about personal stuff."

"I really don't mind," said Raifort, as she walked over to the table with two cups of tea and set one down in front of Chamomile, "Mind you, I may not be the best at providing comfort, but at the very least I can listen."

Chamomile stared down at the cup of tea, lost in thought. "I... don't know," they said, "I just worry that the League may not find me worth keeping around, if I can't pull my job off well enough. Especially if they find out about..."

"... About what?" Asked Raifort.

"... Sorry," Chamomile shook their head. "Just some... Personal stuff I shouldn't say out loud; especially around people I like."

Raifort raised an eyebrow. "You're not gonna tell me you were a part of an evil organization, are you?" She asked.

"Wh-" Chamomile looked up at Raifort with widened eyes. "Wh- where did you get THAT idea?"

Raifort laughed. "I'm only teasing," she said, "In any case, you would be surprised at how forgiving the league can be regarding your past, if that is any of your concern."

"... Yeah?"

"They have a rather unique way of handling things such as criminals or delinquents," said Raifort, "When students created 'Team Star,' Geeta offered them all part-time jobs in the league once their club had disbanded."

"I feel like that's different," said Chamomile, "From what I've heard, Team Star was just a bunch of kids that got sick of being bullied."

"That much is true," said Raifort, "But the leader had also hacked the League's systems to transfer thousands - possibly millions of LP to several student accounts. Geeta saw the worth in having that kind of skill used for good, and hired that student to improve the League's security, while the other students also got jobs unique to their skillset."

"Huh..." Chamomile stared in awe. "That's... Pretty cool, honestly."

"And I can guarantee you that isn't the only instance in which the league took that approach," said Raifort, before sipping her tea.

Chamomile smiled slightly, before also taking a sip of their tea. "... You know this is the second time someone has made tea for me, in my own residency."

They looked up at Raifort again. "I'm beginning to think you and Jacq don't like giving me a chance to be a proper host," they said, a hint of lightheartedness in their tone.

Raifort laughed. "Perhaps it would be better if you simply didn't question it," she said, "I'm not usually the nurturing type, you know. Just be glad that you're experiencing such a rare occurrence."

"Oh?" Chamomile raised an eyebrow with a chuckle. "While I'm always honored to be graced by your presence, Cloe, what exactly makes me so special to receive such special treatment?"

Raifort hummed in thought. "A few things," she said, "A worthy conversationalist, for one thing. I could tell you more, but quite frankly it's much more entertaining to leave you guessing."

"Rude," said Chamomile, with a pouting look on their face, "Rude to Cam!"

Raifort laughed once again, giving Chamomile a rather affectionate smile, before noticing the Fuecoco pestering the Quaxly and Sprigatito, who were trying to settle down for the evening.

"How about we sit outside for a bit?" asked Raifort, as she stood up, "We can let Chai get his energy out, and enjoy the evening air."

Chamomile looked over at the Fuecoco, then smiled tiredly at Raifort again. "I think I'd like that."

[dravidssideblog]

I'm at the annual Vore Day convention, meeting food and eating friends! It's been a fun day so far, plenty of delicious preys to eat. They get so shy and blushy when they're finally face-to-face with a pred, it's adorable! It helps that the prey-to-pred ratio is so skewed; all these prey are desperate to find a pred!

The convention is winding down now; the sun is setting, and people are going home. But there's enough time for one last meal, maybe even one I can bring home with me. I sure hope so; the prey I've spotted (I know they're prey by their colored wristband) is exactly my type: A little bunny, and a cute one at that!

I wait for them to finish their conversation with another prey, then I approach, flashing the predatory grin I've been practicing all day. "Hey there little bunny, would you mind being my last snack this evening~?"

The bunny flashes a grin right back. "Snack? Please, I'm tasty enough to be a dessert! Sure you've got room for me, big bad wolf~?"

Whoa. The bunny's bravado throws off my game for a second. "... Damn, you've got some energy! This is usually the part where my prey shrivels up and turns into a blushy mess."

"Oh? I hope I'm not making you lose your appetite when you've got a delicious rabbit right in front of you~"

"Nah, not at all. I like your style! You've got me really looking forward to this now~"

"Then let's see if your stomach is as big as your mouth~"

Alright then! I reach forward, and then the rabbit surprises me yet again by jumping up into my grasp! I skip my usual stalling and build-up and instead open my mouth and feed them right inside. They shift around inside, nuzzling and rubbing against my tongue, and they really do taste delicious! I gotta ask them what shampoo they use, 'cause this is great! I give them a good tongue lashing, licking all over their fur and pressing them into my cheeks, and they respond in kind by rubbing themself all over my tongue and even giving it some love with their hands.

I've never had such an active prey before! They're usually pretty limp and passive, which is fine by me, and I've even had my fair share of strugglers and squirmers. But this isn't just random struggling or thrashing, they're really taking an active role in this! I like it!

Then they start poking at the back of my mouth, and I get the message; we've had enough mawplay, time for the next part. I give their tasty fur one last lick, then *GULP* them down into my throat. They start wiggling around in there, trying to dive deep, but I put a hand under the bulge in my throat to stop them; I like to draw this part out looong and slooow~ They get the message, calming down and settling for nuzzles and rubs.

