#I love jimmy he’ll be missed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

macfrog · 11 months ago

Text

sweet child o' mine | pt. ii

hi. this is max's lawyer speaking. please don't get mad at her for this part. she asked me to let you know that she loves you all and hopes that you trust her. sincerely, jimmy mcgill

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: you're pregnant with joel miller's kid. he's dating someone else. you deal with it.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy stuff like nausea (none of the v word, y'all are safe with me), ultrasound scene set in a hospital, anxiety and guilt surrounding pregnancy, description of body change/growth, brief and i mean brief discussion of abortion, joel is dating someone who isn't reader, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), reader has no physical description save for hair, cursing, genderless use of buddy when referring to baby, joel kisses someone who is not his partner, mention of alcohol, disturbing & semi-graphic nightmare about being involved in car accident, reader has a panic attack, discussion of dead parents, fluff and the beginnings of angst DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there's ever anything you feel i've missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 9.2k

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

“I know, I know,” Joel holds a palm up, “it’s nine thirty. I know. But I had to lug all this wood over here, and it – You okay?”

You realize when he pauses that you’re gaping at him, wide-eyed and frozen in place behind your front door. Your jaw hinges shut, a gulp like carpet burn down your throat. You didn’t hear a word he just said.

How does he know? He can’t possibly. Did he sense it, from two lawns away? Dream about the binding of cells, the furnace left lit in your body from that night? The embers still floating, just waiting to catch to life again?

Did he do the fucking math, the way you probably should’ve? How does he fucking know?

The minute the question leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Joel’s eyebrows drop. “How did I know what, kid? That you need new closets? Like you ain’t been nipping my ear about ‘em for weeks?”

Your eyes unlock from his and shift to the slats of wood leaning against the balustrade. The toolbox hanging from his fist. The worn jeans and the white dust marks on his thighs. He doesn’t fucking know, you idiot.

Joel steps forward. Takes your wrist. One grounding, steady hand around your thrashing pulse. “You’re freaking me out. What the hell’s –?”

“Nothing,” you chirp, remembering. The closet. The deal. The fucking – the deal. You withdraw your arm. Hidden up your sleeve, quickly slipping out of his grasp, is the news that his life is about to change forever.

Maybe. You don’t fucking know.

“No,” you continue, blinking the burn of sunlight from your vision, “I just – I forgot. Sorry. Come in. Sorry.”

“Quit sayin’ sorry,” he mutters, eyeing you suspiciously. He lifts a foot and hovers it over the threshold, hesitating. Like the first step across a minefield; instinct telling him to tread carefully.

And you swear an oath to yourself, swear it on your own life: if he doesn’t put the heel of his boot in your hallway, if he turns around right now whether because his instinct is razor sharp, or because he forgot his lucky screwdriver, or purely because he needs to take a fucking leak before he gets started – you will never tell him. He will never know.

If his intuition is that good, he’ll turn around and never show up on your porch again. If he has any sense, he’ll forget any of this ever happened. Deal off.

“How’s the stomach?” Joel asks, sole still three inches from wood.

“What?” you bleat, your heel knocking against the bottom stair. It’s a little more panicked than you intended.

“Yesterday,” a crease forms between his brows, “you said you had a weird stomach. That any better?”

Oh, you think, and as you open your mouth to reply, his foot hits the ground. No answer needed. He was coming in whether you tried to deter him or not.

“Oh, yeah. It’s – Well, it’s better than it was. I think I worked it out,” you grimace, tongue curling under the tinge of anxiety and – well. “Thanks,” you add, noticing the brisk cut of your replies.

The heavy thud of his footsteps follows you upstairs, blunt on the carpet as you lead him up. Joel sets the toolbox down and casts your room a quick glance, snapping back to you as soon as you notice him.

You tug on the corner of the bedsheets, a heat bubbling beneath your cheeks. Something shy and self-conscious, all of a sudden. The reality that you don’t feel close enough to this man to share the anatomy of your room with him, mixed with the knowledge that the two of you are, now and forever, bound by the anatomy of something a little more significant than dirty laundry and dusty wardrobes.

A little closer than most humans get, let’s say.

“You want a coffee or something?” you ask, crossing your arms and leaning back against the window sill.

“You havin’ one?”

“Sure. Wait – actually –” Can you have coffee whilst pregnant? A woman at work quit it altogether when she fell pregnant with her son. Fuck. “I’m – No. I’m good. But let me go make you one.”

Joel shakes his head, amused. Screwdriver burrowing into a door hinge already. He flashes you a tickled grin. “I’m good just now, kid. Wait until you’re makin’ one. Thanks.”

You lift a shoulder. “Welcome.”

His eyes flit from the twist of silver to your hunched shoulders, your arms crossed protectively over your chest. “You gonna stand there ‘n watch me all day? You my foreman now?”

“Sure,” you reply, and he laughs. You sniff, twisting your foot into the carpet. The plastic test itches against your skin; you can feel the two lines ripping into your wrist like tiny burns. “I can go, if you want.”

His lip turns, musing. A quick flick of his jaw. “You’re good company, all in all.”

Metal clanking against metal; fingers knuckle-deep in the toolbox. You can hear the harsh sound across your body, like the point of screws and bite of rust are actually scoring your skin. The groan of a near-fifty-year-old man rising to rip a decades-old door from its home. The creak of wood as it splits.

Everything so heightened that it’s actually painful.

Joel straightens up and pauses, turning his screwdriver between his fingers. “Are we –? We’re good, right?”

“Good?”

“Yeah. You’d tell me if things were weird?”

“Why would things be weird?”

His answer scrawls itself across his face. Your response scoffs from your lips.

“I just,” Joel sighs, “I feel like something might be off with ya. Maybe you just ain’t feelin’ too hot. But you’re quiet.”

“Quiet,” you whisper, palms locking heavily against your biceps. More defensive than convincing.

“Yeah. You usually annoy the hell outta me.”

Over your shoulder, Alice Brown waddles down her driveway, eyeing her flowerbeds. She pauses when Diane’s station wagon pulls up across the street; stands motionless as she watches the round figure climb out and totter to her own front door.

“Just – not in a very annoying mood, I guess,” you offer, staring at the white head of hair fluttering in the breeze. The glint of a trowel in her hand.

Joel’s chin lifts. He studies you, tongue tracing the ridges of his teeth. And then he’s nearing you, turning until you’re shoulder to shoulder, two silhouettes stood against the bright square of blue sky inside your window frame. His arms crossed; his stare fixed.

The words begin to boil in your stomach. Violent bubbles against the wall of your midriff. Rising like steam, fading into nothingness over your tongue, the sting of heat where your voice won’t collect them.

Joel moves from foot to foot. It feels like some kind of merry dance, some choreographed moment between you – like a skit in a comedy show. I know something you don’t know.

“What happened – at the wedding,” he murmurs, addressing the polished gold of your bedframe.

Some small sound passes your lips. An affirmative. You’re on the same page.

“We didn’t use – you know. And with you not feelin’ well, it’s…” A deep breath. Chest full of a ghostly bravery. And then he asks, “Are you –?”

Silence swallows the end of his question whole. You didn’t need it, anyway. The stiffness of his frame, his stare shooting straight ahead. The lack of oxygen between you – both holding your breath for fear that something might tear loose from your lungs. He knows. He knows he knows he knows.

You gulp. “…If I was?”

His head cranes upwards, focusing on the cracked plaster of your ceiling. The realization slowly trickling down over his skin. It hasn’t seeped through, hasn’t bled into his brain yet. “Then,” another breath, “then it’d be a conversation…” His voice is halved, split somewhere between knowing and – what is it? Hoping?

Your eyes slip over to the worn sleeve of his T-shirt, stretched around the swell of his bicep; scaling up to his shoulder, the tight set of his jaw. He’s so much taller, he’s so much older. There’s so much life lived and so many lessons learned behind his eyes that you wonder how much the news I’m pregnant would actually crack him.

Your eyes meet. You whisper, “Then – talk,” and his expression softens.

He blinks away whatever’s left of his trying, his polite attempts to skirt around it. He sheds probably a good three decades – turns back into some doe-eyed boy, wonderstruck and terrified. His voice is quiet, and at the same time, the heaviest with emotion you’ve ever heard it. “Are you?” he asks, and immediately, he blurs behind a wall of tears.

Your sentence gets caught in your teeth. It made no sense to begin with. Tangled between your molars, latching at the back of your tongue. Your hand slowly pulls free from your sleeve, the little white test between your fingers.

Joel’s eyes instantly drop, staring at the pale stick with a fraught expression you understand to mean the message has finally reached his brain. The same words now ringing between his ears: She’s pregnant. She’s pregnant. I got her pregnant.

You hold the test out, quivering in the daylight. He takes it in his thumbs, instantly soothing its tremble. Everything muted, every movement steady and considered. And suddenly the sight of that positive test feels less scary, in his hands. Feels like a smaller problem, if that were ever possible.

And he says nothing, and it’s almost unbearable to watch the shape of his lips thin, the shadow beneath his brows darken. Agonizing to stand here and wonder what the next words over his tongue will be.

He stares at it a moment longer. You count the beats of your pulse in your throat. You wrap your arms tighter around your body, holding your skeleton together.

Joel’s lips part. Your breath freezes. Whatever he says, you don’t want to miss a syllable.

“Are you –” he blinks, “– are you feelin’ okay?”

You stare blankly. His eyes finally lift.

“What?”

“Are you feeling okay?”

Your head jerks. “I’m – I’m fine. I mean, I’m fucking shocked.”

He nods. “How long have you known?”

“Took that right before you showed up,” you say, eyes diving to his hands. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

He’s still switching between you and the test. Checking those two lines are still there, as if they might fade to nothing, and then checking you’re still there – as if you might, too. Might be swept off if he’s not keeping an eye on you.

His face pales. He sinks back against the window ledge. “Jesus,” he breathes, a hand down the scruff of his chin.

And it feels like relief, like a mirror sat before you, presenting the honest truth: you’re fucked, and Joel thinks so, too. It embeds the shock into the cushion of your brain, the weight of it absorbed and laid bare for every particle in your body to pay it a visit. What the fuck do we do now?

“Yeah,” you sniff, “Jesus.”

But then his arm wraps around your shoulder, reminding you you’re still solid. Still whole. He holds you to his side, and when you turn into him, he takes you in the other and pulls you flat against his chest. His lips to your hair. His breathing slowing yours.

“We’re gonna work it out,” he says into your hair. “We’re gonna – Jesus, I did not expect…We are goin’ to be fine, alright? You are goin’ to be fine.”

You’re nodding, the prickle of tears flooding across your eyes again. They’re doing nothing, his words – blunt against your skin and insignificant to the fear swelling around your heart – but it feels better to be afraid with someone. Feels better to hold onto something stronger, something bigger, while you feel yourself beginning to shrink.

“What do we do?” you ask into his shirt.

Joel loosens his grip, pulls away until you’re staring at one another. “What do you wanna do?”

“I don’t…” Your head’s shaking, lips moving quicker than your voice will offer the words over. “I don’t think I want to get rid of it.”

He nods, a hand coming up to hold your cheek. “Alright. Then you don’t have to. You don’t gotta do anythin’ you’re not comfortable with.”

“But,” you sniff, guiltily averting his gaze, “this fucks everything up. Everything’s about to change.”

Joel takes a long, slow breath. “It complicates some things, that’s for sure.” He looks out to the street; Alice Brown now hauling weeds from the edge of her lawn. In his exhale, he breathes a name.

“V…What?”

He looks down. Eyes dance around your damp cheeks. “Vanessa,” he says, clearer now.

“Vanessa?”

A nod. His nose wriggles with an awkward sniff. You push off from his chest.

“Who the hell is Vanessa?”

Joel lets you go; lets you step back. He watches as you brace yourself against the ledge. Runs a hand through his hair while he fixes the right order of words. He’s thinking. Carefully.

Too fucking carefully. He’s taking too long.

“Joel. Who’s Vanessa?”

“She’s…” He sighs. “She’s my ex. From Tommy’s wedding. Vanessa Hart.”

Your jaw slackens. The purple dress. The hair like silk, a halo around her head where the light kissed her perfectly. Her plump lips; the way her head tipped back to laugh. The amount of air you felt her take up the second you laid eyes on her, the second you saw her, arm on top of Joel’s.

“Vanessa,” you whisper, your eyes descending his frame. The memory feels menacing now: her sweet giggle a sneering cackle, and you’ve no idea why. The bulky jewels around her neck, her clawed fingers on his arm.

Joel’s hand sits inches from yours on the wooden sill. Alice is walking back inside.

“We, uh…we swapped numbers the morning after the wedding, at breakfast. I didn’t think much of it, but we’ve seen each other a couple times since.”

This isn’t the time for another it’s a date, it’s not a date argument. What the fuck does he mean by –

“Seen each other?”

“Mhm.” He owes you better than that. He reckons so, too. “Dates,” he clarifies. “We’ve been on a couple dates.”

“Oh.”

Your heart falls to the pit of your stomach. Plummets, dragging with it your breath and your nerve and any other words you can think of. Your chest gnaws at the edges of the cavity left behind. It hurts. It stings.

Though you’ve no right for it to hurt or sting: as far as you were concerned, as far as you think Joel was concerned, that night was a one-off. It meant as little as the alcohol draining from your glasses, the vacant buzz of love and hope loose in the air. Equally as intoxicating as each other.

Cataclysmic, for the first little while. So heavily awkward that you would wait to watch Joel head out in the morning, clear of your path, before you’d set off for work. It felt like the aftermath of some natural disaster – the cleanup of debris and mistake.

But oh, it feels like a punch to the gut. Low, unexpected; a foul move by someone who never meant to hurt or not hurt you. Someone ignorant to every move he made, right up to this moment.

Your arms wrap around your body again, as though tending to the bruise left by the sucker punch shaped something like that tall woman named Vanessa.

Joel scratches the back of his neck. “We were…we were seein’ about starting things up again. Me ‘n her.”

“Yeah,” you nod, “I got you. That’s – I mean, I’m – I’m sorry, Joel, I –”

“Woah, woah,” he’s stepping forward now, “hey, no. No way. This wasn’t you. Well, shoot – it kinda was you. But it was just as much me, right?”

You smile, your face back in the safe hold of his hands. Tears roll down your cheeks, collecting in the corners of your mouth. His thumbs swipe them away.

“This was just as much me,” he repeats, voice soft and soothing.

“But, you know – if you wanted to – just ‘cause I don’t want to get – so if you didn’t wanna have to – that’d be okay, you know that, right?”

