#I’m skittering across the floor on all fours

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

heartslabyul washroom

Yes, I am making a whole separate post for this—

WAHHHHHHH 😭 WhAt THE hECKIE, IT’S SO CUTE????????!??!?????????!!!!!???????

It seems the washroom was modeled after the scene where Alice meets the talking flowers. The curved ceiling being patterned like the sky, the floor resembling grass, and all the floral and foliage decorations really give the sense of being outdoors!! I especially love how the flowers are incorporated; they act as lamps (you can see that their centers are giving off light) as well as mirrors. The leafy wall in the back seems to be washing machines or dryers?? The whole washroom has such calming, relaxing vibes, and I bet it smells nice too :0

The jars underneath are also so interesting—they of course resemble the Drink Me bottles from Alice in Wonderland, but it seems they’re serving as sinks here. The mouth of the bottle is actually solid and forms a bowl, and it seems like water might flow from the silver leaves between the bowl and the mirror. I’m guessing that the bottles drain into whatever sewer system NRC has from there. Or maybe the liquids inside the jar-sinks is hand soap…? (But I like to headcanon thar the petals of some flowers are soap strips… You just rub your hands on them to get some.)

I want this washroom… Move over, Heartslabyul 😭 I’m about to camp out there every day and make your washroom my new home…

Edit: I don’t know why this post blew up, but I find it very funny that we’re scrutinizing and evaluating the washroom so hard 😂 Imagine the Heartslabyul boys staring at us as we examine the room all over to understand how tf this stuff functions…

[kathlare]

signs

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie faces a surprise from Lando, one that shifts everything in their relationship.

Wordcount: 4.8 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

May 9th, 2025 - Los Cabos, México

Sunlight streamed through the wide glass doors of the villa, warm and golden, casting soft shadows across the polished stone floors. The faint scent of sea salt drifted in from the beach, mixing with the smell of coffee and something buttery sizzling on the stovetop. Amelie padded barefoot through the open kitchen, wearing one of Lando’s oversized McLaren tees that fell mid-thigh on her and her hair twisted into a lazy bun, a few strands falling loose to frame her face. Benny was sprawled on the couch like a sleepy prince, paws in the air, while Björn sat perched like a gremlin on the counter beside the sink, glaring at the toaster like it had personally offended him.

Lando had gone for a run nearly an hour ago, saying something about training and clearing his head, kissing her cheek before slipping out the door shirtless and smug. Typical.

She stirred the eggs in the pan absentmindedly, humming softly to herself, before grabbing her phone and opening FaceTime. It rang once, then twice, before Alex picked up, the screen shifting as he settled onto his couch, Minnie popping up beside him a second later in her pajamas, hair still wild from sleep.

—Morning, sunshine— Alex grinned, stretching an arm around Minnie, who waved sleepily. —Look at you playing domestic goddess. Is that actual cooking?—

—Shut up— Amelie rolled her eyes, but she smiled. —I’ve cooked for you before.—

—You heated soup once and set off the smoke alarm.—

—That was one time. And the soup was frozen. That doesn’t count.—

—Still counts, baby— Minnie laughed, reaching for her coffee. —So? What’s up? Where’s your golden retriever boyfriend?—

—Out training— she muttered, setting the spatula down and leaning against the counter. Her fingers played with the hem of Lando’s shirt nervously. —He’s been gone for like an hour. Said something about wanting to beat his personal best. Or something. I only half-listened. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.—

Alex snorted —Of course he wasn’t. That man uses "fitness" as an excuse to show off.—

—You’re not wrong— she smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time.

—Okay, what’s up— Alex said suddenly, narrowing his eyes. —You’ve got that look. The “I’m pretending I’m fine but I’m spiraling in the background” look.—

—That’s her Tuesday face— Minnie added, poking him.

Amelie sighed and leaned her hip against the counter, phone propped up awkwardly between the salt and pepper shakers. She glanced toward the sliding doors where the beach glistened in the distance, the breeze teasing at the curtains.

—It’s dumb— she said.

—You say that every time right before you say something not dumb— Alex pointed out.

—Okay, well, maybe it’s a little dumb this time— she admitted. —It’s just… I keep thinking about what Carmen said in Miami.—

Alex’s brows lifted. Minnie tilted her head. —About Lando redoing the Monaco place?—

Amelie nodded, eyes flicking down to the pan.

—Yeah. That.—

There was a beat of silence. Then Minnie said, very slowly: —Ames. He made you a mood board. With paint swatches. For your pink kettle.—

—Yeah, but…— Amelie turned off the stove and bit her lip. —It’s been, like, four days. Four very cozy days. In a villa. Where he’s staying. But he hasn’t brought it up. Not once. Not even a “you know, when you move in” or “can’t wait for this to be our mornings” or anything.—

—So, naturally— Alex said dryly —your brain decided he secretly changed his mind and doesn’t want to live with you at all.—

Amelie made a face. —Don’t say it like that. I know it sounds insane.—

Björn leapt off the counter with a loud thud, skittering toward Benny and launching himself dramatically over the couch arm. Benny didn’t move an inch.

—Look— Minnie said, scooting closer to the screen —I love you, but you do this thing where if someone doesn’t say something out loud, you convince yourself the opposite is true.—

—It’s not even that— Amelie said softly, dragging her fork through her eggs. —It’s just… what if he was just excited in the moment? Like, caught up in it? What if he realized it’s too soon or too complicated or too fucking much and now he’s just avoiding it? What if he changes his mind? Or worse, what if he never really meant it?—

Alex blinked. —Ames. Babe. You’re literally at a private beach club with him. Wearing his clothes. Cooking in a house he hasn’t left for three days because he won’t stop looking at you like you’re made of sunlight. I promise you, he meant it.—

Minnie nodded. —You do realize he flew halfway across the world to see you the second you two fought in China, right? Took your jet like some sappy rom-com maniac? That’s not casual energy.—

Amelie let out a breathy laugh. —I know. I know. It’s just… this is the part where my brain gets stupid. Like, the second I start to believe something good is happening, my survival instincts go “haha, bitch, what if it’s a trap?”—

—Trauma is a clingy bitch— Alex muttered sympathetically.

—It’s the whole thing with food too— she said quietly, staring at her breakfast like it might start lecturing her. —When we got here, I was fine. But then we had that big dinner, and he was watching me, and I know he wasn’t judging me, I know that... but it still crawled up my spine. Like I had to perform being okay. And now it’s this, like… this building pressure. I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.—

Minnie’s face softened. —But there’s no shoe, baby. There’s just Lando. The same dorky, painfully sweet guy who made you a literal designated skincare drawer.—

—You think I should bring it up?— Amelie asked, twirling her fork.

—No— Alex said immediately. —I think you should sit with it for a second. Let it settle. He’s probably waiting for the perfect, sparkly, Pinterest-core moment to ask you, because he’s a little shit like that. You bringing it up might throw off his Dramatic British Man Plan.—

—Or— Minnie interjected —he already thinks you know and is giving you space to be ready. He’s not exactly a mind reader, but he’s not stupid either.—

Amelie sighed and picked at her toast. —You guys are annoying when you make sense.—

Alex grinned. —You’re annoying when you forget how loved you are.—

Just then, the front door clicked open. Björn sprinted like a demon toward the entrance, claws skittering on the tile. Benny finally lifted his head, eyes barely open.

Lando’s voice floated in before he did, slightly out of breath, amused.

—Björn, no. I’m literally soaked, please...!—

A second later, he appeared, shirtless, tan, damp curls sticking to his forehead and a towel slung over one shoulder. He was grinning, cheeks flushed from the run, and he paused the second he saw her on the call.

—Mornin’, menace— he said, voice low and teasing. —Who you charming this time?—

—Just Alex and Minnie— Amelie said, biting back a smile as her heart gave a stupid little flutter.

Lando glanced at the phone and waved. —Hello, chaos twins.—

—You’re shirtless— Alex said flatly. —Again.—

—Why waste a good workout pump?— Lando shot back with a smirk, walking past Amelie to the fridge. He dropped a kiss to the top of her head as he passed, like it was muscle memory.

Alex made gagging noises. Minnie giggled.

—Anyway, we’ll let you go be disgustingly in love— she said, blowing Amelie a kiss. —And Ames? Chill. You’re safe, okay?—

—Yeah, dumbass— Alex added. —Call us if you spiral again. Or if Björn succeeds in toaster murder.—

The screen went dark.

Amelie set her phone down and turned toward Lando, who was now drinking orange juice directly from the bottle.

—Seriously?— she said.

He grinned at her. —What, you want some?—

Amelie raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

—No, thank you— she replied, leaning against the counter. —You’re just… you’re gross sometimes. Did you really just drink from the bottle?—

—Oh, come on, Ames— he teased, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. —It’s not like I’m going to die from it. You’re the one who kisses me all the time, anyway. If I’m gross, so are you.—

—We’re not having this conversation, Lan— she shot back, rolling her eyes, but her heart was already fluttering from the soft, casual intimacy between them.

He set the bottle down with a small chuckle and walked closer, a glint in his eye. —I’m gonna take a shower. You need anything?—

—No, I’m good— Amelie said quickly, forcing a smile as she glanced at him, trying to sound more confident than she felt. —Everything’s fine, Lan. Really.—

Lando seemed to pause for a second, as though studying her face, but then shrugged and grinned. —Alright, I’ll be back in a sec then. Don’t get too comfy without me.—

—Like I’d ever be comfy without you— she muttered under her breath as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Maybe she didn’t need him to say the words yet.

Because maybe, just maybe, he was already saying them. In every coffee mug. In every forehead kiss. In every fucking drawer she found his stuff in.