I move my hand down slowly, controlling their descent as I drop them further with each big *GULP*. They go deeper and deeper, until one last gulp pulls them into my stomach. The restraint they showed in my throat is gone, and they squirm and wiggle and rub my stomach walls! They're so energetic that I'm actually getting worn out. Hard to keep up with this rabbit, but I manage. When they give a good, firm nuzzle against my belly, I press a hand into them. "Well? Big enough for ya, you tasty rabbit?"

"I'd say so," they say, nuzzling against my hand from inside. "You certainly don't disappoint!"

"Neither do you! Heck, I'd say you're the best prey I've had all day!"

"Heh, yeah, I try my best."

"What about me? Am I the top pred you've had here, or is there someone I need to challenge to an eating contest?"

"Sorry to say, but you're the ONLY pred I've had here. With so many prey, all the preds I found picked more mild-mannered meals. They couldn't handle a treat as spicy as me."

"Psh, their loss."

"But I gotta say, you're a grade-A pred. That was some good voring, and this belly is nice."

"In that case, what do you say 'bout spending the night in there? I was hoping I could snag a to-go meal to enjoy at home~"

"That's not how to-go meals work, silly wolf. But yeah, hanging out in here sounds nice. I've spend too much time outside of bellies today, I gotta balance it out somehow."

"Awesome. I'll be sure to get your number once you get out."

"Ditto."

[flickering-chandelier]

heyy, how are you?? i just wanted to say, i love you and your writing. you are one of the best people i have come across and i love you. if you ever feel bad about your writing, just know that only you can put that story out there so NEVER GIVE UP!! hehe okay bye ily 🤭😘

AWWWW THANK YOU 🥰🥰

I'm okay! I pretty much just got home from back to back trips and catching up at work has been really hectic (so my fic progress has been slooow and I'm sorry 😭)

Seriously, thank you so much for this, I've been feeling like I'm letting everyone down with how slow I've been writing lately and I just really appreciate you and love you, you're the sweetest 🥰🥰

[inkykeiji]

Different anon but aahhhh Clariii I'm so stoked that you gave bsd a chance!! It's kinda underappreciated by the anime community (but I feel like it's gaining popularity since the pandemic began!). And yes yes! The way the characters are named after real life writers and their abilities are inspired by their literary works? Fricking awesome.

(tw!!!) Real life dazai is suicidal and he actually succeeded killing himself by drowning along with his lover. That's why bsd!dazai keeps on trying to drown himself and asking women to do it with him. Also also the novel Naomi. I have a vague idea about it, I think it is about this guy who's obsessed with this girl (Naomi) and he's trying to like groom/mold her into his ideal woman but it kinda backfired and naomi ended up controlling him. I guess it serves an inspiration in the bsd!tanizaki sibs relationship dynamic.

I'm so sorry for rambling, there are alot of references in the bsd and I'm just so stoked right now. Really hoping that bsd will live up to your expectations!!

Pspsps. Season 2 is my fave. And if you ever decide to read the manga... The updates are slooow. It's stressing me out. With season 4 ongoing the anime is about to catch up with the manga xvshbjkjgshfajbhk.

HEHE hi anon! <3

omg really??? :o i’m surprised to hear that tbh because i feel like i’ve heard the name before soooo many times! RIGHT i find it so fascinating and i’ve already learned so much about classic japanese literature that i wouldn’t have known otherwise!!! i’ve been spending a lot of time on that bsd bibliophile website, and have plans to read several pieces from the real life authors!

yes! i was actually just reading up on his real life a day ago and it’s just so tragic??? like so heart-wrenchingly tragic :( and YEAH so naomi (the novel) is on my to-read list and i heard it’s like lolita but reversed??? which is really intriguing. honestly so many of the inspired authors’ pieces of literature sound absolutely fascinating and i can’t wait to dig into their work! this also motivates me a lil more to continue learning japanese because, while i know some of the pieces were written in english, it would be incredible to be able to read the others in their native language.

no no it’s fine don’t apologize!!!! i’m really liking it so far!!! <3 i’m nearly done season two and this whole war triangle going on is SO interesting! AH that is a little concerning :/ well hopefully they don’t pull a naruto and stuff it full of meaningless filler ._.

[davidsonhq]

@haileybxldwin​

Have enough years passed since the Bieber roast now that I can come slide into your DM’s without needing to hang my head in shame? I’m sorry I’m not sorry for all the shit I talked about your ex-husband, but I am sorry that I subjected you to seeing my pale lanky ass bod at that fashion show - shit was fucking hot. How’ve you been, anyway? You all good?

[scribedhorror]

@infernalrampage​  " Happy Valentines day, my wonderful husbad, Sadie and Simon and I made you some cards. " she presses a kiss to his cheek and settles in bed next to him with a huge smile on her face. " I approve of you taking these with you since they are yours, you know how we fight over their beautiful art work. "

Bill honestly hadn’t expected to wake up to anything like this, he had anticipated making breakfast for everyone and then for them to exchange cards and give the kids their gifts --- they were definitely those parents that got their children presents for every holiday --- then spend the day doting on his wife. He also had a dinner for them planned for the evening with a sitter already set up for Sadie and Simon. That was where he could be giving Beverly her Valentine’s day gift. These homemade cards, however, were perfect and more than he could ask for. 