His head snaps back, brows low. It’s the first time he looks like his cool has broken all morning. It’s the first time he looks…downright offended. “Are you kidding me?” he asks, and then, “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I just – I know this ain’t ideal. It’s even worse if you’re tryna make it work with Vanessa. So if you felt like it was too much, then…”

Joel shakes his head. “Shut up,” he says, edged with some kind of groan. “Stop talking, right now. Stop. You gotta take a deep breath, alright? I’m here, ‘n I mean I’m here. We’re in this together. I am not running out on you.”

“Joel –”

What was a mere crack in his cool before, rips through it now like lightning spreading across the sky. He closes his eyes, a sigh escaping between his teeth. “If you think I would leave you right now, to deal with this on your own –”

“I don’t,” you tell him, his vexation powering your sudden animation. You wipe your tears away, shaking your head. “I’m just saying, it’s a fucking lot. I don’t want you to feel trapped. I’m giving you an out, man.”

“I am not interested in taking it. Enough. Conversation over.”

“And what about Vanessa?”

“What about her?” he asks, the question dripping in something akin to anger. He catches himself, draws it back in. “She’ll just – We’ll talk, I’ll explain it. The hell else can we do? One thing at a time, okay?”

“Right,” you nod, “okay. One thing at a time.”

“Let’s just build these damn wardrobes. I sure as hell didn’t lug all that timber over here to not do ‘em.”

“Okay,” you repeat, making for the door.

“Ah.” He clicks, and you turn back. “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

“To get the timber.”

“I don’t think so,” he says, pointing to your bed. “Sit down. Relax. You ain’t getting a damn thing.”

Joel calls it a day at six o’clock.

The skeleton of the closet is up: a smooth, tan frame lining one wall of your room. Much bigger, much sturdier than its predecessor.

You’re in the same spot he left you in: lying across your bed, admiring his handiwork. He’s good at what he does. You told him twice, and the two of you almost heaved both times. Compliments aren’t something you’re used to handing one another.

He left, maybe, three hours ago. Said he had to shower; said he’d be back first thing to finish the job. You sat up to see him out, got struck by a wave of nausea so bad that you fell back to the bed with one hand on your stomach and the other over your lips, and Joel had insisted – demanded – that you stay where you were.

I’ll be back later to check on ya, he assured, setting a glass of water at your bedside. And then he told you to call him if you felt even remotely off – sick, or panicked, or had a tickle in your throat that you couldn’t clear – and that’s when the two of you realized that you don’t even have one another’s numbers.

And you laughed, the both of you; laughed at the absurdity of you carrying his child when you don’t even carry his contact details in your phone. Laughed at how quickly everything has turned one hundred and eighty degrees in the few hours since you woke up. It felt like some form of release, the only way to clear the blockage of tension in both your throats. So, you laughed, until you felt sick again, and Joel swept the hair from your shoulders to cool you down.

The attentiveness is…new. It’s interesting. It’s kind, in the same way that being told to say hi to whoever your grandma is talking to in the grocery store, is kind. Sweet, the same way that answering the door on Halloween to a bunch of kids you don’t know from a street you don’t recognize the name of, is sweet.

Whatever. It’s fucking weird, alright?

You’ve never seen this side of Joel. You didn’t know or even think, in your wildest dreams, that he existed. Let’s face it: you two have spent the entirety of your inhabitance next door to one another, antagonizing each other. Your favorite hobby has always been pissing Joel off – teasing him for having backache, seeing how far down his porch you can launch his newspaper and he’ll still go get it. Playing the same kind of music you heard him playing on his guitar that one time, full-volume from your kitchen window just to fuck with him.

And, likewise: his favorite hobby has always been…well, ignoring you. Doing everything he can not to engage. If it weren’t for that fucking cat lady and her jittery green Chevrolet, none of this would’ve ever happened. She was a catalyst where one was neither needed nor wanted. You would’ve gone about your life, pinning your underwear only slightly more carefully to your clothesline, and Joel would’ve gone about his, doing – whatever the fuck he does.

Sure, it’s weird. But it’s nice. It’s nice to have him on your side, turning to check on you rather than snap at you for something. Nice to have him talk – actual, rounded words in place of grumbles and mumbles and groans and sighs. Nice to hang out with him and watch him work and ask questions about screws and power tools and pretend to be interested just to distract from the weight of queasiness in your stomach.

Your hands trail down, cupping around your navel. Your stomach still feels like your stomach: still soft, still spongey under your touch. If not for the two more tests you’d taken this afternoon, perched on the bathroom counter waiting for Joel to unstick his gaze from his watch and announce, That’s three minutes – both also positive, by the way – you’d have no fucking clue.

You hold the bottom half of your tummy, fingers rubbing gently over the skin that will soon enough grow and swell and protect.

“Hey,” you whisper, staring at the stationary ceiling fan overhead. A pause. An awkward inhale. “…hey, little buddy. I don’t – know you very well, yet. I figure you can’t even fucking hear me, but whatever. Just wanted to say hi. I’m – Ew, no. I’m not Mom, yet. What the fuck. I don’t know who I am right now, so just…maybe go easy on me until I figure that part out. And after, too. Alright? Are we…we cool?

“You can’t tell me, I know. I just have to assume we’re cool. Okay. Well. Keep growin’. Keep…doing your thing. You’re doing great. We’re doing – we’re doing alright.

“Good job, kid. Good job.”

Joel tells Vanessa two days later. She takes it…about as well as you might hope.

He says they talked for four hours. Three cups of coffee and a drive to Taco Bell later, she agreed to meet you. Properly. Not across the cluttered dancefloor of Tommy’s wedding.

She –? Is – is that a good idea?

I don’t know, kid. It’s the best I’ve got.

Meet me? Like, come kick my ass for sleeping with her boyfriend?

Joel had sighed and deadened his eyes on yours. Not her boyfriend, he corrected, passing you a sweater folded a little slapdash for your liking, and wasn’t her boyfriend when we slept together.

You shook the sweater straight again and fixed his work, muttering to yourself that at least he’s a better builder than he is a folder.

Joel heard you, and let it go. Passed you another – unfolded – sweater to sit in your wardrobe. Let’s just see how it goes, alright?

Alright.

We’re really trying this again. It’s only been a couple weeks.

Okay.

And neither of us have had much luck in that department since we broke it off, y’know?

Joel. I said okay.

He held your gaze a moment too long. Okay.

You’re on your porch when he strolls over, wrist blocking the six o’clock sun from his eyes. Newspaper in his fist, wind licking the corners. “Forget somethin’ today?” he asks, meeting you at the top of the steps.

“Came out to get it,” you brace yourself on the railing, “felt sick. This is me workin’ up to it.”

“You want me to toss it back onto my lawn so you can go fetch me it?”

You smile, eyes screwing shut. “Was coming over to ask what time for tomorrow.”

The reminder snaps him from his happy daydream. He says, “I was comin’ to ask you the same thing. Seven work?”

“Seven’s good. Are we getting food?”

“You wanna get food? I figured maybe you wouldn’t be up for it, what with the, uh…” Joel gestures to your hunched position, your head low between your shoulders, your deep, deliberate breaths.

“Maybe just drinks,” you utter, gulping back the sharp taste of bile.

He nods. “Drinks it is. You okay? You need anything?”

“I’m good. Thanks. See you guys at seven.”

Four minutes early, there’s a knock at your door. You pull it open, and there they are. Picture-perfect, like they might be posing for a holiday card. A bottle in his arm, a bunch of flowers in hers. A timid but genial smile between her cheeks, a twinkle in her eye. That same circle of shining light around her head, brunette tresses curled into bouncing waves.

“Howdy,” Joel says, stepping into the space you create. He dips his head, kisses your cheek, whispers a brief, Y’okay? in your ear. You nod quickly, gently shifting him out of the way.

Vanessa lingers for a moment in the doorway. She glances from Joel to you again, blinking in the porch light. Her pale skin lit in an ethereal glow. She’s prettier up close.

Joel addresses you, hand brushing the small of your back, “…this is Vanessa.”

“Hi,” she says, and pushes the flowers towards you – a small bouquet of gypsophila and eucalyptus. Bright, polite. Each sprig laden with the burden of appearing simpatico, but important. Meaningful, in the airiest sense of the word. “Hi,” again.

“Hi,” you echo, and then feel stupid for having nothing more to offer. You can feel Joel’s eyes on you, hot on your shoulder.

But Vanessa takes the weight from your chest. “It’s nice to meet you – officially. I saw you at Tommy and Maria’s wedding. You looked so beautiful.”

“Thanks,” springs from your tongue sooner than the rest of the sentence. Your brain scrams to find more words. “You looked – you looked great, too. Do you wanna –? I mean – Sorry. Come in. Obviously.”

She clicks over the threshold, her pale dress floating into your hallway like she’s part of a dream. She’s just as beautiful in this light, relaxed form – pastel blue and the glimmer of golden jewelry – as she was in the sleeker, more dramatic form you saw her in before. An aura about her which captures and tends to your attention. Intense, captivating, but not intimidating.

You usher them to the living room, offer them a space on the couch while you take Vanessa’s flowers to the kitchen. Joel follows you through, sets the bottle on the counter.

“Nonalcoholic,” he says, unscrewing the cap.

Your eyebrows jump. “Great. Thanks.”

“She’s nervous,” he murmurs, leaning in. “I know you are, too. Y’all are similar like that.”

You slot the stems into a vase of water one by one, carefully organizing a display. “She seems sweet,” you assure him. “She shouldn’t be nervous.”

“Neither should you.”

“Is this…totally weird for you?”

Joel breathes in deep, filling three glasses. “Yeah,” he says, eyes never lifting from the sparkling peach.

“Sorry.”

He angles his jaw. “Stop sayin’ you're sorry. I’ll kick your ass.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, eyes lifting only to his elbows. “Sorry.”

He scoffs, swiping the glasses and stepping back to let you out first.

“I’m trying not to make it weird,” you offer, slipping by.

“I don’t want you to try anything.” He kicks your ankle lightly and follows you back into the living room.

Vanessa sits forward and clasps her hands around her knee when you sit back down, shifting as though to reach for you before she stops herself. “How are you feeling? Joel said you’re a little…worse for wear, right now.”

“I’ve been better,” you say, smiling. “Just morning sickness. Which lasts – all day.”

She nods sympathetically. “My sister had it rough with her first. I actually…” She twists around, reaches for her purse, fishes out an orange packet. “I brought you some ginger tea. Kate told me it helped her a lot, so.”

She holds it out in almost trembling fingers. Likewise, you steady yours to take it from her, thanking her with a shy nod of the head. “That’s so kind,” you reply quietly, eyes darting to Joel. He’s staring at the pack in your hands, watching as you turn it over to read the back.

“And – listen,” Vanessa continues, the acceptance of her offering clearly fueling her assuredness, “I don’t want anything to be weird – between you and I, between you and Joel. I know this situation is…new. It’s, um…”

“It’s kinda weird,” you say, humoring. “It’s okay. I know.”

She breathes a relieved laugh. “It is. Thank God you said it.” She glances back at Joel, who smiles at her, slips his hand onto her knee. “But I guess,” a deep breath, “I guess it is what it is. And we’re all adults, you know? We can make it work, right?”

Your head switches rapidly between nodding enthusiastically and shaking enthusiastically. “Yeah. Yes. No, absolutely. And, you know, me and Joel – there isn’t – we’re not at all…”

“Oh,” she bats the idea away, “I know. I know that. He told me everything. It’s – You know, it’s just a timing thing.”

Joel’s staring down at his hand locked around her leg. Unblinking. Unmoving. His expression doesn’t shift until the two of you settle back into your seats; until Vanessa asks if he’d mind making you a cup of ginger tea.

You barely notice his absence, the way she takes you up in conversation. Like twirling you off in some kind of dance, each sentence strung safely to the next. There are no lulls, no awkward pauses. She asks about work, asks about your family. She tells you stories about her niece, who’s three now, and compares how you’re feeling to how she remembers her sister feeling.

Then her work, and the IT guy her friend hooked up with, and her class at the gym which she’s trying to convince Joel to come along to, and Kate’s hot yoga class every Thursday night, and the new sushi place which just opened downtown and You gotta try it some day; the nigiri is divine.

And you nod along, and you laugh at her anecdotes and tell your own, and Joel tells her to tell you about the jazz band who were playing at the restaurant they visited a couple weeks ago, and you offer to top her drink up and she says she’ll do it herself and she leaves you and Joel alone for the first time all evening, and – it’s weird.

Because – behind the veil of conversation you’re doing your best to uphold, sits an image of this very night – only, in Joel’s house. In Joel’s house, on Joel’s couch, drinking nonalcoholic wine with Joel’s brother. Joel and Vanessa leant against one another on one couch, Tommy and Maria on the other.

You can’t help it – you’re wondering what Maria thinks of Vanessa. How long they knew each other, if at all, before the breakup. Whether they hung out, whether they discussed sushi and yoga, or the housing market, or their Miller boyfriends and their annoying Miller habits.

Maria would’ve liked her, you think. Would’ve found her as lovely as you do. And the idea, the image of them giggling together at family parties and being Tommy’s Maria and Joel’s Vanessa – presses a firm, bullying finger into the bruise you thought had faded some from the other day.

And once they’re gone, once you’re left alone again – lying in still silence, closed in on yourself by the thick darkness of your room, nothing but you and your thoughts and your unborn child for company – it slips out.

“Fuck her, right?” You hold your hands out, addressing your stomach. “She was so fucking nice. Did you like her? Fuck me, I liked her. I hope they break up.”

And then, realizing who you’re talking to: “No. Sorry, baby, no. I don’t hope they break up. I want your dad to be really happy. But – Goddamn. She was so sweet. I thought she was gonna slap me, and she just – she brought ginger tea! Fuck. They look good together, don’t they?”

It’s just hormones. Just the emotional trip that is being four weeks pregnant. Everybody feels like this when they fall pregnant – sensitive, vulnerable, clingy. Right? Right?

Your words sit stagnant in midair. You swear you can see them, heavy and intruding. Awkwardly lingering someplace they don’t belong. Because none of it even matters – the hormones, the emotions. The weird knot burning a hole in your chest, shaped like a clenched fist, knuckles branded by the heat of longing. It can’t matter.

You’re where you are, he’s where he is. A pillow in your arm, Vanessa in his. Feet apart, bricks and mortar and something like twenty years and two dates too late separating you.

Both staring up at the ceiling, wondering who the other’s thinking of.

“At eight weeks, your baby is roughly the size of a raspberry.”

Your knee bounces, breath coming and going in shaky ripples. The rubber sole of your shoe cries against the sterilized hospital floor. Your chest hums anxiously and your throat catches when you swallow and are the lights too bright? The room too hot? You’re sweating. Why are you sweating? Can you breathe right now?

Joel nudges your arm and your eyes roll to the pamphlet in his hand, his finger tracing the words. “C’mon,” he utters, leaning in, “how can anything the size of a raspberry be scary?”

