#I LOVE setting little goals and going ham

[sanchoyo]

reread Ekleipsis bc I got some very nice comments on it and wanted to revisit it 2 years later and u know what?? I think it still holds up p well! There are slight typos and parts I wish I could’ve lengthened, foreshadowed more, or gotten Deep into the lore/characters abt, but considering I was busting out a chapter a day and had it done in a dang month I do think it’s pretty good as a lil story!! Would love to do more art for it or revisit the world in some way some day. Babies first real Big Original work 🥺 in my mind it’s still kind of the first draft version, but I’m still proud regardless… ❣️

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

˗ˏˋ laundry day ˎˊ˗

"Doing laundry should be a normal activity—not something that brings out a whole new set of revelations about Jungkook you were not even fathoming. And you don’t know if it’s helping old ladies, tying your shoes or collecting stupid vynils—but you don’t like how it’s throwing off your whole perception of your annoying roommate."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: laundry rooms, old ladies that have a vendetta against you?, jungkook being a decent human being, batman socks, vynil revelations, humanizing jungkook and not liking it

✧ author's note ✧

Hello again little gremlins! It’s your girl, Kiki—back with another dose of Jungkook being emotionally compromised and having weird feelings about vulnerability.

SO. This chapter is… fairly slow-paced, which, duh—have you read my stuff? I went HAM on the introspection here, but I think it was so needed. Sometimes we need this type of chapter to balance the narrative out. I think it’s worked out beautifully, but do let me know your thoughts at the end.

About the goal thing! In case you’ve been living under a rock (or you don’t check my Tumblr regularly—which, fair), I have decided to switch my update schedule system.

Previously, I had been working with a weekly schedule as you all know. This has been quite easy for me to maintain because I work with hyperfixations, and basically ADHD.

The thing is… it’s a 2 month cycle.

I’m basically on week 7/8 already.

And that brings me to The Point. Goal-based update system. Which just means I’ll continue posting as long as we reach the established goals in every chapter. I’m going to be creating a whole post explaining how it works, but, long story short—as long as we reach either the goal in Tumblr OR Wattpad, we’ll be getting more chapters!

This is basically a self-regulation thing. I am self-aware (luckily) and I know how to work with my ADHD—but for those who don’t know; it’s heavily tied to dopamine. Which just means (I’m not gonna get nerdy I swear), I basically need engagement to trick my brain into staying motivated. Otherwise dopamine hits get slowly weaker and at some point I literally cannot bring myself to write.

WHICH SUCKS. Because I do love my stories, and I love sharing them. But burnout is real and brains work in funny ways and I can’t really fight my ADHD or brain chemistry (trust me I wish I could). So this is how you guys are going to help me tame this bitch. WE RIDE AT DOWN. 🤝

And before anyone asks—no, this is not up for debate. This is not something I’m “considering” or “open to feedback on.” This is me taking care of my mental health and working with my ADHD instead of against it. It’s not an “excuse,” it’s just how my brain operates. If that bothers you… I literally do not know what to tell you.

Anyways, as always, I love you all, I’m reading all your comments and reblogs and asks, and do check the note goal at the very end! 🩷

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

It's fucking weird how some people's clothes have a gravitational pull, like they're magnets and your body is just helplessly metal. 

You're wearing his sweater. The same one that's been mocking you from your desk chair for the last twenty-four hours, just sitting there in all its navy blue glory, smelling like rain and testosterone and bad decisions. You don't know why you haven't tossed it back into his room yet. It's been staring you down all morning, a silent accusation of...something.

But now it's almost midday on Sunday, and your pile of dirty clothes has reached critical mass. Your laundry basket is basically a textile Mount Everest. You'd wear something clean, except there isn't anything clean left—not unless you count the questionable tank top you found at the back of your drawer that you're pretty sure you wore to a frat party sophomore year.

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

You tell yourself it's just practical. Totally logical. It's uncharacteristically chilly outside, the first whisper of almost September creeping in, and you need something to cover your ridiculous pajama shorts for the trek to the basement laundry room. They're flowery and pale pink, paired with an equally ridiculous oversized t-shirt featuring a cartoonish sunflower with the words "HAVE A SUNFLOWER DAY!" emblazoned across your chest in neon yellow.

Not exactly the look you'd choose for running into anyone with functioning eyeballs, but it's Sunday, and your give-a-fuck meter is hovering at absolute zero.

It's not like you're going to run into anyone important anyway. Miguel the super probably won't be down there; he's usually sleeping off his Saturday night till at least 2PM. And the chances of meeting some hot neighbor—your future spouse who'll be so charmed by your sunflower ensemble that they'll propose on the spot—are basically nonexistent.

Actually, scratch that. 

Even if some dream person did materialize in the laundry room today, they wouldn't see the sunflower masterpiece because it's hidden under Jungkook's stupidly oversized hoodie. The one that somehow hangs past your shorts, making it look like you're not wearing pants at all, which is a whole different kind of disaster.

Whatever. It's warm. It doesn't smell like him anymore. (It does.) And you're just using it. Borrowing it. Temporarily occupying its fabric space.

You scoop up your overflowing laundry basket and wrestle it onto your hip. The elevator in this building moves with all the urgency of continental drift, so you opt for the stairs. Three flights down isn't horrible, especially since the laundry room is conveniently right next to the stairwell exit.

"Just put it in his room later," you mutter to yourself, adjusting the hoodie. 

You could've done that yesterday when he tossed it at you, but you didn't, and you're not thinking about why.

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods. 

The whole ritual is familiar now—Sunday laundry day, another week of adulting successfully completed without burning the building down or getting evicted. Not that the bar should be that low, but hey, after the month you've had, you'll take the wins where you can get them.

As you start down the stairs, the hoodie falls past your hand, and you absently tug it back up, trying not to think about how the collar brushes against your cheek or how the cuffs hang past your fingertips. 

And you definitely aren't thinking about the fact that you're surrounded by the scent of him with every breath you take.

Because that would be weird, right? Being conscious of wearing your roommate's clothes? The roommate you occasionally fuck? The one who took you to buy a vibrator yesterday before subjecting you to lunch with his overly-protective friend?

Right. Not weird at all.

You're just doing laundry, in ridiculous pajamas, wearing his hoodie because it's practical. That's the story, and you're sticking to it—even if the sleeves smell faintly of his soap when you lift your hand to push your hair out of your face.

The stairwell is quiet, just the echo of your worn-out sneakers slapping against the concrete steps. You shift the basket to your other hip, huffing slightly under its weight. 

Maybe you should've done laundry sooner. Maybe you shouldn't wait until you're literally out of underwear every single time. 

But then again, maybe you should focus on the stairs and not on the fact that your bare thighs occasionally brush against the soft inner lining of his hoodie.

Adulthood is just a series of mundane chores punctuated by questionable decisions. And today, apparently, that includes wearing Jungkook's hoodie to do your laundry.

No big deal. You'll wash your clothes, return his sweater, and the universe will continue spinning on its axis, completely unaffected by your poor wardrobe choices.

The door to the laundry room is propped open with a cinder block—probably Mrs. Patel from 4C forgetting to remove it again. You shift your basket one final time and head in, already mentally claiming the good dryer, the one that doesn't sound like it's harboring a demon when it hits the spin cycle.

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday. 

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

Because let’s be real—whoever thought six washing machines and four dryers could service an entire apartment building was either a sadist or never did laundry in their life. 

And on Sundays? 

It's like watching vultures circle a carcass—everybody desperate for their turn at the machines, glaring at anyone who takes too long to transfer their clothes.

Dona Ramirez is already there, of course. The seventy-something retiree who treats the laundry room like her personal kingdom and you like an invading barbarian. She's currently guarding the Good Dryer—the one you had mentally claimed seconds ago.

Just. Fucking. Great.

She looks up as you enter, lips pursing like she's just bitten into something sour. Her eyes travel from your face down to your bare legs and back up again, judgment radiating from her in palpable waves.

"Good morning," you mutter, aiming for polite but landing somewhere around constipated.

"Hmph." Dona sniffs, turning back to her women's magazine. "Young people these days. No shame."

You bite back the urge to point out that it's literally just your legs showing, not your entire ass. It wouldn't matter anyway. In Dona's world, anything above the ankle is basically pornographic.

Shifting your heavy basket to your other hip, you make your way to the only empty washing machine—wedged in the back corner, naturally. The one that sometimes stops mid-cycle like it's having an existential crisis. You slam your basket down with more force than necessary.

"Careful with the machines," Dona mutters without looking up from her magazine. "They're not getting any younger."

Neither are you, standing here taking shit from the laundry room gatekeeper.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

You start sorting your clothes, creating separate piles for darks and lights. Dona continues to flip pages, totally unbothered. Or maybe bothered. You can’t tell and frankly don’t care. 

As you're separating your darks, something catches your eye. Orange hair. Lots of it, actually, clinging to your black leggings and that navy shirt you wore when you were studying on the couch last week.

Griffin.

That little furry infiltrator has been shedding all over your clothes again. Despite the fact that your door is always closed. Despite the "no pets" clause in your lease that Jungkook blatantly ignores. Despite your best efforts to maintain some semblance of a cat-hair-free existence.

And yet...

You find yourself smiling slightly as you pluck a particularly long orange strand from your favorite black sweater. The traitorous little shit must have snuck into your room when you were in the shower yesterday. You'd caught him curled up on your bed when you came out, looking entirely too comfortable and completely unapologetic about the invasion.

He'd just blinked at you lazily, that slow "yes, I know I'm not supposed to be here, and no, I don't care" cat-blink that somehow manages to be both insulting and endearing at the same time.

You should be annoyed. You should definitely tell Jungkook to keep his feline menace away from your clean laundry basket. You should not find it even remotely charming that Griffin seems to have decided your clothes are his second-favorite napping spot (right after your pillow, the little asshole).

And yet here you are, pulling orange fur off your black clothes with something dangerously close to fondness. 

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation. 

Or maybe it's the fact that Griffin is actually kind of cool, for a cat. 

He doesn't have that typical cat superiority complex—he just genuinely doesn't give a shit about anything except food, sunbeams, and antagonizing Jungkook. 

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

Plus, he has this way of curling up next to you when you're reading, just close enough to leech your body heat without actually admitting he wants your attention. It's like living with a tiny, furry version of his owner.

Not that you'd ever admit that particular observation out loud.

You dump your dark clothes into the washing machine, mentally calculating how much detergent to add. Dona shuffles to check her wash cycle, eyeing you suspiciously like you might try to sabotage her laundry when she's not looking.

"Cold day," she comments, which is probably the most conversational she's ever been with you.

"Yeah," you reply, not looking up from measuring detergent. "Came early this year."

She hums disapprovingly, like the weather is also your fault. "Wearing your boyfriend's clothes won't keep you warm forever."

For a split second, your brain halts. 

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah. 

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

Something about her smug certainty, that look that says she's got you all figured out, makes you want to burn the whole goddamn building down. Or at least throw a very minor wrench in her worldview.

"It's my girlfriend's, actually," you say, the lie sliding off your tongue with practiced ease.

There. Take that, you judgmental old bat. Let's see how your 1950s sensibilities handle—

"Even worse," Dona sniffs, not missing a beat. "Girls these days, always stealing each other's clothes. You'll never build a proper wardrobe that way."

Wait, what?

You blink, momentarily thrown. That's... not the reaction you were expecting. No pearl-clutching. No horrified gasps. Just... practical fashion advice?

"I—"

"My granddaughter does the same thing," she continues, adjusting the scarf around her neck with arthritic fingers. "Comes home wearing her girlfriend's sweatshirts, twice her size. Looks like she's drowning in fabric. No shape whatsoever. You young people and your oversized clothes." She clicks her tongue. "In my day, we wore things that fit."

Well, shit.

So much for your brilliant plan to scandalize the old lady. 

Turns out Dona's not a homophobe—she's just a fashion critic. Equal opportunity judgment for all. How progressive of her.

"Right," you mutter, feeling weirdly chastised. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

"Hmph." She turns back to her laundry, seemingly satisfied that she's dispensed enough wisdom for one day.

You're still processing this unexpected twist when the laundry room door creaks open behind you, letting in a draft of cooler air. 

You don't need to turn around to know who it is. 

Something in the atmosphere shifts immediately—molecules rearranging themselves, air particles getting all excited, the very fabric of space-time bending to accommodate his presence.

Or maybe that's just your pulse doing that annoying thing where it decides to race for no good reason.

"Well, well, well."

His voice is sleep-rough and amused, and you can already picture the exact expression on his face without looking. 

That stupid half-smirk. That cocked eyebrow. That look that says he's caught you doing something you shouldn't.

You turn slowly, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fact that you're suddenly, acutely aware that you're wearing his fucking hoodie over your ridiculous pajamas.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, laundry basket propped against his hip, looking unfairly good for someone who's probably just rolled out of bed. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in tufts. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and those stupid gray sweatpants that look way too good on him, and his feet are bare—the absolute psychopath. Who walks around a gross apartment building with no shoes?

His eyes drop immediately to the hoodie, and his eyebrow arches even higher.

"Interesting fashion choice, Phoenix," he says, lips twitching.

Your face heats. "Laundry day," you say, as if that explains everything.

As if borrowing—okay, stealing—his clothes is a perfectly normal response to having nothing clean to wear.

"Clearly." His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the edge of your floral shorts peeking out beneath the hem of his hoodie. "Sunflower PJs? Again?"

"It's laundry day," you repeat, like maybe he didn't hear you the first time. Like maybe that's a valid excuse for looking like you raided a middle schooler's closet. "Everything else is dirty."

"Hmm." 

He steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and moves to the washing machine next to yours. 

Puts his basket down. 

Stands too close. 

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with that infuriating confidence he always has, like he's so sure of himself, so certain of how this interaction is going to play out.

"I found it in my room," you say, turning back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle selection. "Must've gotten mixed up in my stuff."

"For a whole day?" He snorts, and you can hear him starting to sort his laundry beside you. "Interesting that you decided to wear it instead of, I don't know, returning it."

"It was convenient," you mutter, jabbing at the start button. "And it's cold."

"Right."

You can hear the smile in his voice without looking at him, and you don’t know why you notice without even having to gaze at him. 

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

Your head whips around at the sharp change in Dona's tone. Not softer—definitely not softer—but different somehow. Like… Less venomous, more... familiar? 

The old woman is glaring at Jungkook, but it's not the same glare she gives you. It's like the difference between a loaded gun and a water pistol.

"Sorry, Miss D," Jungkook says, and there's something in his voice—a hint of warmth?—that catches you completely off guard. "Overslept."

"Hmph. Young people." Dona shakes her head, but there's no real bite to it. "My sheets need folding. These old hands aren't what they used to be."

"Sure thing." Jungkook nods like this is a completely normal request, like random old ladies demanding his manual labor is just part of his Sunday routine.

What the actual fuck?

You stare between them, waiting for Jungkook to tell her to fold her own damn sheets, or at the very least look annoyed at being bossed around. 

But he just continues sorting his laundry like this is fine. 

Like this is normal.

"You know her?" you ask, keeping your voice low as Dona bustles over to check her washing machine.

Jungkook glances at you, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Since when?"

He shrugs, separating a dark shirt from a pile of whites. "Since I moved in? She lives on the fourth floor."

"And you just... help her fold laundry? Voluntarily?"

"Sometimes." He's not looking at you now, focused on his sorting with more attention than dirty clothes really require. "It's not a big deal."

"Is that why she doesn't look at you like you're gum on her shoe?"

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

"She fucking hates me," you whisper, gesturing discreetly at Dona's back. "Every time I see her, she looks at me like I personally invented avocado toast and killed all the mom-and-pop stores."

"Maybe you just need to help her fold her sheets," he suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Or maybe you've charmed her with your stupid dimples and your fake nice-guy routine."

"Fake nice-guy routine?" His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks genuinely amused. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Obviously," you mutter. "Nobody is actually that helpful without an agenda."

He studies you for a moment. Then, speaks. "Yeah? What's my agenda with Dona, then?"

“I don't know yet. But I'm sure it's something nefarious."

"Nefarious," he repeats, and now he's definitely laughing at you. "Sure, Phoenix. I'm playing the long con with a senior citizen. Really working that angle."

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

"Right." He tilts his head to the other side, still smiling slightly. "Well, while I'm busy being fake nice, you might want to turn your machine on. You've been standing there for five minutes and it's still not running."

You glance down at your washing machine, which is indeed just sitting there, silent and unhelpful. Fuck. Your finger must have missed the start button in your rush to look like you knew what you were doing.

You jab the button again, harder this time, and the machine finally lurches to life with a groan that sounds suspiciously like judgment.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, "come help with these detergent bottles. They're too heavy."

"Coming," Jungkook calls back, and he's moving before you can say anything else, crossing the room to where Dona is struggling with an industrial-sized bottle of Tide.

You watch, equal parts confused and suspicious, as he takes the bottle from her. They exchange a few words you can't quite hear over the rumble of the washing machines, and then—what the fuck—Dona actually pats his arm. Like he's her grandson or something.

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

Is this why she likes him? Because he lets her boss him around and carries her detergent? 

That's... kind of pathetic, actually. 

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

But still. It's weird. The cold, calculating part of your brain catalogs this new information, filed under "Jungkook, Things That Don't Add Up About." 