One arm looped around her shoulders, holding his wife close to his side as he opened the cards one by one. “Happy Valentine’s Day baby,” he replied and returned the kiss with a bright grin. “These are amazing, thank you so much.” He’d have to make sure he told his kids just how much he loved them and the cards they made. That was the spirit of the day, after all. “I’m sure they made you your own to take to the office,” Bill chuckled, using his fingers to tilt her chin up so he could kiss his wife properly. “I love you so much, I hope you know that.”

[podiumsitter]

best friend privilege 🏁 gr

summary; george takes you to as many races as he can, because you're his best friend. but that's not the only privilege you have.

warnings; so filthy i'm sorry. pining, masturbation, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, kinda praise kink, slooow burn,cocky george obviously, will probably have a part two i think

word count; 5926

You’ve been George’s best friend for a few years new, having met before he even got his seat at Williams. You were friends through it all—supporting him through the harder years, and celebrating with him when he won the F2 championship, when he got his first points for his team, and when he finally signed his contract to drive for Mercedes like you knew he deserved.

There was never any doubt in your mind that you and George would be best friends for as long as you two were on this earth, if you were being dramatic about it, and you had no doubt that George felt the same about your relationship.

You were friends, best friends, it has always been that way.

However, ever since he joined the top team, something changed about him. He was more serious, more determined than you’ve ever seen him (even more so than before his qualifying session in Spa) and that changed something in you, too.

His blue eyes were always filled with a fire, a hunger—one you were so so used to seeing, but now, that fire was burning against your skin every time he looked at you.

Perhaps, you had some sort of feelings for your best friend.

And that was absolutely fine, because feelings come and go—but you knew your friendship with George was forever. So this was just something that was going to pass, it was just because of how close you two were, it was just that stupid black suit.

It must’ve been—because you noticed something similar moving in your stomach that night in Sakhir. That black suit had powers, ‘sall.

And if anything, it was definitely only physical, considering you only noticed a longing for him when you were at the races with him. On those weekend when you couldn’t travel out with him, you felt normal things people feel for their friends; pride, joy, happiness, as you watched him on the podium, or sometimes disappointment when his weekend wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. And then he’d call you after, and the pair of you would discuss the race and his weekend and then your weekend and it was all normal.

It was just that suit—you swore—as you walked next to him all day on the Friday. You were in Barcelona, so the weather was intensely warm, and George pushed that black suit to his hips, as low as it could possibly go, and strutted to the media pen.

You were talking about something unimportant, George asked you to find out the details of your mutual friends’ birthday party, and you told him what your friends had planned, and he was trying to remember if he was free to join, and you were so not listening as he sucked on that stupidly long straw of his.

“Water is important,” you said when the conversation stopped midway as George drank half his bottle in one go.

“It’s so fucking hot,” he complained. As if on cue, his trainer appeared beside him with a towel. George wiped the sweat off his forehead as the four of you arrived to the media pen. His trainer handed him another bottle, and his press officer was telling him something and you were just standing there and, frankly, admiring the view.

“Can I take these fireproofs off?” He groaned, as he tried pulling them away from his skin—but they were clinging onto him for dear life. You remembered a race last year, god knows where in the world you were, with similar weather to today. His white fireproofs were so tight you could see the outline of his stomach and--

“You can’t do the interviews shirtless, George,” his press officer rolled her eyes.

“I’m sure people would love that, though,” he smirked down at her.

“I’m sure they will,” she indulged him with a roll of her eyes, “but you’re on national television.”

“We’ll keep that for the late night shows, then?” He asked with a glint in his eyes.

“George,” she chuckled, shoving him slightly.

George was such a fucking flirt.

“Can you talk some sense into him?” She turned to you with a sigh, the same way she did almost every weekend you were around.

You laughed, rolling your eyes as you shrugged. “I think it’s best to wait for a shower before you take anything off,” was the best you could come up with. In all honesty, you wouldn’t mind it if George needed to rid himself from some layers. Who would blame him in this heat?

“Shower!” George said, snapping his fingers and pointing at you as if you came up with the best idea he’s heard all day.

George turned to his trainer, grabbing the second bottle from him, and pouring half of it on his head. He took his towel, drying himself up, and running it over his short hair. Suddenly, you had an urge to tug on those locks, wanting to see them get that messy from your pulling as his face sat in between your---

“Right,” his press officer said, “now that you’ve cooled down, let’s go.”

George nodded, making sure he didn’t look too unpresentable and took his hat from his trainer, placing it neatly on his head as is expected of him.

“We’ll be about an hour,” she turned to you.

“I’ll be in your driver’s room?” You offered.

“Yeah, figure out where you want us to eat tonight,” George said, offering you a thumbs up before walking over to the nearest unoccupied microphone.

You easily made your way back to the Mercedes hospitality, the layout of the paddock staying more or less the same regardless of where you were in the world. It was easy enough to remember, considering it was the first one in the long row of buildings—definitely an upgrade from the thirty minutes it took you to get from the centre of activities back to the Williams hospitality every weekend in the last three years.

Once back inside, you grabbed a can of Monster from the mini fridge at the front and made your way into George’s room.

You settled down, scrolling through your phone and relaxing under the breeze of the AC in George’s room. Once you finished your drink, and you checked your social media, you let your mind wander to where it was a few minutes ago. Where it always went when you spent time with George.