-------------

liked by wagsupreme, ameliecore, and others

f1gossipcentral: Amelie Dayman and Lando Norris were spotted soaking up the sun in Cabo today—sharing one sunbed, zero personal space 👀

View all 78,009 comments

lanmelieupdates: bro is gripping her like the wind might take her 😭 → mclover44: @lanmelieupdates no one’s stealing his girl not on HIS watch → f1xbarbie: @mclover44 he saw the mick rumors and said “MINE” real quick 💀

gridgirlie: Lando holdin her like she’s the last iced coffee on earth 😭 → wagsupreme: @gridgirlie and he’s DEHYDRATED → chaoticalex: @gridgirlie he’s had enough of y’all thirsting over his gf 💅

wagscentral: this is not a man this is a GUARD DOG → lanfan03: @wagscentral someone show him how to unclench 😭

gridtea: lando and his emotional support girlfriend 😭 → pitwallgossip: @gridtea that’s not support that’s POSSESSION 💀 → fanfan: @pitwallgossip and honestly? she looks fine with it lmao

ameliecore: no one is gonna steal her from u bro RELAX → lillando69: @ameliecore she’s literally LYING on him he’s won 😭 → lvbuttons: @ameliecore he’s holding on like the wind might take her

quadgirlsunite: lando gripping her like she’s pole position → wagsupreme: @quadgirlsunite bro's hand placement is P1 behavior

wifelando: can we get this framed. for science → mclarenmoments: @wifelando “this is art” - me sobbing at my desk → gridgirlie: @wifelando i’m starting a dissertation on this photo tbh

lanmelie4everrr: lando said “this mine” like he’s in a wildlife doc 💅

ameliecore: her? in THAT bikini? and he thinks someone wouldn’t try to steal her?? → chaoticwags: @ameliecore he’s gripping her like the ocean might take her → simpyforlando: @chaoticwags bro would fight Poseidon himself don’t test him

lanmelieupdates: THE HAND PLACEMENT???? bro thinks someone gonna snatch her in cabo 😭 → vroomgf: @lanmelieupdates he’s fighting for his life on that sunbed → lilmissdrs: @lanmelieupdates “no one is gonna steal her” okay king possessive era

sunnylanmelie: lando rn: MY GIRL. MINE. MINEEEE.

-------------

The sea air still clung to their skin as Amelie and Lando padded barefoot into the villa, wrapped in oversized towels and sun-warmed laughter. Their hair was damp, her bun looser than before, his curls wild from the saltwater. They’d been in the ocean for nearly an hour—half swimming, half just floating in the turquoise shallows, limbs tangled, whispering dumb jokes and trading sea-slick kisses while the sun dipped lower behind the cliffs.

Now, the afternoon light filtered through the glass doors, bathing the kitchen in gold as they moved inside. Amelie dropped her towel over a chair, tugging Lando’s McLaren tee back into place—it clung to her damp skin and hung crookedly off one shoulder, revealing the delicate strap of her bikini underneath.

Lando paused in the doorway, eyes trailing over her with blatant affection. —God, you look hot when you cook,— he murmured, voice still a little hoarse from the salt and sun. —It’s unfair.—

Amelie arched an eyebrow without turning, reaching into the fridge. —You say that like I’m not literally making sandwiches.—

—I mean, you could be burning cereal and I’d still think you’re hot,— Lando replied, walking up behind her and slipping his arms around her waist, pressing his chest to her back.

She let out a soft sigh, trying not to melt immediately. —Lando.—

—Yes, love?—

—Hands.—

—I know. They’re perfectly placed.—

—Lando.—

He hummed innocently against her shoulder, lips brushing her damp skin as his hands drifted a little lower—right to where her hips curved, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of his shirt she was wearing like it belonged to her now. Which it kind of did. Everything he owned somehow gravitated toward her.

She swatted his hands away gently, turning her head to glare at him over her shoulder.

—If you want lunch, you better behave.—

—Rude,— he muttered, stepping back with a pout. —I’m starving and in love. That’s a dangerous combo, Ames.—

Amelie rolled her eyes, but her lips curled. —Then chop the tomatoes, loverboy. You’re on prep duty.—

—Only if I get a reward later,— he said, reaching for the cutting board with a cheeky grin.

—You won’t if you keep talking like that.—

They worked side by side in the sun-warmed kitchen, the kind of domestic rhythm that felt both new and deeply familiar. He hummed under his breath while he chopped, occasionally bumping her hip with his. She tried to stay focused on slicing the bread, but every time she turned, he was right there—pressing a kiss to her temple, sliding a hand along her lower back, looping his fingers into her bikini strings “just to mess with her.”

—Lando,— she warned again when his fingers dipped just under the edge of her shirt. —I swear. I will kick you out of this kitchen.—

—You wouldn’t— he leaned in, dropping his voice —you need me for the mayo ratio. It’s science, babe. I’m the mayo king.—

—That’s the worst title I’ve ever heard,— she muttered, trying not to laugh.

Eventually, with minimal catastrophe (minus one tomato that Björn tried to steal), they ended up on the back terrace with their sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea, sitting cross-legged on the sun-warmed cushions of the outdoor sofa. Benny sprawled beside them like royalty; Björn watched birds with militant focus.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the sea breeze tugging at her still-damp hair. Lando kept sneaking bites of her sandwich even though his was bigger, and when she narrowed her eyes at him, he just grinned like the smug little shit he was.

And then, when her plate was nearly empty and her shoulders finally loosened from that quiet weight she’d been carrying all morning, Lando nudged her knee with his.

—Hey,— he said softly. —Go get ready.—

She blinked. —What? Ready for what?—

He smiled, one of those soft, secretive ones that made her heart misfire.

—Because I have a surprise. And I want you to look pretty.—

Time stopped.

Not all at once, but in a slow, glittering way—like someone had pressed pause on everything except her heartbeat.

She stared at him, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs. The air shifted. The space between them was still and charged and so loud.

—Lando,— she whispered, eyes wide, voice suddenly thin with nerves.

He looked at her like he already knew what was happening in her head.

Like he was waiting for her to catch up.

—Go on,— he said gently, nudging her again. —Put on something nice. I’ll meet you out front in thirty.—

She stood up too quickly, nearly knocking over her glass. Her hands trembled slightly as she gathered the dishes and mumbled something about rinsing them off. He just watched her with that infuriating calm, like he wasn’t the one who had just casually cracked her entire reality open with a sentence.

As she stepped back into the villa, she caught her reflection in the glass door—wide-eyed, flushed, glowing like the sunset behind her.

She knew.

Fuck. It’s happening.

He’s going to ask.

And somehow, terrifyingly, beautifully… she was ready.

-------------

liked by mclarenfan2000, lanmellie_queen, and others

lanmeliehearts: 😭😭 Lando out here reminding us that he’s officially the sweetest boyfriend ever!!! Can’t handle this level of softness. Amelie, you lucky girl 🧡

View all 67,012 comments

lanmeliefanatic: Lando REALLY out here making us all believe in love 💘😭 → loveislando: @lanmeliefanatic he saw her, and now the championship is in his sights 🔥

f1gossipqueen: Lando’s entire personality is just Amelie now and I am HERE for it 💀 → lanmeliemo: @f1gossipqueen he’s simp levels are off the charts, honestly goals 🙌

mclarenfan2000: Imagine being loved this much 😭 Lando’s energy is unmatched → lanmeliehearts: @mclarenfan2000 i know, right? he's so whipped and we love it

amandavibes: I think Lando would literally fight anyone who even looks at Amelie lanmelieforever: I can't believe this is real life, they're too perfect 😭💘 → holly_fanpage: @lanmelieforever agreed!! it's like they were made for each other

gossipgrl: Amelie out here making Lando go soft 🥲

maxi_dreamer: Can we just talk about how he kisses her temple like he knows no one else has the right to be that close to her 😭

lanmellie_queen: lando’s literally been simping for her since forever and i’m living for it 😩💘 → f1sugarrush: @lanmellie_queen he’s not simping, he’s manifesting the love of his life 😎✨

mclarenprincess: I need a Lando to hold me like that pls 💀 → schumacherfan99: @mclarenprincess girl, me too…

lanmelie_is_love: they’re too cute i can’t handle this much softness 🥹😭 → willie_the_wag: @lanmelie_is_love same, this is my daily dose of serotonin 🧡

flirtyfanatic: we see you Lando, you lucky man 💯 → chasinglanmelie: @flirtyfanatic Lando’s literally got the jackpot with Amelie! 😍

ameliemylove: If I were Lando I wouldn’t let go either 💀🔥 → waggirl68: @ameliemylove fr he’s holding on to that treasure like his life depends on it 🏆❤️

-------------

Amelie stood in front of the mirror, running her fingers through her hair one last time. The sleek brown dress she’d chosen clung perfectly to her body, its delicate straps framing her shoulders and showing just the right amount of skin. It was simple, yet elegant. Her hair cascaded in loose waves down her back, a few strands carefully escaping her updo. She applied a subtle layer of makeup—just enough to make her look effortlessly beautiful.

She’d meant to get ready quickly, but somehow, time had slipped away. She hadn’t expected to be this nervous. She didn’t know what Lando was planning, but the way he’d asked her to get ready—telling her to look “pretty”—had sparked something deep inside her. She felt ready, but also terrified.

It was the kind of moment where you could almost feel the air change. Everything felt different.

She glanced at the clock—twenty minutes longer than she’d planned—and gave herself one last look in the mirror.

You’re okay. You’re fine.

With a deep breath, she grabbed her phone and made her way downstairs.