It's growing into a pretty substantial folder these days.

You turn back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the cycle display, but you're still watching them from the corner of your eye. Trying to figure out what his deal is.

"You need groceries this week?" Jungkook asks, voice low but not quite low enough that you can't hear it. "I can swing by after my studio session on Wednesday."

"Do I look like I need charity?" Dona snaps, but it’s not fueled by anger. If anything, she sounds... embarrassed?

"Not charity," Jungkook says, voice even. "Just a neighbor thing."

"Hmph." Dona busies herself with folding a dishcloth. "Well, if you insist on playing delivery boy, I do need milk. And those crackers from last time."

"Got it." Jungkook nods, like this is just normal. Like he's not going completely out of his way for someone who doesn't even seem particularly grateful.

You frown, trying to make it make sense. 

Maybe... maybe it's a hustle? Maybe old ladies tip really well? Or maybe he's building up good karma because he's secretly done something terrible and needs to balance the cosmic scales?

The two of them chat for a bit longer, and you can't quite hear all of it, but you catch fragments—something about Dona's doctor's appointment, something about Jungkook's classes, something about a recipe for chicken soup.

It's all so... domestic. So weirdly normal. So completely at odds with the Jungkook you know—the one who teases you mercilessly, the one who fucks you against walls, the one with the sharp edges and the arrogant smirk.

You're so busy trying to reconcile these two versions of him that you almost miss it when Dona's voice rises slightly.

"...since Hector passed, and these new delivery apps, they charge so much..." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "...shouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg just to get groceries when you can't..."

Jungkook says something too low for you to catch, and Dona makes that "hmph" sound again. But this time it sounds different. Almost... vulnerable?

"Well," she says, louder now, "you're the only one who bothers to check. The others in this building, they see an old woman and they look right through her. Like I'm already a ghost."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Something uncomfortable twists in your chest. An emotion you don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels a lot like…

Shame.

Because that's exactly what you did, isn't it? You saw a grumpy old lady and decided she was the enemy. You never once considered that maybe she was just lonely. 

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield. 

The same way you use sarcasm as one. 

"Not a ghost yet," Jungkook says, and his voice is gentler than you've ever heard it. "Still kicking my ass at dominoes every Thursday."

"Language," Dona scolds, but you can hear the smile in her voice. "And don't you forget it. I expect a rematch this week."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Wait. He plays dominoes with her? Weekly? What the actual fuck?

And now you feel even worse, because apparently Jungkook—the guy you've been dismissing as an arrogant player with no depth—has been spending his Thursday nights playing board games with a lonely old woman.

While you've been doing what? Watching Netflix and judging everyone's life choices?

Great. Now he's making you feel like an asshole without even trying. That's just perfect.

You turn back to your washing machine, genuinely focused on it this time, trying to process this new information. Trying to fit it into your understanding of who Jungkook is. 

It's not working very well.

When you hear footsteps approaching, you pretend to be busy. You don’t know why you can’t look at him in the eyes right now.

"Sheets are folded," Jungkook says, sliding up next to you. "World is saved."

"What a hero," you deadpan, still not looking at him.

"Someday you'll appreciate my many talents," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Speaking of which, nice hoodie."

You finally glance at him, and yep—there's that stupid, self-satisfied grin. Like he's caught you doing something embarrassing. Which, to be fair, he has.

"It's practical," you say, tugging the hem down where it's riding up. "That's all."

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Very practical to keep my clothes. Much more practical than, say, returning them."

"You want it back?" You make a show of starting to pull it off. "Fine, take—"

"Keep it," he says quickly, and the way he says it—not teasing, not mocking, just simple and straightforward—catches you off guard. "It looks better on you anyway."

You freeze, hands still at the hem of the hoodie, not quite sure how to respond to that. It feels like a trap somehow, like if you accept, you're admitting to something. To what, you're not exactly sure.

"Whatever," you mutter, dropping your hands. "I'll wash it and give it back."

"No rush." He turns back to his own laundry, a small smile playing at his lips.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching him sort his clothes. Then you look away, annoyed with yourself for gawking.

"So," you say, as casual as you can muster,  "you're like, what? The old lady whisperer?"

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"You and Dona." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "The whole..." You wave your hand, trying to encompass whatever the hell it is you just witnessed. "...thing."

"The thing," he repeats, clearly amused. "Very specific."

"You know what I mean," you huff. "The helping her fold sheets thing. The grocery delivery thing. The dominoes thing."

His movements pause for just a fraction of a second, so brief you almost miss it. "You were eavesdropping?"

"It's a small laundry room," you point out. "And you weren't exactly whispering."

"It's not a big deal."

"Playing dominoes with an old lady every Thursday isn't a big deal?"

"It's just dominoes," he says, like that explains everything. 

Like it's completely normal to spend your free time entertaining your elderly neighbor when you could be, I don't know, literally anything else that twenty-something guys usually do on a Thursday night.

"And the groceries?"

"She has trouble carrying them up the stairs," he says with a shrug. "The delivery apps charge too much. It's not a big deal."

"You keep saying that," you note, studying his profile as he focuses very intently on separating a blue shirt from a white one. "But it kind of is. I mean, how many people in this building even know their neighbors' names?"

"Maybe they should. Maybe it wouldn't kill people to look up from their phones once in a while and notice the actual humans around them."

You blink, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Okay, damn. Sorry I asked."

"No, I'm—" He exhales sharply. "I just don't like talking about it, okay? It's not a thing."

"Why?" you press, genuinely curious now. "Why is it such a big secret that you're apparently a decent human being?"

“It's not a secret. I just don't..." He shakes his head. "I don't do it for attention or whatever. It's just the right thing to do."

"So you don't want me to know you do the right thing?"

"I don't need a fucking gold star for basic human decency," he snaps, and now there's definitely an edge to his voice. "I'm not looking for a pat on the back. I'm not trying to—" He breaks off, stuffing clothes into the machine with more force than necessary. "Just drop it, alright?"

You raise your eyebrows, watching as he jams quarters into the slot with unnecessary aggression. It's almost like he's... embarrassed? No, that's not quite right. More like he's uncomfortable with you knowing this side of him.

Like he doesn't want you to think he's actually nice.

Which is weird, because most guys would be falling all over themselves to prove they're nice guys. To get those good-person points. To make sure everyone knows what a saint they are for helping the little old lady with her groceries.

But Jungkook seems genuinely annoyed that you found out. Almost defensive about it.

It's... interesting.

Weird.

"Fine," you say, lifting your hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. Your secret identity as a decent human being is safe with me."

He exhales sharply through his nose, still not looking at you. "Thanks."

You both lapse into silence, the hum of the washing machines like tiny droplets of silence between both of you. 

Across the room, Dona is bustling around the dryers, muttering to herself about settings and temperatures. You sneaks glances at her, seeing her in a different light now.

Not just a grumpy old woman. 

A widow. 

Someone who lives alone and has to rely on the kindness of neighbors—specifically, one neighbor—for simple tasks like carrying groceries. 

Someone who's lonely enough that a weekly dominoes game is something to look forward to.

It makes your chest feel tight in a way you don't particularly like.

"Boy," Dona calls, breaking the silence. "What cycle for delicates?"

"Gentle, cold water," Jungkook calls back without hesitation, like he's some kind of laundry expert. Like this is a normal conversation they have all the time.

"Hmph," is Dona's only response, but you notice she follows his advice, adjusting the settings on the dryer.

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine. 

"She tolerates me," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

"You've never offered to help with her sheets."

"I didn't know that was an option," you say, crossing your arms. "There's no sign-up sheet for 'Old Lady Sheet Folding' in the lobby."

He snorts, and just like that, the tension from earlier seems to dissipate. 

“Maybe there should be. Building-wide rotation."

"I can see it now," you say, following in on the joke. "'4B gets Monday sheets, 6A takes Tuesday sheets...'"

"'If you find yourself assigned to Wednesday sheets, please be aware that those are the cat-hair sheets,'" he continues, adopting a serious tone. "'Lint rollers will be provided.'"

You can't help it—you laugh. 

It's brief, just a small burst of amusement, but it's genuine. 

And when you glance at Jungkook, he's looking at you with a strange expression, like he's seeing something he didn't expect.

"What?" you ask, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, turning back to his machine. But there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just wondering if I should sign you up for Thursday sheets."

"Don't you dare," you warn, but it’s too soft. "I have enough on my plate without adding geriatric sheet duty."

"Could be worse," he says with a shrug. "Could be Tuesday sheets."

"What's Tuesday?"

"Bingo night." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Dona goes hard on the snacks."

You stare at him, once again thrown by this glimpse into a life you didn't know existed. "You're kidding."

"Only partly," he admits with a grin. "But seriously, Tuesday is when she does her big laundry loads. Always complains about the folding."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I pay attention," he says simply, like it's obvious. Like everyone should just naturally notice these things about their neighbors. "It's not that complicated, Phoenix."

There's no judgment in his voice, but you still feel oddly defensive. Like you've been caught failing some basic test of humanity.

"Well, we can't all be saints," you mutter.

"Not trying to be a saint," he says, a hint of irritation creeping back it. "It's just—" He exhales sharply. "Never mind."

You watch him from the corner of your eye, trying to figure out what button you just pushed. Why this, of all things, seems to get under his skin.

"Sorry," you say finally, surprising even yourself. "I didn't mean to make it weird."

“It's fine."

"It's cool that you help her," you add, feeling awkward but pressing on anyway. "Seriously. Not everyone would."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition. 

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent. 

You both fall silent again, with Dona’s muttering as your only company. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's just... quiet. Companionable, almost.

Which is weird, because you don't do companionable silences with Jungkook. You do heated arguments and sarcastic exchanges and intense fucking. 

Not... this. Whatever this is.

"You ever play dominoes?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blink at the unexpected question. 

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this. 

"Dona's always complaining that two players is boring. Says it's meant to be played with more people."

You wait for him to continue, to make the obvious invitation, but he doesn't. Just stands there, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle display on his washing machine.

"Are you..." You squint at him. "Are you trying to ask me to play dominoes with you and Dona?"

"What? No." He scoffs, finger pressing random buttons. "Just making conversation."

"Right."

"I'm just saying," he continues, eyes fixed on the machine, "that if you ever… I dunno, find yourself bored on a Thursday night… There’s always dominoes."

Is he… Is he actually inviting you to his weird geriatric game night?

And if so, why? 

It's not like you've shown any interest in spending time with the elderly. Or with him, outside of the very specific context of fucking each other senseless.

"I'll keep that in mind," you say finally, not committing to anything.

"Cool."

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you’re still wearing his hoodie. And he’s still standing too close. 

And for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—you wonder what it would be like. To sit around a table with Jungkook and Dona, playing dominoes on a Thursday night. To see that side of him—the side that helps old ladies with groceries and remembers how they like their sheets folded.

It's a weird thought. An unfamiliar one. And you push it away almost as soon as it forms.

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are. 

You're roommates who sometimes fuck. You're not friends who play board games together.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, breaking into your thoughts. "What cycle for cotton?"

"High heat, Miss D," Jungkook calls back, and just like that, the moment—whatever it was—is broken.

He turns back to his sorting, and you turn back to yours, and everything goes back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal these days.

But you're still wearing his hoodie. And you're pretty sure you're not giving it back anytime soon.

Sometime later, you're leaning against the wall just outside the laundry room, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. 

Your thumb drags across the screen without purpose, not really taking in whatever the hell you're looking at—Instagram? Twitter? Does it matter? The washing machines finished twenty minutes ago, but Jungkook insisted on carrying both your loads like some kind of laundry martyr.

"I got it," he'd said, waving you off when you tried to grab your basket. "Go ahead."

So here you are, waiting, because it feels weird to just leave him down here with your underwear. Even though he's definitely seen your underwear before. In significantly more compromising contexts.

From inside the laundry room, you can hear the murmur of voices—Jungkook and Dona in what sounds like a heated debate about fabric softener. You catch fragments: "ruins the absorbency" and "smells nice" and "didn't raise my Hector to use that chemical garbage."

You roll your eyes. How is this your Sunday? Standing in a dingy hallway while your fuck buddy debates laundry techniques with a geriatric neighbor?

The door finally swings open, and Jungkook emerges, arms loaded with both laundry baskets stacked precariously on top of each other. His biceps flex as he adjusts the weight, and you're definitely not noticing that. 

"Ready?" he asks, nudging the door closed with his foot.

"Been ready," you murmur, pocketing your phone. "Some of us don't need an hour-long consultation about dryer settings."

"She has strong opinions about lint," he says, absolutely straight-faced, like this is a normal follow-up to any conversation.

"Fascinating." You push off from the wall, heading for the stairs. "Let's go before she recruits you for a lint task force or whatever."

He just grins, following behind you. 

The stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, with concrete steps that have seen better decades. 

You're a few steps ahead when you hear it—a dull thud followed by a muttered "fuck."

You spin around to see Jungkook stumbling backward, nearly dropping both baskets as his free hand flies to his forehead. There's an exposed pipe running along the low ceiling that you always duck under without thinking—you're not particularly tall—but apparently nobody warned Jungkook about it.

"Shit." The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and suddenly you're moving toward him, hands reaching out automatically. "You okay?"

He looks momentarily stunned, both by the impact and by your reaction. 

"Yeah, just—"

You're already on your tiptoes, fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead to check the damage. There's a red mark forming, but the skin isn't broken. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly damp from his morning shower, and he smells like—

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

You freeze, suddenly aware of how close you are, of your fingers in his hair, of his eyes fixed on yours with an expression you can't quite read. 

Neither of you moves. 

His eyes dart between both of your pupils. 

"Um," you say intelligently, dropping your hands like his forehead is suddenly made of lava. "Be more careful. We don't need you more idiot than you already are."

Smooth. Really smooth.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't call you out on whatever the hell that sentence was supposed to be. "Thanks for the concern."

"I'm not concerned," you say automatically, already turning back toward the stairs. "Just don't want to deal with your concussed ass if you knock yourself out."

"Right." His voice follows you up the stairs. "God forbid you have to care about something."

"Exactly," you agree, not looking back. "Caring is for suckers."

You're halfway up the flight when you hear him grunt as he shifts the laundry baskets. It's a lot to carry, and the stairwell is narrow, but you're definitely not offering to help. That would imply you care, which you just explicitly denied. So.

There's a moment of shuffling footsteps behind you, then: "Wait a sec, Nix."

You turn, ready with some smart-ass comment about his head injury affecting his ability to climb stairs, but the words die in your throat. He's set both baskets down on the landing and is now kneeling on the step below you, looking at your feet.

"What are you—"

"Your shoes," he says, nodding at your sneakers. "They're untied."

You glance down. Sure enough, both laces on your ancient Converse are dragging on the concrete steps, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.

"I know," you lie. You didn't know. "I was gonna fix them later."

"Later, like after you face-plant on the stairs?" He's already reaching for your shoe, his big hands deftly gathering the laces. "With my luck, I'd have to call an ambulance, and they'd blame me for pushing you."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of falling," you mutter, but you don't pull away.

Instead, you just stand there, weirdly frozen, as Jungkook—the guy who regularly makes you come so hard you see stars—ties your shoelaces like you're a fucking kindergartner.

His head is bent in concentration, dark hair falling over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark from the pipe. His hands move with practiced ease, looping and pulling. 

It's such a small thing. So mundane. So ordinary.

So why does your chest feel tight?

"There," he says, finishing the second shoe with a final tug. "Crisis averted."

He glances up at you, still kneeling, and something in his expression makes your stomach do a weird little flip. It's probably just the angle. The way the shitty stairwell lighting catches on his features. The lingering effects of morning caffeine making your pulse do stupid things.

"I could have done that myself," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"I know." He shrugs, pushing himself to his feet and picking up the laundry baskets again. "But you didn't."

You don't have a good response to that, so you just turn and continue up the stairs, acutely aware of him following behind you. The only sound is your newly tied shoes against the concrete and his slightly labored breathing as he carries the laundry.

It's weird. 

This whole morning has been weird. 

First the hoodie, then Dona and the dominoes revelation, now this—Jungkook tying your shoes like it's nothing.

Like these small, casually intimate gestures are just things people do for each other.

Maybe they are. Maybe this is all completely normal roommate behavior, and you're the weird one for overthinking it.

It's not like he meant anything by it. 

He's just like that, apparently—the kind of guy who helps old ladies with groceries and plays dominoes on Thursdays and doesn't let people trip on their shoelaces. 

It's not personal. It's not about you.

He's just nice sometimes. In between being an absolute asshole who drives you crazy.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

You finally make it to the apartment door, fishing your keys out of the pocket of Jungkook's stupid hoodie and hold the door open for him because he's still stubbornly carrying both laundry loads, despite your begrudging offer to take yours back.

"I can carry my own shit," you'd said on the landing between the second and third floors, trying to grab your basket.

He'd just smirked and swung it out of your reach. "I got it."

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

And that was that. Because apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. Stupid, stubborn, impossible man.

Now he strides past you into the apartment, annoyingly unbothered by the weight of two full baskets. 

You absolutely do not track how lean his arm muscles are as he sets them both on the table near the main door.