You squint under fluorescent white. “A raspberry that grows into the size of a watermelon, can break my ribs, make me throw up, make me lose hair, and then tear my vagina apart on its way out? That’s pretty scary.”

He smirks. “Not to me it ain’t. My vagina stays perfectly intact the entire time.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you reply, whacking him.

He laughs, swatting your palm away, keeping ahold of your fingers inside his own. “Speaking of – we gotta talk.” He elbows you, waiting until you’re looking again to speak. “We gotta cut the language.”

“Cut the language?”

“Uhuh. Rein it in. And by we, I mean you.”

“Uh,” you scoff, “I don’t think so. When you do the growing, then you can rein your own swearing in. Leave me alone, asshole.”

“Charming,” Joel says. “You know the baby can hear you? You want it to come out swearin’ like a trooper?”

You grin, tipping your head to him. “If it comes out and says anything, we’re rich. So – yeah. Let it.”

He opens his mouth to reply when a nurse emerges from a nearby room and calls your name.

“You’re up, kid,” Joel says, standing beside you.

You turn back, speaking before your brain settles on words. “I’m scared.”

“Hey,” he says, taking your hand. He squeezes it gently, uses the other to keep you facing him. “This is the easy part, right? We’re just going to meet them.”

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, and wander over to meet the nurse. Joel’s hand a vice grip around yours.

She leads you into a similarly washed-out clinic room, only slightly dimmer with the lights turned out, and yanks a roll of paper across the bed. Tapping it twice, she smiles. “Hop up, darlin’.”

You settle into the crinkly paper, leaning back until you’re blinking up at the speckled ceiling. Another door opens and a woman in a white coat floats in, and you swear that if it weren’t for Joel’s Evenin’, ma’am when she greets the two of you, you’d believe she were a figment of your imagination. Another character in this fucking insane dream.

“Not often I do these past five o’clock,” she says, clicking her mouse and typing on her keyboard and fixing a hair grip back into her bun. Casual. It’s not even a thing to her, introducing parents and children. She does this all fucking day.

Joel tosses half a glance to you and then realizes you’re not currently in the room. He pinches your hand again. It grounds you for all of two seconds.

“Yeah, uh,” he clears his throat, “work commitment. I couldn’t get away any earlier, so we’re havin’ to do this a little late.”

“What do you do?” she asks, staring at her screen. Her glossy brown eyes and rich, dark skin.

“I’m a contractor,” Joel replies, thumb stroking your shoulder.

Something bubbles in your stomach, something akin to jealousy, an urgency to tell her that right now, in this room, he’s mine. No more questions. Something which quickly dissipates when you remind yourself to quit being fucking ridiculous and that right now, in this room, he’s someone else’s, and the thumb on your shoulder is merely to hold you back from fleeing. Nothing more.

The sonographer nods. Her name badge reads Freya. Pretty name. Stop picturing what your kid would look like as a Freya. You are not naming them after the first sonographer you meet.

“Shouldn’t be too long, then y’all can get home for the night. You live nearby?”

“Twenty minutes’ drive. Not far, are we?” Joel asks you.

Your eyes shoot down to his. “No,” you push your cheeks up, telling Freya, “not far.”

She flattens her lips against one another, lending you a sympathetic smile. “You got nothing to worry about, honey. Promise. Gel might be a little cold, that’s about as scary as this gets. We’re just gonna make sure everything’s looking good, check your dates, check your measurements. You’re doing great.”

“You hear that?” Joel murmurs, settling down into the chair by your side. His hand hasn’t left yours. His voice is low, meant just for you, when he repeats, “You’re doin’ great.”

You huff a laugh, some nervous release from your lungs.

Freya smiles, face lit by the faint glow of the screen in front of her. “We ready?”

You roll the hem of your tee up when she motions, bunching it under the wire of your bra. She squeezes a bottle over your stomach, which tenses solid when the frozen bite of gel curls right below your belly button. Freya smiles apologetically when you wince. Told you, she murmurs, and your breath escapes in a slightly more comfortable laugh. Lighter, easier. Scariest part over.

She presses the probe to your skin and spreads the gel, coating the bottom of your tummy in a slippery slick which tickles with each inch she covers. Two buttons pressed, and a dark image appears on a screen opposite you.

A gray fan, speckled like the ceiling above your head. Dark, black shapes growing and shrinking at the turn of Freya’s wrist. She pauses, two blobs onscreen: the larger, black, round, home to a smaller, misshapen one. Flecked with white and silver and moving slowly, gently, but – right there.

“Mom, Dad,” she grins, “meet your baby.”

You and Joel move forward at the same time, drawn closer to the crunchy image as if by some kind of natural magnetism. Eyes never blinking, lips agape. The shapes flutter, the smaller dipping in and out of view.

“You see right here, right in the center?” A white cross appears over the blob’s middle. “That little movement? The kinda – pulsing?”

You each nod. Your nails dig so deep into Joel’s hand that you risk drawing blood.

“That’s the heart. Ticking away.”

“The heart?” you ask, watching the rhythmic flicker in the center of the screen.

“Yep. Perfect, too.”

She hits another key and suddenly the room is filled with a muffled thudding; a steady, energetic pulse in your ears. It matches the movements onscreen, the tiny throb of the baby’s chest, the shape of your womb moving like waves before you.

And suddenly, it's real – all of it: the screen and the room and the sonographer and you, and Joel’s hand encasing yours, holding your knuckles to his lips, and –

And the heartbeat. Right there, right in front of you. Shy, probably as nervous as you are to introduce themselves. Feeling your eyes on them, curled up somewhere safe inside you. Right there.

You turn to Joel, and his illuminated face is staring straight at the screen. Eyes soaked with tears, blinking as they form, cheeks dappled with wet. He draws his eyes from his child only to look back at you, only to mirror your stunned smile, your disbelieving laugh, more tears dripping down into his beard. He sits up, presses his damp lips firmly to your forehead.

Freya mutes the heartbeat, pauses the scan where the image is clearest, and sits back. “I’ll give you guys a moment to yourselves,” she says, wheeling back in her chair. “Take all the time you need. I’m right outside.”

“Thanks,” Joel mumbles for the both of you, sweeping hair from your face.

The door closes on your little bubble – you, Joel, and the grainy image of your baby. The evidence that – yeah, that night happened, and yeah, you’re forever changed because of it. The evidence that you’re about to become a mom, for real, no matter how much the thought makes you feel like your stomach is kicking around at your ankles.

And the evidence that, no matter how scared you might be, how unprepared and unworthy you feel – you fucking adore that little blob already.

Love it as much as Joel does, stood over you, kissing your hair and whispering words you’re only half-listening to. A quiet thank you, a shaky I can’t believe it. Something about showing his brother. And when you look up at him, blinking at one another, inches apart – he takes your jaw in his hands and lowers his lips to yours.

Different. Softer. No want laced through. No urgency. Nothing needed, nor requested, that isn’t already right here in this little bubble of yours.

He kisses you slowly, eyes closed, holding you until you pull away for breath. His nose bumps against yours and you laugh, heads together, eyes low.

“Still scared?” he whispers.

“Terrified,” you tell him.

“Me, too,” he says, and kisses you again.

You lean back against the bed, relief settling your bones and soothing your heartbeat. The notion washes over you that, if you could, you’d stay in this room forever. Staring at the screen, holding Joel’s hand. Whispering fears into his mouth and letting him swallow them in a kiss.

He hands you some paper towel and helps you drag it across your stomach, your eyes still fixed on the little shape opposite. He hooks his chin over your head – the fresh, woody smell of his cologne infiltrating your lungs and throwing you under the haze of something you’re not quite sure how to define.

“Duck,” he says, voice vibrating into your skull.

“Huh?”

“Start saying duck. Make the baby think we’re saying that, then you can say –” he lowers his voice, “– fuck, all you want.”

“The hell would I have to say duck for?”

Joel stands upright and shrugs. “I don’t know. Think of somethin’. A nickname, maybe.”

“Duck?”

He nods plainly, glancing over to the screen.

The pillow beneath your head sighs as you turn from Joel back to the ultrasound. “Baby Duck,” you offer, and he smiles.

Smiles in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile. Eyes glistening, cheeks swollen. Something innocent and earnest about it. Something pure.

He agrees. “Baby Duck it is.”

Joel insists that you spend the night at his place.

“It’s been a big day,” he reasons, fixing the bed in his guestroom. “Just – let me run around after you for a little bit.”

You fight your corner as much as you can be bothered – I gotta maintain my independence, I’m gonna be a single mom soon enough, you know – but, truthfully, you’ll take any excuse to have him rush around at your beck and call. Some days you open your mouth and he hears the wet click of saliva between your lips, and grabs a glass of water for you before you’ve even voiced the request.

He orders takeout, settles shoulder-to-shoulder with you on the couch, and lets you pick whichever movie you feel like putting him through until the food’s gone, he’s out of beer, and you’ve abandoned Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles for an argument about the best part of pizza.

You don’t like the crust?

Nope.

What fuckin’ age are you?

If it ain’t stuffed, it’s just not worth it.

At eleven, you bid him goodnight and wander upstairs, falling into a sea of navy-blue sheets to be delivered to sleep by the serene silence of Joel’s home. It takes no time for your eyes to flutter closed, the soft sheen of moonlight painted across the wall, sweeping from your view to be replaced in a whir by –

Lights. Overhead and all around and so bright and so close that you swear they’re etched on the inside of your eyelids.

You’re in the backseat, watching them soar by in blurs of white and red and amber and green, and your pulse is rattling through your veins and throbbing between your temples and you can’t focus on any one object for longer than three seconds, before your eyes roll and your head dizzies.

A word, slung from your lips in a half-wakened attempt to stop it. A word you barely recognize at first, don’t understand the meaning of. It’s been years. Why now? Mom.

You’re not sure why, or who you’re even reaching out to. There are two figures in the front seats, heads facing forward. She’s not turning around. She’s not even fucking moving, not reacting to the speed or the lights or your voice. Mom.

You scream it, the syllable ripping violently from your throat, and your tiny fingers reach for her swirls of hair. You pause, staring at the chipped polish on your stubby, kiddy nails. Mom, I’m scared.

The distorted blast of a horn scoops the car up in one motion, hurtling over itself along the freeway. You’re thrown to the roof of the car, plummet back down to your seat; the seatbelt throttles you, rips a burn deep into the skin of your neck. Back up again; your head hits the spongey roof of the car. Your stomach somersaults.

Mom, please, you wail, swiping for her hand. It’s lying limp by her thigh, dark droplets on her wrist. Mom Mom please Mom I’m scared Mom please I’m so scared I –

“Baby.”

His voice is low, earthy. It chews apart the high-pitched squeal of brakes and screaming. The glass smashing. The metal crunching.

You lift from the bed like it’s ice water, gasping when you finally surface back on Earth. Your chest heaves, it’s not sucking in enough breath; you can’t breathe you can’t breathe you can’t fucking breathe.

Joel whips the cover from your legs and you roll from the mattress, feet planting on the floor. You bend forward to grip onto the sheets, a choking rising up your throat, closer and closer until it tugs on your tongue.

“Icantbreathe,” you pant.

Joel’s body curves around yours. “You’re alright,” he’s telling you – urging you; one hand between your shoulder blades, the other holding your wrist for fear you might collapse. “I’m here, you’re okay. You’re at my place, you’re safe, but, kid – I need you to slow down. You’re hyperventilating.”

You work your breathing to the strokes of his hand up and down your spine: in out in out in and out and in and out and in, and out, and in, and…out…and in…and…out.

“That’s it. Keep doing that. You’re good, baby, I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

In – and out. In – and out again.

The room slowly desaturates back into boring, moonlit blue. Feeling sputters back into your hands, clawing at the sheets once the sharpness dissolves. The cotton pets back, smooth under your quivering touch. Your lips stop tingling, your ears stop ringing. One after another, until your blood settles back to a steady stream and you straighten up.

“Can you sit down for me?”

“No,” you whimper, and Joel nods.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I’m gonna get you a drink, that okay?”

You grab his T-shirt. “No. Don’t leave me. Please. Sorry.”

He cups your frozen cheeks. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Just downstairs. You can come.”

He settles you at his kitchen table and shuffles over to the cupboards, rubbing his eyes. You feel the heat of embarrassment and guilt, watching as he settles down with a groan minutes later.

“Ginger,” he tells you, voice rounded by his mug, sliding one of your own over to you.

“Sorry,” you mumble, lifting it with two hands. The smell sharp, cutting up the remnants of gasoline and smoke.

“Many times do I gotta say it?” he asks dryly. “Quit sayin’ you’re sorry.”

You gulp nervously. “You got work in the morning. You’re gonna be exhausted.”

“And if I hadn’t let you keep me up watchin’ chick flicks, I’d be rested. That’s something I can deal with later. I got you to worry about right now.”

You shake your head; the ceramic hits the table with a sharp thud. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Well,” Joel sniffs, “you’re carrying my child. I’ll always worry about you.”

You sit back, the curve of the chair cradling, your heart beating lamely against the wood. Joel’s jaw rests in the cushion of his palm, staring back at you.

“What time is it?” you ask, and he glances over his shoulder.

“Three. Take a sip.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sip.”

You obey, lifting the tea and swallowing harshly.

He watches every move, every shift reflected in his dark eyes, decorated by a tense, stony expression. “Does this happen a lot?”

“Never,” you say. “This never happens.”

Joel cranes his jaw, cracks his neck. “Alright,” he sighs, “that’s okay. Breathe again. You’re doing fine.”

But you don’t feel fine. The dregs of panic sizzle into something thicker, hotter. Anger. Frustration. “Why the fuck is this happening?” you hiss, fingers prodding into your eye sockets. “What the f–?”

“Easy. I don’t know. Hormones? Stress?”

“You sound like my fucking doctor.”

Joel smiles. Amusement, before concern wipes over it again. “Let’s just give it some time to pass, okay?”

You nod, hanging over your drink, the silhouette of your reflection staring back at you. The steam snakes up, seeping into your skin, bubbling under the surface. Wiping clean any memory of freeway or nail polish, like coating over a bathroom mirror. The shapes still visible behind, but blurred. Gone.

“How’s Vanessa?” you ask, an attempt to distract yourself.

Joel adjusts a little awkwardly in his chair. “She’s good. She loved the scan photo. Showed it to her sister. They’re sure it’s a boy.”

“Ha. Joel Jr.”

“Joel Jr.,” he agrees, and then attempts to distract himself. “So,” he says, “Allandale.”

“Mhm?”

“Wonder if I ever saw your mom or dad. When I was there visitin’ Sam.”

You shrug. “Doubt it. I mean, they always lived right next to the elementary school, if that helps. My mom was a first-grade teacher. The two of us used to walk there ‘n back together, every day.”