The pair of you doing things that friends don’t usually do with each other. Him using that cocky tone with you, him using his mouth on you, his fingers.

As you let your imagination linger on the way his lips sucked on his straw, you pushed your Mercedes shirt (the one with 63 on the back) up enough for you to have access to your tits. You rolled your nipple in between your fingers, the coolness in the room helping the sensations you were feeling, as you imagined your best friend’s fingers working on you instead.

His lips working on you, wrapping around your nipples as you tug on his short brown locks. How his stubble would feel against your abdomen.

His blue eyes looking up at you as he slid down your body and onto his knees.

You brought your free hand into your skirt, gasping at how definitely wet you were from your imagination alone. And well, maybe it helped that you were sitting on the sofa in his driver’s room that always smelled so strongly of his shampoo.

Your fingers rubbed against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through your thighs. You wondered to yourself, as you did many times before, just how cocky George would get when he had you gasping above him. He’d smirk at you constantly, wouldn’t he? And he probably loves hearing how good he is, he probably lets out that little chuckle of his every time you ask for more.

You sped up your fingers, pinching at your nipples as you tried to imagine just how big he was—if that’s what made him so unbearable cocky, so attractively cocky.

You could feel it building up and you went faster, urging yourself (or rather, the imaginary George in your head) to keep going, that you were so close, that please baby, that--

“He’s such a fucking prick sometimes, I swear to god!”

You jumped up, noticing the very real George in front of you and the stunned look on his face.

Holy fuck.

“Who, um, who’s a prick?” You asked quickly, tugging your shirt down and covering yourself up.

George took a moment, or maybe six, to look over you—to confirm he saw what he thinks he just saw. Although your heart was beating incredibly quick, and you could feel the blood rushing to your toes, and you made a very strong point of keeping your legs shut, you weren’t shy under his gaze.

He seemed like he was almost, unbothered at all, but what he saw.

“Will Buxton,” he answered finally. He took the hat off his head, ran a hand through his hair with a huff, and kept talking, “he was going on and on about how happy I must be to be beating Lewis.”

“Well, we both know what he was trying to get you to say,” you offered, and neither of you acknowledged the water George offered you, a very knowing look accompanying his actions.

You took a very large sip as you listened on to what George had to say, and the promise he made to one day mount Will’s head above his fireplace.

“Anyway,” George sighed as he plopped himself on the sofa next to you, “I’m starving.”

“There’s a place that looks nice about twenty minutes from here,” George nodded, “I reckon the traffic is more or less done at this point.”

“Yeah,” George nodded. “Are you gonna change first?”

You swallowed, thinking maybe now was finally the time he’ll talk about what he saw when he walked in and how you were so very clearly touching yourself and how your tits were just out but he just said, “You know I love that shirt on you but it makes us stand out.”

“Bro, I think the Formula One driver is what makes us stand out,” you retorted, grabbing one of the grey pillows beside you and throwing it at his chest.

George caught it with ease, chuckling at you as he flashed you that beautiful smile of his.

“I wanna wear my Georgie merch,” you pouted at him.

“Yeah, um, alright,” he stuttered slightly, before getting up and grabbing a change of clothes. “Shower and we’ll go.”

The dinner was no different than any other dinner you shared with George. Neither of you mentioned what George walked in on and by the time the race on Sunday was over all the pair of you could talk about was George’s phenomenal battle with the reigning world champion.

“Fuck, that felt so good,” he smiled in conclusion, and you reciprocated that smile as he rewatched the race highlights a few hours later. If you saved that soundbite for later that evening, that was between you and your trusted toy.

*

Canada was too long of a flight, and you only had two days off work that week anyway, and so you decided not to join George for that weekend. That didn’t stop the pair of you from texting each other through the day like you always did, and concluding your night with a FaceTime call. George was frustrating in the sense that whenever he called you before bed he was already shirtless under the covers.

And how the fuck were you supposed to deal with that like a normal person who was definitely not attracted to their best friend?

“So, Mr. Consistency,” you greeted him, trying your hardest to focus on his face or even your face and definitely not the dark curve of his pecs. “P4.”

“Got beat by my teammate though,” George shook his head, that determination you loved so much about him shining through your screen.

“This time, but it’s a close fight babes,” you assured him.

“I know,” he sighed, “just wanted another podium.”

“You’ll get that.”

“If we’re talking about things I want,” George said, licking his lips slowly. Your heart (and your pussy) skipped a beat, “I want that fucking win already.”

You chuckled, hoping your desire wasn’t written all over your face in capital letter.

“You’ll get that too, Georgie.”

George shifted slightly, his hand disappearing from behind his head to somewhere you couldn’t see as he coughed slightly.

“How was your day, though?”

And then the pair of you talked about your boss’ new obsession with performance reports and the new coffee place that opened up by your house and the conversation went on and on and on until you were starting to dose off.

“I think I need to sleep now, babe,” you mumbled, your phone tucked in front of you as you snuggled on your side. George smiled at you.

“Good night, beautiful,” he said, and that’s the last thing you remembered.