You definitely don't track the line of his shoulders as he rolls them back, working out the tension from the climb. 

And you certainly don't follow a bead of sweat as it trails down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Because that would be pathetic. And you're not pathetic.

He starts rummaging through his basket, brows furrowed in concentration. Then he looks up, confusion clear on his face. 

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

"A sock." He holds up a single black sock with little Batman logos on it. "I should have two."

You stare at him blankly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Did you see a sock drop or something? On the stairs, maybe?"

"Why would I be looking for your socks?" You cross your arms. "I have better things to do with my life than track your Batmans."

"Fuck it," he sighs. "I'm going downstairs again."

"Seriously? For a sock?"

"It's my favorite pair." He's already heading for the door. "Be right back."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving you standing there next to two baskets of laundry and feeling weirdly... abandoned? 

Which is ridiculous. It's a sock. He'll be back in five minutes. 

Get a grip, bitch.

You stare at the laundry baskets on the table. His and yours, side by side. 

Why did he insist on carrying yours? It's so stupidly... nice. And Jungkook isn't nice. He's arrogant and annoying and makes you want to pull your hair out. He's not supposed to tie your shoes or carry your laundry or play dominoes with old ladies.

It's throwing off your entire understanding of him, and that's irritating as hell.

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

Except that's getting harder to believe by the day.

The sound of a door opening breaks into your thoughts, but it's not the main door—it's Yoongi's room. Huh. Like seeing a bear outside hibernation season.

He shuffles into the kitchen, looking about as close to death as you've ever seen him. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in weird tufts like he’s barely managed to lay down on a horizontal surface. The bags under his eyes have bags. His t-shirt is wrinkled in that "I've been wearing this for days" way, and he's moving with the careful deliberation of someone who hasn't slept in approximately three centuries.

"Working?" you ask, because it seems like the only explanation for this zombie-like state.

"Unfortunately." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours. Maybe days.

He doesn't elaborate, just heads straight for the coffee maker. 

You don't ask. Not your business. 

Besides, you've got your own shit to worry about—like why you can't stop thinking about Jungkook carrying your laundry, or tying your shoes, or the way his hands moved when he was folding Dona's sheets.

God, you need a lobotomy.

Your gaze drifts around the apartment, trying to focus on literally anything else. It lands on the record collection displayed on the wall next to the TV. There must be at least thirty vinyl albums. You remember when Yeji was over last week, she mentioned them—commented on how eclectic the selection was.

You'd just shrugged and said they were Yoongi's. Because they had to be, right? Music producer, always holed up with headphones... it makes sense.

"Nice collection," you say, nodding toward the wall. 

You're not sure why you say it. Maybe to make conversation. Maybe to confirm your assumption. Maybe because some part of you suspects they're not Yoongi's at all, and you want to know what else you might have missed about Jungkook.

Not that you care about his likes or interests or anything. That would be dangerously close to caring about him as a person, which—ha! Absolutely not.

"Huh?" 

Yoongi turns around lazily, coffeepot in hand. He follows your gaze to the wall of records, and then—he scoffs. Actually scoffs, shaking his head like you've just said something so stupid he can't believe it came out of your mouth.

"Have you even checked them?" he asks, tone dry as the Sahara. "They're mostly Mayer."

You blink.

Mayer? As in John Mayer? As in the songs Jungkook plays on his guitar sometimes?

As in "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"—the song he played that night in his room when he taunted you through text messages and you were stupid enough to actually walk in?

"They're Jungkook's," Yoongi adds after a beat of silence. "Not mine."

"Oh." The word falls from your lips automatically, small and insignificant, completely inadequate to express the weird reorganization happening in your brain. "But he doesn't have a record player?"

Yoongi just shrugs, pouring coffee into his mug. "Doesn't mean he can't collect them."

You stare at the vinyl collection with new eyes. Each album carefully chosen, meticulously arranged. A physical manifestation of something Jungkook cares about, something he values enough to collect even though he can't listen to them. Yet.

Something unwinds in your chest. A tight, small knot of... what? 

Surprise? 

Interest? 

Whatever it is, you don't like it. Don't want to examine it too closely. Because it feels dangerously like the beginning of seeing Jungkook as a whole person, not just the asshole who happens to be good in bed.

And that's not what this is. That's not what you are.

The door swings open, and there he is—stupid grin on his stupid face, waving a Batman sock in the air like he's just found buried treasure.

"Found it," he announces, triumphant. "It was stuck in the dryer door."

You give him the blankest stare you can muster. "Congratulations. Your sock journey is complete."

His grin just widens, completely unfazed by your sarcasm. "Thanks for the moral support, Phoenix. Couldn't have done it without you."

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of your head. He just laughs, that warm, rich sound that does absolutely nothing to your insides, and starts gathering his laundry.

"Later," you mutter, turning away before he can see the corner of your mouth threatening to twitch upward.

You grab your laundry basket head straight for your room, shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Safe in your own space, you fish your phone from your pocket—and see three missed calls from the same number. 

Ah. Barnes & Noble. 

Seems like you got the job. Which is good. Great, even.

This is what responsible adults do—get jobs, pay bills, build sensible futures. Not collect vinyl records they can't play or help old ladies with their grocery shopping or carry their roommates' laundry just because.

Normal, practical, boring adult stuff. That's what you're about.

Except now you can't stop thinking about those records on the wall. About what else you might have missed. About who Jungkook actually is when he isn't being an infuriating, cocky asshole. About—

About nothing. Because you don’t care. 

He’s Jungkook. Rogue. The infuriating roommate of yours that leaves towels everywhere and can’t be bothered to clean his own mugs. 

You toss your phone onto your bed and start aggressively pulling laundry from your basket. 

You've got shit to do. Clothes to put away. A job to call back about. A life to live that absolutely does not revolve around wondering why your roommate collects vinyl records or helps old ladies or ties your shoes when they're untied.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

(Except that it might. Just a little. And that's the most terrifying thought of all.)

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[laurfilijames]

Like My Dreams

Part 5

Intro Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Pairing: Pete Dunham x female reader

Words: 9.9k

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Swearing. Alcohol consumption. Unprotected intercourse. Sex in a public place. Blood, cuts and bruises. Dressing of wounds. Cockwarming. Mention of stab wound and life-threatening injuries. Assault. Threat of rape.

Summary: Right when you and Pete seal the deal on your relationship, more car trouble and a visit from an ex stirs up drama and pops the blissful bubble you waited so long for.

A/N: 😅 this chapter really got away from me but I had the best time writing it!! I had an idea for part of it and pitched it to the wonderfully supportive @ramadiiiisme who encouraged me to go for it and helped me pull it off, so big thanks to you a million times more 💗 The scene with Mrs. Platt was inspired by a conversation with @stealfromthedevil about her dear grandmother who's cheeky words are included in the dialogue 💗💗

The linked song is one I've been listening to non-stop while writing this chapter and is just so lovely and fits in with all the fluffy bits of not only this chapter, but this series as a whole.

---

It had been a couple of hours since Pete had gone home to shower and clean up after the friendly game with the lads, now sitting in his favourite seat at their table watching the Hammers struggle to get a lead against Chelsea, the match currently tied at 1-1. He would normally care a bit more about it, but knowing you were on your way to meet him there had taken all his focus and energy, feeling more excited to see you than bothered that his team might end the game in a draw, or worse.

He slouched against the old chair with his arm over the back, taking a long sip of his beer before setting it back down and licking his lips.

“Oh, come on! Fucking unbelievable!” he muttered at the screen, the referee pulling an outrageous call against West Ham.

Whatever happened next in the game no longer mattered to him all that much, seeing you walk in the door and through the crowd of people standing between you, his smile growing as he watched you tug your scarf out from around your neck and head over to the bar where you stopped to say hello to Terry and order a drink.

Pete stood and walked over slowly, admiring you from across the room as you chatted with Terry for a moment, your smile making his heart nearly stop when you turned and directed it at him as he reached you.

He said nothing, his grin too large to control any words to come through it, instead opting for a greeting he had been waiting all night to give.

Grabbing your cheeks, he leaned in and kissed you, inhaling with a low moan as he felt you melt into him and release your breath, your hands landing limply on his biceps.

A few people cheered around you, making both of you smile again after you parted from each other, but the need to get you alone was quickly becoming a priority in the realization of how many people were preventing him from doing all the things he wanted to do right then and there.

“Hi, love,” he said warmly, the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes making desire stir inside you.

“Hi,” you sighed with a love-drunk smile, the single word a breathy whisper.

Pete bit his lip as he reached for both of your drinks off the bar, nodding in the direction of their table in the corner.

“Come on, gorgeous, we’re over here.”

You were greeted warmly as usual, the spirits of everyone high after the Hammers scored a goal, and with all members of the GSE and their respective partners present to watch the match, little room was available at the booth.

Ned and Ike shifted over to make a spot for you beside Clair and Dave, leaving a space that was too large for your liking between you and where Pete sat in his designated chair, his hands folded together with his elbows resting on the arms of it as he looked fondly at you mixed in with his favourite people.

As much as you loved being at The Abbey enjoying conversations that made your cheeks and stomach hurt from laughing so much, the company that Pete kept people you now couldn’t imagine your life without, it was difficult for you to focus tonight, your mind constantly wandering to how the night was going to turn out just as much as your eyes continued to find Pete’s automatically.

It was like he knew everything you were thinking, his blue eyes glowing with a telling want and his looks loaded with insinuation, every swipe of his tongue over his lips or the way he rolled the toothpick that hung out of his mouth teasing you and driving you mad.

You squirmed in your seat, your fingers toying with the soggy coaster that had been spilled on too many times, forcing yourself to peel your eyes away from him whenever you felt the heat inside you becoming too much, only to steal another glance a moment later, finding him still looking at you hungrily.

The game was coming to an end, and with the Hammers still holding onto their lead, Pete was more than happy to miss the rest of it in exchange for seeing something he had wanted to all day, and as you slowly trailed your hand down your neck to your chest before reaching for the drink you had nursed most of the night, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer.

Waiting for you to glance over at him again, he watched you intently, imagining your bare form beneath him, pressing his lips against every single inch of you.

Finally, you met his gaze, a sultry look weighing in your eyes, and with a subtle nod toward the door, Pete silently told you it was time to go.

You smiled almost sheepishly, your face seeming to glow in a mix of embarrassment and excitement as you rushed through your goodbyes, your friends all shouting teasing jeers at you in knowing the reason behind your early exit.

Pete winked at you as he shrugged into his tan trench coat, adjusting the collar and tugging it up at the back so it covered his neck, flicking the toothpick he still had in his mouth onto the table.

He took your hand and lead you through the pub with a pride that didn’t go unnoticed by those you passed, finding yourself bashful in thinking that everyone knew what was about to happen based on the look on your face, having to bite your lip to stop yourself from grinning and cast your eyes down at the worn carpet as you made your way out.

The door hadn’t even shut behind you before Pete had you up against the brick wall, his hands holding your waist with a claiming grip as he leaned into you and kissed you breathless, his want for you inarguable.

“Let’s go home,” he said with surety, his smile lighting up his eyes when he stepped away from you, pulling you with him with his hand clasped around yours again confidently.

The walk to Pete’s wasn’t long, but was made longer tonight by how often the two of you stopped to kiss, unable to keep off of each other for the duration it took to land at his door.

There was thankfully no sign of Mrs. Platt hanging around to make comments, the time it took for Pete to fish out his keys and unlock the deadbolt incredibly delayed due to interrupting the process in favour of kissing, your bodies now pressing together more closely and your hands becoming bolder where they roamed.

Pete finally opened the door and walked through it, and after tossing his keys onto the table, turned to grin at you and take your hand, pulling you inside with him.

“Get in here,” he said through his smirk, the playful tone of his voice undisguisable despite how much lust showed in his eyes.

He brought you in against him, his lips teasing yours as he whispered, “I need you.”

You smoothed your hands up the back of his neck as you kissed him, melting when he moaned into your mouth as the sensation of your fingers raking through his hair made him desperate for more, the intensity of the kiss increasing quickly.

Within moments you stood naked in his room, holding each other close while playful kisses were shared and hands began their worship, the excitement and anticipation that had slowly built up to this moment stirring within you.

It was clear that Pete felt the same, his smile unable to be wiped from his face each time you parted to look at each other, and as he moved closer to the bed with you, he tucked his bottom lip in his teeth to try to restrict it.

You sat on the mattress, leaning back on your elbows where he followed closely, crawling over you as you fully laid down in his bedding that lingered with the scents of him and you. His smile turned into a sweet chuckle as you giggled too, having him settle between your legs and laying on top of you making you feel unbelievably elated, the sensation of his readied cock resting against your core solidifying the fact that you couldn’t possibly wait another night.

His expression turned serious for a moment as he peered down at you, a soft groan coming out of his mouth as his cock rubbed against you when he shifted slightly.

“You sure you’re ready?” he asked, his voice somewhat shaky with restraint.

You nodded, and spoke with as much certainty as you could have in a moment where you felt on the border of being totally consumed by lust and longing, “Fuck me, Pete.”

He didn’t hesitate, pushing into you with a confident drive of his hips, your head tilting back as you cried out, the stretch of him filling you bare without a doubt the best thing you had ever felt.

Together, you quickly found a pace that suited you both, his thrusts slow and rolling but purposeful, his kisses growing more desperate on the skin of your neck and chest as each minute ticked on.

It took hardly any time at all for your climax to fire up within you, the anticipation of sex with Pete having let the intensity of it lay in dormancy right under the surface only to bring it forth faster than ever, his body linked with yours igniting and awakening every part of you.

You clawed at his back in a signal of your oncoming pleasure as well as a silent plea for more, half of you wanting to experience it immediately while the other half begged to prolong it all.

Clenching around his cock, you couldn’t ward it off any longer, moaning into his mouth as he continued to slam into you in a tempo that sent you to the edge but you could tell was beginning to falter as his climax took him in its clutches.

Your orgasm came through you hard and fast, shattering every inch of you as he followed right along with you, feeling him pulse and swell inside your walls, soaking him at the same time he filled you.

Pete kissed you almost frantically as he slowed his movements in you, savouring every second of being inside you while seemingly starving for more, your whines quieting out in his mouth as his breathing worked to calm to normal.

Emotion overcame him at the thought of never being able to experience this with you, the reality of him almost dying without ever having kissed you or touched you or loved you made his eyes burn, and closing them tight as he parted from your lips, he held your face in his hand and brought his forehead to rest against yours, his thumb moving to pull down your lower lip as you shared more laboured breaths.

You made love again and again through the night, resting between rounds only long enough to recharge, the addiction you had to each other increasing each time.

It was well after three in the morning when you had finally fallen asleep, exhaustion eventually taking over the nagging need for more, the cold comfort of the open window and your bodies wrapped together truly feeling like heaven.

The sound of rain and Pete stirring against you woke you up, making you scoot back against him to get closer to him, his arm that was wrapped around your waist tightening its hold and pulling you in.

He hummed in your hair, his body beginning to wake before his mind fully did, feeling him harden against your bum while his lips lazily kissed down the back of your neck.

A long moan sounded from you as you indulged in the blissful sensation, wriggling against him until his cock was firmly pressed between your cheeks, beginning to rock your hips languidly back and forth until his sleepy kisses turned to warning nips.

“Babe…” his sleepy voice purred in your ear, his lips pulling your lobe between them before his tongue swept along its shell.

“Pete…I need you.” His name fell from your lips in a whimper as your hand took hold of his and guided it between your legs, his fingertips gently stroking your clit until he had you begging for more.

Pete sat up and guided you onto all fours, positioning himself behind you where he gripped your cheeks with his hands to part them while he stroked your folds with the head of his cock.

Despite feeling how wet you were, he was aware how you would likely be sore from the amount of times he’d fucked you already, reaching over for the bottle of lube on the nightstand where he squeezed some out and coated his length until he hissed from the sensation of his own hand and slowly guided himself inside your tight walls.

He watched your hands grip the sheets as he filled you, your fingers relaxing slightly as he pulled back out, only to grip them harder and cry out when he pushed in again.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he muttered, keeping a slow tempo even though he was tempted to quicken it and destroy you.

He heard your soft hum of appreciation for his praise over the pouring rain, everything you did adding up to drive him insane and make him fall more in love with you, suddenly feeling as if being buried inside you wasn’t enough to appease his heart.

Pete wrapped his arm around you so his hand splayed out over your stomach, applying pressure to guide you to sit up and onto his lap, careful to keep himself locked in your cunt.

Spreading the remaining lube onto your clit with his fingers, Pete began to steadily work you, his other hand holding you up while also squeezing and massaging your breasts, his mouth worshiping the space between your shoulder and ear in an intoxicating way that had your head lulling back onto his shoulder.

Goosebumps erupted over your skin as a brisk gust blew in through the window, adding to the over-stimulation that assaulted every part of you, doing your best to focus on the fullness of Pete driving inside you as you rocked yourself on his lap.

You reached your arm up and around his head, stroking his hair and gripping at him as you rode him, feeling yourself beginning to lose all control but placing all your trust in him to take care of you just how you needed.

Still holding you firmly against him, he continued to strum between your legs, knowing how close he was getting you from how you subtly tried to escape his grasp and your body convulsed to his touch, feeling your hands tighten on his head and forearm that was wrapped around you to keep you in place.