“First grade, huh? Best one.”

“Yeah. Yeah, and she was the best of the best. She used to go all out for her kids; used to go to Michaels and get all this crafty stuff so they could spend all afternoon making little houses or zoos, or – whatever she could think of. And she’d always keep some aside, bring some home for me to make one, too. One time, she came home with all this blue tissue paper and little foam fish, and we made an aquarium together.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Joel says.

“Yeah,” you say again, nodding eagerly. “She was so cool. And fun, y’know? I just remember her being so much fun. I always felt safe with her, felt loved. I actually used to think she hung the sun every morning, just for me.” You take a deep breath, replacing it with a broken sigh.

“What about your dad? What was he like?”

You frown. “He was…fine. Real quiet, reserved. A little grumpy, I guess. I always got the idea he couldn’t be bothered with me, young as I was. Always wanted to be left alone. I think my mom overcompensated a lot.”

Something flashes across Joel’s face that seems to say he knows – or, at least, he understands. Almost imperceptible, a quick flicker of annoyance. “You miss her?” he asks, switching back.

“My mom?” You almost laugh, gripping onto your mug. Staring at the slow swirl of ginger. A shrug which presents more like a flinch; an animal swatting a fly away. “I miss those parts, when I think of them. The aquarium, the walking to school. Miss the memories. But I don’t think I knew her well enough or long enough to miss her.

“I’ve lived way longer without her than I ever had her. Done everything without her, like –” gesturing down, “– this. But, sometimes…sometimes, I bundle the sheets up behind my back in bed, and I pretend it’s her. Pretend I have a mom, and she’s cuddling me to sleep. I dunno. Maybe that’s what missing her feels like.”

Joel soaks in every word you say, letting the shape of each one settle on the table between you before he speaks again. Letting them be spoken into the dead of night, collected by no one, and letting them fade into silence. Secrets sweeping off into starlight. Nothing you would admit in the daytime.

“What was her name?” he asks, voice timid and gentle in the dark kitchen.

You almost choke on your tea. “Shoot – I’m sorry. That was a lot. Sorry. She, uh – Her name?”

It brings the first genuine smile to your lips; the memory of your mom now clear behind your eyes. Her round cheeks, her fluttering earrings. The deep, dark curls of her hair, thick ringlets twisting and lighting in the sun. The gap between her front teeth, the purse of her lips as she kissed your cheeks, your hands, your tummy.

Her name like a melody in your head; a safe word, a calming mantra when the world becomes too noisy, too saturated, too sharp to bear. Two syllables. Two little beats, like a piece of her still lives in the sound of her name.

“Sarah,” you tell Joel. “Her name was Sarah.”

#*hits post*#*throws laptop from bridge*#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel miller #neighbor!joel #babydaddy!joel miller #babydaddy!joel #tw pregnancy

2K notes · View notes

maxlarens · 5 months ago

Note

Max and 10 please <3

10) spooning at night

Despite the soundproofing you’d installed during Covid, you can still hear Max’s pedals going thunk against the walls of the apartment. The sound accompanied by faint chattering, occasional laughter, cries of outrage as he talks to his friends on stream.

He worries sometimes. But you’d tell him if it bothered you— besides, you like hearing sounds of life in the apartment. You’ve not quite adjusted to the sheer square footage of Max’s penthouse apartment yet, even though you’ve lived with him for years. You grew too used to New York apartments where your bedroom, kitchen, and dining room were always piled on top of each other. It’s strange to have so much space, more rooms than you know what to do with.

Anyway, no, the noise doesn’t bother you. You like to hear him enjoying himself, laughing with his friends, doing something that doesn’t have so much pressure attached to it. You don’t like to take him away from that prematurely, even if you’re missing him.

And you are missing him.

It’s the middle of the night. Maybe past midnight now. You’ve got the windows in your bedroom open, letting in the Monaco sea breeze in a futile attempt to cut through the sweltering heat. The overhead fan whirrs above you. Some mindless show you love drones quietly on the TV, casting you in ever changing colours as you twist and turn in the sheets. Trying to keep your mind off things you shouldn’t be worrying about.

You wait a while, watch an episode.

Then you give in to your selfish tendencies and pull up your Discord chat with Max on your phone, sending off a simple message— come to bed?

You put your phone back on the nightstand and try not to smile too wide when you hear the sim rig thunk and thud as Max climbs out of it a few minutes later. His footsteps on the hardwood floors as he stops by the kitchen and then makes his way to the bedroom.

The door creaks open. Max comes inside, stepping quietly as if you’re already asleep.

“Sorry, liefje,” he says softly, before he ducks into the closet to change, “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

You shake your head even though he can’t see, “You didn’t. I just couldn’t sleep.”

“You should have told me,” he sighs, coming out of the walk in closet wearing the oversized cat shirt you’d bought him and worn sweat-shorts with holes in the waistband, “I don’t mind cutting the stream short, not for you. They will survive without me.”

You hum and nod placatingly, knowing you wouldn’t ever ask him to do that. At least not for something like this. You’d only sent that message tonight because you knew he’d already been on for hours and would be wrapping up soon anyway.

“Got it,” you say, opening your arms and beckoning him to get into bed already.

He sighs again, an exasperated little exhale through his nose, and then climbs under the single sheet you’ve got draped over you. He shuffles into your space, pressing a wet kiss to the side of your chin as you press a kiss into his forehead and adjust your arms around him.

“Where are the cats?”, you ask, while Max busies himself with turning around.

You feel Max shrug. He’s adjusting the sheet so it sits over him perfectly and then fluffing his pillows so his head sits comfortably. You reach out to scratch the back of his neck, with three fingers, the same way you scratch the cats out of habit.

“Jimmy’s sleeping in the spare room,” he says, reaching blindly behind him to catch your shirt and drag you closer, “Dunno where Sassy is.”

“Causing trouble,” you laugh, slotting into place at his back.

You nudge your nose into his shoulder and sling your arm over his waist. Curling it around to press into his stomach. Your legs end up tangled, one of yours bent and hiked on his hip. Later, he’ll nudge it off because it twists the material of his shorts, but he tolerates it until you’re asleep.

“Mm,” he agrees, finding your hand splayed flat on his tummy and intertwining it with his own, “Always.”

#based off real life events. my partner has a sim set up and i can hear his pedals and clutch thudding against the wall whenever he plays lo #this turned out way longer than i meant it to be #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #💫drabbles #drabbles:mv33

624 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 6 months ago

Note

ok i have a request/idea: gf reader on tour supporting bf rockstar!sirius but she starts to feel homesick being on the road for so long <33333 just feel like sirius would be so comforting and caring

I feel the same babe! Thank you for requesting <3

rockstar!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

Even after months on tour, you don’t understand why rockstars need to smoke indoors. You’ve found a corner of refuge in the stranger’s house, siphoning fresh air from an open window, but you feel for James, grinning and bearing it while he talks to another band that performed tonight and makes nice with groupies while showing off pictures of his girlfriend back home.

Part of you is still a bit awestruck that you get to go to these things, another part equally mystified at how routine it’s come to feel. During the first several nights of the tour, you’d been endlessly dazzled by the wealth you were suddenly surrounded with, the vibrancy of the people around you, the novelty of it all. The world had suddenly become so much larger, and everywhere you and the boys went everyone wanted to talk to them, buy you all drinks, invite you to parties and afterparties and after-afterparties.

Sirius bears it beautifully, like this was always his destiny—in a lot of ways, you imagine it was—but sometimes when the two of you are alone he’ll confess to still feeling giddy that he and his friends have made it this big. You wonder if it’ll ever feel normal for him, the hugeness of it. You can tell by now that it never will for you.

You’re still very impressed by the glamor of touring, you still have a good time on these nights out, but lately you’ve started to feel the distance between where you are and your real life. It’s almost as if before you could feel something invisible connecting you to home and, somewhere along on the road, it severed without you noticing. Now it just feels like a phantom limb, and when you try to recall the scent of you and Sirius’ kitchen or mime the way you have to jimmy your key to unlock the front door, you can’t manage it.

You’re still thinking of the scent of your kitchen when it sidles up next to you.

“You smell like garlic,” you tell Sirius, not without fondness.

“God, it’s that potent, is it?” Your boyfriend’s tone speaks to a chagrin entirely unlike him, and he corroborates its falsity by caging you in his arms and touching his cheek to yours. You don’t mind, as he knew you wouldn’t. “I was given a choice, gorgeous, and I took a gamble.”

“Mm. What was that?”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

You turn in his arms, tangling your fingers behind his back so you’re holding him as he is you. People start to give you a bit of berth, as one does for couples at parties, and selfishly you enjoy it.

Touring is non-stop motion, a blur of people and places and sounds, and you miss the slow, quiet moments you and Sirius used to have more of. You’re with him all the time, but it doesn’t always feel like it. It hardly feels like you’re with yourself. Not his fault, not anyone’s, but not ideal.

“It’s hardly one,” you say.

“Which means” —he drops his lips to your eyebrow, speaking loudly to be heard over the music but just soft enough to have goosebumps skittering down your arms— “the fast food places will be closing in an hour. Fancy some grease, my love?”

You tilt your chin up, pecking him on the lips. Truly, you don’t mind the garlic as much as you suppose you ought to. “Sure, let’s go.”

Getting to the door is a melee, several people stopping you to try and pull Sirius back into conversation or ask if you’re going to the next party and such-and-such’s place in a couple hours, but when you do make it out the noise deadens and the air tastes clean.

It’s a pleasant night, just cool enough to raise the hair on your arms and refresh your energy. Somewhere above you, the moon is hidden behind clouds, but still it’s bright enough that it casts a silvery glow in the areas not lit by streetlights.

You make it a few paces down the block before Sirius is fisting his hand in the material of your shirt, spinning you around to face him.

“Have I told you how stunning you look tonight?”

Only thrice between the hotel and when he went on stage. “No.”

“Liar,” he says lovingly, leaning in to give you a kiss.

You expect from his mood for it to be hot and indelicate, and you’d hardly have complained, but he closes his lips around yours softly. His hand loosens on your front, coasting upwards to cup your cheek, sweet and savoring.

“Garlic knots,” he says as he pulls back.

You’re unjustifiably breathless. “Hm?”

“That was the choice I had to make. One of Ricky’s friends heated up garlic knots, and I wagered you’d prefer kissing someone who tasted like garlic over someone who tasted like cigarettes.”

“It’s not just someone.” You grin at him, turning and taking his hand to keep walking. “I’ll always prefer kissing you. I would’ve done it either way, you know.”

You can hear Sirius’ smile in his voice, your favorite sound. “Yeah, but I chose right, didn’t I?”

“You did,” you confirm, and he gives your hand a triumphant squeeze. “I have no idea where I’m going, by the way. I don’t know why I took the lead.”

He hums. “Do you ever think you might have one of those honing instincts? Like, the way bees are to their hive, that’s how you are with fast food. My honeybee,” he says it drawn out and extra saccharine, knowing you’ll hate it, and laughs when you let go of his hand and make to walk away from him.

Sirius grabs for your hand back, tugging you close enough to get his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You don’t put up much resistance.

“You’re spot on, sweetheart,” he says. “I clocked a McDonald’s just a few streets down when we were driving here.”

A buzz of excitement goes through you. “Why are you so keen on McDonald’s all of a sudden?” Sirius is as happy with fast food as the rest of you, but you know he’s been enjoying the lavish meals the boys’ new manager pays for and having room service sent up at your hotel. “We can always have that at home.”

“You’ve been talking about milkshakes for a couple of days now,” he says, “and you’re getting quiet. I recognize that mood. I missed home last summer, too.”

“Really?” This is the boys' first big tour—they’ve already been on a shorter, less grandiose one you hadn’t come along for—but it’s hard for you to picture Sirius ever not enjoying it. He’s not someone who sets down roots, and with the way he talks about where he grew up you’ve never thought of him as getting particularly nostalgic for any sort of place. “I figured you’d feel most at home wherever James and Remus are.”

“Yeah, but we’d left you behind. I was torn in two, gorgeous.” Sirius’ tone is doing that weird thing where it’s teasing but not. You can hear the sincerity lining his words. He mashes a kiss into the side of your head. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“Because.” You take his hand where it’s draped over your shoulder, your fingertips dancing in between his own. “It’s not the sort of mood I’d like to give into if I can help it, and I’d rather be here with you than at home anyways, so it’s pointless. There was nothing you could do, baby.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong.” Sirius gives your fingers a playful squeeze. “You should always assume there’s something I can do, haven’t we been over this? Right now, I can get my girl a milkshake and some fries, and then I was thinking we could go find a park to eat them.”

That sounds so unbelievably nice. You turn your head to smile at him, and find he’s already looking at you with a similar expression.

“And if more things come up that would make you feel better, I can try to make those happen. How does that sound, lovely girl?”

You steal a kiss to his cheek, but Sirius doesn’t let you get away with just that, stopping to hold you in place so he can peck you properly on the lips. The neon sign of the McDonalds is close enough now to cast you in its glow.

“You woo me more every day, do you know that?”

“Yes, well,” says Sirius, wrapping his arm around you again to lead you the rest of the way, “I do have to prove myself better than home somehow, don’t I?”

546 notes · View notes

wh0reforcoriolanussnow · 11 months ago

Note

a singer!reader where she writes a super sexy song and the fans are going crazy because she's never written a song like that. she goes to some talk shows bc she has to promote the album of the song, and they ask her about it and if its about her boyfriend tom blyth!!!!

Never be like you || Tom Blyth x singer!reader

A/n: lowkey need Gracie to do a cover for this song bc I feel like her voice would suit it sm and I wanna see her do this type of vibe!!

Warnings: fem!reader, swearing

Wc: 719

Tom Blyth x singer!reader au masterlist

“Our next guest, is a Grammy nominee for best new artist, performing her single never be like you for the first time, please welcome Y/n Abrams!” Jimmy Fallon announces as the crowd erupts in cheers. You take the stage, the crowd hushed in anticipation. The spotlight illuminates you, clad in a sultry ensemble that's a departure from your usual style

“What I would do, to take away, this fear of being loved, allegiance to the pain,” Your fingers wrap around the mic as you close your eyes. “Now I’m fucked up, and I’m missing you, He’ll never be like you,” The atmosphere shifted, and you began to sing the sultry lyrics in a way that surprised even your most dedicated fans. The audience was captivated, and whispers of amazement spread like wildfire.

“I’m only human, can’t you see? I made, I made a mistake, please just look me in my face, tell me everything’s okay,” Your hands, usually strumming a guitar, were instead in your hair as you tilt your head back almost in a sexual manner. The crowd, initially unsure how to react, soon becomes entranced by your unexpected venture into this new style.