Lando was waiting outside, his back to her. He was wearing a light blue-green dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his blue swimsuit peeking out from underneath. His hair, still slightly damp from the ocean, had dried into perfect waves, framing his face in that effortless way she’d come to adore. He was smiling to himself, looking out toward the horizon, but when Amelie stepped onto the terrace, his expression faltered.

For a moment, he just stared at her, his mouth going slack. His eyes roamed from her dress to her face, completely unable to hide how much he appreciated every inch of her.

—Fuck,— he muttered under his breath, voice tight. —You...—

Amelie raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she approached him. —What? Can’t handle the competition?—

Lando’s laugh was low, but it was laced with admiration. —I... No. I— You look… perfect.—

His eyes softened, the teasing edge of his voice replaced with something more sincere, more real. And when he reached for her hand, pulling her toward him, Amelie’s heart skipped a beat.

—Turn around for me?— Lando asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Amelie blinked, her heart racing. She felt her breath hitch as Lando gently guided her to turn away from him, his hands warm against her skin. She complied without a second thought, her pulse quickening as she sensed the anticipation hanging in the air.

Lando’s voice was soft, almost reverent. —I have to cover your eyes for a second. I know you hate it, but just trust me, yeah?—

Amelie gave a small, almost involuntary laugh, a fluttering feeling spreading through her chest. —You’re being very mysterious today, Lan. What’s going on?—

He grinned, his hands carefully pulling a soft, silk-like bandana from his pocket. —It’s a surprise. Don’t ruin it. You’ll see soon enough.—

She nodded, a curious shiver running through her as he gently tied the bandana over her eyes, his fingers brushing against her skin in the most innocent way that sent sparks up her spine. The warmth of the evening breeze on her face felt different now—more tangible. With one last tender touch to her cheek, Lando held her hand securely and led her down the steps, toward the beach.

The sound of waves crashing gently against the shore was calming, but there was something electric in the way he guided her, taking the time to make sure she felt safe with every step. Amelie tried to steady her breathing, the excitement bubbling under her skin.

—Keep going, love, you’re almost there,— Lando’s voice came through, steady and soothing, though there was a slight tremble of excitement beneath the calm. She felt his hand tighten on hers as they reached the soft sand beneath their feet.

Finally, after a few more steps, he stopped. —Alright, you can take it off now, Amelie.—

Her hands, trembling slightly, reached up and pulled the bandana from her eyes.

What she saw took her breath away.

Spread out in front of her was a blanket of soft pillows, set in front of a low table adorned with flickering candles. The golden light of the setting sun reflected off the crystal-clear ocean, casting everything in a soft, romantic glow. There were delicate plates of food—cheeses, fruits, fresh bread, and wine glasses waiting to be filled. It was simple, but perfect in its beauty. And it was for them.

Lando stood behind her, a quiet pride in his gaze as he watched her take in the scene. When Amelie turned to face him, her eyes were wide, her breath catching in her throat as she blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill.

—Oh my god,— she whispered, voice trembling with emotion. —Lando... this is... it’s... beautiful.—

He smiled at her, his eyes softening, and stepped forward to gently guide her toward the table. —I’m glad you like it. You deserve something perfect.—

Her throat tightened, and she bit her lip, not wanting to let the tears fall but feeling too overwhelmed. She let him help her sit down on the pillows, and he took his seat beside her, his hand finding hers once again. They sat there for a few moments in comfortable silence, simply watching the sun dip lower in the sky, the air around them cool but filled with warmth.

Lando leaned in slightly, his lips brushing her temple in a soft kiss. He was close enough that she could feel the steady rhythm of his breath, and it comforted her more than anything.

—It’s perfect. Thank you,— she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

—Anything for you,— he replied, his voice low and sincere. He brushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing her skin in a gesture so intimate it made her heart swell.

They talked for a while, about everything and nothing, the conversation flowing easily between them. Lando’s fingers lingered on her skin, tracing patterns along her arm, occasionally pressing a soft kiss to her cheek or forehead. Amelie found herself feeling safe, loved, and incredibly lucky in that moment. There was no pressure, no need to rush anything—just the two of them, sharing a sunset.

As the sun continued its slow descent into the horizon, the golden hues reflecting off the ocean turned everything around them into something surreal—something only they could share. Amelie’s fingers played with the edge of her glass, the wine inside catching the last traces of sunlight. She glanced at Lando, his expression soft, content but thoughtful.

The silence between them was peaceful, but as the last rays of light painted the sky in pinks and oranges, a quiet tension began to creep in. Amelie felt it, the weight of everything they’d been through, all the moments that had led them here. The relationship had changed so much in the past year. It wasn’t just about fun and spontaneity anymore, though that would always be a part of them. It was real. It was deep. They had their issues, but they had made it through every storm, and Amelie couldn’t help but think about the future.

Lando’s voice broke the stillness, soft and full of meaning.

—You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about... us,— he began, his eyes never leaving hers. —What we have... it feels like everything’s falling into place. We’ve been through so much already, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt more sure of anything than I do about us.—

Amelie’s heart beat faster, and she blinked rapidly, not sure what he was trying to say.

—You’re... you're not going to ask me to marry you, are you?— she joked lightly, trying to mask the nerves that fluttered in her stomach.

Lando chuckled, though his expression stayed serious.

—Not yet. Not yet,— he repeated, his hand reaching out to gently hold hers. —But... I’ve been wondering if it’s time for the next step. You and me, together. I know we've talked about it before, and it’s not just about the fun of this moment or the whirlwind we’ve been through. I’ve never been so sure of something in my life.—

Amelie’s breath caught in her throat, her mind spinning as she tried to focus on his words.

—Lando... what are you saying?— she whispered, her voice almost a breathless plea, unsure if she was ready for what she was hoping for.

Lando squeezed her hand, his thumb gently brushing her skin, and for a moment, it felt like the world had paused.

—What I’m saying is... I want you to move in with me. In Monaco. Let’s stop pretending we don’t already live in each other’s pockets most of the time. I want to be with you, not just when we can make it work, but... all the time.—

She let out a soft breath, her fingers tightening around his. Her voice, when it finally came, was barely more than a whisper.

—Yes. I want that, too. I want to move in with you, Lando.—

Lando’s breath hitched, his lips curving into the most genuine smile she’d ever seen. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, before pulling back just enough to look at her.

—Are you sure? I know it’s a big step. We’ve both been through a lot, and I just... I need you to know that this isn’t just about convenience. This is about us, everything we’ve been through and everything we will be. I just want you to be happy, Ames.—

Tears welled up in her eyes, but this time, they weren’t from sadness. They were from the overwhelming sense of love and relief that washed over her. She had wanted this. She had needed it. And now, it was happening.

—Of course, I’m sure. I want this more than anything, Lando. I’m just... I’m just glad it’s you. I’m glad we’re doing this together.—

He smiled, that familiar sparkle returning to his eyes, and he leaned in, kissing her gently on the lips. It was a soft kiss, filled with the promise of the future, a future that they were choosing to build together, one step at a time.

The sun was almost fully set now, its final rays casting a warm golden glow over the ocean. They sat there for a moment, the waves softly crashing in the distance, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s presence. The world felt perfect, like everything was falling into place. The air between them was thick with the promise of more, of the new chapter they were about to write together.

Lando pulled back slightly, his hand still holding hers, but his eyes never leaving hers.

—Then it’s settled. You, me, Monaco. I can’t wait to see what’s next for us.—

Amelie smiled, feeling her heart swell with affection for him. This was it. This was their next step.

—Me neither. It’s going to be... amazing.—

And for the first time, as they watched the sun dip below the horizon, Amelie felt certain of something she had never been so sure of in her life: They were ready for the future. Together.

[deathmybride]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ a hazy shade of winter | angus tully *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Part 1 | Part 2

ship: Angus Tully x fem!OC

warnings: Angus is literally so mean, but he's like that in the movie anyways.

summary: Carol's parents send her to spend the winter break with her uncle at Barton Academy, and a certain curly-haired boy takes an immediate (dis)liking to her.

word count: 2790

a/n: I watched the Holdovers like 2 nights ago and I’m obsessed with it now so here’s this! Maybe a second chapter coming?

Angus Tully

Misery. Absolute fucking misery. That’s all Angus could see for the foreseeable future. Just an ocean of black, sticky misery, stretching out to the horizon in every direction. As he settled his bony rear on the hard edge of the ping-pong table and listened to Hunham gleefully dole out their sentences, he thought he would vomit any moment, or drop dead. He kind of hoped he would. He scoured his eyes over the pitiful creatures he’d be bunking with this winter break; two little boys: a religious fanatic and a foreign exchage student, the school’s star quaterback, and fucking Kountze. Five little Christmas orphans. Angus would blame karma, if he believed in that hippy-dippy shit. The most unbelievably unfair part of all this was that he wouldn’t even be able to jack off in peace since all five of them would be bunking in rooms one and two of the infirmary, with Hunham in room four. God knows why they couldn’t use room three, but Hunham seemed determined to avoid any questions pertaining to that.

Just when he thought his holiday couldn’t get any worse, the girl arrived. She skittered in like a mouse, out of breath, red-faced and shaking like a handbag dog. Six little Christmas orphans.

“Ah, you’re here.” Hunham extended his hand welcomingly, and gestured to her to step forward.

She crept over, giving the ping-pong table and couch full of boys a wide berth, then nervously shook Hunham’s hand and scuttled away to sit on the floor and tuck her knees up under the frumpy men’s jumper that swallowed her whole, like a turtle retreating into a shell. She waved at the five of them, cherry lips curling into a tight smile.