“That’s it. Come for me,” he panted in your ear, feeling you angle your hips against his hand in order to gain more friction on your clit, chasing your end as he increased the power behind his hammering thrusts.

Quiet whimpers grew at a steady pace as they spilled from your mouth, your whines of pleasure drowned out in your own ears as you focused on the sound of Pete’s heavy breathing and the praises he was showering you with, the pouring rain tapping furiously against the glass panes.

You unraveled together, the way your body tightly coiled before turning limp milking out his climax at the same time, his breath fanning out over your dewy skin as he rested his parted lips on your shoulder and stilled inside you.

Lifting yourself off his lap, you sank onto the mattress on your stomach, closing your eyes as exhaustion completely took over you, a faint smile tugging at your lips when you felt Pete follow, kissing up along your back until he collapsed half on top of you.

He took hold of your hand and brought it to rest between your bodies, kissing your knuckles softly until his breathing began to turn shallow as sleep quickly dragged him into its grasp.

These were the moments you knew you couldn’t live without, willing to sacrifice sleep night after night in order to love and be loved like this, the gratitude that filled you at being the one laying beside him as he slept outweighing any desire to close your eyes and miss even a second of it.

You knocked twice on the door before opening it anyway, letting yourself in just as Pete had told you to whenever you came over, the urgency you felt to get inside and out of the hallway too much to handle even if you weren’t allowed to walk in as you pleased.

Pete gave you an amused look, one of his eyebrows hooking high on his forehead as he placed the pen he had been holding in his mouth and reached for another paper to grade off the coffee table, your laughter sparking his curiosity.

“What?” he asked, letting out his own chuckle at your flustered state as you leaned against the door and ran your hand over your head.

“I was just stopped by Mrs. Platt. She told me she can hear us and to keep it down!”

Pete burst out laughing, shifting on the settee so his arm rested on the back of it to face you more.

“It’s not funny!” you argued, even though you were still laughing yourself, shaking your head in disbelief at the conversation you had just had with the crotchety woman in her eighties.

“Oh, it is!”

“Pete!” you urged, as if saying his name would scold him into not making fun of the situation, walking through to the living area where you plopped your bag down on one of the chairs as you passed.

“She actually said, ‘It’s not my place, but do you two ever sleep? All I hear night after night is that bed banging against the flaming wall!’”

Pete only laughed harder, hanging his head back over the sofa where you stood behind it and leaned down to grab hold of his face, begging him to stop laughing before kissing him in order to try to shut him up when he didn’t.

He was still chuckling when you pulled away from him, prompting you to smack his chest as you cursed at him.

“I can’t keep being stopped in the hallway to listen to this poor old woman make comments about hearing us have sex!”

“Ah, she’s just winding you up!”

You turned to walk into the kitchen only to be stopped by Pete’s arm wrapping around your waist to pull you back to the couch that he leaned over the back of, looking at you with mischief in his eyes that made you melt and suddenly not worry about anyone hearing the things you did together.

“Come on, love,” he purred. “She ain’t heard nothing yet.”

“Is that a promise, or a threat?” you asked, smirking as you freed yourself from his grip and made it into the kitchen, filling up the kettle.

“Both!” he replied, sitting back down on the sofa where he resumed marking his student’s homework.

“I need to take my car back to the mechanic,” you explained, shifting the conversation to something ordinary after a couple minutes of comfortable silence while placing a tea bag into your respective mugs.

“Yeah?” Pete asked somewhat distractedly as he focused on his task.

“Yeah, it's been making a funny noise whenever I accelerate, and it sort of jolts when I shift gear. Hopefully it’s nothing major or expensive, they were meant to be the best mechanic…”

“When are you taking it in?”

“Tomorrow morning. My sister’s going to meet me there and take me to work after.”

“I can do it if you want,” he offered, glancing over at you.

“Nah you’re off the hook,” you smiled, “she’s got some holiday time so I’m off duty being Jack’s chauffeur for a week!”

“Ah, look at you!”

“I know, right? She’s even taking him to practice this week.”

“That means I won’t get to see you there then, nothing good to look at on the sidelines and distract me,” he pouted, making you roll your eyes before pouring the hot water into your mugs.

“I reckon you’ll live.”

“Ah, then Mrs. Platt will just get to hear an even better show than normal when I get back home to you,” Pete laughed, ducking when you threw the tea towel at him.

The drive to Millwall took longer than normal due to rush-hour traffic, but it didn’t bother you as much as it typically would knowing you had a late start to your day that had been approved by your boss.

You pulled into the open bay door of the garage, parking your car and stepping out, giving a friendly smile to the mechanic who had helped you before.

“Giving you some grief, then eh?” he asked through a grin, nodding to your car as he wiped his hands on a rag.

“Yeah, as I said on the phone it’s kind of clunking when I’m shifting and the sound it makes when I accelerate worries me a bit…”

“We’ll put ‘er right, not to worry!” he beamed at you, extending his oil-stained hand to take your keys that you held out for him.

He stared at you for a moment, making you avert your gaze slightly, feeling somewhat uneasy.

“Say, you don’t happen to know the Dunham’s do you?” he asked, his question making your head whip up again in surprise. “Steve and Pete? They’re brothers.”

You tilted your head, your curiosity somewhat guarded, “I do, as it happens…”

The way his smile changed and the shift in his eyes put you on edge and raised your suspicions, but you did your best to remain confident, interested as to why he was asking and how he knew who they were.

“I thought as much,” he nodded.

His response took you back, and you blinked quickly, trying to wrap your head around this whole inquiry.

“Sorry, how exactly do you know them?”

He hesitated, staring you down for a few seconds before answering, almost as if he was being careful to formulate a proper response or like he was unsure how much to tell you.

“...We’re old mates,” he said slowly, his smile not leaving his thin lips.

You nodded, glancing down at the embroidered name tag on the chest of his overalls, the name ‘Martin’ one you wouldn’t forget.

“Right,” he broke the silence, his tone more cheerful in disrupting the somewhat tense air. “We’ll have a look at it and likely get it back to you at the start of next week…give ya a ring when we know what it needs and what the damage is.”

“Ta,” you thanked him, giving him one last look before turning and walking out of the garage, heading to your sister’s car where she was parked on the road out front.

You pulled the handle on the door and sat down into the passenger seat, looking out the window into the shop where Martin stood with another man of equal stature, both of them glancing out in your direction.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Hm? Nothing, it’s fine,” you assured her, smiling at her as you put your seatbelt on. “Can we stop for a coffee on the way?”

It was a typical Thursday night at The Abbey, everyone gathering at the table one by one as they flowed in from work, a pint and some laughs with mates seeming to be of the same priority for each hardworking hooligan alike as the week started to take its toll and winded down to an end.

“Where’s Pete?” Ike asked, sitting down beside you with his fresh pint.

“Oh, he’s coaching tonight,” you explained, spinning what was left of your gin and tonic in its glass. “He should be here in an hour or so.”

Ike nodded in confirmation as he took a long sip of his beer, both of you drawing your attention to the Bjorno’s as they walked in with a cheerful greeting.

Dave planted a kiss on Clair’s lips as he stopped at the bar to get the drinks in, letting her continue on to the table where she sat down with a sigh.

“Long shift?” you asked, catching the weary look that she couldn’t easily hide.

She glanced at you exasperatedly, “Oh, don’t even get me started!”

“Here you go, my love,” Dave said while leaning down to place her drink in front of her, kissing the top of her head as he did.

You found it difficult to focus on the conversations happening around you, your attention glued to the small group of women standing at the far side of the bar, the looks they kept shooting your way making you feel uneasy.

“Hey, do you know who they are?” you asked Clair, subtly nodding in their direction as they leaned in over the bar to get closer to Vicky, the barmaid, before all staring back at you again.

“Those tarts?” Clair began. “Yeah, they’re mates of Vicky’s. Bunch of slags.”

You nodded, taking it in but still not having an answer as to why they seemed so interested in you, thinking of all the times you had nice enough conversations with Vicky, or so you thought.

“Pete used to have it off with the blonde one,” Bovver piped up, blowing the smoke from his freshly lit cigarette in your direction as he spoke.

Your eyebrows raised high on your forehead as you took in the information, finally having some clarity as to why these women you had never seen before were obviously unhappy with your presence.

“Fucked like crazy for a few months…” he continued, the iciness of his blue eyes holding something of a threat as he told you.

“Oi! Don’t be like that,” Dave scolded him, shoving his arm. “Why do you have to say it like that?”

“It’s true!” Bov scowled, his loyalty to his relations with Vicky clearly extending to her friends over you.

You sighed, trying not to let it bother you, reminding yourself that everyone, including you, had a past, and hoped that whatever issue she had with you would pass soon.

“Right, I need another,” you stated, shaking your empty glass in your hand as you stood.

Just as you anticipated, the daggers coming from across the bar dug into your back, still doing your best to ignore them while waiting for Terry to fix your drink, but that became impossible when the blonde who was apparently an ex of Pete’s slunk over to you and stood far closer to you than you would’ve liked.

“I didn’t think it was true, but here you are,” she began, her accent sloppy from the drinks she had tossed back already, her breath smelling of stale fags and the tartness of the cranberry juice she mixed with her vodka.

“What’s true?” you asked, giving her no more than a sideways glance as you fished the change from your pocket to pay for your drink.

“That Pete is dating a plain, old slag.”

“I’m sorry, and who might you be?”

“I was you only a few months back,” she grinned, her smile vicious and proud in her admission that she had been Pete’s at one time.

You huffed as you smiled, taking your drink from Terry who eyed you up as if offering his help, turning to go back to the table. The thought of him being with someone as vile as her made your stomach lurch, and not wanting to give it any further attention, you ignored her.

“I’m not done talking to you, you soppy cow!” she shouted, her lack of couth on full display to everyone around as a hush fell over the pub.

When you continued on your way over to the group, all of them watching with bated breath to see what would happen next, the satisfaction on Bovver’s face boiling your blood more than she was, her shrill voice sounded out again, making you pause.

“He said I was the best he’s ever had, and I’ll be right here to remind him of that.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest, the adrenaline making you feel shaky and on the verge of doing something stupid, but instead you neglected to give her the drama she sought and took your seat again, praying that Pete would get there soon.

“Don’t let her get to you,” Dave assured, leaning over Clair who had already offered to fight her twice. “It wasn’t that serious…”

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” you assured, hoping it sounded genuine or at least believable.

“I mean, they were at it together for a few months…” Keith added in, earning a scolding from both Dave and Swill, making you swallow thickly.

You took a long sip of your drink as you tried to tune out the sound of the lads bickering and the jeers still coming in your direction from across the bar, your eyes closing as you tried to slow your breathing.

After a couple more minutes, you stood and made your way through the bar to the loo, praying no one would follow you, your newfound enemies calling you names as you passed.

Pete finally made it to the pub, strutting through the crowd and desperate for a beer after a long day at work and then coaching out in the cold rain, the sight of his ex leaning what she thought was invitingly against the bar making him scowl as he passed.

When there was no sight of you at the table, he did a quick glance around, distractingly returning everyone’s greetings as he shrugged out of his jacket and sat.

“Oi, what’s she doing here?” he asked Dave, nodding over in the direction of the bar where they continued to stare over at him.

Dave shook his head, “They’ve been causing trouble, pal.”

Seeing Pete’s face fall into worry as he looked around for you again, Dave continued. “She’s in the toilets, she seemed a bit upset…”

“For fuck’s sake,” Pete muttered, standing and going through the pub in quick strides, not giving his ex even a glimpse as he passed.

He pushed open the door to the ladies room more aggressively than he intended, his anger at the situation and that cheap tart upsetting you getting to him, his anger quickly turning to surprise when he saw you standing in front of the tarnished mirror reapplying your lip gloss, appearing fine and unbothered.

“Can I help you?” you grinned, watching him in the mirror with unhidden amusement at his presence.

His head tilted a bit to the side, walking toward you slowly while still assessing you, his concern still creasing his features even though he was smiling back at you.

“They said you were upset…”

You laughed and shook your head, screwing the cap back on your lip gloss before sticking it in your pocket, turning to look at him directly instead of in the mirror, your bum sitting on the edge of the sink.

“Upset? Over those twats? Come on…” you shrugged, trying your best to play it cool even though it had bothered you more than you were letting on.

Pete closed the space between you and leaned his forehead against yours, still searching your eyes for any hints of you being hurt or shaken up.

You let your eyelids close, instantly feeling relaxed from him being close to you, breathing in deeply when he brought his hands up to hold your face.

“We all have a past, Pete,” you whispered, saying it more for your own conviction than his, the frustrated exhale he let out at his past involving that awful slag fanning over your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his lips moving against yours as they hovered there, teasing a kiss.

“Don’t be sorry,” you answered, your hands trailing up his chest where you took hold of the collar of his jumper and slid the material through your fingers, his body moving closer to yours. “Just kiss me, Pete.”

He did, crashing into you so hard your head was forced back but stopped by his hands still gripping your face, his tongue delving into your mouth hungrily and greedily where you didn’t hesitate to match his fervor.

Everything was rough and desperate, kissing with a need to prove that each other’s lips were the only ones ever worth kissing, your hands pawing and groping in a crazed act of passion.

Pete’s fingers tore at the button and zipper of your jeans before diving his hand inside them, his long fingers stroking through your folds until your wet coated them, your moans reverberating in his mouth as you continued to kiss, your lips moving against each other sloppily and hastily.

After a minute, he withdrew from you, roughly tugging your jeans and panties down your thighs, his steely eyes staring at your exposed cunt as he quickly unfastened his own jeans and pulled out his hard cock before crashing against you again.

You spread your legs as wide as you were able to, giving him enough access to your core where he guided his leaking head, smearing his precum on your clit a few times until you were moaning and begging him to fill you.

Pete happily obliged, pushing inside your tight walls where he paused once he couldn’t go any deeper, kissing you frantically and groaning into your mouth from how good you felt.

Like he lost all sense of control, he slammed in and out of you, fucking you hard and fast while his mouth hung open and panted against yours in his efforts, the sink creaking precariously as you rocked your hips in time with his brutal thrusts, your fingers digging into the back of his neck and shoulders as you held on tight.

You were both so entranced in each other that neither of you noticed the door opening, his ex standing in the doorway in shock of the scene she walked into, scoffing as she turned and left.

“Fuck, babe,” he growled, pulling his face away from yours slightly where he watched his cock slide in and out of you, the sight encouraging him to move even more furiously within you, your cries growing louder as your climax quickly built up.

“Pete!” you bellowed, a desperation in your voice that told him you were on the brink, and knowing you were at risk of screaming as you came, he covered your mouth with his and proceeded to pound you mercilessly, swallowing your noises of unbridled pleasure as you clenched and shuddered on his cock.

Only seconds behind you, Pete bucked into your soaked cunt until he pumped you full of his hot spend, feeling it leak out of you as he continued to slowly thrust, drawing out every moment of your highs that he could.

You laughed as you comprehended what just happened, smoothing your hand over your head as your chest rose and fell sharply, Pete chuckling as a mischievous and prideful look dressed his flushed features.

“It’s impossible to get enough of you,” he admitted, his eyes flickering over your face as he leaned his arms against the sink, caging you in.

You hummed appreciatively, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer, kissing him long and slow and in a way you hoped conveyed everything you felt for him.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked when your kiss slowed to a pause, the blue of his eyes more vibrant and full of emotion.

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling at him softly while your finger traced the crease beside his mouth.

“Okay, darling,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose against your cheek as he inhaled deeply, his face moving into the side of your neck where he pressed kisses into the sensitive skin and made you squirm and giggle.

Stopping, he brought his face back up to look at you, his expression serious again, his hand finding yours where he laced your fingers together and gave it three gentle squeezes.

“You know you’re the only one I want, yeah?”

You nodded, squeezing his hand back three times, smiling bigger as his own grew.

“I do, though I wouldn’t mind you showing me again��”

“Careful what you wish for!” he laughed burying his face into your neck again where he nipped and sucked at your skin, your laughter echoing against the tiled walls.

Pete walked out of the bathroom with you confidently after cleaning up and composing yourselves, even happier to see that his ex and the rest of Vicky’s horrible friends had left, the expressions on everyone’s faces as you sat back down at the table telling you they knew exactly what you had been up to.

“Oi, that colour suits you, mate,” Ned commented, pointing to his lips as he stared at Pete’s that were tinted from your lip gloss.

“Yeah? It’d suit yours too,” Pete said, leaning over and planting a kiss on Ned’s cheek quickly before he pushed him away, cursing and wiping his cheek dramatically.

Pete laughed as he took his seat, downing his pint that had been waiting for him to return to, leaning back in his chair where he pulled you onto his lap to have you proudly perch, the atmosphere more relaxed and as it normally was.

Red dripped into the sink one drop at a time, flowing steadily from so many places on his hands and face he wasn’t even sure where it was all coming from.

Pete tugged more tissues out of the box, bunching them up and holding them to what he thought was the deepest cut on his chin with as much pressure as he could, the ache in his hand preventing him from doing a sufficient job. He didn’t think he’d cracked on that Zulu cunt as hard as he did, but his knuckles proved otherwise, split open what felt like to the bone.