Silverstone wasn’t a good weekend. Seeing his teammate on the podium again when it could’ve been him broke George’s heart, and it upset him even more to be unable to even finish the first lap of his home race. Finally he had a chance to do something incredible on British soil, and that chance was taken away from him. It’s been a while since you last saw George crying, and it was your job (and honour) to rub his shoulders as he let his sobs out.

You listened to him ranting about how stupid the FIA is and how scared he was to see what happened and how Toto didn’t even have his back and all you could do was nod and listen.

“There’s next year,” you tried, and George knew that already. All he did was just shake his head.

“Is there something we can do to get your mind off it?”

George’s eyes gaped at you, taking in what you just said. You didn’t think too much of it, really, as you said it but then you realised how close the pair of you were. Your thighs were pressed against each others, and your hand around his shoulder was pulling him nearer to you, and you could see the little stubble on his cheek.

For a moment, you thought you saw George’s blue eyes flick towards your lips.

“How do you mean?” He all but whispered.

You swallowed, your throat dry and scratchy. You brought your free hand over his bicep, squeezing him. “Whatever you need to put today behind you, Georgie.”

George exhaled slowly, eyes focused on you, his breath hitting your skin. You felt warmth spread through your stomach.

“You’ll do whatever I need?” George tried to confirm, and this time you were sure George was looking at your lips. You hoped they didn’t look too dry—you licked them just to check.

You noticed his jaw got tighter for a moment.

You wanted to say something, to tell him that he could ask for anything and you’d give him that—but you didn’t know how to say it, and the more you considered it the warmer your stomach got and you were scared you might actually just stutter and it wouldn’t come out as cool as you thought it would and what were you even going to say that wouldn’t be extremely inappropriate in the very real chance that he didn’t think about you that way at all and what if you just leaned in and kissed him and--

“George!” A knock came from behind the door, pulling the pair of you away from each other. “It’s Seb!”

And then the pair had to go have a lengthy chat about the events of today, as the two heads of the GPDA, and George only came back three hours later. By that point, he had concluded watching a movie would make him forget about today.

You weren’t sure why you thought it would be anything else.

Austria was another weekend to forget, and although still scoring a top five finish—George was outraged. He was so upset he didn’t even want to say anything, repeating the mantra that at least it was good points for the team.

“You don’t have to say the media shit with me, babes,” you tried, but George just shook his head and said it again.

“Let me shower and then we can go check out that club you spotted?” You offered, thinking maybe a dance and some drinks will put him in a better mood. George nodded.

“Can I join you?”

“Yeah, I’m not going to the club alone,” you joked as you rummaged through your suitcase for something a little nicer than the baby blue shirt George gave you in Silverstone. It was a very nice shirt, the 63 on it your favourite part, but maybe it wasn’t exactly right for a night out.

“I meant in the shower,” George said, his jaw tightening for a moment.

“What?”

Silence took over the room as the pair of you just looked at each other—George’s eyes turned grey. He licked over his lips once, his teeth catching his lower lip for a moment and you could’ve sworn he looked you up and down. You’ve seen George give people this look before, but you were never on the receiving end of it.

Now—you realised that was a good thing, because seeing that look on your best friend’s face had rendered you speechless.

“I, um,” you helpfully said, after approximately twenty minutes. Seconds. One of the two.

George flashed that smile of his, then chuckled. It was empty.

“See you in a bit,” he said, walking away with his head down. You’ve never seen George look… insecure before.

That was different.

You met up with a few other drivers there, and the music was just alright, and so a bit after midnight you decided you were tired and wanted to go back to the hotel. George put his drink down in an instant and grabbed your hand, taking you outside to find a taxi.

“So,” he started, hands tucked into his pocket, “did you find anyone nice in there?”

You were a few shots in, and if you weren’t so concerned about the chance of losing George, you would’ve told him there’s no one you want other than him. You would’ve told him it’s his face you see as you touch yourself at night, you would’ve told him you’d do anything to be able to kiss him and suck him off and ride him.

But you weren’t drunk enough to say anything like that. Instead, “wasn’t looking for that tonight. Just wanted a dance. What about you, racing driver?”

George chuckled, his eyes finding a spot way above your head as his smile took over his face.

“No one I could have really,” he shrugged.

“You? Striking out?” You fake gasped at him, adding a hand to your chest for dramatic effect.

“I didn’t even try,” he confessed.

“What?” You grabbed his arm, shaking him slightly. “Since when do you chicken out?”

“What does that mean?” He asked, eyes gleaming, as you drunkly swayed next to him—his bicep acting as a form of anchor for your body.

“I’ve never met anyone as confident as you are, Georgie, it’s truly inspiring.”

He shook his head, the smile still stuck to his face. “Well, it’s a bit more complex.”

“Oooooh,” you let out loudly. “Tea?”

“Stop,” he laughed, rolling his eyes at you.

“Come on,” you gasped, “you’re not gonna tell your bestie all about it?”

“I will when you’re not this hammered,” he said, bringing a hand around your shoulder. You let him pull you into his chest, finding warmth in his body as you wrapped your arms around his waist.

“I think you could get anyone you wanted,” you said, rubbing your hands up his back, “you’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks,” he said, lightly pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Plus you’re fit as fuck,” you said, speaking in the lower voice you used when you were mocking George and your other male friends.

“You’re fit as fuck, too,” he laughed, and escorted you into the taxi that had finally arrived.