The song's sensual undertones echoed through the venue, and you felt an electrifying connection with the audience. This style of song was something you’ve never done before. That’s why you really enjoyed producing it. It brought you out of your comfort zone; a deliberate choice to express a different side of yourself.

"How do I make you wanna stay? hate sleeping on my own, missing the way you taste," your voice, rich and alluring, wraps around the lyrics with a sensuality that catches everyone off guard.

"Stop looking at me with those eyes," a smile naturally played on your lips as you delivered that line, intentionally fixing your gaze on the camera, fully aware of Tom's watchful eyes. The lyrics, tailored to hit home with your boyfriend, spoke directly to his captivating deep blue eyes – the kind that always left you spellbound, and no amount of time together could diminish the flutter of nerves they induced.

"like I could disappear and you wouldn't care why, now I'm fucked up and I'm missing you, he'll never be like you," Backstage, Tom can't tear his eyes away. The way you command the stage, blending vulnerability with a newfound confidence, stirs something within him.

He had heard snippets of the song before its release, but experiencing it live brings a visceral intensity he hadn't anticipated. The lyrics, once a private exchange, now echo through the venue, leaving everyone captivated.

As the performance concludes, the audience erupts into applause, their astonishment turning into admiration. Tom approached with a grin, desire in his eyes, expressing his awe at your unexpected and alluring rendition. "That was incredible," he whispers, pulling you into a passionate embrace.

Word spreads like wildfire. Fans, accustomed to your previous style, can't believe the transformation. Social media buzzes with speculation, theories swirling that the song must be about someone special.

In a promotional interview, the host, with a sly grin, asks the question on everyone's mind. "Rumors are circulating that the inspiration behind your latest single is none other than your boyfriend, Tom Blyth. Care to shed some light on that?"

A coy smile played on your lips as you glance at the crowd, then back to the interviewer. "My supporters sure are smart, huh?" You giggle softly to yourself. "But, yes, it is about Tom."

"It's quite different to my usual style, but it was very fun to compose," You smile. The revelation sends shockwaves through your fanbase. Speculation turns into fervent curiosity, and they dissect the lyrics for clues about your relationship with Tom. Social media explodes, and you find yourself at the center of a newfound spotlight.

Tom, for his part, embraces the attention with good humor. During his interviews for "The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes," fans playfully tease him about being the muse behind your provocative song. He takes it all in stride, admitting with a smile that he's flattered by the attention.

"So, Tom, we've all heard your girlfriend's new song 'Never be like you' and everyone knows it's about you. What are your thoughts on it?" the interviewer inquired, a playful glint in their eyes.

Tom chuckled nervously, a light blush creeping up his cheeks. "Well, it's certainly an interesting experience," he replied with a sheepish smile. "I'm flattered, to be honest. My girl is incredibly talented, and she expresses herself very well through her music, something I admire,"

As he spoke, his castmates, Rachel and Hunter, couldn't help but interject with mischievous grins. "Oh, come on, Tom! 'Interesting experience'? That song is steamy!" Rachel teased, eliciting laughter from Hunter.

Tom rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. "Alright, alright. Maybe 'interesting' is an understatement. But seriously, I'm incredibly proud of her. She was worried her new style of music not being a hit, but she nailed it."

The banter continued, but beneath the teasing, there was a genuine camaraderie. Tom's supportive words reflected not only his admiration for his girlfriend's artistic expression but also his pride in you.

As your relationship becomes a public fascination, the dynamics of your performances shift. Fans attend your shows not just for your music but to catch glimpses of the chemistry they've read about online. The narrative surrounding your love story becomes intertwined with your artistic identity.

Tom's become a regular at your shows, grinning from ear to ear as he watches you own the stage. Your private affair has gone all public, and now it's like you and him are this dynamic duo everyone's rooting for. The crazy twist in your music style? It's like you cracked open a whole new world for yourself, and at the same time, it's made you and Tom this inseparable couple in the eyes of your fans.

800 notes · View notes

glossdebut · 1 day ago

Text

study break | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SUMMARY: Yoongi was an extremely effective tutor, until he wasn’t. As it turns out, dating the person who is singlehandedly responsible for bringing up your Fundamentals of Music Theory grade isn’t the smartest move in the world.

✧ TAGS: college au, smut, fluff

✧ WARNINGS: oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, slight overstimulation

✧ AUTHOR'S NOTE: okay, so this is NOT price of fame chapter two, nor is it the seokjin fic that i’ve been teasing for weeks. this is instead a secret third thing, inspired by my own post that has been living rent free in my brain for the past couple of days. i promise POF2 and the seokjin fic are both coming, but i had to get this out before i lost my damn mind. not beta read, so feel free to inform me of any mistakes i missed. P.S. i know the header isn’t debut yoongi, don’t fucking @ me about it!! i had this photo on hand ):

✧ WORDCOUNT: 2.2k words

Yoongi was an extremely effective tutor, until he wasn’t.

As it turns out, dating the person who is singlehandedly responsible for bringing up your Fundamentals of Music Theory grade isn’t the smartest move in the world.

Things were so much easier when you—wrongfully—assumed he was an asshole. At least then, the arrangement was clear: you met him in the library, tried not to get annoyed at what a know-it-all he seemed to be for an hour, and then went back to your dorm with a slightly easier method of memorizing the circle of fifths under your belt. It went on like that for weeks. Quick and effective, mostly painless.

But then, when awkward small talk developed into genuine interest, you got to know him.

You learned that the reason he never takes notes in class is because he doesn’t have to. He taught himself all of the basics of music theory years ago, could’ve tested out and moved on to a more advanced class, but he wanted an easy A in his course load. You learned that he’s a classical piano major. He likes it just fine, but it’s really a means to an end. You learned that he writes his own raps, performs them at underground shows with a group of friends some weekends, that that’s what he really wants to do. You learned that he’s not an asshole and he’s just shy, that he’s been working up the courage to ask you out all semester.

You learned even more about him on your first date.

Such as: he’s the self-proclaimed master of grilling meat, and he’ll load up your plate for you before he even thinks of feeding himself. He may act like he’s not interested in going to the noraebang, but with just the slightest bit of insistence from you he’ll fold like a piece of paper. He thinks it’s cute when you snatch his snapback right off of his head and put it on your own. Even cuter when you fumble through a verse of Epik High’s ‘Love Love Love,’ squealing happily when he joins in.

And: he kisses like he’s got something to prove. Knows all the right ways to use his tongue. Makes a low noise in the back of his throat when you do something he likes. Isn’t the slightest bit shy about pulling you into his lap, nor about slipping his hand into your panties right there, Epik High forgotten in favor of making you cum around his skilled fingers.

So. Yeah.

Yoongi is no longer an effective tutor, because instead he is a fucking distraction.

You’re supposed to be studying. You had been studying, both of you putting up a valiant effort for a full hour and a half. But just as you’d gotten a firm grasp on the seven musical modes—Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, Locrian—-Yoongi was whining, insisting on taking a break. You tried to put up a fight, but you’re especially weak when Yoongi gets all sulky, soft pink lips pulled into a pout.

Notecards tossed aside, your fifteen minute study break quickly devolves into half an hour of making out on Yoongi’s bed. As soft music filters into his dorm room from his laptop, you lose track of time with his tongue sliding against yours, the occasional sting of his teeth on your bottom lip because he knows you like it. When you feel his erection pressed against your hip it quickly becomes very clear that you’re both done studying for the time being.

The way Yoongi kisses you never fails to make you crazy. His lips on yours are gentle but commanding at the same time, his hands in your hair holding your head exactly where he wants it as he licks into your mouth like he owns it. When he pulls away, you barely have a chance to catch your breath before he’s trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Your hips rock up against his, desperate for friction.

“Baby,” Yoongi murmurs against your skin. His hands slide down from your hair to gently tug at the waistband of your jeans, an index finger circling teasingly around the button. “Wanna eat you out. You want that?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, gasping when he nips at the underside of your jaw. Your voice is high, needy, foreign to your own ears. He’s good at that—at pulling sounds out of you that you didn’t know you could make.

He wastes no time in peeling your jeans down your legs, tossing them off the bed and out of his way. Yoongi likes to have as much space as possible when he eats you out, you’ve learned. He likes to take his time, spread you out as much as he can on his shitty dorm-provided twin size mattress. Just because he can make you cum in record time—and he can—doesn’t mean he likes to. Not when he’d much rather drag it out, savor you in every imaginable way until you can’t take it anymore.

You know you’re in for it when he doesn’t take your panties off right away. Instead, when he settles between your thighs, all he does is look for a moment, his gaze laser-focused on the growing wetness seeping through the cotton.

It lasts long enough that you start to squirm, his eyes flicking up to meet yours at the sudden movement.

“A-are you…?” you start, but you trail off, suddenly feeling way too fucking shy for something you’ve done with him more times than you can count at this point.

“Yeah,” he hums, looking up at you with an amused smirk. “Yeah, I’m getting to it, sweetness. I just wanted to look at you for a second. Is that okay?”

You shiver, swallowing thickly as you nod.

“You sure?” he teases, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, so close to where you want him. “You don’t have anywhere better to be?”

“Shut up, Yoongi,” you complain, sitting up for a moment to flick him on the forehead.

“Yah, so disrespectful,” he admonishes with a bite right where he’d just kissed. “I’m just playing. I know you don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

Your eyes narrow at him. “I don’t,” you agree, suspicious. He’s up to something.

“No, you don’t,” Yoongi hums knowingly, holding your gaze as he presses a kiss right to your clit. It makes your breath hitch, even with your panties subduing the feeling. “Because you love the way I eat this pussy, don’t you, baby?”

The answer is yes, of course. Yoongi always makes you feel so good no matter what he’s doing, but eating you out is definitely where he excels. But something about how cocky he’s being makes something stir inside of you—-makes you feel a little bold, a little mean.

“When you actually get around to it, yeah.”

Yoongi chuckles darkly, snapping the waistband of your panties against your hip. When he lifts his head his eyes are all pupil. “It’s like that, huh?” he asks, his tongue running over his teeth.

“Maybe,” you say, goading.

He clicks his tongue, dipping down to lick a broad stripe over your pussy without any warning. When he reaches your clothed clit, he wraps his lips around it and sucks hard, tearing a surprised moan from you.

“F-fuck!” Your fingers tangle in his hair, desperate for something to hold on to, but the overwhelming pleasure is gone as quickly as it came.

“Such a brat,” Yoongi mumbles, sinking his teeth into the softness of your inner thigh again, harder this time. “Just wanted to take my time, treat you nice. But if you want it like this, fine.”

Mercifully, his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. He roughly drags them down your legs until they’re thrown onto the floor, out of sight just like your jeans.

You gasp when his fingers instantly slide over your slippery cunt, making you gasp. “You get this wet just from pissing me off?” he scoffs, and you shake your head.

“N-no,” you whimper.

“No?” Yoongi asks, tilting his head at you with a smirk. You feel like you’re going to die when his fingers find your clit, rubbing in punishing little circles. “Tell me what gets you this wet, then, baby.”

“You!” you moan. It feels embarrassingly fast, but you’re close. You’re gonna cum before he even gets his mouth on you properly. Maybe that’s his goal. “You, fuck, Yoongi.”

“That’s right,” he purrs. “You gonna cum already, pretty girl? Before I even get to taste you?”

Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Motherfucker.

You wouldn’t be able to protest even if you wanted to, your brain already succumbing to the pleasant buzz of your impending orgasm. All you can do is squirm and rock up against Yoongi’s fingertips, completely at his mercy.

“That’s okay,” Yoongi continues, unbothered as you shake and moan in front of him. “I know you can give me another one. Go ahead, sweetness. Cum for me.”

Your release tears through you, sudden and intense and all-consuming. You’re sure there are words coming out of your mouth, but between the heat spreading through your body and the static buzzing in your ears, you honestly have no idea what they could be. Yoongi’s fingers keep rubbing at your abused clit until you’re trembling, gasping for breath between moans.

“Filthy girl,” he hums. Whatever you said must’ve been good, because he sounds almost proud of you as he runs his hands over your thighs. “You gonna let me take my time now?”

“Yes,” you gasp, still reeling from your orgasm. Yoongi taking his time is exactly what you need right now, or else you’ll go into complete overdrive. Absently, you think that was his plan all along, but that thought melts away as soon as Yoongi dips down and delves his tongue into your cunt, slow and thorough.

Your brain? Empty. Brain so fucking empty.

“Shit,” he groans against you, his voice so low and gravelly you can feel the vibration of his words against your pussy. “You always taste so fucking good after you cum for me.”

You thread your fingers through his hair again, moaning long and low as he spreads you apart with his thumbs and dives back in. His nose nudges just slightly against your clit as he licks into you, the barely-there contact making your eyes roll back in your head.

“Yoongiiii,” you moan, earning an appreciative moan from him as he dips his tongue into your entrance.

Your first orgasm took you by surprise, but you can tell already that this one is going to be a slow burn, tendrils of heat that never really got a chance to fade spreading through your body, adagio.

As promised, Yoongi takes his sweet time. He sets an agonizing rhythm: licking into you, dragging his tongue up your pussy, gently sucking your clit into his mouth, over and over again until you’re practically a puddle on his mattress.

“Feels so fuckin’ good,” you mewl, your thighs shaking around his head. You’d blush at the sounds he’s producing between your legs, slurping and sucking at you, if you weren’t so fucked out. Instead, all it does is turn you on even more, make you even wetter for him.

Yoongi pulls back, huffing a laugh through his nose. “I know, baby,” he murmurs soothingly. “You ready to cum again?”

Wordlessly, you nod, squeezing your eyes shut. Two fingers tease at your entrance, getting nice and wet before Yoongi slides them in, and just like that, you’re ready to burst.

“Nnngh—fuck, ‘m so fucking close,” you slur, grasping at his hair as he pumps his fingers into you.

“Give it to me,” he says, before sucking your clit into his mouth again and making stars burst behind your eyelids.

His fingers curl just right, and then you’re moaning brokenly, bucking up against his fingers and mouth as you cum again.

It feels like it lasts forever. Yoongi moans around your clit as you clench around his fingers, squeezing tight tight tight as heat crashes over you in waves. You feel his fingers withdraw, and then his tongue is fucking into you again, licking every last drop he’s earned from you.

He only breaks away when you’re pushing at his head, overstimulated and spent.

“God, you’re so sexy,” he rumbles, climbing up the bed so he’s on top of you, bracing himself on his elbows. He’s one to talk. He always looks so good like this—swollen lips and dark eyes, the bottom half of his face slick from eating you out so fucking well. “You can just cum and cum for me, can’t you?”

“You are insane,” you breathe, grasping at the strings of his sweatshirt to pull him in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.

Yoongi chuckles, pulling away just to press his forehead against yours. “You like it,” he says.

“I like you,” you correct, closing your eyes. “Even though I’m going to fail my final because of you.”