Any effects the pints in his bloodstream had provided him had definitely worn off now, his head pounding and every cut on him stinging and burning like mad, the severity of each fresh injury hard to determine as he looked at himself in the mirror through one good eye, the dark, puffy welt spreading up to his other from his cheek.

He stood with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, his blood and sweat-stained clothes discarded in a heap on the floor, his reflection revealing bruises on his side and abdomen that refused to be ignored when he had lifted his jumper over his head.

It was late, and as quiet as he tried to be, Pete knew better than to think you wouldn’t have heard him come home, your inability to stay asleep for long without him something he secretly loved and made him swell, always feeling equally as eager to get back home and in bed with you.

“Hiya, love,” he muttered, smirking at you in the mirror when you appeared in the doorway, your sleepy face quickly changing to shock when you saw the state of him.

“I’m fine!” he stressed, knowing what your next words were going to be, the worry on your face breaking his heart a little.

“Pete…” you whispered, not in an accusatory or scolding way, but out of sheer love and care, your hands cupping his cheeks gently despite getting blood on them, your eyes searching his for truth in his claim of being okay.

“Fucking Zulu’s…” he trailed off, a small laugh blowing out of his lungs.

Never once had you asked him to stop fighting, and he knew you wouldn’t now, taking the aftermath of his hobby on the chin just like he did multiple times tonight, his love and appreciation for you making him feel a bit emotional as he watched you open the cupboard and get out the first aid kit to tend to his wounds.

He blinked back the moisture that had quickly accumulated in his eyes before you were facing him again, closing them when you pressed a careful kiss to his bloody lips, letting out a long sigh when you pulled away.

“Sit so I can see better,” you instructed, your voice soft and soothing to his ears.

Pete turned and stepped toward the tub, perching on the edge of it so he faced the sink for you to work, watching the deep red spots staining it dilute into a rusty colour as water ran from the tap and washed his blood off the porcelain.

Carefully, and for as long as it would take, you gently cleaned all of his wounds, wiping the blood that had dried and stuck in his blond stubble and dabbing the cuts that still oozed, your touch becoming lighter whenever you noticed a wince that involuntarily snuck past his attempts to hide them.

Luckily, nothing needed stitches, and even though Pete knew you were done cleaning and disinfecting each cut he’d sustained, you continued to linger, admiring his bruised and battered features.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he pulled you close to him, letting his face lean into your stomach, breathing deeply as you raked your fingers up his bare back and through his hair. His shoulders relaxed, letting go of the tension held in them from taking the painful sting of peroxide seeping into his cuts over and over, his hands smoothing up your bare thighs and your bum.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” you whispered, your lips pressing against his scalp.

He hummed, pulling his face away from the warmth of your body in his sweater.

“Yeah. C’mere,” he offered, shifting slightly so your legs had room to straddle him.

You seated yourself on his lap, smiling when his own broke out on his damaged face, your back arching into him when he placed his hands under his sweater that you had now worn more times than him to card up your back.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, admiring you for a moment before kissing you softly, his nose moving back and forth on yours a couple of times before nudging your cheek, resting his face against it while he closed his eyes and breathed slowly.

“You’re welcome, love,” you cooed, your fingers ghosting over the back of his neck, making him melt into you even more.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he spoke, mostly to himself, still finding it hard to believe that he had been lucky enough to survive his injuries and then have you walk into his classroom that one morning.

Pete kissed your cheek once, then again, each press to your soft skin urging him to add another and then more after that, eventually meeting your lips with his until minutes had passed with you lost in the haze created by your slow kisses.

His hands held your back firmly, keeping you close to him and preventing you from falling back as he moved his head away from yours and looked at you in a way that made you want to show him that the love you had for him existed like no other.

“I love you,” he professed, as if he had stolen the words right out of your mouth. Those three words were spoken with a calm surety that held such truth there was no way you could deny or question it, your fingers trembling against his cheek as you trailed them along the crease that flanked his lips.

“I love you, too, Pete.”

The taste of blood transferred onto your tongue again as he crashed into you, kissing you with more ardor than ever before, the relevancy of the cuts on his lips no longer a concern to either of you.

Your hands slipped around the back of his neck, pulling him into you even more to deepen your kiss, your hips rolling against his just enough that you could feel his cock hardening, your bare core grinding on the somewhat rough material of the towel separating you.

Pete moaned into your mouth, and without stopping kissing you, leaned back enough to unwrap the fold of the towel from his waist, letting it fall open under him.

His hands slid under your thighs, guiding you to lift your hips in order to get on top of his cock, breaking your kiss to watch your face as you sank down on his length.

Before you even had the chance to start riding him, Pete ran his battered hands over your hair, his eyes holding as much softness as his voice did.

“Just be still for me, yeah?” he asked, wanting to savour the intimacy of being inside you unmoving.

You nodded, drawing in a deep, shaky breath, closing your eyes as his nose brushed against yours before capturing your lips again, your hand resting on his chest where you could feel his heart beating wildly.

You would have been kidding yourself if you said you weren’t feeling a bit uneasy about going to pick up your car alone, the conversation you had had with the mechanic, Martin, when you dropped it off still fresh in your mind.

Pete was unable to take you, having to coach a practice after work, and your sister was taking Jack to it and staying to watch since she always missed so many, leaving you to take the tube over to Millwall to deal with it on your own.

You assured yourself over and over that it would be fine and that you were probably reading into things too much, but still the way he had mentioned knowing Steve and Pete and claiming to be old mates with them wasn’t sitting right with you. With work being so busy this week, you had completely forgotten to mention it to Pete, and you cursed yourself for failing to bring it up when you had checked with him again that morning if he was sure he couldn’t get someone else to coach for him.

As the stops to Millwall grew closer and closer, you did your best not to dwell, reading the book you brought with you while your leg bounced up and down unconsciously, your eyes scanning over the same paragraph again and again without being able to absorb the words.

“Alright, good job, lads!” Pete shouted after blowing his whistle, signaling the end of their practice.

He held the bag open for them to toss their soiled jerseys in, laughing at all their comments to each other and how supportive they all were of their teammates.

“Eh, Jack, will you help me gather up the pylons?” he asked when your nephew had made it over to him in the queue of rowdy boys.

As Pete knew he would, Jack happily jogged around the pitch and collected the majority of them, saving Pete and his leg the trouble of going to do it all himself.

“Cheers, mate,” Pete thanked him, ruffling his hair as he walked with him over to where his mum stood waiting.

“Great practice, love!” She praised her son, then smiled at Pete as Jack worked at untying his cleats and taking off his shin guards. “Reckon she’ll be back from Millwall soon, then?” she said, glancing at the watch on her wrist.

“Millwall?” Pete asked, his face screwed up at the mention of his rivaled district.

“Yeah, that’s where the mechanic is she took her car to.”

“What’s the garage called?” he questioned, an urgency present in his voice as he reached in the pocket of his jacket for his phone.

“I don’t know, I didn’t look when I had dropped her off and she never mentioned it…is everything okay?”

“Hmm, yeah,” Pete lied, trying to settle the rising panic he felt inside him at the thought of the garage you took your car to for repairs being Tommy fucking Hatcher’s.

He hit the button to dial your number and held it up to his ear, pacing as he listened to ring after ring before the sound of your voice came through, his heart falling when it was only your voicemail picking up.

“Fuck-” he hissed, hanging up before redialling, praying you would pick up and tell him you weren’t alone at Tommy’s garage.

The bell that chimed when the door opened sounded ominous tonight as you stepped through it, the smell of oil and exhaust fumes hitting your nose heavily, the distant sound of the radio and tools clanking against metal filling the otherwise quiet shop.

Your car was parked out front, seemingly ready to drive off in, and you hoped to settle the bill and get your keys quickly so you could make your way back to see Pete, wanting this day and especially this exchange to be over and done with.

Glancing through the window that looked into the garage from where the little waiting area was, you could see Martin bent over the bonnet of a car, and behind him, a small office where who you assumed was the owner sat at his desk.

When neither man noticed your presence, you stepped through into the bay, careful your heels didn’t slip on the greasy floor.

The man in his office finally caught sight of you, grinning with a somewhat villainous smile that split his hardened features, and you thought no matter how friendly he tried to appear, there was something about him that seemed impossible to soften.

“Hello, love,” he greeted, his voice matching his looks.

“Hi, sorry,” you stammered, “I’m just here to get my car.” You hooked your thumb and pointed over your shoulder in the direction of where it sat outside, planting your feet firmly on the cement floor while doing your best to stand tall and confident.

“Yeah, not a problem, I’ve got the paperwork all here for ya,” he explained, standing from his chair and turning to reach for some papers from the filing cabinet behind him.

Martin nodded as you walked past him to enter the office, giving you a curt ‘Evening,’ as you smiled weakly in return.

The man seemed to fill the entire space of his office, his form tall and broad, his personality giving off a powerful air that made you feel somewhat suffocated.

There were empty beer bottles on his desk, and scattered across the walls and cabinets that took up nearly every square inch of the small room were various pieces of Millwall F.C. paraphernalia.

“You a fan?” he asked, catching you looking at the poster of the crest hung on the wall beside him.

“Erm, no, I don’t really pay attention to football all that much,” you lied, the realization that this man was clearly a huge supporter of the club that was Pete’s sworn enemy making you want to avoid the topic altogether.

“No?” he questioned, his head tilting to the side as another vicious smile revealed his teeth. “Not even a fan of the mighty Hammers?”

The way he said it made your blood turn cold, and you swallowed thickly, thinking how Martin must have discussed your affiliation to West Ham United through knowing Pete and Steve, and you wondered if these men were members of Millwall’s infamous firm.

You shook your head and huffed out a false laugh, reaching into your purse for your wallet.

“No,” you repeated, hoping he didn’t press his inquiry any further.

Clearing your throat to ensure your words came out properly, you started filing through the stack of notes you had taken out of the bank that morning, counting out what you had been told the total was going to be for the repairs.

“It was £450, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right,” he confirmed, watching as you placed the money on his desk, folding his arms across his chest.

“You sure you aren’t running about and singing along to ‘Forever Blowing fucking Bubbles’ then?”

You scoffed, trying your best to look like you hadn’t heard or even sang that song more times than you could count since meeting Pete.

“Ah, I see,” he said, slowly. “So you’re going to lie right to my face and tell me you’re not Pete Dunham’s missus, are ya?”

You almost choked, words unable to form on your tongue that felt too big for your mouth, the air in your lungs feeling trapped while everything around you started to distort as a dizziness overcame you.

“How…how do you know that?”

He pointed his finger at you, his lips still curled into a smile. “See, I knew you were lying to me, you little slag.”

You stepped back as he walked around his desk, his blue eyes icy with an evil you had never seen before.

“Don’t you think you’re going anywhere anytime soon, love,” he grinned, sitting on the edge of his desk as he nodded behind you. “Martin there hates your little boy toy just as much as I do, so he won’t be letting you run past him too easily either.”

You kept still, taking in as deep a breath as you could, closing your eyes briefly to gain some courage as you thought of which of the many questions racing through your mind to ask next.

“How do you know who I am?” your voice squeaked out, unable to hide your fear.

He shrugged his shoulders and frowned, “I get people to find things out for me.”

“Right, I’d just like to get my keys and leave, I don’t want any trouble-”

“You’re missing the fucking point, here!” he shouted, cutting you off. “Didn’t little Petey warn you about me?”

You shook your head again, confused as to who this man even was to Pete. “No, I-”

“Was he too afraid to come with you, not man enough to protect you?”

He stood from his desk, walking closer to you until you were face to face and your back was pressed against a cabinet, leaving you nowhere to escape.

“Is the taste of death still too fresh for him?” he laughed, clearly amused in seeing you put it all together.

“You’re-”

“Yeah, that’s right, darling,” he cooed, his face so close to yours you could smell the stale beer and smoke on his putrid breath. “I’m Tommy Hatcher. The man who nearly wiped out the Dunham name.”

He seemed so proud of it, like the memory was something he revisited often, and you felt sick knowing you were standing vulnerable at the hands of the man who almost killed the one you couldn’t live without.

“It’s funny, innit? That out of all the garages in London to get your car fixed, you came to mine.”

His finger jabbed into your chest with each word, making you recoil to try to make space between you, only to press yourself harder into the cabinet.

“You’re vile,” you spat, shoving your arm against his chest to push him away from you, only to have him come back stronger and closer than before.

He gripped your chin with his meaty hand, his fingers digging into your skin so hard it made you yelp.

“I’ve been watching you for weeks now. You should really pay more attention to your surroundings, love,” he warned, the pleasure he took in this written all over his grisly face. “How’s that nephew of yours, by the way?”

Bile rose up your throat at the idea of him getting to Jack and causing him harm, the lengths this horrible, soulless man would go to to make anyone he hated suffer having no limit.

“He seems like a good lad,” he whispered, his mouth hovering beside your ear where his hot breath made your skin crawl and you squirm in his grasp. “It’d be a fucking shame if he didn’t make it past his twelfth birthday just like my son didn’t.”

“You wouldn’t!” you cried, trying to move your legs enough to kick him, only to have his body lean harder into yours to stop you.

“See, you’re forgetting what I’m capable of. How easy it was to drive that bottle into Stevie’s neck and how much fucking joy I got breaking Petey’s body until he was lifeless on the ground.”

His grip tightened on your face as his eyes scanned over you, and despite your efforts to not let it happen, tears sprang from your eyes at the description of him trying to kill Pete.

“Don’t think it wouldn’t be hard to do the same thing to you or that little boy.”

With all the strength you had, you pushed against him, hitting him as hard as you could in his stomach while stomping hard on his foot, but Tommy was too strong, slamming you back into the cabinet so the handle drove into your ribs and all the air in your lungs was knocked out of you.

He laughed in your face, locking his forearm across your neck to keep you in place, your struggle to breathe seeming to satisfy him.

“I could do anything I wanted to you right now and no one would know or be able to stop me,” he bragged, growing more aroused with the power he held over you.

He ground himself against you, making you feel his hardness through his trousers, the possibility of you actually being sick between that and the lack of oxygen becoming more and more likely.

“It’s funny, you've got the same look of terror in your eyes as he did right before I smashed his fucking face in!” he pointed out, his laughter ringing through the room like you had just shared a joke together.

Within a split second his demeanor changed again, glaring at you seriously as his voice quieted and turned calm.

“See, I could rape you, ruin you so he’d never want to touch you again...”

You let out a broken sob, your eyes screwing shut when you felt his other hand travel slowly down your waist until he reached your thighs, stopping when he spoke again.

“But it’s lucky for you I’m a changed man.”

Tommy loosened the force of his arm against your neck, backing away from you slightly, and ran a hand over his hair to regain some composure.

“Don’t wanna be stuck in the nick again over someone as pitiful as you and your precious Petey!” he barked, adjusting himself in his pants crudely while you shook against the cold, metal cabinet.

He reached for something on his desk, turning around and quickly throwing your keys at your face where they missed and hit you hard in the chest, making you jump and cry out which only made him howl a maniacal laugh.

“Go on, you shitcunt,” he spat, “go home to Petey and cry all about it to him!”

You stooped and grabbed your keys off the grimy floor with a trembling hand, bolting out the door as fast as your legs would carry you, the sound of his and Martin’s laughter chasing you out of the building where you pressed the button to unlock your car as quickly as possible.

The tears didn’t come until you were out of the lot and onto the road, the lights from passing cars blurry and blinding as you finally let out wracking sobs, unaware of how fast you were going or which roads you were turning down, getting as far away from Tommy Hatcher as you could the only thing on your mind.

---

Part 6

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[princesssarisa]

I think I've noticed a slight trend in the evolution of feminist fairy tale retellings. In the '90s, 2000s, and earlier 20-teens, we had retellings which obviously had feminist themes, but weren't explicitly about "women's issues." The conflicts the heroines faced were relevant to feminism, but not exclusively caused by sexism. Yet more recent re-imaginings of the same stories have been much more explicitly (and a bit ham-fistedly) about battling sexism.

The movie Ever After is obviously a "feminist" Cinderella, with Danielle portrayed as a feisty and clever action heroine, and with a contrast between her tomboyish ways and the ladylike refinement of her stepmother and stepsisters. But the conflict Danielle faces revolves much more around social class than around gender.

Then there's Betsy Cornwell's 2015 YA novel Mechanica, a steampunk Cinderella where the heroine is an inventor. This is obviously a feminist retelling too, because Nick excels in a traditionally masculine field, because she uses her inventions to take herself to the ball without the need for a Fairy Godmother, and because she has a concrete goal of freeing herself from her stepfamily by opening her own shop. In this way, she's very much like the "girlboss Cinderella" of the 2021 Sony/Amazon musical. Yet if I remember correctly, her struggles have little to do with gender. She isn't blocked from achieving her business goal because she's a woman; the problem is simply that she's trapped in an abusive home with no money or resources of her own.

Yet the 2021 musical, with its Cinderella who similarly wants to go to the ball to find a patron and start her own business, makes the whole conflict ham-fistedly about sexism. To a slightly ridiculous degree, because this Cinderella isn't an inventor of mechanics, she's a dressmaker! Weren't most 19th century dressmaking shops run by women? Yet the entire conflict is framed as "Ella's goal of a career outside the home is frowned on because she's a woman."