“Is that a girl?” Kountze said, loudly.

“Indeed, it is. Students, this is Miss Carol Hunham, my niece. She will be joining us at Barton for the winter break.”

“Teddy Kountze.” The little freak said, practically falling over himself to shake her hand. He looked ridiculous crouching there beside her like he was about to accost a rabbit at a petting zoo. If brown-nosing was a sport, he’d be a world classer. “Wonderful to meet you. If you need a tour guide, come to me. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

She nodded in thanks, regarding him with huge puppydog eyes. Angus thought she must be dumb or tongueless. Five-foot-nothing, wearing unfashionably tapered plaid pants and Chelsea boots that were all the rage a decade ago, huge turtle-shell glasses that made her brown eyes bulge out of her head like a salmon… the only cool thing about her was her dirty blonde shag haircut, but even that came across as trying too hard. With that, and those round cheeks and fat mushroom of a nose, Angus was almost unsurprised to hear she was related to Wall-Eye. Almost.

“You’ll be taking her nowhere without a chaperone, Mr Kountze. Now, gentlemen, and lady, off you go to the infirmary building.” Hunham’s one good eye roved over the room, then settled on Angus. “Mr Tully.” He addressed him in his weasley way, voice dripping with schadenfreude. "Be a gentleman and help Miss Hunham take her bags to room three."

Now it made sense why they'd been forced to leave it empty. The little fuck had a whole room to herself.

"I'm not a gentleman." He responded, insolently as possible.

"Then play the part."

"Fine." The ping-pong table screeched backwards as he stood up, grabbed his case and stormed over to the girl who leaped to her feet, eyeing him warily as he marched her out of the room and collected one of her ridiculously heavy suitcases and set off outside with the puppy in tow.

"Um." She began, her voice a pathetic whimper. "I'm Carol Hunham."

"I heard."

"And you?"

"Angus Tully. Are you deaf or something?"

"He d-didn't say your first name." Angus grunted in response. "So, you're- you're holding over?"

"What?" The question was so insipid it made him stop in his tracks and gawk at her. "Of course I'm holding over! Are you stupid?"

"Sorry." She whispered, averting her eyes. Angus felt a rush of regret as her lip trembled, but he swallowed it and marched on.

The air was biting cold, and Angus wished he had two jackets on- or better yet, a hot-blooded model on each arm- but unfortunately he was stuck between this girl making goo-goo eyes at Kountze and her machiavellian gargoyle of an uncle. As the rest of them caught up, his simmering rage suddenly bubbled over and he broke the silence in a voice thick with hatred.

“This is the most bullshit ever! If we have to stay, why’d we have to draw Wall-eye?”

“Uh, y’know he used to be a student, right?” Quaterback drawled.

“Yeah, that’s why he knows how to inflict maximum pain on us, the sadistic fuck.”

“Yeah.” Quaterback agreed with a giggly laugh. “I mean, no offence Hunham, but your uncle sucks.”

“I don’t know him.” The girl had retreated to the fringe of the group, and when she spoke up her voice didn’t command much attention.

“At least we didn’t draw Decker, he’d be perving all over us.” Kountze sidled up alongside her and let his arm brush against her. “And we wouldn’t have Carol here with us.”

Angus rolled his eyes, but felt vindicated when he noticed her pull away from him, almost fearfully.

“Hey, guys, hold up for a second.” Angus leaned up against the pickup at the side of the road and lit up a cigarette, eager to relieve all this tension.

“No, I got something else.” Kountze pulled out a stinking doobie and gestured for his lighter. “Gimme that.”

“Hey, don’t smoke that out here.” He chided. “I don’t wanna get busted by Wall-eye.”

“Don’t be such a pussy.”

“I’m not a pussy.” Angus felt his blood pressure rise. “I just don’t want to get up at Fork Union paying for your mistake.”

Kountze didn’t bother responding, just blew out a fat drag and smiled in satisfaction.

“Teddy Kountze.” He said, offering the joint to Quaterback and trying to sling an arm around Carol but she sidestepped him to Angus’s amusement.

“Jason Smith.” Quaterback responded with a sickeningly charismatic smile.

“Yeah, I know who you are.” Fucking bootlicker. “You wanna hit this?”

He cast a glance up the road, but Wall-eye was nowhere to be seen. “Uh, yeah.” 

He took a puff and offered it to Carol.

“No, thanks.” She held up her mittened hand. “I-I hear pot can give you the heebie-jeebies.”

“The heebie-jeebies.” Jason repeated, grinning. “Cute.”

She was sort of cute- Angus begrudgingly admitted now that he’d seen her up close- in that pitiful way that those fucked up little pug-dogs are cute. He wondered if she had asthma. Besides, it’s not like he cared. At least, if somebody like her could be cute, maybe he was too, with his hawkish nose, narrow eyes, five o’clock shadow, gangly limbs, scraggly hair… No, that’s ridiculous. Unless… He wondered if she thought he was.

“It’s mellow stuff, babe.” Kountze assured her.

She blushed and shook her head, then turned her massive obsidian orbs to Angus.

“C-can I…?”

He sighed heavily, arranging his face into a scowl before he handed over the cigarette. She took a dainty puff, then handed it back. He took a drag himself, savouring the knowledge that his lips were touching the same place that a girl’s had just rested.

“More?” He offered it back.

“No, thanks. I don’t really… y’know.”

“‘Course you don’t.” He scoffed and stuffed it back in his mouth. “Such a pristine girl, I bet you never did anything wrong in your life.”

Flushing, she averted her eyes.

“So, how’d you get stuck holding over?” Kountze queried, his demeanor forced casual.

“I’m supposed to be skiing with my folks up at Haystack,” Jason said cheerfully. “But my dad put his foot down, said I can’t come home unless I cut my hair.”

“So why don’t you just cut your hair?” Angus snorted, feeling a fresh rush of anger. How could you throw away a perfectly good winter break just because you’re sentimentally attached to your godamn freak flag?

“Civil disobedience, man.” He grinned.

“I dig it.” Carol spoke up suddenly. “Conformity is a dangerous thing.”

“See, she gets it.” Jason put his arm around her shoulder.

“You like Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young?” Her blonde lashes fluttered as she gazed up at him. Angus could have puked all over the sidewalk, and Kounze looked like he might actually do it.

“Man, I love ‘em!”

“Almost Cut My Hair?”

“My anthem.” He nodded solemnly. “That album was my whole life last summer.”

“Neat.”

Angus noticed her head tilt to rest on his shoulder as he offered her the joint. This time she took it, allowing herself a long drag. He gritted his teeth and fought off the urge to deck that filthy hippy then and there.

“Anyway,” Jason waved his hand, as if clearing the conversational slate. “My dad’s cool. It’s just a battle of wills. Still, I was kinda hoping he’d cave first, because the powder up at Haystack is so sweet right now.”

Jason’s hand made its way into Carol’s hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. Angus’s fist closed involuntarily while Kountze’s eyes narrowed as he looked around, lip slightly curled in frustration.

“What about you, Mr Moto?” He said, locking onto his target. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, no. My name is Ye-Joon.” The boy explained innocently. “Uh, my family is in Korea, and they think it’s too far for me to travel alone.”

“I figured it was because your rickshaw was broken.” Kountze laughed and looked around for approval, to which he found none.

“Uh, wh-what’s a rickshaw?” Ye-Joon seemed genuinely baffled.

“You’re an asshole, Kountze.” Angus said darkly. “Your mind’s a cesspool, and a shallow one at that.”

“Who’s the asshole, Tully?” He sneered back. “You’re the one who blew up history.”

“Hey.” Jason held out his hand gently, then turned to the other kid. “What’s your story, man?”

“Alex Ollerman.” He responded, his voice stronger than the other boy’s. All that faith in a higher power, I guess. “I’m here because my parents are on a mission in Paraguay. We’re LDS.”

“Mormons, right?” The kid nodded proudly.

“Don’t you guys wear some kind of, like, magic underwear?” Kountze gawped.

“That’s a common misconception.” Alex began. It seemed he had all his bases covered, and he turned to address the Korean kid too, as if he might convince someone to join. “Actually, it’s called a temple garment, and we’re only supposed to wear it when we-”

“Hey, what’s up with the townies?” Kountze interrupted, already distracted by something shiny. Angus was mildly relieved he wouldn’t be hearing any more panty-talk- he’d had quite enough for one day, what with his bathing suit and all- but, his relief quickly turned to annoyance when he noticed the two men coming down the road, hauling a Christmas tree between them.

“Hey!” He hollered. “What are you doing with our Christmas tree?”

“The school sold it back to us.” One of them responded. “Scotch pine, still fresh.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna put it back in the lot.” The other explained. “We do it every year.”

Angus turned back to the group and shook his head darkly.

“This is the most bullshit ever.”

______________________________

Angus didn’t think he’d ever be so happy to be in the infirmary, but when they stepped into the heated building, he might have sighed in relief if he wasn't in such a black mood. His arms absolutely caned from carrying that stupid suitcase, and Kountze had been smack talking the whole way up the hill. He thought the only thing worse than bunking with the two kids would be sleeping in with Kountze while he tries to tickle Jason’s balls. He’d much prefer to cosy up in the girl’s room, irritating as her face may be. He abandoned his luggage outside room two and hauled Carol’s down the hallway while she pattered along at his heels.

"Why do you need two cases, anyway?" He sneered, stealing the comfort of silence. "You can't have that much shit to carry."

"It's-" She paused and cleared her throat. "Well... well, why should I tell you, huh? You're- you're-"

"What? An asshole? A jerk? A philistine, as your mole uncle says? Y’know, I'm pretty sure there's a faculty rule against targeted insults towards pupils."