That earns a real laugh from Yoongi, his nose scrunching. “You’re not gonna fail.”

“I am,” you say, nodding sagely. “But it’ll be worth it.”

“That so?” He presses another kiss to your lips, nuzzling his nose against yours.

“Mhmm,” you hum. “Besides, I’ll just find a better tutor next semester when I have to retake.”

That earns you a sharp jab of Yoongi’s fingers to your side, but he’s got one of those gummy smiles on his face as you squeal under him, so no harm done.

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this fic! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future fics!

@yoongiphoria @joonary @ktownshizzle @wobblewobble822 @this-most-assuredly-counts

@jajabro @pitchblack0309 @ot72025 @futuristicenemychaos @tea4sykes

@sugainmybowl @ohnothisnameisalreadytaken @sugafun @whoa-jo

183 notes · View notes

libraryofloveletters · 1 year ago

Text

History Book Repeats Itself

pairing: fernando alonso x reader

summary: looking up and looking down, it never felt so right.

author’s note: this is for the nando fuckers, even the ones on the lows. wife yn is giving supportive and y’all could never, she’s the superior wag - for @oconso

all photos are from instagram and/or pinterest :)

written in the photos series masterlist

youruser added an instagram story.

youruser

liked by fernandoalo_official, alpinef1team, lance_stroll and 139,543 others

youruser: goodbye alpinef1team 💙 - hello astonmartinf1 💚

tagged: alpinef1team, astonmartinf1, fernandoalo_official

view 721 comments

alpinef1team: we’ll miss you in the garage! 💙

comment liked by youruser

user14: I wonder how many green outfits yn can put together for next year

↪️youruser: already started shopping 🤣

fernandoalo_official: ❤️

user31: her using him getting out the alpine and into the aston so making me emotional like wtf

astonmartinf1: can’t wait to have you with us! 💚

comment liked by youruser

youruser added an instagram story.

fernandoalo_official

liked by youruser, felipedrugovich, lance_stroll and 323,833 others

fernandoalo_offcical: magic💚 astonmartinf1

view 1,882 comments

youruser: fuck yeah baby

comment liked by lance_stroll

user16: he’s never gonna retire now is he 😭

astonmartinf1: 💚💚💚💚

youruser

liked by pierregasly, fernandoalo_official, estebanocon and 127,534 others

youruser: just a little humble brag about my man 🤭 10 races in and 6 podium finishes, he’ll see y’all on the podium when they’re back on track for the second half of the season 💚

tagged: fernandoalo_official

view 890 comments

astonmartinf1: okay mrs. alonso coming in with the energy we need 👏

comment liked by youruser, fernandoalo_official

user31: her calling him her man is taking me outtttt even tho it is her man 😭

fernandoalo_official: te amo ❤️

comment liked by youruser

fernandoalo_official

liked by youruser, pierregasly, carlossainz55 and 342,543 others

fernandoalo_official: mi vida ❤️ siempre tan solidaria, te amo siempre. (my life ❤️ always so supportive, i love you forever)

location: spain // tagged: youruser

view 1,463 comments

user00: yn always eats, no crumbs left ever. #bestwag

youruser: te quiero mucho!!!

comment liked by fernandoalo_official

pierregasly: how he bagged her, I’ll never know

↪️user16: pierreeeeee you’re not on your burner 😭

↪️pierregasly: oops 😬

am18: when will it be my turn!!!!

astonmartinf1: hottest couple in and out of the paddock

↪️ajimmyslife: that was supposed to be commented from this account my bad

user14:^this is why jimmy/aston admin is the superior admin

#written in the photos social media series #fernando alonso #fernando alonso x you #fernando alonso x reader #fernando alonso x y/n #f1 social media au #f1 instagram au

771 notes · View notes

braxiatel · 7 months ago

Text

An assortment of Grian appearance headcanons I’ve had on my mind lately!

(Obligatory mention that I’m talking about Grian the character and not Grian the youtuber, here’s your confirmation that this is not about real life guy Grian minecraft whose appearance is well documented, but rather it is about his minecraft roleplay character who is made out of pixels and blocks and whose appearance is very much up for discussion)

His eyes are that shade of brown that’s so dark it looks black

He wears glasses, and through experience he has learned that unless he wants to be replacing them about once a month he needs them to have a thick and sturdy frame

Grian has a whopping case of adhd and is extremely good at misplacing his belongings. His glasses are not exempt from this just because they help him see, and he has managed to lose every single pair he owns several times. At some point one of his friends (I'm leaning Pearl or Jimmy) got tired of hearing him complain about it, and got him a golden chain to keep them on. Grian pretends he’s just using it because it appeals to his love for shiny things, but in reality it actually helps him a lot and he would be very sad were he to lose it

Speaking of his adhd. This guy moves. He does not sit still, does not like to be doing nothing. He builds, he helps other hermits with stuff they don’t have time to do, and he is well known to do Grindy tasks. And you know what that means? Grian is strong. In fact, Grian is buff

This is related to some hybrid stuff I’ll get more into in a sec, but very specifically, Grian is a flyer and those natural wings need a lot of muscle around them to work. That means a lot of upper body strength, especially in the pectoral region. Yes, I said gritty rights.

I wish I could remember what artist originally drew Grian’s waffle as an undercut with a pattern because I love that headcanon so much. He varies what the rest of his hair looks like (he has a manbun in season 9) but the undercut stays no matter what

Tangentially, the reason Mumbo now has a waffle as well is that his hair just grows in that shape now. He has extremely specific alopecia, and it is unclear whether or not Grian is the same or if he just prefers to keep his hair that way.

Grian has clear and visible bald patches in his eyebrows. This is a product of him having had TNT blow up in his face one too many times, resulting in the follicles having been damaged

Along a similar vein, he is also missing somewhere in the realm of 1-3 fingers total on his hands

I don’t think of Grian as someone who is very particular with his hair or with stuff like makeup. Most days he’ll do the bare minimum of combing his hair to look presentable and that’s it

That said, he loooooooves shiny jewellery, and his wardrobe is by far the largest on the server. Due to aforementioned constant moving he need things that are practical to move in, but other than that he has no rules on what goes in there. You’ve got sequinned mini skirts next to permanently dirt-stained overalls next to rainbow bucket hats. This guy has it all.

He does sometimes wear a red sweater, but I am going to say something controversial here, guys. Look at that man's shirt. Look at that cleavage view. He’s wearing a v-neck

Okay so hybrid headcanons. I have several, mutually exclusive ideas here, but I will go with one I think is, frankly, very underutilised: gryphon hybrid Grian!

Want avian Grian for all of the historically present bird coding? Also want to acknowledge the fact that he has so much mischievous cat energy? Gryphon Grian! He’s half bird, half cat, half human, and all menace.

There are a couple of different bird species I think he could be.

House sparrow, for the noise levels, the tendency to travel in a pack, and the sheer gremlin energy these little bastards exhibit outside of my kitchen window on a daily basis.

I think he could definitely be some kind of corvid too. Maybe a magpie? Beautiful plumage (fight me), incredibly intelligent and likely to make that your problem, and with a call that lends itself very well to Grian’s screech-laughter

You all know my opinions on potoo Grian. It works, okay? Look into his horrible, haunted eyes, you know it to be true.

For a season 10 fisherman arc Grian I am very much leaning towards an oriental darter. There’s just something about the idea of Grian spearfishing for mending books, and sulking in the sun to dry his wings when he only catches fish that I enjoy very much

Owl for his cursed head movements

Okay so wings talk time! I headcanon that naturally avians simply do not have wings strong enough to fly with. They’re too short, and even for someone like Grian who flies A Lot the musculature to support a humanoid frame just isn’t there. That said, elytra are easily modified to function as a sort of wing extension/prosthetic, that allows them to gain much more power for less energy expended.

You would think, with me being the owner of three cats, that I would have some kind of idea for a specific breed of cat he might be. The thing is, my family have historically always kept the same breed (Norwegian forest cat mix c: ), so I know very much about those and no other cat breeds. He is simply cat :)

Biiiiig naughty tortie vibes. My sources for this is I have one of the latter and she is the same level of Problems a Grian

This is the little madam caught in the act of doing something dastardly. She commits one hundred crimes every single day and we love her. Tell me that is not big Grian vibes right there. You can't, right? he is a naughty tortie

Other Grian hybrid options I also like: avian, watcher, robot!!, cod, enchanted armour stand come to life!, and fey!Grian

#i swear this isn't just an excuse to post pictures of my cat #this is however an excuse to present buff no eyebrows grian to y'all #if just one person accepts any of these headcanons into their lives i will be happy #grian #mcyt #hermitcraft #life series #traffic smp #life smp #hermitblr #trafficblr #the void collection

85 notes · View notes

housethemd · 1 year ago

Text

One Life For Another

(What if Amber had been the one to survive the bus crash instead of House? Snapshots of Wilson’s life after House. Wilson/Amber, eventual House/Wilson. Just read and you’ll understand.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where’s House?”

Amber asks, shortly after her eyes open. Wilson smooths back her hair, thinking she’s just confused, concussed.

“Shh, you were in a bus crash. You’ve been unconscious for nearly 24 hours. You’re going to be okay though.” He reassures her, kissing her forehead.

“Where’s House?” She repeats.

That’s how they find out House was in that crash too. He’d forgotten his wallet at the bar, so he’d been taken to Princeton General as a John Doe. That’s why Wilson only got the call about Amber.

When Wilson gets there, House only has a few hours left. The damage is too extensive. He’d need multiple organ transplants to save him, and he qualifies for none of them because of his addiction. Conceptually, Wilson knows that House would be unlikely to survive regardless.

Amber checks herself out of PPTH AMA, refusing not to be at her boyfriend's side. House is in and out of consciousness, the high doses of Morphine he’s being given make him drowsy.

It’s 3am when House wakes up for the last time. He’s surprisingly lucid, and Wilson knows what that means. He’s seen it time and time again in his patients. It’s like the universe grants them one last chance to say their goodbyes, to make their peace.

“Always knew I’d go first.” House’s voice is rough and quiet. Wilson has to lean in close to hear him.

“Me too, I didn’t think it would be quite so soon though.” Wilson laughs through his tears.

“On the contrary, I think I’ve lived longer than I was supposed to.” House says.

Wilson knows he’s talking about the infarction. He always knew House felt he should have died then, but Wilson always tried to reassure him that it obviously wasn’t his time, and besides, misanthropic bastards are supposed to live forever, aren’t they?

“Oh Greg.” Wilson is starting to shake as he fights the urge to break down.

“S’okay Jimmy.” He soothes.

“Cut throat bitch.” He addresses Amber now.

“Yeah House?” She’s wiping her own tears away, watching someone die is always hard, especially when it’s someone your loved one loves so much.

“Take care of Jimmy for me, okay?”

She finds she can only nod.

They all know it’s time. No one wants to say it, but they all know.

“I love you, Greg.” Wilson says, squeezing House’s hand and leaning close.

“Love you too, Jimmy. You’ve been the bestest friend a fucked up guy like could have asked for.”

Wilson can’t respond through the sobs. House’s eyes are glassy and unfocused. Wilson leans his face on House’s shoulder. His friend is dying.

“See ya, boy wonder.” The words are drawn out and slow, as House says them with his last breaths.

The monitors alarm as House flatlines. Amber rubs circles on Wilson’s back as he sobs loudly into his dead best friend's shoulder.

———————

Wilson gives the eulogy at House’s funeral. It's an open casket. House’s parents had his body dressed in a dark gray suit with a white shirt and a black tie. Wilson hates that they put House in a tie. House always hated ties. They should have put him in a blue shirt, not a white one. He always looked best in blue, it brought out his eyes. Not that you can see his eyes now.

He talks about how House was a healer, how many lives he’d saved that no one else could. How he cared about people, but only when no one was looking. How much he’ll miss, how much he misses him.

He sobs quietly as they lower the casket into the ground. He doesn’t want to make a scene, but if he’s leaning heavily on Foreman, no one says anything about it. Amber never lets go of his hand.

Blythe comes up to him and thanks him, “For being such a good friend to Greg.” He thanks her, tells her that her son was a very special man. He doesn’t know how to tell her that for everything he did for House, House did just as much for him.

——————

A year goes by.

Amber encourages James to talk about House. She knows how important that relationship was to him, and she never wants him to feel as though she’s forgotten. She doesn’t want him to think she expects him to forget.

They buy a house in the suburbs. It has three bedrooms, a large backyard, and a massive living room. It’s perfect for housing a baby grand piano. Despite the fact neither of them can play it, James keeps it.

He kept all of House’s instruments, they were all incredibly important to House and James couldn’t bear to see them go; there was so little that was truly important to House. But while the guitars get put away in cases and stored, James wants the piano displayed. After the movers had left, James just stared at it for a while. Eventually he said,

“He used to play for me when I’d ask. He was quite talented. It was… nice.” Before he went back to unpacking boxes.

Three months after they move into their home, they go out for a night on the town and James gets down on one knee. She says yes, but also says she won’t change her name. No way will she be the fourth Mrs. Wilson.

That night she wakes at 3:30am to an empty bed and the occasional sound of piano keys. She pulls on the shirt James discarded when they tumbled into bed before she creeps just far enough down the stairs to be able to hear him without being seen.

“I missed you a lot today. I asked Amber to marry me. She said yes, but she’s keeping her name. Thinks ‘Mrs. Wilson’ is cursed or something. I know you’d agree with her.”

There is the sound of piano keys being played randomly.

“It won’t be the same. Getting married without you there. I know it’s silly, I’ve done this three times before, but it’s a big day and I wish I could have my best friend by my side.”

Amber creeps back up the stairs. She’s happy James talks to House. She knows his therapist suggested it, and she’s glad to see he’s listening.

——————

Their wedding is small. They end up not doing wedding parties because James can’t bring himself to have anyone but House as his best man. Amber doesn’t mind. At the reception they light a candle “for those who couldn’t be with us” but it’s really just for House.

———————

Eighteen months after their wedding Wilson is standing in one of the PPTH delivery rooms.

“It’s a boy!” The doctor doing the delivery announces.

As Amber dozes that night, Wilson cradles the small bundle that is his son. He looks down at him with awe. The birth certificate sits next to him on the side table, signed by both him and Amber. It reads:

Michael Gregory Wilson-Volkais

He’d been worried about asking Amber to name their son after House. But she’d only smiled at him, and said she thought Gregory made a lovely middle name.

———————-

“Dad, who’s that with you in all the pictures?”

Michael is ten, and they are flipping through a photo album Amber just completed. She insisted they include pictures from before they met, because she was in her mid thirties and he was in his early 40’s when they met, meaning they both had a hell of a lot of life before each other.

“That’s your Uncle Greg.” Wilson answers, as they all stare down at a collage of images of himself and Greg.