Then there are the two screen versions of Disney's Beauty and the Beast: 1991 vs. 2017. In the original film, apart from Gaston's claim in passing that "It's not right for a woman to read!" Belle's misfit status is framed in a gender-neutral way. Her dreamy, adventurous spirit, of which her love of books is one aspect, sets her apart from the village's simple workaday culture. Of course there's a feminist element, since she wants more from life than what's expected of her and doesn't want to be the "little wife" of a man who doesn't respect her, but the villagers would still consider her odd if she were a man. Yet the 2017 remake had to explicitly add gender issues. Here, the villagers disapprove of women being educated; only boys go to school, Belle's neighbors dislike the fact that she even knows how to read, and they bully her for teaching a little girl to read too.

It's just a little trend I've noticed.

[queen-of-reptiles]

𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂

description: in which kirsty smith and her chelsea player girlfriend have to go through several interviews before the London Derby

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kirsty smith x female reader

disclaimer: this is all fiction do not take any of this seriously !

warnings: cutenesssssssss, talks about previous injuries for the reader!

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y/n just posted on her story

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kirstysmith.11 just posted on her story

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Kirsty hummed lightly as she walked through the corridor leading to the interview room, she opened the door, smiling at her girlfriend who sat happily in her Chelsea shirt.

"There she is." y/n cooed, standing up as she ran at her girlfriend excitedly.

Kirsty chuckled catching the bouncing striker as she launched herself at her, pressing excited pecks to her cheek multiple times. The crew around laughed, finding the sweet nature of the two humorous.

"Hi Baby." Kirsty chuckled. "Can I put you down?" She then asked and y/n squeaked, as if realising she was still wrapped around her lover.

"Oh yeah, course." y/n grinned, unwrapping her legs from Kirsty and being set back on her feet. "Sorry." y/n apologised as Kirsty followed her to their seats.

The two competed in their London Derby tomorrow, Kirsty being a West Ham defender and y/n being a Chelsea striker. The two were a known couple in the WSL and an enjoyed one at that.

"Right, so y/n, of course we have to talk about it. You scored your 161st goal for Chelsea over the weekend. How did that feel?" The interviewer asked and y/n grinned.

"Oh fantastic! I mean Chelsea has been such a big part of my life, with me growing up in the academy and then coming into this team, but there is something so special about getting that number in the net." y/n smiles softly.

"And Kirsty, we saw you at the game of course, having played the day before, how did you feel?" The interviewer continued.

"Just so proud, I mean she isn't called the best striker in England for nothing. But I am still so proud because she's done so well and even though I hate the colour she does look good in Chelsea blue." Kirsty smiles.

y/n lets out a laugh at that, smiling at her lover kindly as she traces her face with her eyes, Kirsty's hand slips into y/n's under the table and her hand squeezes tightly, loving the way y/n squeezes back.

"And of course, your relationship is big among the fans how do you find that?" He asks.

"I mean, I love that they love us and have done for so long, but it can get a little intrusive at times, if they don't see us together the rumours can be so vicious and hurtful." Kirsty admits and y/n nods.

"People love to talk to, when it came out we were together, all they could talk about was the four year age gap and it was so annoying and upsetting." y/n agrees and the interviewer nods.

"And obviously this weekend you are playing against each other, how does that feel? How does it effect the relationship?" The interviewer asks.

"I don't think it does really." y/n hums, looking at her girlfriend who shakes her head in agreement.

"Yeah, like we are loyal to our teams but we would never put us on the line because of football." Kirsty nods.

"Do you think some fans may find that un-loyal?" He continues asking and y/n shrugs.

"They're welcome to. But at the end of the day, football is not forever in our lives, this relationship will be." y/n states and Kirsty's head moves so she can admire her lover.

A soft smile on the blondes face as she watches y/n answer the nest question her eyes filmed with warmth as she makes sure to also pay attention to the questions being asked.

"And Kirsty, do you find it hard to defend against her?" He asks and Kirsty looks back to the camera.

"Yeah, of course I do, she's fantastic." Kirsty says and y/n smiles softly, running her thumb over the skin of Kirsty's hand which is still intertwined with her own.

y/n lets Kirsty let go of her hand, the older blonde now placing it on y/n's thigh, squeezing at it as she continues to talk about how talented her lover is at the game.

"But then again, I know her, I know the way she thinks, the way she sees the game, and I know I can use that to try and help my team stop the little rascal." Kirsty says and y/n laughs.

"And y/n obviously you had tough time of it in 2020, with your ACL then a broken ankle, how good did it feel to get back on the pitch just before the Euros?" The interviewer asks.

"I can't quite describe it honestly." y/n admits, the pain and heartbreak flashing through her quickly as she remembers the months it took.

"Take your time." The interviewer nods kindly.

"Well, to get back after an ACL was fantastic, I knew I had time as I was only 23 when it happened. But then first game back to instantly get a broken ankle, goodness, it was just horrid." y/n admits.

The game had been rough, it was against Arsenal and in the 70th minute while they were 2-1 up, Leah Williamson, her captain of her international team, made a bad tackle and broker her ankle.

"It was worse seeing Leah as well, because I knew she felt so awful and I just wanted to hold her and promise her it was okay, but I was in so much pain." y/n continues.

Leah had almost been in tears, she knew how much y/n meant to the Lionesses and the fact the two had such a close relationship didn't help either.

"Kirsty was fantastic however, I mean, I don't think I would have stepped foot back on the pitch without the support system I had. Chelsea, the girls, and Kirsty." y/n says softly.

Kirsty smiles, squeezing y/n's thigh once more as she leans her other hand down and drags y/n's chair to connect to hers, kissing her forehead lovingly as the interviewer smiles.

"I was lucky really, because I had such history at Chelsea and lucky to have such a good fanbase because I had been in the senior team so long already. But it is something I would never wish or hope for anyone because it is very hard." y/n nods.

"Okay, thank you." The Interviewer nods kindly before sighing. "One last question, what's going to be the score?" He asks.

y/n lets out a light laugh, Kirsty following suit as y/n finds herself grateful for the interviewer's way of lightening up the mood which had become slightly sadder.

"Well, I guess they will have to watch Sunday to find out." y/n grins and the interviewer chuckles.

"I agree with that." He nods before the cameras stop rolling. "Thank you so much for that ladies, I really appreciate it." He tells them as they shake hands.

"Thank you, it was lovely to work with you." Kirsty smiles.

"Yeah, you're lovely, thank you." y/n adds and the man smiles before Kirsty and y/n head over to their bags.

"You okay baby?" Kirsty asks quietly as they put their coats on.

"Yeah, I just forget sometimes that it hurt so bad, you know?" y/n asks and Kirsty smiles kindly.

"I know baby." She promises, pressing a light peck to y/n's lips. "Come on, lets get you home pipsqueak." Kirsty adds as she offers her hand and y/n happily takes it.

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y/n sighed in relief as the whistle blew, her body flopping on the ground as the Chelsea fans cheered for their win around them. The 2-0 win was hard, y/n getting the first goal just before half time and Sam getting the second barley five minutes before the end of the match.

However, West Ham had put up such a good fight, they had kept close and tight to the Chelsea girls and even had some counter attacks which were nearly a problem.

y/n was kept almost silent by her lover during the match, and while she was coming away with a goal and an assist, she felt absolutely knackered from the game her lover had done.

"You okay down there Pip?" Sam asks, standing over her team-mate and friend.

"Yeah, good cheers." y/n nods.

The nickname pip had originated from Sophie Ingle nicknaming her 'pipsqueak', years ago when y/n first joined Chelsea senior, she was only 16 and eventually Sophie started to call her pipsqueak.

The team found the name hilarious and it seemed to stick once they realised the striker wasn't going to grow above her miraculous height of 5ft 1.

Eventually, pipsqueak was shortened to pip to make it easier and quicker to say, and it was usually said more by her team than her actual name.

"Come on up you get." Sam says offering her hand and pulling y/n to her feet. y/n sighs as she nods in thanks to Sam and goes to grab her water bottle, gulping it down and listening to Emma's talk.

Once they are dismissed, two familiar arms wrap around her middle, the familiar claret and blue colour meeting y/n's eyes as she turns around to face her lover.

"Hi baby." y/n hums, the crowds cheering getting louder at the sight of the couple.

"Hi my little superstar." Kirsty smiles pressing a kiss to her forehead which y/n accepts with a happy hum.

"Pip! Pip's girlfriend! You're up for interviews!" Emma's call rings and y/n groans.

"Emma, why can't you use my name?" y/n whines as she walks past her boss.

"I did!" Emma denies and Kirsty laughs as they get to the pitch-side interview and are handed their microphones and separate to their own interviewers.

"y/n congrats on the performance today, a good win or things to work on?" She is asked.

"Thank you. Look every win is a good win really, but definitely things to work on. We were late to all the second balls, we didn't close down quick enough and we missed some really good chances." y/n nods.

"Always looking for ways to improve right?" The interviewer asks.

"Completely. We always do look for ways to get better, because that is how you stay the best and today proves that we have got a lot to work on." y/n nods.

"Even so, a great goal from you. Did you think it was going to go in?" The interviewer asks.

y/n's first goal had been from about 40 yards out, she had recieved it from Sam and while being closed down by Hawa Cissoko decided to just have a go, hammering it into the top left hand side to everyone's shock and awe.

"Not at all." y/n says honestly which causes the interviewer to laugh.

"Well, I appreciate your honesty thank you." The interviewer nods.

"Of course, any other questions?" y/n asks her.

"I think one more." The interviewer nods, eyeline behind her and y/n turns around, microphone dropping on the floor as she looks at her girlfriend on one knee.

Sam is stood next to the interviewer, clearly having tossed Kirsty the ring when y/n wasn't looking and now the teams had crowded around as Kirsty tried to not cry.

"Marry me baby?" Kirsty asks, y/n wiping a few stray tears away.

"Of course Kirsty, it will always be a yes." y/n nods, Kirsty grinning as she jumps up and presses her lips to y/n's tightly, before sliding the ring on her finger as they pull away.

Suddenly both teams jump at them cheering and screaming as the video being recorded becomes a soon viral one at the show of love one simple question caused.

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kirstysmith.11 just posted

liked by samanthakerr20, westhamwomen and 308, 298 others

tagged y/n

kirstysmith.11 can't wait to spend the rest of our lives together ! xx

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END

a cute one for a cute woman ! xx

-

Queenie xo

[its-time-to-write]

Hiya! I would love to request a fic based on the scene in the last episode where the fans storm the field?? Like you’d be the first leading the crowd to get Jamie♥️

This one is a little short, but hopefully it’s what you’re looking for!

something to rely on

Honestly, you never cared about football more than when you started dating Jamie Tartt, and you don’t think you’ve ever cared as much as you do at the West Ham game. 

You’re fucking sweating.

You’re sandwiched in between Rebecca and Keeley and you are so goddamn stressed, especially because Jamie had been acting so weird and barely talked about it, to the point where pretty much your only interaction had been sitting on the couch or laying in bed, while he clung to you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

It was so, so weird and it’s giving you whiplash from the Jamie you met, the one who’s confident and cocky, and just a little bit of a prick but in a sexy way you like, not in a dickish way. At least not to you.

You knew it’s because of the fact that he was headed back to Manchester and the atmosphere toward him was… less than friendly, but you also knew that he had to be looking for his dad. Jamie’s always on edge if there’s the possibility of his dad showing up. 

He got it together though, with help from Ted, but you’re still nervous. West Ham is crushing Richmond at halftime, and you’re holding Rebecca’s arm like it’s a lifeline. It feels like everything they’ve worked for is slipping away until, from out of nowhere, the score is 2-2. You’re watching Jamie, completely surrounded, but Richmond gets a free kick and he grabs the ball to set it up. 

Keeley has a death grip on your knee and you’re fairly certain none of you are breathing. Jamie’s signaling for the ball, but Sam- Sam is completely open. He receives the ball, makes the goal, and you’re on your feet, going hoarse from screaming as the game is signaled to be at its end. 

Fans start to storm the pitch and you glance at Rebecca with a question on your face.

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Oh go on, then,” she says and then you’re clambering over her to zip down the stairs as fast as you possibly can. You hear Keeley ask, “Where the fuck’s she going?” but you honestly don’t even care.

You’re on the field frantically searching for Jamie and calling his name, when a couple fans move and you see him across the way. You’re sprinting toward each other and you launch yourself into his arms, spinning around till he puts you on the ground and dips you for a kiss.

It’s the best kiss of your life. 

You finally pull away, breathless and laughing. He presses his forehead to your and for a moment, you’re the only two on the pitch.

“Fucking knew you could do it,” you whisper. “Knew you were a great actor ever since Lust Conquers All.”

Jamie replies, “Oi, come off it,” but he’s staring at your lips with such a hungry look that you know he doesn’t mean it. 

You’re about to kiss him again when you hear a voice say, “I fucking knew it.”

You both jump to see Isaac two feet away.

“How the fuck?” Jamie asks. “We did so good at hiding it.”

“Body language, bruv,” Isaac responds. “You two act weird every time you’re in the same room.”

You shrug. Jamie’s hands are on your waist and your arms are still around his neck, but neither of you care. Screw secrecy; if there were ever a time to let people know you’re together, this is it. 

[alienwithabox]

1, 5, 12, 18, 39, 76, 77 for the fic asks! (I warned ya! 😉😁)

Thank you Kate!! These questions come from here and I'd be happy if other people asked more!

1) Do you daydream a lot before you write, or go for it as soon as the ideas strike?

For the last decade, nearly all of my fics have existed solely within my mind. To say I daydream a lot is an understatement. I've had some sort of maladaptive daydreaming disorder since I was quite young. On the upside, it generates a lot of ideas and scenes. On the downside, it's called "maladaptive" for a reason. Everything I write was initially drafted by my nightly pacings. I've only just now gotten into writing these ideas out again.

5) How many wips do you have? What fandoms/pairings are they for?

Okay so, counting only the written WIPs, I have one. It's a canon-compliant m/m Lost fic centred on an OC who was on Oceanic Flight 815 and his relationship with Ben Linus. It's still in its infancy but coming along nicely.

I have a few more things hovering around in my head.

Two for Person of Interest:

- Harold Finch x Trans Man OC. Harold's first real love re-enters his life (*side-eyes Machine*) and he can't find it in him to walk away, no matter how much he wants to in order to keep OC safe. Harold still loves Grace, it's just a case of this being the person he was supposed to be with.

- Canon-compliant Gen fic. Harold suddenly has custody of his now-teenage kid who is as much of a menace as Harold was in his youth. In the battle of nature vs nurture, nature won in a big way.

Two for Evil:

- Leland Townsend x Trans Man OC. Once long-time friend (and quiet admirer) of "Jacob Perry" remeets him, both having taken on new forms of themselves. There's redemption arc elements for Leland, based off the shreds of good that got revealed in S4. His usual corrupting tactics don't work on OC so he performs some of his former self's traits in order to draw OC in. This ends up emotionally wrecking him as he realises that OC loves the man he used to be, not his current self.

- Leland Townsend x Male OC. In juxtaposition to the above concept, this one is two morally dubious gays being morally dubious and gay. They manage to bring out both the worst and the best in each other; perfectly balanced as all things should be.

12) Do you outline your fics? If yes, how detailed are your outlines? How far do you stray from them?

I most definitely do outline my fics! Structure is an important part of my life as someone who struggles with executive dysfunction. Checklists, alarms, itemised lists, and itineraries are my lifeline. When I don't plan ahead and set realistic goals and timelines, I tend to lose focus, waste my time, and stress myself out so much that I accomplish less or nothing at all.

How detailed my fic outlines are depend on if I'm following a canon timeline of events or creating my own direction. When I go canon, I tend to go ham for the authenticity. For my Lost fic, for instance, I made a day-by-day timeline of the events of the show as a reference. It mainly focuses on what the MC is witnessing but sometimes mentions "off-screen" big events that I as the writer need to remember happen on that day. Some days have much shorter entries than others. It helps me orient the MC within the world; I want him to be able to refer to and be impacted by past events in a realistic way.

Something I've recently discovered doing that I think I'm gonna stick with from now on is little chapter notes. Each chapter has a Plot note with a few sentences covering the general events of the chapter and how many "page break" sections it'll have, a POV note to denote what character we're following in each section, a Relationship note to track the current emotions of the main couple (especially towards each other), and a Characters note to track the relationships the MC has with other characters. It might sound too rigid to some people but it helps me get the pacing of each chapter right and make sure I'm shifting character emotions in a way that makes sense.

18) Do you enjoy research? Which fic of yours required the most research?

I'm one of those people who will find out the rules of the world the story is set in an strictly adhere to them. Sure there can be a magical Island, a corporate organisation of 60 demonic houses, or a sentient A.I. that was built by one man...but these things also exist in an otherwise present day reality so you can bet your ass I'm gonna look up how long it takes to obtain a specific degree or job certification, what schools exist in this area, which train goes to what stations, and other extremely trivial yet grounding real world details.

The most research I ever did for a fic was for a character profile I made of a BBC Musketeers OC. I went full historically accurate and spent 14 hours straight writing what ended up being something like 10 pages on a character I never ended up doing anything with. She must've possessed me.

39) What’s your most self-indulgent wip?