"You're mean." She admitted in a small voice. "And I don't know why."

"Yeah, well get used to it sweetheart. Just wait till Kountze gets over your gyno-gimmick and starts treating you like he does everyone else, you'll be begging for 'mean.' And by the way, you’re just antagonising him by hanging all over Jason all the time.”

“What’s Jason got to do with it?” She snapped, raising her voice for the first time.

“Aw, I hit a nerve, huh?” He delighted in watching her face turn scarlet.

"Y-y'know, when you stood up for Ye-Joon earlier, I thought you might actually be cool. I'm disappointed."

She said nothing else, just ducked her head and ran ahead to open the door for him. Baffled, he barged past her and dumped the suitcase on the nearest bed.

“Thanks.” She whispered.

"Why are you even here, anyway?" He rounded on her, suddenly tired of the way she let him walk all over her. "I mean, other than to ruin the ambience with that hideous sweater-"

That did it. She let out a choking sob and made for the door.

"Hey, hey wait!" He flailed out his long limbs and caught her around the arm, but she wrenched herself from his grip and made off down the hall, away from Hunham and the other boys to Angus' relief. "Carol, wait I didn't mean it."

She didn’t respond, just sped off and careened around the corner. Angus caught up just in time to see the door of the broom closet swing shut. He clucked his tongue and sat down on the hard floor outside, feeling a wave of disgust as he listened to quiet weeping. Gently, he rapped the door with his knuckles.

“Carol?”

“Go away.”

“Carol, I’m sorry.”

“Go away!”

He paused for a moment, and considered his options.

“Your sweater isn’t actually ugly, by the way. I was just ribbing you, y’know? Horseplay?”

“No.” She said firmly, voice muffled through the wood. “No, I know ribbing and that wasn’t it. Y-you were being cruel, and you wanted to see me cry, I know it.”

“What? No!”

“You enjoy it, don’t you? You’re so miserable, the only fun left for you is making everyone else feel as wretched as you.”

He swallowed thickly, feeling a lump of shame coating his Adam’s apple. He took another long moment to collect himself. He resented how easily she read him, but if he wanted to keep her from finking, he’d have to choose his words carefully, and eat a large portion of his pride.

“It’s true.” His stomach roiled in revulsion as he grovelled to her. “I’m sore about holding over, and I wanted to take it out on someone, and you looked like easy pickings. I’m brash, I’m rude, I hate everyone including myself, and I make it everyone else’s problem.”

She paused her sniffling, as if sizing him up.

“Well.” She said thickly. “Thank you for admitting it. That was very… self reflective.”

“I go to a shrink, I kind of have to be self reflective.”

“Ah.” She sniffled. “You can leave me alone now.”

“I would,” Oddly, it felt good to tell somebody… Good enough that he was able to go back to being sly. “But this closet doesn’t open from the inside. Every time we get a new janitor they get locked in here. Happens like twice a year.” She said nothing, but Angus heard her breathing pick up in pace. “I mean, I can always leave you in here.”

“No!” She said urgently. “Let me out, please.”

“I will, if you promise not to fink.”

“I-I won’t fink. If you leave me be, I won’t fink. Pinky promise.”

“Alright. I’ll stay as far away from you as humanly possible.” He clambered to his feet and opened the door for her. She was already standing, and as soon as she saw the light, she tried to scoot out beside him, but he moved his arm to stop her. “Pinky promise, remember?”

Begrudgingly, she curled her finger around his, then slipped out past him and returned to her room. Angus watched her go, and something broke inside his chest as the door closed behind her.

[wreckedandpolemic]

forgive me? - matty healy

prompt: lovers' quarrel

(mdni) and we continue ahead with valentine75!! ok pls do not look too closely at the argument here i suck so hard at angst i cant even half ass it as a setup for porn lol

warnings: oral (f receiving), hand stuff, idk there isn't huge amounts to this

The silence in your flat is deafening, stretching between you and Matty like a chasm, your anger welling so deeply at the bottom that you want to drown him in it.

“I’m sorry?” he ventures, and you whip around to face him. The sheepish grin he wears is, admittedly, distractingly adorable; usually, it’s enough to melt you at least a little, but this time you can barely see it through your blinding anger.

You scoff. “You’re sorry, huh? Oh, well, I guess that makes it totally fucking fine, then!” You kick off your shoes with more force than necessary, sending your expensive heels skittering across the floor. “Tonight was important to me, do you even realise that? Are you so up your own arse that you think everyone wants to be on the Matty show twenty-four seven, or do you just not care?” A sense of sick satisfaction spreads as he processes your words, expression crumbling for a split-second and reforming into a sharp sort of anger that warns that Matty isn’t going to make this easy for you.

Which suits you just fine. You’ve never been one for an easy win. Never been much for losing, either. You fold your arms as Matty rounds on you. “I’m up my own arse? That’s fuckin’ rich, comin’ from you, treatin’ me like a fuckin’ toddler all night!” He’s gesticulating wildly, accent thickening through his frustration, and it takes a tremendous amount of your self-control not to laugh. “Matty, don’t touch that. Matty, don’t talk to him. Matty, come back here.” He puts on an affectation of your voice and accent that’s equal parts insulting and hilarious, and you’re lucky he doesn’t pick up on your quiet snort of laughter. “You actually said come back here! Like I’m a damn dog!”

“Dog would’ve been better behaved, probably,” you mutter. “Wouldn’t have got belligerently drunk and accosted the press, either.” Matty steps closer, breathing hard, tongue darting out to wet his lips tantalisingly. Your traitorous eyes flicker down to his mouth, soft and pink and wet and tempting, and it’s a mission to haul your mind back on track.

“I didn’t fucking ‘accost’ anyone. I told them to get the fucking cameras out of my face, ‘cos I wasn’t gonna give them a fuckin’ story at your fuckin’ event.” Matty defends, and, okay, the sentiment is there, but he had just made everything endlessly worse.

Groaning, you bury your head in your hands. “I told you. I fucking asked you, one time, just nod your head, smile, say you’re proud of me. Was that so fucking hard for you?” You hadn’t meant to admit that part. That it stung not to have his approval.

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Matty snaps. “Of course I’m fucking proud of you. You’re a fucking star. Just wish you weren’t so embarrassed of me,” he adds, and whatever part of your anger that had crumbled at first sharpens in your chest again at his attempt to guilt-trip you.

He’s not being fair — of course you’re not embarrassed by him, but his behaviour fucking embarrassed you! “You told a fucking crowd of journalists that Jamie, who I have been on a fucking months-long press tour with, and I quote, ‘acts like a massive wanker.’ And he fucking heard you!”

Matty shrugs. “Well, he does. Don’t like the way he talks to you. Could’ve called him a rude cunt, too. Would’ve been even more true.” he mutters sullenly, scowling at the ground.

“God, Matty, you are so— mmph!” You’re cut off by him surging forward, crushing your lips together in a bruising kiss. You pull his lower lip into your mouth and bite down on it, iron spilling over your tongue as the skin tears beneath your teeth. After a long, indulgent moment, you force yourself to shove him away, gasping. “You never fucking listen! You can’t just kiss me ‘cause you don’t wanna hear it,” you snap, pushing down the heat that wells instinctively between your legs.

He’s flushed, breathing hard, unfairly gorgeous like this. “You look so pretty when you’re mad, baby,” he murmurs, tucking a wisp of hair behind your ear, the gentle touch making you shudder. He’s a master at this; resolving your arguments with doe-eyed pouts and wet, needy kisses.

Your resolve is crumbling. “Matty, don’t,” you warn feebly, lust spinning dizzily in your mind and swelling until your rational thoughts are dissolved. Matty grins, predatory — he has you pinned, and he knows it.

”My pretty girl,” he murmurs against your lips. “My little star. Forgive me?” His eyes are wide, faux-innocence shining down at you as your last thread of self-control breaks. It isn’t lost on you that he hasn’t actually apologised, but as his lips press against yours and his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you can’t remember why you care.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours as he walks you to the sofa. Your stomach swoops as he pushes you down, desire thrumming in your veins. Every last thought falls out of your head as it knocks against the armrest, your back arching up towards him. “C’monn,” you whine, reaching out to him where he stands above you, his gaze hot as it roams eagerly across your skin.

Matty climbs over you, adjusting your legs so he can kneel between them, goosebumps breaking out where he slides a hand up your thigh, agonisingly close to where you need it. “Lift your hips for me, love,” he instructs, sliding your dress up your body until a puddle of satin pools around your waist, cool and slick against your heated skin. His warm fingers crook around your panties and he drags them down your legs, exposing your dripping cunt. A soft moan escapes you as he rubs a slow circle into your clit, pressing a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. “So much better than fighting, hm?” he teases, and a flash of annoyance cuts through the lust as you remember exactly how you got into this position.

”Don’t push it,” you hiss, raking a hand through his curls and tugging harshly. He whimpers deliciously against your skin, a pulse of heat spiking deep in your bones. “I’m still mad at you,” you warn, searching your rapidly-blurring mind for your long-foregone anger.

“So take it out on me,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on your cunt, your body tingling under his gaze.

”What?” Your mind is already hazy, the sight of his head low between your thighs infinitely distracting, the promise of his tongue unfathomably tempting.

“I’m going to put my mouth on your sweet little pussy, and I’m going to listen to everything you have to say until you come. Call me names, if you want. Tell me everything I’ve ever done in my life that’s fucked you off, and I won’t say a word.” It’s such a Matty way of resolving an argument that you can’t find a response. “You get to yell at me and you get to get off. Pretty good deal if you ask me.” Matty’s smirk splashes you with a bucket of cold water, latent frustration blooming under your skin — a sudden need to slap the smugness off his face overtakes you.