“But I thought you only had two brothers, Uncle David and Uncle Danny.” Michael says, confused.

“Greg wasn’t my brother. We met at a medical conference when I was 28, and after that he was my best friend.”

“If he’s your best friend, why haven’t I ever met him?” Michael questions.

Wilson lets out a deep sigh, putting his arm around his son.

“Because he died, Buddy. Before you were born.”

“Oh.” Michael hangs his head, clearly feeling bad. The boy was cursed with his father’s empathy.

“It’s okay. It’s nice to talk about him. Did you know you’re named after him? Your middle name ‘Gregory’ is after your Uncle Greg. Gregory was his full first name.” Wilson tells him.

Michael thinks that’s pretty cool, and they move on to other pictures in the album. That night however, Wilson sits down with a glass of scotch and the album. He sips his drink and reminisces about the moment each picture captures, and all ones that weren’t captured on film.

———————-

At sixty-five Wilson lies in a hospital bed. His wife of twenty-three years is on one side of him, and his twenty-one year old son is on the other. Dying of cancer isn’t how he pictured his life ending, but having family around him makes it somewhat bearable, or maybe that’s the morphine.

He hates to leave his son so early, but that’s the danger of having kids later in life he supposes. Michael is only in his last year of his undergraduate degree - premed. He wants to be an oncologist like his old man. Wilson wonders if watching him die of cancer will change his mind.

He’s said his goodbyes, and slowly light and sound fades away. Strangely, or maybe not, his last thought is not of his wife or son, but of Greg House.

See you soon, old friend.

———————

“Wasn’t expecting to see you for another twenty years at least.”

He recognizes that voice. As he slowly opens his eyes he realizes he recognizes his surroundings too. It’s a forest in upstate New York. He and House used to go backpacking here. They’d spend weekends camped out, cooking everything over their campfire and sleeping side by side in sleeping bags in a two person tent.

He finds the source of the voice seated on a tree stump, and there he is.

“House.” Is the only word he manages.

“In the flesh. Well not really, but you know what I mean.” House smiles and laughs.

He looks like he did the night they met, dark hair and unshaven face. Jeans and a band t-shirt under a leather jacket. Wilson looks down at himself and realizes he’s similarly dressed, his own jeans and McGil sweatshirt. He touches his face and realizes he’s also back to the age he was that night.

“I missed you.” He tells House. It’s true. He didn’t realize how much until right now.

“Come on Jimmy, walk with me.”

House takes him down a narrow path that leads them to a small lake. Wilson remembers it from their camping trips. The only difference is now there is a small cottage next to it.

“So, what have you been up to?” House asks. Like they aren’t dead, like this isn’t some strange afterlife they find themselves occupying.

“Not much. Married Amber. Had a son. Named him Michael Gregory, after you.”

They stare at each other for a moment before bursting out into stomach aching laughter. After they finally stop they wrap their arms around each other in a tight hug. They never hugged much when they were alive, but now it feels right.

“What got you?” House asks softly in his ear.

“Cancer.” Wilson tells him.

“Wow. That’s… ironic.” House says as they pull away.

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

They make their way into the cottage. House will give him a tour of it, and when the sun begins to set in their version of heaven they’ll lay down together in one bed without question.

In life they never seemed to get things right, and then their time together was cut short.

In death they’ll get it right.

#apparently we are doing sad angst today guys #i promise I’ll give you something happy tomorrow #house md #james wilson #hate crimes md #greg house #hilson #dr house #dr wilson #wilson x house #house/wilson #amber volakis #wilson/amber #house md fanfiction #hilson fanfic #amber/wilson fanfic

150 notes · View notes

lycanlupins · 3 months ago

Text

SFW Alphabet - Jimmy Darling

Warnings: None

AN: holy shit its been so long since i’ve written for the evan characters, sorry if its ooc but i missed this guy ♥️

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

He’s very physically affectionate! He’ll hold his partner whenever he can, rub the back of their hand with his thumb, anything he can do to constantly be touching them.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

He would probably be wary at first if they weren’t a “freak”, but he would soon seen them at every show or nearly every show and start to chat them up a bit. He knows they don’t treat him any different and he’d probably let his guard down.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

BIG cuddler! He likes to spoon or cradle his person for sure. He’d probably give little back rubs or soft kisses on their temple/top of the head.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

He’s so domestic its actually probably annoying to everyone else. He wants to settle down, have kids, live the “american dream” life. Even if he adopts the kids, he wants the whole white picket fence and golden retriever vibes.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

He would tell them gently but firmly. He knows its for the best, what with everyone in any town hating him for the way he looks, and maybe he knew that his partner wouldn’t have thrived living with the rest of them.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

He’s down for commitment 100%. He’d probably take some convincing but about half a year at the very most would be how fast he’d get engaged, he’s an old school kind of guy. He sees something he likes and he’s gonna make sure he keeps it close by.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He pretends to be a hard ass but he’s really a softie. He wants to be loved and held and coddled just as much as he loves to do that for others.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He’s got a solid hug for sure. Probably warm and inviting but also one that shows he’s a safe space and a protector.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

He’d say it so fast if he were drunk. Give him a bottle and he’d tell his partner after a few weeks of dating, but sober it might take him a month or two. He wants to make sure his partner is the one.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Big jealous man alert!! He’s one to hold his partner extra tight to him or kiss them around someone he’s a wee bit cautious of. He gets extremely jealous around people without a deformity flirting with his partner.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

They range from soft and sweet to passionate and hungry, but mostly they lie somewhere in between. He likes to kiss his partners hand a lot but he absolutely melts when his partner does the same for him. Especially when he’s feeling anxious, a soft kiss to his palm will soothe him immediately.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He’s good around children and wants them in the future, at least 2 to start, maybe 3-4 at the most.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Usually he’s up early doing physically intensive work but sometimes he likes to sleep in and hold his partner in the soft morning light.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Usually watching TV if he has one, if not he likes to relax with the radio quietly playing in the background and his partner by his side with cold beer in his hand.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

He’s not an open book by any means. He’s cautious for a reason but after a few months he’ll probably start to open up emotionally. He won’t trauma dump immediately but you’ll learn a lot very quickly once he’s comfortable.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He’s not super patient, he has a quick temper and he’ll make sure he gets his point across whether the person likes it or not.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He takes in details super easily so he’d remember everything his partner tells him. He’d remember their favorite flower, favorite book, anything that makes them smile he would be sure to take note of.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

His favorite moment is probably meeting his partner. He would remember every detail of their outfit, if they were wearing makeup, what style their hair was in, he’d reminisce on every detail of that day when he’s feeling sad.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He would die or kill for his partner no questions asked. He puts his money where his mouth is but doesn’t expect the same out of his partner, he just wants to be sure they know he loves them through and through.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He puts in a lot of effort, mostly physical labor, to make sure everything is perfect. He likes to work with his hands to show his love. Whether that be making something for his partner or driving them anywhere without letting them lift a finger, he wants to be sure they’re taken care of.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

His drinking habits he picked up are bad for a while. He also has an awful temper and he’s stubborn. So very stubborn.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He knows he’s hot so he keeps up with it a little but really he just goes about his day without paying any mind to it.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He would feel so incomplete without his partner once he has them. Its like he’s missing half of himself without them around.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

He’s a sleep talker! Especially when he’s only half asleep or just barely fell asleep, he’d probably whisper cute or incoherent things to his partner which would make them giggle.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Someone who’s a sloppy drunk. He’s dealt with it enough from his own bloodline, he doesn’t need to add any more of it to his life.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He sleeps sprawled out on his mattress unless he’s with his partner, then it can go either way with his partner curled up in his arms or laying on top of him with his arms wrapped around them.

#jimmy darling #jimmy darling x reader #AHS: freak show #evan peters #jimmy darling x you #my writing

33 notes · View notes

sewers-headmates · 18 days ago

Note

hello!! ^^ we were wondering if we could have a subsys based off of mouthwashing /nf

sure. they might be a bit short due to uhhh being a subsystem of 5 that’s like a lot. also i’m doing it because i genuinely love my source. i am not including many transIds in this maybe one or two per person. we can make a seperate thing with the transIDs but i just can’t rn for reasons. also based off of my memories

Subsystem Name: Tulpar Subsystem, Pony Express, Trapped Subsystem

Subsystem Innerworld: The Tulpar

Subsystem Tag: can mix any of these 🪐🩸🌙🔪🥩☄️🚀

Name: James, Jimmy, Jim, Captain

Age: 34

Gender: cis male

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: gay

Species: human, transLamb

Source: mouthwashing

Roles: subsystem host, delusion holder, psychosis holder, persecutor on occasions

cisIDs: brown hair, depressed, delusional, psychosis, harmed, abused, harmful, OCD, PTSD

transIDs: permaDepressed, permaSad, transLamb, transLambEars, transLambTail, permaPsychosis, transAngelWings

trisIDs: trisHarmed, trisAbused, tris🍇ed, trisHarmful, trisAbuser, tris🍇ist

Paraphiles: sadomasochist

Other Stuff: he is almost never really in a right state, contently believes he is the lamb of god and he is good, curly helps him figure out what’s real and fake so their normally always together

Appearance:

Name: Grant Curley, Curley, Captain

Age: 34

Gender: trans male

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: gay

Species: human

Source: mouthwashing

Roles: protector, caretaker specially for Jimmy, soother also specifically for jimmy but anyone

cisIDs: blonde, appearance shifter, burned, blue eyes, neurotypical, disabled, limbless

transIDs: transShapeshifter, permaBurned, transPTSD, transBeloved

Other Stuff: does his best to keep the peace though will maybe go a bit far for Jimmy (weither it’s /p or /r). he’ll always see jimmy as his childhood friend and as that kid

Appearance:

Name: Anya

Age: 30

Gender: cis female

Pronouns: she/her

Sexuality: asexual bi-lesbian

Species: human, transBunny

Source: mouthwashing

Roles: trauma holder, doctor, medical alter

cisIDs: brown hair, brown eyes, mexican, dyslexia, PTSD, age regressor, sex repulsed

transIDs: transBunny, transBunnyEars, transBunnyTail, permaScared

trisIDs: trisHarmed, tris🍇ed

Other Stuff: she tends to keep to herself though will tend to stay around Swansea becoming a pseudo daughter figure to him, tends to be regressed a lot

Appearance:

Name: Swansea

Age: 65

Gender: cis male

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: straight

Species: human

Source: mouthwashing

Roles: caretaker, father figure, protector

cisIDs: human, ukranian, elderly, anger issues, recovering alcoholic, PTSD, exhausted, dude is just tired a lot and grumpy

Other Stuff: tends to take a father role to the rest of the crew, also pretty good and calming jimmy down, hates the internet

Appearance:

Name: Daisuke, ダイスケ

Age: 20

Gender: nonbinary, moonboy

Pronouns: they/them, he/him, moon/moons, glow/glows, star/stars

Sexuality: bisexual

Species: human

Source: mouthwashing

Roles: mood booster, energizer, online manager

cisIDs: human, japanese, alcoholic, drug addict, social, intern, clumsy, brown hair, dyed hair, brown eyes, ADHD

transIDs: transAutistic, transFangs, transCatPupils, transCatTail

Paraphiles: masochist, autobiastophilia, aptophilia

Other Stuff: the most chronically online of the system, views swansea as a father figure and jimmy as an older brother, doesn’t take ANYTHING seriously, really chronically online ngl

Appearance:

i hope you enjoy. i miss my source a lot…this was really nice to make. i relize the first one is just me though ooops. i guess you can all get your own mod jimmy if you want that for some reason??

-mod jimmy

#🔪 THE FINAL GIRL #mod jimmy #build a headmate #alter packs #pro radq #pro transid #s : mouthwashing #c : jimmy #c : curly #c : anya #c : swansea #c : daisuke

16 notes · View notes

ireallyliketalldarksultrymen · 3 months ago

Note

pleasepleaseplease write anything flowrhsubands please im begging im so desperate

ASK AND YOU SHALL RECIEVE!! sorry this took a bit pookie, but i got massssive brainrot and almost started a scott 3rd life rewatch

—

A sea of flowers.

You could see the swarm from miles away, though only appearing as colorful specks.

Alliums, tulips, roses, poppies.

They’re all dimly lit by lanterns that hang from Scott’s hut. The ilghts flicker ever-so slightly with a shade of amber.

Across the valley is Jimmy. His hut is a bit smaller; they have limited space from the river that runs around them, but he manages.

For weeks they’ve slept with only themselves. Eighteen days. Scott’s been counting.

All thanks to a game of Dare to Flare.

All thanks to a trap set under a chest.

Scott lays on a cold, empty mattress. He feels alone on the ground he’s built upon. He misses warmth.

He wonders if Jimmy feels the same.

Scott finds himself to be in line with others on the server, he realizes—Grian and Martyn, both paired with red names.

And though they have the risk of being killed at any time, Scott’s different. At the end of a battle, he and Jimmy tend to each other’s wounds.

At the moment, there aren’t any. Scott’s made allies with most players, found a home, has had love sealed to him with a poppy.

So, he waits.

Waits for swords to be drawn against allies. Waits for bloodshed to seep through the confines of passive nature. Waits for the first death of a player.

He looks through his window, mind impossibly loud.

And Scott can’t help but think, as he gazes across the valley.

To Jimmy’s hut, so close and far and everything in between from Scott’s own.

To the Moon, casting a silver glimmer from above, all while she’s covered in craters and grooves.

To the cave in the side of the hill, where their portal churrs in the dark of night and the Pufferish of Peace is sat on a pedestal.

If good things come to those who wait, he’ll stand in this valley until it’s overgrown.

#asks #fics #flower husbands #scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #3rd life #requests #traffic smp fics #trafficshipping

20 notes · View notes

lcnelyghost · 2 years ago

Text

crimson river//the ahs boys period headcanons!

pairings; the ahs boys x fem reader

rating; pg13

warnings; mentions of the menstrual cycle, blood, period sex

Tate Langdon;

• Yes, he’s fully aware of what a period is. And he’s also aware that it’s something that may cause you pain, which is the one thing that Tate can’t stand seeing you in.

• He knows whenever he’s not having a good time that you usually rub small circles on his back, so this is when he returns the favour and does the exact same back to you in bed.

• Thinks it’s ridiculous that women need to go through this all for a fucking baby. His way of wording it is that the kid should suffer, not you.

Kit Walker;

• He’s willing to go anywhere to get you something that’ll soothe you’re pain. The minute you start getting cramps, he’s offski to the nearest store.

• Unlike Tate in this situation, Kit is very grateful that you’re willing to allow you’re body to let you experience this for having his kids in the near future. He knows some women have made decisions to avoid this, but you’re strong and Kit LOVES it.