All of my writing is self-indulgent. I have always written to express my own emotions, escape from my own life, and bring myself joy and catharsis. I only ever published things online because I figured one or two people might derive a bit of joy out of it. As I said earlier, every fic idea I have stems from daydreams, which means that all my OCs are, to some degree, self-inserts. I'm at peace with that, though, as so much of my lived experience includes things I want to see represented: gay men, trans men, neurodivergency, speech issues, physical disabilities, chronic pain, mental health issues, volatile family relationships.

My most self-indulgent is probably the one where Harold has a kid. All my OCs resemble different parts of me but this one is my catharsis fic, the one where I heal my inner child. This kid is gay, trans, autistic, hearing impaired, walks with a cane due to a hip and lower back injury, and had an abusive mother. He is respected, loved, protected, and prioritised by Harold. Despite his physical and mental conditions, the rest of Team Machine don't underestimate his capabilities; Harold does though because it's basically his job to think his child is made of glass. He's a tech whiz like his dad, a practiced liar, is pretty good at using his cane as a melee weapon, and gets to hear the Machine's God Mode communication through his hearing aids. Making the Machine conversing with hearing impaired people a theme was too good to pass up.

76) How do you deal with writing pressure, whether internal or external?

I don't receive any external pressure, thank goodness, but I guess the closest thing to internal pressure I feel is the deeply seeded doubts I have about my ability to write linear stories. My 9th grade English teacher really tore the soul out of every writer in our class and restricted our creative writing so much that I basically stopped writing. It's a whole long, upsetting story that I won't get into but the gist is that I'm still unpacking that damage and fighting against the urge to give up.

77) Why do you enjoy writing fanfiction?

I pretty much covered this above in the self-indulgent question. To reiterate, it's an outlet for my imagination, my emotions, and my need for escape.

[vampirestairs]

can someone write an au about Jason moving into Gotham with his Red Hood plans and then getting sidracked with a money laundering business?

Maybe it's a restaurant, or old style diner, or a garage, or some kind of book nook type shit that he sets up, and pretend hires himself as a part-time worker. Partly because while being a crime boss is busy work, there's still too much free time to be comfortable; and if Jason slows down for even a minute, he's gonna crash.

And also whatever shop he set up is an object of interest and it's like the only relaxing busy work he has. Some may say it to be even a healthy coping mechanism if he wasn't substituting rest with more work.

Except the longer he stays in Gotham, the more frayed his nerves feels, and the more he craves a distraction from his life, the more he gest involves with his side biz.

Until he accidentally takes a week off of the crime lord plans and then straight-up crashes. Like, can't get out of bed, lost in his head, rethinking his entire life. Just fully burnt out. He's been running on fumes ever since he's rolled out of his grave.

And he realizes just how lonely he is. The closest human connection he gets is small talk with his employees (Jason would not! work the work the front). The last person he was able to talk honestly to, was Talia. And she's like, nice, but Jason also recognizes that they're both using each other for their own goals. Doesn't leave a lot of space for meaningful connections. If a tree falls and no one is around to hear it, blah blah blah.

After like 3 more days of bed rotting, the only thing that convinces him to get up is his little business, cuz fuck, it may be a laundering scheme, be he's worked hard on that place, and at this point, if he has to stay stuck in his head for another minute he might just fast track his way back to his grave.

So Jason takes a break from the crime lord schemes to cosplay a normal civilian life. He finds time for his old hobbies, finds some type of community to join ( I love the fics where he's in a writers club), and slowly rewrites his crime lord plans as he figures out what the fuck he wants to do with his life.

He still doesn't want to go back to Bruce; all the messed up feeling he rose from the pit with are still there. Just because he doesn't adress them doesn't mean they're gone, work isn't therapy.

But he's carving out a life for himself, and for the first time in a while, he can finally hear his own heartbeat. It finally hits him that he's back. A living, breathing person. Not a ghost of the past who came back to haunt his own narrative.

Maybe he adopts a cat, befriends the neighbors enough, they share recipes. Idk go ham with the narrative, I just want this man to catch a break.

[new-berry]

I never should have gone to bed!

Mikel / Granit NSFW work of fiction etc etc not edited. No warnings :)

Happy early birthday @longeyelashedtragedy unless you hate it, then hold out for Frank and Jamie Jamie Jamie.

Or just type “I hated it” no matter what and pride will compel me to finish Frank and Jamie (there’s magic)

Mistaken for Strangers

As long as you know Mikel loves Granit, and Granit loves Mikel, you know all the important things. There is nothing else you need to know going into this.

You can switch any of the lesser facts to something you understand better or like more. That’s fine. It doesn’t change anything really if they were rugby players instead. It’s just a forty minute half instead of forty-five. Should still work though. Both ball sports.

You don’t need to know the offside rule. You don’t need to have memorised the top goal scorers by season. They don’t even have to be sportsmen, if you don’t want.

It also ends. In every telling it ends. You have to know that as well. The weeks have run out of days.

I want to assure you: You don’t have to know anything else about them to understand this story.

It might be better not knowing some things. For example: it might be better if you didn't know that Mikel was Granit’s boss.

Mikel has dark hair and dark eyes. He ages slowly, he has a scar on his knee that hurts when it rains or when he stands for too long. He’s vain.

Mikel can easily be a blonde though. He could be Michael and have an arm injury that would make typing difficult for long periods, if you’d prefer. He’d still be Granit’s boss. Even if they worked in an office. Even if they were architects.

He’s Spanish. He could be French though, if you think that accent is sexier. (It’s not, but it’s fine if you think that.)

Granit has a temper. Mikel looks like he has one. Mikel looks hot blooded and impetuous. (He might be better as a redhead than a blonde. If he is ‘Michael’ that is.)

He isn’t. Hot blooded or impetuous. He is impatient and slightly arrogant. But he’s quite handsome so he can carry it off. Granit is though, both hot blooded and handsome. (You could make him a little more handsome. You could make his teeth a tiny bit smaller and his chin slightly less prominent.)

Granit is also married. You can skip that, but, It’s important. But it’s fine to pretend.

Mikel is married too. (That isn’t the most important thing through. What is the most important is Mikel loves Granit and Granit loves Mikel and you already know that this ends).

Granit has daughters that he loves. He wouldn’t mind a son, so it’s okay if you give him one instead. Or as well.

They are both dog people, but cats are acceptable. They meet because of football. Fairly important. If you keep this story in London it should be football. And if it is going to stay football in London it should be Arsenal. Along with love, Arsenal is non-negotiable.

Love and Arsenal and endings. This could potentially happen at Chelsea. Definitely not at Spurs. Fundamentally not a West Ham story. This could never have happened at Fulham.

This is a love story where the lovers come second. There was a chance, once, this could have happened at Spurs. But that player never slammed his hand down on that manager's desk. That player never leaned over and sneered in his manager's face. That player never spread his legs wide and sat his ass down on the corner of that manger’s desk with his chin lifted up like “try me.” Maybe he should have.

If you hate England (fair) this could also be Athletico Madrid. If you want them to be drinking beer the night before Granit leaves you can set this in Germany. But it would have to be Dortmund if you did.

Look: I don’t make the rules for love and love and Arsenal and endings. Contracts run out of seasons. I hope you like bees if you move this to Germany. I hope you like the colour yellow.

Mikel is shorter than Granit and he has to press up on his toes to kiss him. Mikel is Spanish (or French) and Granit is Swiss (and Albanian. Or Swedish and Croatian, that could also work).

You can say: the Spaniard pressed up on his toes to kiss the taller Swiss man. You shouldn’t, not because it isn’t true, it’s very true. You just… shouldn’t say things like that.

However, you’ll have to keep that bit now. Not just for the aesthetic, the beauty of how it looks, Mikel the boss, (or the gaffer or the mister) but it also informs the ending. This always ends. It does end with a kiss. But first it ends with Granit turning his head away when Mikel presses up to kiss him.

There are ten years between them and that is perfectly acceptable. They didn’t meet when Granit was young. There isn’t the messiness of say, fifteen year old Granit meeting nearly twenty six year old Mikel.

This isn’t that kind of story. If you wanted it to, it could be. Granit knew about twenty six year old Mikel. If not football - could be Paul Maurice or something he could coach the Panthers - Mikel is still well known.

You could scooch the ages up and down a bit if you like. Granit thirty to Mikel’s forty becoming thirty-one to thirty-nine. Thirty two to thirty eight.

I want you to know, Granit loves Mikel. And Mikel loves Granit. And they both love Arsenal. Eventually.

Sometimes football is just a job, a stopwatch that runs out of seconds. Before Mikel, Arsenal was just a job. So it could be any job. Could be a coffee shop or a call centre.

Granit isn’t the kind of person to just go through the motions but he needed to learn to feel it the right way.

Mikel’s hands are always soft at first and Granit had to learn that first, how to receive softness.

I don’t want to dwell on the ending, even though it’s inevitable. The beginning was beautiful. Cold. Cold like winter and cold like losing. Cold like your own fans turning on you.

Granit sitting on the edge of Mikel’s desk leaning back. Like it was his office, like it was his desk. Mikel stepping between his legs. Like this, Granit leaned back, they are closer in height. Mikel stays off his toes and Granit is caught flat footed. A shy man running out of bravado, a lover running out of bluff.

Desks and offices aren’t made for first times. Too many hard angles, too many corners. Mikel and Granit half stripped, grinding against each other, hands grabbing then trailing away just to grab something else.

Too fast, too awkward, after a ringing threatening silence. A timer running out of time. Then the glossy soft sound of them kissing again.

It didn’t have to be an office. Granit could have stormed into Mikel’s kitchen if he was a cook. Could have slammed his hand down next to the precisely diced onions. Could have fronded each other against a stainless steel bench being careful of the knives.

Or if they were mechanics- they are very good at their jobs if they were mechanics they would be formula one - maybe they would have kissed that first time next to a car jacked up with one tire constantly, lazily rotating. Kissed until the car ran out of racetrack. Until the wheel ran out spins.

There will always be a middle. There will always be a redemption.

Always Granit- Swiss /Albanian - possibly Swedish / Croatian - going from villain to hero. Always eventually accepting the cheers of the crowd.

Granit would always have called Mikel to hear him breath down the line when it could have been a text. Mikel will always slide his fingers into Granit’s hair with its soft curls (or glide his fingers through his long flaxen locks, or smooth his hands across Granit’s shaved head for preference). This will always happen with eternal gentleness.

Even the times they are angry and fuck. Even when Granit is drunk and raging. Even the time when the title has been awarded and they can’t look at each other and they can’t stay away from each other.

Ifyou don’t already know, they didn’t win that title. Even though this is a love story and a redemption story this isn’t a fairy tale. (So it couldn’t have happened at Spurs then).

Mikel will always touch Granit’s hair softly first. They will always break the law to see each other. It might be Covid protocols. It might not be wearing a mask when they are near each other. (Hardly worth a mask is it? When they are breathing messily into each other's mouths and blowing each other in the office in Mikel’s garden.)

If it were some other crime, an elaborate Las Vegas heist when they maybe would have stolen a golden statue and had sex, with it sitting on a side table in a dingy hotel room with a “welcome to fabulous Las Vegas” cap covering the top of it.

If they were in the Mafia perhaps they would have killed someone and gone home to have grim terrified -exhilarated sex with the smell of blood still in the air. If they had committed actual crimes , not just the moral failings, Mikel would still press up on his toes and slide his hands behind Granit’s ears into the softness of his hair.

There is a part before the ending. A part before the race ran out of racers. When it was almost like they could have it all. When they had a trophy almost on their fingertips, and their wives were clueless, and when Granit had looked down in wonderment, his hands planted on the bed next to Mikel’s head. The distant thump of their bodies together, the counterpoint of the headboard. A song running out of beats.

Granit caught in only a sort-of lie. Where was he? With Mikel (cook, mechanic, late night TV host).

What were they doing? Talking about football (menus, wrenches, the Supreme Court).

Why so late? (The season is teetering on the brink, the restaurant is teetering on the brink, democracy is teetering on the brink.) In no universe does Granit consider telling the truth.

‘We made love on the couch. We kissed all the way through. Mikel fucked me, and before he did he used his fingers to make it easier and becuase it feels amazing. Also the season is on the brink and democracy is fading.’

A comedian will run out of jokes. A drunk will run out of excuses. A husband will not run out of wife.

They come second, Arsenal not the wife. And in the early summer Mikel presses up on his toes and Granit turns his head to the side. He gets a new job, he moves to head office, “spends more time with his family”.

I’m sorry. It turns out there is no other story. There is only this Mikel. There is only this Granit. There is only their story. And it ends.

[jellyfish-grave]

okok. Self aware anon here.

Mishima should get apeshit rights. Let that boy go HAM. Personally, he will NOT be letting that slide, thank you. Boss music privileges, even.

Persona or not, there is a line that can be crossed and I wanna see him just *GLASS SHATTER SFX* you know???? He's such a cute little scrunkly who's been mistreated all this time and JUST LET HIM HIT THAT LIMIT. LET HIM LOOSE.

Hdbdjx during the end of the royal arc he's basically inducted into the Replacement Phantom Thieves squad bec the pts are currently not doing so hot at that point and his entire fighting style is just "GET YO FUCKIN DOG BITCH"

Idk I think that's just an interesting avenue to go down, you feel me? In the context of the self aware au he DOES go a little crazy to protect Player but it's also a bit of a sense of "holy shit. I did that??? Me???" that contrasts so hard with his past feelings of powerlessness and inadequacy that is just 😙👌 muah chef's kiss. And having him PROTECT someone? After the battle's over he's seeing that they're safe because of HIM? And also he don't treat Mishima like canon does in this house, he gets APPRECIATED and THANKED and SOUGHT OUT FOR SAFETY?? Makes him 404 a little to be honest.

You're just my designated Mishima Person™️ now ig. Also sorry if the ask abt his design was too long or too much

Funny you bring that up, actually! I was writing my Mishima fic and was making a scene about him yelling at others! He loses his shit after someone repeatedly disrespected his boundaries that he very clearly set and explained out lodu to everyone. The goal here was to show he's not getting stepped over by anyone again, and he finally speaks up for any toxic/abusive behavior.

I really love the idea of it,,, like a bit held back 3rd sem Goro

Also I absolutely NEED Player to come up to Mishima like "You saved me!!" And mishima crumbling on the ground like jelly

"Mmme?? Saved someone??? smsbcmnemznm"

Im honored to be your Mishima person tm

Also the reason i didnt answer the design ask is because I was sketching stuff related to it :]

[satancopilotsmytardis]

7, 9, and 17!

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

I like just being able to make something entirely with words! Whole worlds, histories, feelings! Just made out of strings of letters. I have always been a person who like making things, so writing is a wonderful way of doing so for me.

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

I believe that the energy of living things must be changed in some fundamental way when it leaves the body and I believe that people may not fully understand that process. (I have no fucking clue but sometimes places do be 'spooky' in strange imperceptible ways and I'm open to the possibility that ghosts are the cause.)

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

I have. NINE current WIPS. Thankfully I can group up a good number of them.

I have a bunch of installments in the Mishap series that I'm working on which while looking like nothing more than PWPs, are actually a fun way of exploring emotional intimacy as much as physical intimacy because one of my favorite things to do is discuss the idea of BDSM as a way of exploring vulnerabilities that it might be uncomfortable or frightening to do in other settings.

There's also Bonded, which I am really struggling with. I started writing the series just because I was having fun playing with a lot of silly ideas, but Shattered is much more serious in tone and while I usually love that, and I have a full outline of Shattered as well as outlines for the next two installments as well, I just haven't found the joy in it that I did in the beginning. I really like how chapter 6 wraps up, and it's been torture trying to move on to chapter 7. I don't know when I'll get over that hump, but it's been 3 months and I still haven't managed it yet.

Tumblr prompts, going well enough. Taking this as an opportunity to just write fast(ish) snippets. I often really want to linger and show how relationships develop thoroughly because (and especially with ShigaDabiHawks) I need a believable progression to show how those character could have possibly ended up together when they're at odds with each other's goals. However, for these I'm just going ham and that's a nice little change of pace.

Stalling out on the original piece (shigadabi with the serial numbers filed off because I wanted to use an original fantasy setting I've used for other OC work). Having trouble balancing how to progress the plot without losing the spark between the two characters after a... disagreement.

The Hanahaki piece is my fucking baby right now. Feeling as good about this one as I did about Honeytrap and Grey Area. It's so achingly tender and I love it to absolute bits. I have one area that I'm still trying to make a decision on and thought that the tumblr prompts would be a good way to step back and give it some breathing room after banging out 27k for it in two days. I'm very excited about this one.

And last but not least, the Time Travel fic! I'm enjoying this one too but I'm thinking about it logistically right now and trying to decide if I'm going to make it a multi-chapter or not. I usually don't like to do that because I write very differently for a multi-chap than I do for a one-shot and I much prefer the style of writing for an insanely long one-shot than a multi-chap (yes this may be why Shattered is fucking me up so badly, also why I really hated Playing Favorites by the end), but I'm not sure if it would be too jarring to go from Hawks' POV to Dabi's after minimum of 12K in Hawks' POV, but I need some scenes to be from Dabi's so eeehhhh. I'll figure it out. I like this one, alternate timelines are always fun to play around with and the butterfly effect here is so fucking strong.