France was good. France was really really good. Not only did George take his first pole position in F1, but he managed to convert it into a win—and the pair of you were out celebrating all night.

George hugged you first as he got out of the car and he gave you the comically large champagne bottle for safe keeping and he wouldn’t keep his arm off your shoulder as the four of you (press officer and trainer included) walked throughout the paddock so George could speak to absolutely everyone that wanted to hear from the new race winner.

The smile just wouldn’t leave his beautiful face all night, and honestly, you weren’t complaining. You’d pay good money to see that smile so vividly on his face—and you were lucky enough to be in pole position of that sight.

You even got a new lockscreen out of it; George’s arm around you as you held the champagne and he held the gorilla trophy, his pirelli hat soaked through from the podium showers.

It was the prettiest picture you’ve had of George, and the fact you looked oddly like a couple in it didn’t go unnoticed by your mutual friends.

But they didn’t comment on it to your face.

You weren’t able to attend another race after that, but George promised you it was alright. It was the summer break soon anyway—and he had planned to spend as much of it as he could with you and your friendship group.

You couldn’t take any time off until Amsterdam, and George was always understanding of that, so you made the most of the time he got to spend back in the UK. Nights out and picnics and beach days and sight seeing and anything the group of you wanted to do, and it was so refreshing to have George there with you guys.

It was three days before he was meant to fly out to Spa and one of your friends was having a house party at theirs.

There was beer pong and shots and Spotify’s Top 40 playing in the living room. Naturally, you and George teamed up together to become unbeatable at beer pong—although truly, it was mostly George that did the work. You just drank if someone scored into your cups.

The night went on and on and at one point a few of you went to sit on the huge trampoline in your friend’s garden.

Without thinking, you rested your head on George’s lap. His fingers found your hair in an instance.

“So George,” one of your friends prompted, “you’re gonna win another one this year?”

“Damn hope so,” he said, and even though you couldn’t see his face you knew his eyebrows jumped up at that.

“You better,” they offered back.

“Wait until Zandvoort though because I don’t wanna miss it,” you said. George soothingly rubbed circles into your scalp.

“You should come to all my races, I could win any of them,” he said. There’s a reason he’s called Mr. Consistency, you thought to yourself.

“Sadly, I have bills to pay, sir,” you huffed.

“If George makes you his trophy wife you’ll be sorted,” your friend pointed out. The fingers in your hair stopped moving.

“Ha ha, very funny,” you managed to say.

The conversation shifted when one of your friends came from inside the house to beg for a teammate in another round of beer pong, and the talks of a trophy wife were forgotten. But you very much noticed how stiff George became after that.

A few weeks (and one Monza podium) later, you were back with George. Maybe all your friends noticed you were attending a lot more races than you did last year—and a lot more than all of them combined. Most of your friends came to Monaco and Silverstone, and sometimes Abu Dhabi. But you already had half a dozen under your belt.

You weren’t complaining though, you loved going to the tracks, and your best friend wanted you there—so what was wrong with it?

You thought maybe you should encourage George to invite a few of your other friends out as often, too.

“Yeah, but your my best friend,” George pointed out once you brought up the subject. “I don’t want a bunch of people around me all weekend.”

“I’m around you all weekend,” you said.

“I want you around me all weekend.” And maybe you didn’t quite hear the end of that sentence, as a blush took over your face.

“But if you don’t want to come so much that’s fine, I know it’s exhausting to travel and you’re using all your time off work to be here--”

“—don’t be ridiculous, Russell,” you threw a hand around.

“Last naming me?” He gasped at you.

“That’s how ridiculous you’re being,” you said, and George accepted that with a meaningful nod.

At that, you got back to your phone, and so did George, and the pair of you sat on the sofa in his hotel room as you spent your Friday night relaxing before George’s big day tomorrow.

You perched your legs on his lap, and at one point or another George moved closer to you so his large hand rested on your thigh.

If he drew circles on your leggings, inching up and down your thigh, you definitely weren’t going to tell him to stop.

“Y/N,” he said, bringing your eyes away from the never ending scroll you were putting yourself through, “can I ask something?”

“Sure,” you locked your phone, bringing your attention over to your best friend.

“Remember Barcelona?”

You nodded slowly.

“Those moves on Max?” You tried confirming, thinking back to that weekend and not remembering much else of note.

“What happened in my driver’s room,” he corrected you. The hand on your thigh had stopped moving, George tucking it in between your legs like he usually did when his hands were cold.

It wasn’t cold in September.

As soon as George said it, you remembered exactly what happened. You must’ve blocked it out of your mind but now it was coming back to you in it’s full glory—reminding you of the terrifying moment your half naked body just sat there as George looked at you.

Why was he bringing this up?

“Um, George, I,”

“I’m sorry I interrupted you that day,” he said, looking at the hand tucked between your legs.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you chuckled lightly, “it would’ve been weird if I kept going, I think.”

“Would it?” George finally turned to look at you, his eyes showing you that same beautiful fire they had before George got in a car on a Saturday. Maybe it was just starting early this week.

“I was in your room, it’s not like I should’ve done that there…” you trailed off.

“I didn’t mind,” he said simply, “I don’t mind.”

“Sorry?”