• And for that, he’ll do everything in his power to make sure you’re suffering is eased slightly. No more cramps, cravings, nada.

Franken Kyle;

• The whole week he’s just really confused on why you’re getting so angry and upset quite easily.

• He ends up going to either Cordelia or someone he knows will be able to explain to him why this is happening. They inform him that he just needs to take his time with you, and try to keep you’re stress levels to a minimum.

• Kyle just goes into you’re room and gives ya one of his big old cuddles! He understands how you’re feeling, and he truly hopes a little bit of affection might cheer you up.

Jimmy Darling;

• Jimmy knows it’s a bit hard to find the necessities you’ll be needing during this time. So, he digs out a little bit of spare cash and then he’s off into town.

• He tries his best to make sure no one annoys you or waltzes into you’re trailer every five seconds. His mother slightly goes overboard, so he asks her to give you some space.

• You rely on both Jimmy and Eve through this whole week. They don’t mind at all. The two are more than happy to help you when you need it most.

Dandy Mott;

• WHAT THE FUCK DO I EVEN SAY HERE LMFSOZOJDE..

• Let’s just say, Dandy never really grew up with the ‘period talk’ and whenever his mother said ANYTHING about it, he’d scream at her and demand she stopped talking.

• You don’t see him frequently. Usually he’s in the bathroom gagging at the smell then trying to make it up to you by ordering Dora and his mother to retrieve absolutely everything you’ll be needing. It’s sickly sweet if i’m being honest.

James Patrick March;

• He’s trying his best to stop himself from insisting he be the one who’s able to soothe you’re pain.. in other ways..

• “JAMES! THAT IS ABSOLUTELY REPULSIVE!!!”

“But darling! Since when has a little blood affected me, hmm?”

• You immediately refused and he understood. Though he did say it you changed you’re mind he’d instruct Miss Evers to clean it up afterwards..

Tristan Duffy;

• No, he’s not disgusted. The only thing that’s bothering him is how fucking moody girls can be when this happens.

• He’ll sit in bed with you, trying to order some food to make you a bit happier. He manages to text someone in the hotel to bring it up to you both.

• Prepare for a week filled with cartoons and movies, because that is exactly what Tristan wants. He expects you to rest and just relax with him, snuggling together.

Rudolph Valentino;

• It’s hard for him to always be by you’re side during this week of hell. Though, if there’s times that he can be, he’ll make sure he’s there.

• Treats you with tons of expensive items, trying to make this a more happier experience for you. I suppose it’s better being treated and in pain than just being stuck in pain with no treats at all!

• He’ll look after you well. Despite him having to go out filming at certain times, he frequently contacts you so you can let him know how you’re doing.

Kai Anderson;

• Don’t even try to use this as an excuse, because Kai will literally have you pick yourself off the damn floor if it means pushing you out of bed so you’ll get up and join the cult for the day.

• Got cramps? Too bad. Kai always reminds you that you’re doing this for him and his future kids. So suck it up and act like nothing’s wrong. (SMH KAI THIS AIN’T HOW IT WORKS)

• Okay, Kai gets extremely turned on by how feisty you are whilst on you’re period. You could be yelling at the whole cult for all he cares. If it gives him pleasure, go right ahead.

Michael Langdon;

• We know for a fucking fact this man didn’t get to learn about periods before he unexpectedly aged.

• Blood doesn’t bother him. That, we’re aware of. But perhaps the smell can throw him off and make Michael a tad bit queasy.

• He obviously doesn’t know how to use a tampon, so when he finds out some women need to practically stick one up themselves, it leaves him in disbelief.

937 notes · View notes

5t4r1uv3r · 2 years ago

Text

☆ Butters + Team Craig dating hcs ☆

☆ hi everyone!! once again i want to thank everyone for all the love team stan's dating hcs has gotten!! i'm so incredibly grateful for all the support!! so i present butters and team craig's version. as always i welcome feedback/advice!!

characters: butters stotch, craig tucker, clyde donovan, tweek tweak, tolkien black, and jimmy valmer.

reader is gn!! 2406 words!! ☆

☆ It's not the pale moon that excites me. That thrills and delights me, oh no It's just the nearness of you - Laufey ☆

☆ Butters Stotch ☆

☆ He is the sweetest boy in the entire world!! He isn’t very confident when it comes to girls, comparing himself to his peers, especially due to the constant belittling from his parents and his friends (mostly Cartman).

☆ He used his art skills to confess, making a mini book depicting special moments in which he started to love you. As well as your favorite flowers and a teddy bear that reminded him of you.

☆ As seen in Butters’ past relationships, he gives all of his heart to you. You literally have him wrapped around your finger, if it’s within his abilities, he will do it.

☆ Butters is a clingy communicator. He will call you over 5 times a day and send you multiple messages. The only exception is when he is grounded, but he has his ways.

☆ When Butters is grounded he calls and messages you through a burner phone. He has to whisper so he isn’t caught or risks getting the phone confiscated.

☆ You guys definitely have matching profile pictures on every social media, from pictures of your dates to Sanrio icons, his personal favorites are matching as Hello Kitty and Dear Daniel. He lets you pick who you want to be.

☆ He will always talk about you to his friends, to the point where everyone knows almost every detail of your relationship. You swear the only thing he has kept hidden is your social security number.

☆ Dates with Butters include going to Bennigans, Ice cream dates at Willy’s Chilly Ice Cream Parlor using his employee discount, playing Hello Kitty Island Adventure, and sneaking in to hang out when he’s grounded.

☆ Butters loves PDA, he’s always holding your hand, pinkies interlocked, an arm around your shoulder, or resting his chin on your head. He especially loves it when you trace the scar on his eye.

☆ Butters is the sweetest and most understanding boyfriend, he will always be there for you, anytime, anywhere, any day.

☆ Craig Tucker ☆

☆ When people first met Craig Tucker many assumed he hated them. Constantly flipping those around you isn’t the friendliest introduction you can make, but that was Craig.

☆ Being seat partners allowed the two of you to interact more than you have in all the years you’ve known each other. You won him over when you gushed over Stripe, asking him questions about the guinea pig, and wanting any updates about him.

☆ If you share a love for space and astronomy he is on his knees proposing, in his mind at least. On the outside he would just call you, soooo cool.

☆ He confessed to you during a trip to the planetarium, wanting to confess under the cosmos. An environment he was familiar with to balance a new step in his life.

☆ Craig is still deadpan, sarcastic, and stoic, even more so with you. That’s how he shows his love, teasing you to great lengths just to fluster you. Giving you a small smirk after he’s succeeded.

☆ It’s canon he uses pet names, he prefers to use classic ones such as darling, honey, love, and babe. He’ll only use silly ones such as pookie, snookums, and sweetie pie to get under your skin.

☆ After a while of being official, Craig calls you Stripe’s parent. One of the ways he’ll tell you he misses you is by saying Stripe misses his parent.

☆ Dates with Craig will usually be somewhere under the stars. He feels the most comfortable in their presence, any intimate conversation is had in the audience of glimmering lights.

☆ On the occasion they aren’t, he’ll take you to an amusement park, make dinners, and babysit either Tricia or Stripe.

☆ Overall he is tough to open up but once you’re in, he’ll love you to the moon and back.

☆ Clyde Donovan ☆

☆ You were in many of Clyde’s classes, most of which you sat behind or near him. He found you very attractive and wanted to talk to you. Being not very academically smart he decided to start asking you about lessons he didn’t understand, especially math ones.

☆ Winter finals were coming up and the exam for your math class was worth 20% of your grade. Clyde very nervously, decided to ask you if you would help him study at your house. When you agreed he was ecstatic, he viewed it as the perfect opportunity to ask you out on a date.

☆ After the session Clyde was very straightforward about his intentions. Admitting that he admired your compassion, patience, and good looks. He wanted to get to know you better through dating but would accept if you only wanted to be friends. When you agreed Clyde gave you a childlike grin and promised he would give you his best.

☆ He is a sweetheart with a sensitive soul, so he’ll treat you like royalty and loves if you do the same for him. His love languages are words of affirmation and quality time, especially if he’s on the verge of tears. As he’s gotten older he tries to not let his tears out, striving to be seen as a strong guy.

☆ He can be a bit cocky, being voted the cutest boy in the 4th grade skyrocketed his ego. So when he flirts he tends to think he’s being smooth in reality he sounds like a dork. If you tease him about it he’ll just pout or try and brush it off by being suave, it does not end in his favor.

☆ He loves to spoil you with shopping sprees, he has mall connections due to his dad being the owner of the shoe store. So you’ll get to have a field day on him of course.

☆ For dates Clyde loves having movie nights, being an avid film fan he makes sure you guys are on top of every single new movie coming out, screening, or on the verge of debuting. He loves playing any spot, he is very competitive but will let you win from time to time.

☆ He is super big when it comes to PDA, his hands have to be on you at all times. From having a hand in the pocket of your pants, to an arm around your waist, kissing you anytime he can, and affectionately referring to you with pet names for anyone in a 5-mile radius to hear.

☆ Clyde will show you off anywhere he can, at his spot games, to his friends, at school, at parties, and to his family. He will talk about you to anyone who will lend an ear. Everyone knows about your relationship, down to every little detail.

☆ Over all Clyde loves with his very soul, he treasures you like no other. He knows he is lucky to have you by his side.

☆ Tweek Tweak ☆

☆ Tweek has seen you around school and during his shifts at Tweak Bro’s. It was extremely difficult to form a connection since he was extremely weary of everyone. The only way he grew to be more comfortable in your presence was a mixture of making your intentions clear and consistent actions that confirmed your promises.

☆ When his crush on you started to develop he became an anxious mess, screaming about pressure, shaking constantly, and increasing his coffee intake.

☆ You had to ask him out since his anxiety kept getting the best of him, it was more of bringing attention to the bond the to of you had since you were always by his side and had crossed the line of best friends.

☆ He isn’t fond of PDA, the only thing he feels comfortable with is hand-holding. Other forms of affection are shown in private settings, he becomes incredibly stressed over showing affection in public. Thinking others are judging his actions or how he shows intimacy.

☆ You’ve basically become an expert on how to ease his nerves, helping him calm down when he’s especially on edge. In a way, you’re his safe space, he has told you that you give him the feeling of home. Seeing as his home life is chaotic, his parents’ pressure on maintaining the shop, their lack of help on his condition, and the underwear gnomes. He finds solace in you.

☆ You often help out Tweek when he’s at work, having to be a bit sneaky since his parents want their shop to only be family operated.

☆ If you’re not helping out in the shop then you’ll be fetching the coffee orders, this is a common occurrence if it’s slow or busy. Tweek is thankful for your help and showers you in praise.

☆ Dates with him are very personal taking place in locations where it feels like you’re in your own world. Bike rides around town, trips to your secret location, nighttime playground dates, and library trips.

☆ Physical touch and words of affirmation are his love languages, your company means a lot to him. The security and consistency you provide help him navigate his anxious tendencies. He sometimes feels as if he isn’t enough for you due to his nature, your words settle his mind.

☆ Thins he loves to do for you are playing songs on the piano and baking your favorite treats. These are ways he shows his love for you since it can be difficult to express his emotions.

☆ Tolkien Black ☆

☆ Tolkien is a known gentleman, he is always willing to help out wherever he can. This along with standing up for what’s right has led you to cross paths with him. Sharing similar morals and maturity levels is what catches his eye.

☆ Being lifelong friends is what made Tolkien realize he was in love with you. Compared to the rest of the town you were very level-headed and brought a sense of calm in the storm that is South Park. You were his rock, he knew he wanted you in his life forever.

☆ After a discussion on how to navigate your friendship crossing the line into relationship status you both agreed to take it slow, getting to know each other through a new lens.

☆ Tolkien isn’t shy of PDA but isn’t very big on it either, he shows a happy medium. Choosing to show you his love where you two are in a world of your own. To the public, they’ll only see arms linked together and the occasional kiss on the cheek. Behind closed doors he is the most passionate lover ever, showering you with kisses and hugging you to no end.

☆ He is the perfect boyfriend, always there for you when needed whether it be for emotional support, physical needs, or someone to depend on. Tolkien is always there for you.

☆ Of course he is spoiling you to no ends, if you mention something Tolkien is giving it to you the next day. You told him you ran out of something, he’s got 5 identical ones waiting for you. He picks up extra of your favorite personal care needs so you’ll never run out. You have specific interests? He is getting you every little thing related to it, mountains and mountains of stuff waiting at your disposal.

☆ Tolkien’s top 2 love languages are physical touch and acts of service. If you hug him he’ll melt in your arms, basically turning into putty. He loves feeling you against him, it makes his heart beat fast. For acts of service it’s because he already has everything he could ever want, but having someone remember the small things he has to do every day warms his heart. It makes him fall for you all over again.

☆ Date nights include game nights he loves having new challenges and facing them with you. Dinner nights especially the ones in which he cooks for you, testing new recipes, and hearing your thoughts make it all worth it. He also loves trying new experiences with you from adventures to new places opening up.

☆ Tolkien will serenade you with music, from love songs to lullabies when you can’t sleep. He’s got an angelic voice and will use it to express his love.

☆ The sweetest gentleman around, Tolkien’s love is like no other and it’s only for you.

☆ Jimmy Valmer ☆

☆ Jimmy first noticed you at one of his comedy shows, being a frequent audience member he looks forward to seeing you in the crowd.

☆ After attending his shows he decided to thank you and ask you if you would help him with setups. Giving suggestions and laughing at his material has him head over heels for you. Jimmy lights up whenever he hears your laughter.

☆ After becoming his right-hand person Jimmy knows he wants you to be by his side forever. After all, laughter makes the heart grow fonder

☆ Jimmy loves to use corny pick-up lines just to get a giggle or chuckle out of you. It seriously puts the brightest smile on his face, he glows from pride whenever he gets a reaction from you.

☆ If you unexpectedly return his energy he turns into a little strawberry, red dusting his cheeks as he sends you a smile or laugh.

☆ He loves to hear words of affirmation from you. Knowing he is the reason for your laughter, smiles, and joy while he’s around, is the reason Jimmy loves what he does.

☆ Dates with him range from candlelit dinners at Buca de Faggoncini, study dates are 100% a thing as well, he also loves quality time so any moment he can spend with you he’ll take. It’s never a dull moment with him around.

☆ Comedy club dates happen at least twice a month, a night full of laughter with you in his eyes is heaven. You’ll bond over the evolution of comedy, scoping out new talent, and it also helps with writer’s block.

☆ You two are known as a dynamic duo around town, never being seen without each other and perfectly balancing each other. Jimmy thinks he’s the luckiest guy, being honored to call himself your boyfriend.

☆ Jimmy feels blessed to have you as his partner, he thinks you are the coolest and most understanding person on Earth. He cherishes you with all his heart.

338 notes · View notes