I think I'm going to be finishing the Tumblr prompts before going back to the Hanahaki fic, but we'll see! And this is all dependent on me not starting any more pieces in the meantime. Which. Oof.

Thanks for asking!

[cookies-sports]

Matches from the week of September 30th

Birmingham City vs Brighton and Hove Albion (Women's League Cup)

Aston Villa vs Brighton and Hove Albion (WSL)

Manchester City vs West Ham (WSL)

I also watched a bit of England vs New Zealand in the Rugby WXV, but only some of the first half as I had work early the next day, so no full write-up.

But the little I did watch had some nice plays: the rapid passing across the line with Kildunne's hold-up for a second before passing out wide to Breach to run in on the right, and then the little quick pass back and forth over the top of the New Zealand players on the left that Kildunne then put down for a try... I love rugby when it's working well like that, such a delight to watch.

Birmingham City 0 - 3 Brighton and Hove Albion

Michelle Agyemang's first start for Brighton and Hove ended with her taking the Player of the Match and very deservedly. She was everywhere on the pitch (at one point I think she was moved to the LB position) and never stopped. You can see the inexperience with some of her play, but also this fast developing understanding of reading the game. She always seemed to be ready to jump in and take advantage of a heavy touch or a loose pass and she closed down players with the ball consistently. And she got on the end of crosses into the box from set pieces multiple times. Glad I opted to watch this game to see her first start.

Birmingham City held out admirably for a long time and created a few decent chances on the counterattack. Their defence in the first half were also very capable in marking out Seike, Parris, and Agyemang and not allowing them too much space.

However, as often happens with WSL vs Championship teams, once fatigue set in and Brighton still had players like Fran Kirby to bring in off the bench, the goals started to go in. That said, it took until the 70th minute for that to happen, so Birmingham City held out for some time. They didn't have a whole lot of attacking threat, only getting 2 real chances that challenged Loeck in goal at all, but they did close down attacks themselves well before that 70 minute mark.

Development in their counter-attack would be a real benefit for their game, and I wouldn't say they were outclassed by Brighton across the pitch, even with the final scoreline. That stamina and the ability to maintain throughout the game is one of the big dividers between the teams in the WSL (particular the top half) and the teams in the Championship and I suspect some of that comes down to resources and facilities as much as other components.

Aston Villa 2 - 4 Brighton and Hove Albion

This was a chaotic game...mostly in the second half. 6 goals. 2 penalties. 2 red cards and a bunch more yellows. A shoving match between players. Perfect mayhem.

It was pretty nervy and unsteady to be fair, up until the two goals (Rachel Daly for Villa, Nikita Parris for Brighton), then it settled down a lot more. Chastity Grant for Villa and Carabali for Brighton were good, especially in the first half: Grant making chances and Carabeli saving Brighton's defense from trouble multiple times. Anna Patten also put in a hard-working shift for Villa and made some decent forays forward.

Both teams played midweek and so there was a fair amount of squad rotation. Which led to some weird commentary... Seike had already played more minutes than Parris while Parris was building up to starting, so it didn't seem strange for her to be on the bench. But the commentator talked about how, "Parris was given the nod ahead of Seike who has to settle for a place on the bench". Which was weird anyway, as he had only mentioned the importance of squad rotation a few minutes earlier, but also...Seike and Parris aren't in direct competition for a single place on the pitch? Seike so far has been played on the wings, while Parris plays centrally. They can both be on the pitch; they have been! Benching discussions often leave me bemused.

Both teams seem to be working on building out with short passing from the back and using the goalkeeper to try to bait the attackers into moving out of position. This led to some slightly odd moments where Baggaley had the ball and was just waiting for an Aston Villa player to move towards her, but they clearly knew that and were, in turn, waiting for her to pass to close down the defender instead. It led to some funny looking stand-offs that seemed to last a little longer than you'd expect.

With the cards and penalties in this game, I saw people confident that some of the cards or penalties should never have been given and equally as confident that they should have been. I tried to figure it out from that grainy awful streaming footage we get on YouTube (bearing in mind, while watching it live I could barely tell which player was being booked at first in the hubbub where Pattinson got a second yellow) and I still don't have a clue.

I think (?) that Pattinson was second-yellowed for kicking the ball away or messing with the ball after the whistle went for it going over the line? I don't know. The ref apparently didn't seem to realise he'd already booked her either until the Brighton players pointed it out.

With the straight red card, I rewatched that a few times on 0.25 speed and it looks like Tomás looks at Seike before altering her body's position and her run to make sure she shoulders her; she's certainly angled away from where the ball is going to land. So, I can understand the reasoning for penalty on the grounds of an off-ball foul. What I cannot see is what pushed it up to a red. The commentator said an elbow, but looking at the position Seike and Thomas are in and where the ref is stood, I don't know how easily he would see an elbow being thrown. Parris was tapping her elbow and speaking to the ref as he approached the situation, but she was much closer and in a better position. Also, she's not the one who would make the decision.

So, I have no idea if there was an elbow thrown or not. It was a silly decision by Tomás, given the location and the scoreline, but beyond that I have no idea.

The WSL is certainly back, with games like that...

Edit: To add, literally minutes after I posted this, I came across a much better quality shot from a different angle of the game and the foul and it was definitely a thrown elbow, so that explains the red card and quite deserved at that.

Manchester City 2 - 0 West Ham

In the post-match interview, Rehane Skinner described West Ham as giving a good account of themselves in the match. I think that's probably a fair assessment; City were better overall, but West Ham put up an admirable performance.

I posted earlier that the West Ham goal ruled offside may very well have been onside (which Skinner claimed) and that I was going to look for the previous frame. Unfortunately, it doesn't definitively answer the question because, again, you can't see the lean of the players from the angle available (images below at moment Gorry's foot makes contact for the pass, then the next available frame with pass in motion):

But, what I did notice, is that in addition to being unable to see the lean of the players from the stream, I don't think the lines person is in a position to see it well either, they're slightly behind the run of play using the pitch pattern as a point of measurement. Frustrating for West Ham, certainly, because that may well have been a valid goal ruled offside unfairly. With the limited camera angles, it's just not possible to say.

Anyway, West Ham do not have a great record playing City at home. Apart from a surprise victory in 2021, they have seen scorelines like 5-0, 6-2, 7-1 away at City. This time, it was 2-0 and those goals came from silly mistakes as opposed to all round bad play. A miscommunication in the defence and failure to play to the whistle allowed Hemp to sweep in and get the first goal. The second goal came from a poor pass back to Szemik from a defender (though, weirdly, the official West Ham write up of the match got this wrong and said it was a bad pass by Szemik...) which Bunny Shaw intercepted and crossed to Mary Fowler.

Szemik was good in this match. She made a one-handed save from the goal line against a close-range shot that I was certain was going to be a goal, a great save tipping a shot onto the bar, and multiple other saves (though, she's credited with fewer saves on all the stats sites than she actually made. Even by just randomly clicking on the video on YouTube, I counted 5 saves so there's probably more, yet she's only credited with 4... I have researched this a bit because I've noticed numerous discrepancies and issues with stats in the women's game. Will come back to that in another post.)

City struggled against West Ham's defense at times and there were more loose passes or wide shots than you might expect from them; the crossbar saved West Ham once, but most of the other misses were by quite notable margins.

Lauren Hemp was strong and alert to snatching the ball off of West Ham when she had the chance, though she did miss a few chances including one that you would guarantee on any other day she would score. The battle between her on Mengwen on the wing was well-fought; Mengwen must have been knackered by the end of the match!

Bunny Shaw, as she often does, introduced an energy to the front line the moment she got on the pitch and it was her interception that led to City's second goal. However, even with her introduction and the ramping up of the attack, they still struggled to get through West Ham's block at times. Those West Ham defenders used their whole bodies to block every shot they could. Probably bruised all over come Monday morning.

It was clear Manchester City were the stronger team, but West Ham put in a decent performance, and it was certainly an improvement on not just their game against Manchester United, but on many of their past performances against Manchester City.

[littlemisstpk]

So after my pathfinder gm addressed me as "oh great goddess of sports anime" in a DM back in 2020, that kinda lit a fire under my ass and hit on my completionist tendencies. It only took me 4 years to get the idea to write down my thoughts.

I'm going to start with a combo: Shoot! Goal to the Future and Aoki Densetsu Shoot!, kept colour coded throughout to make things a little more clear.

Under the cut because of heavy spoilers.

I started this with the spin off, Shoot! And I very nearly dropped it because of the childhood friend and his incessant nickname with his high pitched voice. I'm glad I didn't, because the show itself was so bad it became extra entertaining. But in there, it was abundantly clear that there were more than a few references to the original show that are there for the few older fans who remember it and aren't in a nursing home.

Because Aoki Densetsu Shoot is a product of its time (1993), it has a lot of the relics that require a hefty suspension of disbelief, and the ability to roll with it. Even then, it wasn't too far fetched, was paced decently, and it even had a B plot of exploring the effect the death of a star player has on not only the school, but to the district which sets it apart from most soccer anime. I actually quite enjoyed it, almost as much as I did the behemoth Slam Dunk which came out the same year. I will be talking about that one later.

But Shoot came out almost thirty years after its predecessor, and audience's tastes have changed in the meantime. When examined in the context of Aoki Densetsu Shoot, Shoot is actually not far off in tone. What makes it not work as well is that they packed the same amount of drama in Shoot's 13 eps that the original series put into 58. Drama needs a little bit of room to set in to avoid feeling overly melodramatic, which is difficult in a 13 episode cours.

What I liked about the shows: Shoot was hamming it up from beginning to end. As long as you expect cheese and a healthy dose of annoying childhood friend, it's one that you can turn your brain off to enjoy. As for the original, because of the 58 ep run, it really got to dig deep into what losing a key team member actually was like in a way we don't get to see nowadays. Plus, the kinds of stuff that they got away with onscreen was wild. At one point Toshi's best friend Kenji, who happens to be in love with Toshi's older sister, leaves the room where Toshi and his sister are, and it's clear that he's dealing with his feelings for her. When our very dense protagonist questions what is happening, his sister effectively says "you'll learn when you're older". Jump cut later, and you find Kenji with a nosebleed. I'm still giggling over that, and I finished this a while ago.

What I didn't like: the pacing in Aoki Densetsu Shoot felt organic--Shoot felt very rushed. Some of the things put in to heighten tension in the follow-up, were very contrived, such as discount Hiramatsu and his whole jealousy arc.

The fun Haikyuu connection: The seiyuu that voices the annoying childhood friend is also the voice of Goshiki. The earnestness makes it clear.

[spinelesswrites]

i've been having a lot of new writing ideas lately (which really is out of the ordinary for me) so i'm working on incorporating writing daily back into my life. lucky for me camp nanowrimo starts tomorrow and i really loved nanowrimo so it's a great opportunity and motivator and i'll be able to track my consistency

nanowrimo did a number on me physically because i was really going through it, so i'm looking forward to taking it a little easier. i do a lot of the early stages by hand and there's always a lingering guilt that it doesn't really "count" because there's no little number that goes up on a word counter screen, and i still feel this way even though i've always been like this! so i think i'll aim for a soft 25k over all across all my projects, which seems like a reasonable and productive number that also won't kill me

my main goal is to write almost everyday, either with ink and paper or typing, which is also why i'm setting the word count goal low(ish). and i'm not gonna give myself "i have to write EVERY day or else" anxiety because i took days off during nanowrimo and tbh i think that's why i was able to do so well! in part anyway

i've been going through old notebooks from years ago and i've been feeling both inspired and a little melancholy. i used to write, like, A LOT a lot and it just hasn't been there in so long. but the gears are still turning. i'm excited to try new things and, well to be honest. go ham

[venomous-qwille]

I start with a quick comp sketch ! This step is necessary because art is chaos and once you actually start painting you will be glad you have something to look at and remind yourself what the fuck you're doing. Once this sketch is done I line it and figure out the way the water is going to make shapes- I can use this water layer later (set to multiply) to instantly add depth:

Next is the underpainting layer- I come from a trad painting background and it's my fervent belief that this is the real secret sauce to lovely colour. Go ham: add as many bright, saturated colours as your little heart desires- the more textured the brush the better. Some artists who use this technique like to stick to complimentary colours, personally I prefer to live on the edge and make it up as I go. Follow your heart: (Extra tip- turn your line art into a mask and fill it with a very saturated colour- red, purple or blue etc- avoid black at all costs, we want to keep aaaall desaturated colours away from the early stages of our painting. Only add black at the very end- it will stop your colours getting muddy when you use the eyedropper tool)

Lol looks terrible right now, but don't feel bad. It's all worth it in the end.

Time to paint the rest of the owl. No really, smother all your beautiful vibrant hues in gross desaturated colours which are much closer to real life. Use a textured brush to block in the values/shapes and forms- you should still be able to see some of your bright underpainting peaking through! Once you have put down your more saturated block in you can start to play with fun things like blood and iridescence. Iridescence is all about contrasting desaturated/saturated hues which share a value- if you look at the below two pics and squint you will see that the tail stays the same 'value' in both- one just has flat colour, whereas the other has very saturated colour of the same value slapped on top. Your eyes will always read changes in value contrast first and colour second! As artists we can abuse this to great effect.

I always use HSB sliders to track the value & hue relationships on my work as I paint:

If I'm feeling extra powerful I will use the RGB sliders:

HSB sliders let you understand and make changes to the colours in your painting really fast! RGB sliders however allow you much MUCH more subtle control, and playing around with these will teach you a lot about hue/value relationships but learning to read them is a goddamn arcane art. If you can master RGB sliders you will essentially ascend to art godhood (I am just a novice). The down side is the RGB method is very very time consuming to use & learn. To get an iridescent effect e.g on Moon: use your colour panel (whether you are going RGB or HSB) as you paint to shift blue hues to purple and cyan while always keeping the value the same. Use these colours to pick out the highlights. Try to avoid using white/desaturated brights when attempting to make something look nacreous- you will just end up mucking up the value levels/exposure of your art and lose out on a bunch of colour opportunities. Speaking of colour opportunities.... if you are working on mers leverage the water- any opportunity to have light bounce around in your image is an opportunity to add more colour. I used it to add extra contrasting greens because why not.

Ok that was a bit of a tangent. As I rendered out the rest- eg the net and the fishy patterns I just focused on opportunities to add colour contrast wherever I could. For example- adding yellow to moons tail- even a tiny bit kinda helps the iridescent purple/blue pop a bit more. The goal is just to keep adding more and more colour until your brain melts and you're like fuck it I'm done.

Anyway thanks for coming to my ted talk.

Shallow Water

[mycelium-block]

Entry 1.5.2-1 - Security System

Welcome to my blog. I’m not tagging anything but entry #, so sorry if my unrelated mess somehow ends up in your search.

I actually spent a bit longer in 1.4 before downloading the next update, so have these screenshots <3

church got demo'd because of the road, kinda sad since I wanted me first ever cake to stay on the world forever, but I'll make the cake my trophy for all advancements, that'll be my new PermaCake™

I also wanted to put my wool to use and flex a little bit

(also oh my god can we talk about the iron golem holding a rose? i miss this so much)

This is Baby Boy, my pokemon Go Best Buddy <3 I think he should be allowed to go ham in origin form even if Go disagrees. Eventually I want to remake it entirely out of like. obsidian and diamond blocks instead of the wool but for now I'll consider this my "wool" creation. I've added goals to construct statues of different materials of different pokemon that I love and possess/would like to possess. Added to my goals list.

Okay, now that I'm actually in 1.5, let me go to the nether to get some quartz, I haven't explored any farther than the two fortresses (i think it actually could be three) next to my portal so hopefully I won't have to go far.

Also, cool. my achievements reset again. Hopefully my advancements don't do that later on.

i'm turning on peaceful because its My World and i dont want to Stress.

had to use up a couple of stacks of blocks to cross a lava lake but i think i spy some newly generated chunks

I think I'll just grab a handful and head back.

Every gate that can have this does (so all but the southern one, which is open to water)

The maps are being weird but here's old

vs new, ft this guy

Most of my development has been within and around the walls, but I will eventually do more on those two southern maps.

Now that the gates are done (I didn't expect it to be difficult, this is just a redstone update) the real hard part is trying to minimize as many spawning locations as possible. It'll be like 10 updates until it takes LOW darkness to spawn hostile mobs, so I think I'll be fighting this for a while.

I'm going to limit it to a couple of layers of torches (in ground/camo'd) around the wall and farm, just far enough to keep them away from any villagers.

I think I've fully illuminated the area inside and around the village (maybe I should actually name this place, maybe that's a task for next update)

I've been bone mealing around the ground as well to conceal the light better.

I also have this little bridge area behind my garden heading toward the desert now.

Onward to 1.6!

The easiest goal will be to get one of each color block of terracotta, but I'm not going to a mesa biome for it. I'll just cook clay for it and dye to get some chests set up. In 1.8 I plan on making a statue with my colors, but I'll need time (and perhaps 1.8's duplication glitch) to get enough resources.

My harder goal will be to get two donkeys and two horses. I'll be constructing a stable for them, and there will also be space for llamas, though those won't be added yet.

next (1.6.4-1)