“If you wanted to do that again in my room, you can,” he licked his lips. You realised his hand wasn’t as close to your knees as it was last time you checked. It sat much higher now.

“We’re in your room now,” you pointed out, your voice catching in your throat lightly.

“We are,” George agreed.

You locked eyes, his stare burning into you as he raised his eyebrows lightly. As if to ask if he can push you any more. You nodded.

George moved his hand down your inner thigh and grabbed it, pulling your leg upwards and disconnecting your thighs from each other. You wondered if there was a visible wet patch—but your leggings were black. You could feel the wetness either way.

“It was a really interesting sight, you know,” George said, watching as you slowly spread your legs in front of him, “you touching yourself in a Mercedes shirt.”

“Can’t recreate it for you,” you smiled apologetically at him, shrugging at your blue tank top.

Before you could even predict his next move, George pulled his own Mercedes shirt off and handed it to you.

You felt your breath hitch.

You nodded slightly, grabbing the shirt from him as you ripped off your tank top.

George was staring, his eyes raking over your skin like a lion after its prey.

It made you feel powerful, and his heavy gaze on your blue bra gave you the courage to reach behind your back and drop the bra to his floor.

“Fuck,” he let out as he looked at your exposed chest.

A twitch in his hand made it seem like he wanted to reach forward and grab your tits, but something stopped him from doing so—and all he did was watch as you pulled his shirt over your head, your nipples poking out against the white material.

“What now?” You asked him, as if to give him a way out of this. But George didn’t want one, and instead he smirked at you in that cocky way of his.

“Touch yourself.”

You never thought you’d hear George say those words, let alone to you, and so how could you deny him that request?

You brought one hand to your chest, glad you freed yourself from the constrict of your bra, and swirled your nipple in between your fingers. Your mouth hung open as you tried to control your breathing—the pleasure already running up and down your body.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” George suggested, leaning back as he took in the sight in front of him, “it’s not like you aren’t allowed to touch.”

As soon as he said those words, you let a moan escape your lips. Maybe it was the words themselves, the implications behind them, or his stupid cocky tone, but it turned you on even more.

“That’s my girl,” he smirked.

“Oh, fuck,” you let out, and George’s eyes sparkled at that reaction.

You scrunched the shirt up, getting a whiff of George’s perfume, and brought both your hands to your chest—the fabric no longer in the way as you pinched and twisted and pulled.

“There you go,” George encouraged, “make sure it feels good.”

“It feels really good, George,” you sighed, gasping as you pulled harder on your nipples.

“Do you wanna touch anywhere else?” He asked, looking you up and down with a glimmer of a lust on his features. It almost felt like he wanted to devour you.

You wanted that, too.

“Yeah,” you gasped.

“Where do you wanna touch, baby?”

“Wanna, fuck, wanna touch my pussy,” you said, your eyes glazing over slightly as you couldn’t quite comprehend you just said that word to George.

“You wanna touch your pussy?” He confirmed. You nodded desperately at him. “Was that what you were doing in my room?”

“Yes,”

“You were touching yourself when you knew I could walk in, huh?”

You knew where this was going now, and you knew how insufferably cocky he was going to get in two seconds, but you didn’t fucking care. You wanted to play whatever this game was—and if it was possible, you wanted to win it.

“I wanna show you how I touch myself, Georgie,” you let out.

It almost sounded like George growled at you, and he quickly nodded his head—leaning forward to get a closer look at your hands.

You brought them down towards your clothed pussy, gasping as you realised you soaked through your underwear and leggings. You felt your face heat up.

“What is it?” George asked, seeing the surprise on your features.

“It’s really wet,” you gasped, rubbing circles on your clit.

“Show me,” George demanded. You dipped a finger inside your underwear, gasping at the contact, making sure to coat it in your wetness before you showed it off for George to see.

He bit his lip at the sight, his hand running over his hair.

“That’s fucking hot,” he praised, palming himself for a moment before he brought his attention back to you.

You kept going, using your fingers on yourself in the ways you knew would send you over the edge, and having George’s tight gaze on you only made it feel better,

You took in his features, how tight his jaw looked, the way his eyebrows scrunched in the middle slightly, the way his chest stood so beautifully in front of you—just asking to be touched and kissed and marked.

Then, you noticed the tent in his sweats.

“Touch yourself, George,” you let out quickly, wanting nothing more than to see George in the exact position he put you in.

George didn’t need to be told twice, and he quickly moved his sweats down to his thighs, a small wet patch on his boxers.

He freed himself, the sight of him fully hard making your mouth water.

“I think I have some catching up to do,” he said when he noticed your breathing got a lot heavier, and your movements much quicker.

You nodded frantically at him, barely able to say anything, as you watched his fist pumping up and down his length.

He definitely had a reason to be as cocky as he was.

The pair of you locked eyes again, each focusing on the movements of your own hands, and the sinful sights in front of you, and before long George was shutting his eyes as he moaned into the room.

That was the best sound you’ve ever heard.

“I’m close,” you said desperately.

“I’m close, too,” he nodded.

“Together?”

“Fuck, yes,”

You sped up your movements even more, the noises coming out of your mouth even more desperate than they’ve been all night, and in a matter of seconds you felt something snap within you and that fantastic curl in your toes.

It wasn’t long after that George threw his head back, a hot white pleasure taking over his face as cum shot onto his exposed stomach.