You beckon him, waiting until his eyes are closed and his lips are parted, a gentle breath brushing against your mouth. He relaxes, expecting a kiss, expecting to be off the hook, and you crack a hand hard across his cheek with a grin. “God, that felt good,” you say as he recoils, rolling your eyes theatrically at his punched-out moan. “Such a fucking slut. Put your mouth to better use before I change my mind.” He shouldn’t make it so easy for you to take back the upper hand.

It’s almost comical how quickly his tongue is buried inside you, a thick pulse of heat sent kicking in your cunt. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you swallow a moan as you bury a hand in his curls. “Wish I could fuck your pretty mouth. Shut you up proper for once.” Matty moans into your cunt, the sound deliciously gratifying as it vibrates through you. “That’s your problem, you know,” you continue, the effort of keeping your voice level monumental against the waves of pleasure rising inside you. “You never fucking shut up. You’re— mmh, so fucking arrogant. You act like— ah!” His teeth scrape over your clit and you cry out, grinding your hips against his face as heat throbs sharply under your skin.

”Go on,” he says, grinning up at you with wet, slick lips. He hisses as you yank his curls harshly, dragging his mouth back to your cunt. He licks at you like a starving man, heat pooling in your belly, your limbs trembling and toes curling.

”You act like the fucking world revolves around you,” you continue, struggling to drag the words to the forefront of your soupy mind. “You’re so fucking— God, Matty, fuck!” you whimper, the rest of your sentence lost in the mind-numbing pleasure swirling through you. Matty isn’t playing fair, licking and sucking and kissing at you sweetly, your world blurring around him.

He pulls away and quirks an eyebrow at you, like he’s waiting for your surrender. As fucking if. You take a moment to catch your breath, fingers digging into the edge of the sofa to anchor yourself before he dips his head again, licking a broad stripe along your cunt that makes you whine pathetically at him. “You’re ridiculously pretentious,” you bite out, gasping as his tongue fucks into you in an obscene, glorious rhythm. Ecstasy coils in your limbs, your body heavy at the edge of oblivion. “Disrespectful. And you just. Don’t. Fucking. Listen.” You punctuate your last words rocking your hips against his face, your cunt fluttering around his tongue.

Matty presses wet kisses to your thighs, sweet and teasing as you whine. “Are you done?”

“Repeat it back to me,” you order as he licks his lips, framed prettily by the V of your legs. “So I know you were listening.”

“I’m irresponsible.” He kisses your inner thigh. “Arrogant. Inappropriate at the worst times.” He licks at your clit and you buck your hips against his face, fighting to hold at bay the flood of heat waiting to overwhelm you. “The people you work with think I’m white trash.”

You fist a hand in his curls, tugging hard enough that you feel him hiss in pain against your skin. “Don’t be a smartarse.”

You can sense that he’s about to argue, but thinks better of it at the last second. “I’m pretentious. Disrespectful,” he continues. “And I just.” He laps at your clit. “Don’t.” Heat floods your body as Matty slides two fingers into your sopping cunt and crooks them at an angle that has molten pleasure spilling over you. “Listen.” He sucks gently on your swollen clit, the pleasure enough to pull you over the edge, ecstasy coiling deliciously around your insides. You whimper, grinding down against his face as you come, your cunt fluttering around Matty’s tongue.

You sigh contentedly. “Good boy,” you murmur, savouring his shudder. “So good when your mouth’s full of my cunt. Like you so much better when you’re not talking.”

Matty looks up, eyes wide and face soaked with you. “Forgive me?” he asks, wearing the same sheepish grin that had failed to sway you before.

You sigh dramatically, the seeds of an idea taking shape in your mind. “Come here,” you say, a fond smile tugging at your lips. It’s a struggle to keep it from turning cruel as he takes the bait. “Silly boy.” Eagerly, Matty climbs over you, cupping your jaw and pressing his lips to yours, gently at first, turning hungry as you swallow down the taste of yourself. He moans into your mouth, grinding his clothed cock against your sensitive core. “Needy, are you?” you tease, a faint edge of danger lacing your tone. “Want me to get you off?” Glassy-eyed, he nods down at you, sweet and pleading. “Use your words.”

He swallows thickly, blinking hard. “Want you to make me cum,” Matty murmurs, casting his eyes down like he’s ashamed. You raise an eyebrow when his gaze lands back on your face, and he adds a reluctant, “Please.”

Sliding out from under him, you lead him into your bedroom, laughing derisively as he strips out of his jeans and boxers before the door even shuts. “God, you’re pathetic,” you scoff, smirking as his eager expression falters slightly with the realisation you haven’t let him off the hook.

“Mhmm,” Matty agrees, switching tack and plying you with sweet doe eyes.

“Get on the bed,” you order, kneeling in his lap when he obeys. His hands wander to the hem of your dress, brushing over your thighs as he starts to lift it, and you swat him away. “Think you deserve to fuck me after the way you acted today?” You glare down at him, pulling at his hair to tip his head up towards you. After a long moment, his internal war clear on his face, Matty shakes his head mutely. “No. But you’re being good now, so…”

Matty inhales sharply when you wrap your hand around his cock, flushed and sticky with want. You pump him slowly, spreading precum over him, and he trembles with the effort of holding himself still, sweetly pliant under your hand. “Thank you,” he mumbles, swallowing thickly.

You lean down to press your lips against his, swallowing his needy, suppressed moans. “It’s okay, baby. Being so good. Can fuck my hand if you need to.” You’re being cruel, now, knowing how you’re going to leave him, but it’s sickly thrilling having him in your power like this.

Murmured thanks fall from his lips between sweet little whines, his hips bucking into your fist as his cock leaks over your skin. Languidly, you press your tongue into his mouth, trading long, sloppy kisses broken up by Matty’s pleasured moans.

Taking Matty apart under your skilled hands is easy, now; you’re practised in everything he likes. You dig your thumb into his slit, twist your wrist just so, swallow every sweet noise he makes. His body tenses, his groans deepening, turning rhythmic, signalling his orgasm. You let him chase his release up until the very last second, pulling away and smirking meanly down at him.

Confusion clouds across Matty’s face as he looks up at you, reeling from his ruined orgasm as if you’ve slapped him. You let him catch his breath before you take him in your hand again, working over him, pulling him to the edge again. “Do you have anything to say, baby?”

Matty’s mouth falls open, the struggle to pull any meaning from your words plain on his face. “Please?” he tries, face falling when you shake your head, a moan escaping him as you flick your thumb over his slit. “Thank you,” he mumbles thickly. “I love you.”

You cock your head, appraising him. “That’s nice. But not quite. Try to think a little bit harder, yeah? I know that’s tough when I’ve got you all stupid for me, but try,” you croon, tone sympathetic and deriding all at once.

Matty’s face scrunches in concentration. “‘M sorry!” he chokes out, whining when you press a kiss to the head of his cock.

“That’s it,” you breathe, kissing him softly in reward. “Good boy.” Arousal coils in your belly at the sight of him, breaking into a thoughtless mess under your hands. You stroke over his cock a few times more, watching his stomach tense and relax as his orgasm builds. Then you stop, letting him whine desperately into your mouth.

He hasn’t wised to your game, still hopeful through his lust-hazy gaze. “You embarrassed me today,” you chide. “Why?” You dip your head, lapping over the tip of his cock, letting him thrust into your mouth, a spit trail connecting your skin for a brief moment. You kiss the salt of him back into his mouth, devouring his desperate moans as you stroke him. “I asked you a question,” you murmur against his lips.

There’s an answer forming on his tongue, you can see, watching him struggle to swallow it down. You pull away, lifting your hand to lap the taste of him off your fingers, giving an exaggerated moan. Matty whimpers, desperate, hips rocking against nothing as you batter against his defences. A burst of pleasure licks up your spine when you drag your fingers through your still-soaked cunt. Matty’s answering moan as you wrap your wet fingers around his cock is nothing short of pathetic, low and thick with lust. Clicking your tongue disapprovingly, you repeat your question, the ensuing silence thick with the unsaid. You know the answer, but it’s no fun not to pry it out of him. “I was jealous, okay!” he gasps out. 

He won’t meet your eyes, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Aw, I know,” you croon sympathetically. Your touches turn tender, coaxing. “It’s okay, baby. Don’t need to be jealous. Don’t want anyone but you. I’m yours, yeah?” you promise, lifting his head to deliver your words into his shadowed eyes.

“Mine,” he echoes faintly, rolling his hips up into your hand and whining. Your thighs clench at his possessive tone; you love being his, being the only one who gets to have him like this. “Gonna cum, fuck, please let me cum, fuck!” The last syllable crumbles into a sob as you pull away, ruining him for the final time. “‘M sorry, ‘M sorry, please let me cum,” he whimpers, so sweetly pathetic that you almost want to let him cum.

Almost. Matty’s chest heaves, struggling for breath and sanity as you climb off him, smoothing your dress down nonchalantly. Pouting down at him, you click your tongue condescendingly. “Poor baby. You don’t get to cum tonight, okay? How are you gonna learn a lesson if I give you what you want now?”

He gasps, chokes, twitching as he fights to stay still. “Please?” he murmurs, so quiet that you aren’t sure whether he’s addressing it to you or subconsciously voicing his need.

Either way, you shake your head at him with a shrug. “Get control of yourself and we can watch a movie, yeah?”

Matty gives a shuddering nod as you turn to leave, squaring your shoulders so you don’t look back at him.