“Fucking hell, George,” you let out in a chuckle.

All you wanted to do was lean forward and clean his stomach with your tongue, but instead you reached over for a few tissues on the side table by the sofa.

“Thanks,” he cleaned himself off quickly, taking a second to catch his breath. “Can I get you something?”

“Water, please,” George quickly got up and grabbed a drink from the mini fridge, opening the bottle for you and handing it over. You could barely sit up straight, the sensitivity in your core sending tingles up and down your body.

You were almost tempted to ask George if you could go again.

But instead, the pair of you just sank back to your previous position, George shifting your legs so they were back on his lap.

“Want some food?”

And that was that.

George got on the podium that Sunday, and Max invited everyone to go out to his favourite part of Amsterdam, and what happened on Friday night was all but forgotten.

Or at least that’s how you acted. But almost every night, when you couldn’t fall asleep, you replayed the events of that day in your head—your orgasm hitting you just as strongly as the night before.

But it was never as good as when George was right there in front of you.

[kusunokihime-a]

☮ Sasuke waking Ryu up after she has a nightmare? :3

[Send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse ][ @kyuuzuchiha ][ Accepting ][☮ = waking them up after a nightmare ]

     It’s been a while since something has broken through and drawn her into a nightmare. Vigilance and training - new self-awareness born from the constant meditation necessary to perfect her craft - has left her dreamscape quiet for quite some time.

     But the rush of their journey - the lack of time to reflect on what’s transpired - has left her unable to confront the terrifying reaction Orochimaru’s soul had had upon her body. She’s been taught to accept the realities of death and pain...but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t echo deep beneath her conscious efforts.

     Still asleep, eyes roam beneath their lids, muscles twitching. Her left arm, riddled with the snake-like scars of the sannin’s insidious energy, convulses as the moments replay in her mind.

     That’s all they were - a handful of moments that seemed to linger on for hours as time lost meaning. Never had her consciousness been so overwhelmed by agony, eyes rolling to the back of her head as her grip on the soul fragment locked within Sasuke had burned as it fought against her efforts to remove it. In the end she’d overcome it, but not without vivid reminders burned into her skin like a brand.

     Within her mind, the soul overwhelms her - the burning, started at her hand, works up past its true marks at her elbow, up to her shoulder...before spreading over every inch of her skin. Everything tenses, a few quiet whimpers all she can truly sound despite the screeching within the vision.

     Though the trauma is all in her mind, chakra pools with instinctive will to combat the threat, her fearful clenching of her jaw and furrowing of her brow hardening into something more akin to fury.

     But before it can overtake her, a hand finds her through the terror and pulls her back through to the surface. By reflex, she sits up with a gasp, for a moment stuck between dream and reality. Breath trembles in her lungs for a long moment, a hand pushing back the fringe of her hair from the sweat of her brow. At first, she doesn’t realize it was Sasuke who woke her.

     Only once her heart calms does she risk a glance, feeling ashamed though she knows she shouldn’t. Palming her forehead, she offers, “...I...hope I didn’t wake you.” A pause, and then, “...thanks for bringing me out. I should...I should meditate for a while.”

     I don’t want that happening again...

[wyn-n-tonic]

Hi O! That last Frizzy installment was 👌🏻👌🏻👌🏻I'm so curious what happened between the split part 3 and this? Will you ever write about that point in time? Right after Lizzy is back in Will's care and Frankie is locked away in the cabin. That slooow painful crawl to get better (on both sides) really interests me and I'm rooting for them so hard istg!

hi, bestie! so first of all, thank you so much! it means a lot to me that you read it at all but the fact that you care enough to ask me about it? ugh, be still my beating heart! second of all... yes, but it's more complicated than yes.

that time is, what i feel like, the meat of their story. i've written them, their beginning, their break up, their resolution. but i haven't written the parts that make up their conflict or the work towards that resolution and for that i'm really sorry. but it's because they mean so much to me and those parts of their story especially mean so much to me. but it takes a lot out of me to write and if i'm going to do it then i'm going to do it as accurately and authentically as possible. their sex life is just easier to write, their cute moments with Emmy are just easier to write. and, after so many installments to their story, i still feel like i'm getting to know these characters.

truth be told, i stopped seeing this as fanfiction a long time ago and even though i know that it is, these characters are so much more to me than that now. my first Frizzy post was in April. i've almost spent a year with them living inside of my head and telling me about themselves and their family.

i do have a chapter of Lizzy and Will coming up that will take place during that time. we'll finally see where his own anger and hurt over the situation flipped from Frankie to Lizzy. there's so much more of them inside of me but there's so much more research that needs to go into it as well and several of those parts will be with Frankie as the reader insert (because my clown ass didn't take this to third person near the beginning).

i know there's so much of this story that people wouldn't like. i think that TikTok clocked that i was writing about pregnancy and miscommunication and whatnot because they put me on anti-miscommunication/anti-pregnancy trope BookTok and it's kind of dampened my spirits about a lot of it but i'm trying not to let it get to me.

but i always said that my goal with writing was that if it meant something to even one person then i am happy. there are so many who care about this story and it's crazy. happy doesn't even describe it. it's tipped into being overwhelmed and truly amazed. thank you for being one of those people.