After a few minutes, Matty slopes into the living room, dressed but still looking fucked-out, hair wild and eyes downcast. You rest your head in his lap when he comes to sit beside you, smiling blithely and uncaringly up at him.

“Are you still mad?” he ventures, petting your hair tentatively.

“Depends,” you answer, feeling his body tense at your words “Are you gonna pull that shit again?”

“No,” he replies without hesitation, shuddering at the thought of what you just put him through

“Then no,” you grin, and Matty relaxes under you. “But you still don’t get to cum,” you can’t resist adding.

He pouts down at you, but his eyes are shining with mischief, any lingering tension fully faded now. “Can I make you come again, then?”

Sitting up, you climb into his lap and kiss him for a long, luxurious moment, heat swelling between you as his tongue slides against yours. “Say please.”

[03junkie]

prompt: grin|| wc: 818 || @rosekillermicrofic || song suggestion: Headlock by Imogen Heap || CW/TW: Description of violence

‘Barty, get off the roof before someone sees you.’ Evan yelled into his microphone. The instructions that their organisation was sending him were taken as nothing more than suggestions. He did what he wanted to, and there was no way anyone could get Barty to do what they were ordered to do. ‘Barty, I’m being serious. This place is crawling with plainclothes.’

‘You worry too much. For all they care I’m just another crazy who’s looking for a view.’

‘I’m not asking you again. If you get shot, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Evan gritted out. Evan’s view of Barty was partially restricted because of the large billboard covering half of their viewpoint. While there were others who had an eye on him, the fear in Evan’s chest wouldn’t quell unless Barty was standing next to him. He wouldn’t tell Barty the last part, obviously.

‘Ev, I’m fine. This isn’t my first time on the field.’ There was a trace of irritation in Barty’s voice.

‘Then stop acting like it is.’ A beat. ‘Please be safe.’

‘I’m always safe, baby. You know that.’ Evan nipped at his fingernail.

‘If you think there’s the infinitesimal chance that you could be in danger, I’m coming in.’

‘In who?’ Barty laughed at his own crude joke.

‘We’re all laughing here.’ Evan deadpanned. ‘I hope you heard me, though. I’m watching you.’

‘Where from?’ Evan watched Barty turn his head wildly.

‘The building with the cracked window. Behind the billboard.’ Barty’s eye caught on quickly, seemingly staring right at Evan.

‘Evan, tell me. Do I look good?’

‘We can all hear you, Barty. Keep this shit for later before I call HR,’ drawled Dorcas, making Evan giggle.

‘She’s right. But also, yes.’ Barty grinned wide.

‘Barty, there’s some disturbance right below you. Either run, or be ready to fight.’ Regulus’ voice filled the room. Run, run, run, Evan thought.

‘Gotcha.’ Barty raised his arm and mimicked pulling the trigger on a gun right at Evan. ‘I’ll see you on the other side, baby.’

‘Yeah, you better.’ Immediately, the roof had four more men on it. Evan stood up, ready to run to Barty’s aid. Regulus pulled him back down.

‘You’ll attract more. Stay put and let him figure it out.’

‘But—‘

‘No. Sit down, Evan.’ Evan obeyed. His index fingernail had started to bleed without him realising the extent of the damage he did by chewing on them. Barty was speaking, hands crossed across his chest. The men demanded something, and Barty ripped out the earpiece and threw it onto the street below. Evan saw Barty smirk and mouth a few words, which made two of them barrel at him. He sidestepped quickly, letting them stumble.

He knew the taunting look on Barty’s face all too well; Evan was used to seeing it whenever they were left alone in their office for too long. One of the guys pulled a gun, making Evan’s breath lodge in his throat. Barty just smiled some more. This agitated the group further.

It all happened rapidly. Before Evan could comprehend, four gunshots rang out, and his blood ran cold. One of the men had a large crimson patch growing on his jacket, while another was on the floor, brain matter spewed across him. The third one was clutching his thigh, screaming. The fourth one however, was seemingly unharmed. Barty raised his gun again, cornering the man into a ledge. The man was smarter than he let on, because when he saw the chance he kicked the weapon out of Barty’s hand. It skittered to a stop a few feet away. The man spat at Barty’s feet, right before Barty delivered a quick blow to his jaw. Evan could only imagine the horrid sound that would’ve made purely based on the angle the man’s mandible was jutting out.

That wasn’t enough for Barty. He pushed the man down onto his knees, and in his pained stupor, he didn’t even realise that Barty had regained control of his gun. A bright flash, and then the guy crumpled to the dirty floor. Barty surveyed the damage around him. The ones that were alive wouldn’t be so for long enough for an ambulance to arrive. However, Barty wouldn’t take that chance, Evan knew that. He brought down his pistol on each of their heads with enough force for it to be bloody by the time he was done. He ripped out a piece of fabric from one of their tees, using it to wipe his gun clean of prints, which he left on the roof.

Evan lost sight of him for a few minutes. Suddenly, there was a banging at the door, and Evan all but bolted to open the door.

‘So, I was thinking we could do a quick lunch before we leave for home. What do you think?’ Barty grinned, as Evan pulled him into a hug.

[yiplee]

Yes! Please write the Kyle and Stan vs Tweek and Craig fight when you have time! Talk about an epic battle! And seeing Tweek and Craig being tickled to death at the same time would be so cute!

Yes omg

Them rn:

Stan&Kyle vs. Tweek&Craig leeets get it 😍✨

Sorry I’m not getting to the other requests I’m just having writers block with them but this I wanna do. Keep the reqs coming!

———————————————————————

Stan, Kyle, Tweek and Craig were all hanging out at Kyle’s house. They were sat on the couch in front of the TV, arguing over what to watch.

Stan and Kyle wanted to watch Terrance and Phillip, while Craig insisted they watched Red Racer. Tweek thought the idea of choosing a side was too much pressure, so he stuck with Craig’s choice as they were usually a pair with things.

“It’s my house, Craig! I should get to choose what to watch!” Kyle argued, pointing an accusatory finger at his monotone friend.

“You invited us over to watch ‘the greatest show of all time’, I didn’t think you meant the dumbest!” Craig retorted.

“Dude, we all like Terrance and Phillip! You’re the only one who likes Red Racer!” Kyle argued back, getting a scoff and eyeroll from Craig.

“Guys, guys, I think there’s only one way to settle this.” Stan interrupted, cocking an eyebrow at the two other boys across the couch.

Tweek jumped in his seat. “AGH! What do you mean?! Are you gonna fight?! GAAH! That’s too much pressure!!” He cried, pulling on his hair.

“No, no! Not like that!” Stan shook his head, cracking his knuckles and sharing a glance with Kyle, who understood instantly and nodded back to him.

Craig blinked in realization. He quickly turned and whispered into Tweek’s ear, and winced as Tweek yelled back into Craig’s ear.

“AHH! That’s WAY too much pressure!!” Tweek shook his head violently. Craig put a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

“Well? Are we doing this?” Kyle asked, slipping his green gloves off. All four boys looked at eachother, nodding.

“First side to give up loses?” Craig guessed, getting a nod of approval from Stan. And with that, they charged toward eachother like the dramatic kids they are.

Kyle lunged at Craig, digging his fingers into his ribs and getting no reaction from the blank-faced individual.

Meanwhile, below the couch, Stan was trying to hold Tweek still, who was thrashing wilder than an angry piglet.

Back on the couch, Craig grabbed hold of Kyle’s arms and swiftly turned the tables on him. He scribbled his fingers into Kyle’s sides, getting a loud squeal from the boy.

“FUHUHUHUCK! CRAHAHAIG WAHAHAIT!!” Kyle squealed, as Craig began mercilessly scribbling his fingers up and down his sides.

“Oh shit! Kyle!” Stan let go of Tweek, climbing up to the couch to help Kyle. He left Tweek just laying on the ground, panting.

Stan grabbed Craig’s arms from behind and began pulling him away from Kyle, who was thrashing and squealing below him.

Craig proved too strong at first, but when Stan dug into Craig’s armpits, his arms shot back from Kyle to his sides.

“Oh?” Stan raised an eyebrow with a smirk, quickly holding Craig’s arms still. “You go handle Tweek, Kyle. I’ve got this one.” Stan nodded to Kyle, who was already on it.

As Craig was resisting Stan’s fingers, the loud shriek of Tweek was heard as Kyle’s fingers attacked him.

“GAAAHA!! CRAHAHAHAIG HEHEHELP MEHEHE!!” He cried, Thrashing wildly under Kyle’s arms.

“I’m kind of busy, Twee-EEHEEK!” Craig cracked, squirming urgently away from Stan as he scribbled his fingers into his armpits.

“Well? Still wanna watch Red Racer?” Stan called, as he spidered his hands down Craig’s sides, earning a stream of low giggles.

“Yehehes!” Craig said stubbornly. He knew he could outlast Stan, but it was Tweek he was worried about.

Down on the floor, Tweek was shrieking and thrashing as Kyle skittered his fingers along his ribs. “GAAH! STOHOHOP IT! AAAH!!” He screamed, grabbing Kyle’s wrist and biting down on it like an animal.

“AH!” Kyle retracted his hand, rubbing his wrist in pain. “What the hell, dude?!”

Tweek took this opportunity to dash away, climbing onto the couch and trying to separate Craig and Stan.

Kyle climbed up on the couch, him and Stan nodding to eachother. Tweek and Craig were now cornered next to eachother, as Stan and Kyle suddenly skittered all of their fingers across both of them.

“GAAAHAHAHA!! WAHAHAIT!!” Tweek cried out, pulling on his hair and thrashing back and forth. Craig turned away, biting his lip as he fought against the sensations, but they ultimately proved to be too much.

“Okahahahay!! Okay we give uhuhup! We’ll watch your dumb shohohohow!!” Craig conceded.

“GAH! YEAHAHAH! WE GIHIHIVE UHUHUP!!” Tweek shrieked, agreeing with Craig on the movement.

Stan and Kyle moved away from the other two, sharing some smug grins. “Soo, Terrance and Phillip it is then?” Stan said, picking up the remote.

“…Fuck you.” Craig sighed, catching his breath as he sat next to Tweek, who was practically buzzing from the action, as Stan put Terrance and Phillip on.

[aria-bun]

Can you make it feel like home, if I tell you you're mine?

A spider gets loose in Doug's room Read now on ao3!

Doug knocked on the door of apartment 204, across the hall, tapping his foot lightly.

It took a moment, but the door opened, and Alana Maxwell answered it. 

He and Maxwell hadn’t spoken much beyond pleasantries, but she seemed nice enough.

“Oh, hey Doug. Can I help you with something?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“Is Hera there?” he asked, slightly anxious.

“Yeah, hold on a sec.” Maxwell popped her head back into the apartment. “Hera! Your friend’s here.”

“Eiffel?” he heard Hera’s muffled voice from inside the apartment, and she was at the door a moment later. Her hair was half pulled back and a bit messy, and she was wearing sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. “What’s going on?”

“Uh, so, there might be a situation.” Doug tucked his hands into his sweatpants pockets. 

“...What situation?”

“There’s a really large spider in my room.”

She sighed. “Eiffel-”

“Don’t 'Eiffel' me! It’s super big, and I’d ask Jacobi, but he’s busy making things that could destroy the apartment, and his solution would probably be a blowtorch or something.”

She sighed. “Alright, yeah. Lead the way.”

The two of them went across the hall to Doug and Jacobi’s apartment. The door to Jacobi’s room was closed, and Doug stood in the doorway of his room while Hera slowly approached the medium-sized spider perched on his dresser, armed with a plastic cup from the kitchen and a piece of paper.

As she tried to trap the spider under the cup, it skittered away across the dresser quickly. She slammed the cup down a few more times before pausing. 

“Uh… Eiffel?”

“Yeah?”

She turned around, looking at him. “So… The spider’s gone.”

“That's good.”

“No,” she corrected. “It's gone. Like, I can’t find it.”

“What?!” his eyebrows shot up. “It’s gone?!”

“What’s gone?” Both Doug and Hera looked at Jacobi, who was leaning against the doorway of his room in sweatpants and lacking a t-shirt, raising an eyebrow at them.

Don’t stare.

“There was a spider, and now we can’t find it.” Hera summed up, setting the cup down on Doug’s dresser.

“...I could grab some-”

“We’re not setting bombs off in my room.” he cut him off.

“Oh ye of little faith?” Jacobi cocked his head to the side.

“Very.”

“...Right. Well, I’m going to bed now.” Hera stepped out of Doug’s room, patting his shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

Before he could respond, Hera had crossed the room and walked out of the apartment, closing the door behind her.

Doug closed the door to his room. “Well, I’m not going in there for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Where do you plan on sleeping?” he and Jacobi both glanced at the small couch, which neither of them could lay on without their legs hanging off the armrest.

“...Great question.” Doug put his hands on his hips, glancing around the rest of the apartment. “The answer I have for that, Danny boy, is I-have-no-idea.”

Jacobi sighed. “Come on.”

“What?”

“My bed is a double. We can share.”

Doug froze slightly. What? 

Jacobi wanted them to share a bed?

Not that he was against the idea, per se. He just wasn’t expecting it.

At all.

Jacobi looked at him. “You’re welcome to sleep on the floor if you don’t-”

“Nope! No, it’s fine.” Doug laughed awkwardly. “My back would never forgive me.”

Doug had never actually been in Jacobi’s room before. It was…

Exactly how he pictured it.

Most surfaces in the room were messy, covered in parts for what he assumed belonged to several different bombs, yet his bed was perfectly made, tucked into the corner of the room.

The two of them got into bed, Jacobi facing the wall and Doug facing towards the door, their backs lightly pressed against each other.

“‘Night, Eiffel.”

He blew out a small breath. “Sleep well, Jacobi.”

——————————————————————

Rays of sunlight streamed between the blinds and into the room, waking Doug up. Sunlight was a bit of a rarity (Especially in the colder months), and it was a nice thing to wake up to.

He shifted and immediately felt a pair of arms tighten around him slightly, almost as if on reflex.

He turned his head slightly, seeing Jacobi’s sleep-mussed curly hair, his face pressed against Doug’s shoulder and his arms wrapped around his torso.

Jacobi was a clingy sleeper.

And also very warm.

Doug bit his lip to stop himself from laughing and waking him up. This was hilarious.

He paused to reach into his pocket, careful not to move too much, and sure enough, his phone was still in his pocket. He eased it out, opening it with his fingerprint, before reaching slightly and taking a picture of Jacobi.

This will do just nicely.

He glanced at the time on his phone after taking the photo.

7:53 A.M.

His first class that day didn’t start until ten. He had time, and Jacobi’s bed was…

Oddly comfortable.

He wasn’t sure if it was because he used some magical fabric softener, or if it was because Jacobi was there.

He didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

Reality could go and catch up later. For now, he was going back to sleep.

Future Doug could figure it out.

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Tattletale nodded, “Faultline’s crew does anything short of murder.  You can say her personality sucks, you can say her powers suck, but I’ll admit she’s very good at finding hidden strengths in the people that work for her.  See those two guys?  When it came to powers, they got a bad roll of the dice.  Became freaks that couldn’t hope to pass in normal society, wound up homeless or living in the sewers.  There’s a story behind it, but they became a team, she made them effective, and they’ve only messed up one or two jobs so far.”

5.1 is a pretty textbook exposition chapter, get a round-up of all the other baddies we haven't met yet, get the shape of the villain scene for Brockton Bay - these are the guys that Skitter and Friends are going to be taking on, over time, one by one, or just about.

So as a chapter, it is a bit dry, but it's dry with purpose, and it's good to have a bit of a slower bit, and it's not so dry it feels too lecture-y.

Plus, the earlier bit where Coil walks in (is that a body double? I feel like I read that was a body double somewhere? Like, he has his two-timelines ability and all, but even if he's just staying home doing paperwork in one timeline, if he decides to collapse the paperwork timeline... that paperwork needs to get done again. That's actually got to be annoying as fuck, doing the paperwork twice.

And this is the man who wanted to have like three or four jobs by the end? Coil, PRT director, secret ruler of the city and he's a CEO of something, right? Man, Thomas Calvert things both big and incredibly small. If he wasn't, like Kaisar, so monofocused on one city he could still have a great deal of money and influence across more than that.

Of course, that may be while Cauldron was cool with him having a vial, knowing he'd just focus on one city. Does Cauldron manipulate things to tend to make more villains focused on one locale rather than trying to operate over a broader space?

Another group arrived, and it was like you could see a wave of distaste wash over the faces in the room.  I had seen references on the web and news articles about these guys, but they weren’t the sort you took pictures of.  Skidmark, Moist, Squealer.  Two guys and a girl, the lot of them proving that capes weren’t necessarily attractive, successful or immune to the influences of substance abuse.  Hardcore addicts and dealers who happened to have superpowers. Skidmark wore a mask that covered the top half of his face.  The lower half was dark skinned, with badly chapped lips and teeth that looked more like shelled pistachio nuts than anything else.  He stepped up to the table and reached for a chair.  Before he could move it, though, Kaiser kicked the chair out of reach, sending it toppling onto its side, sliding across the floor. “The fuck?” Skidmark snarled. “You can sit in a booth,” Kaiser spoke.  Even though his voice was completely calm, like he was talking to a stranger about the weather, it felt threatening. “This is because I’m black, hunh?  That’s what you’re all about, yeah?” Still calm, Kaiser replied, “You can sit in a booth because you and your team are pathetic, deranged losers that aren’t worth talking to.  The people at this table?  I don’t like them, but I’ll listen to them.  That isn’t the case with you.”

Ah yes, the most pathetic villains canon ever gave us. Though wtf is this Moist guy? He's never been mentioned anywhere in fic or on reddit. I know about Mush and Trainwreck being Merchants, but who is this guy?

Though is this Skidmark being more presentable than usual, or does his usual reputation for being super filthy and whatnot just standard flanderization? Is it based on much more than this?

Also, really, Skidmark. Really? That the best name he could come up with?

[embcrspark]

@ghcstwired, continued from here.

“What could go wrong?” Stiles echoed as he set his drink down on the table with an audible thud. Now free, his hand rose as he counted off on his fingers, launching into a list of reasons.

“One: I traumatize everyone in here. They leave this place permanently scarred—some might even spiral, turn to drugs, drinking, the whole nine yards. Is that what you want?”

With a sharp nod, Stiles gestured toward the table beside them, where a family of four sat—parents and their two teenage daughters. The father had just returned to the table, carrying over two glasses of Coke for the girls. They’d been the last ones on stage, cheeks still slightly flushed from the excitement—more from laughing than actually singing along to Shake It Off. “Look at him, Ryu. He won’t survive the trauma of hearing me sound like a dying cat. He’ll lose his job, they’ll go bankrupt, and before you know it, the whole family will be on the streets.” Stiles leaned back dramatically, gaze skittering across the bar, feigned regret settling over his features.

“Two: Before resorting to drugs or alcohol, everyone here will first leave a scathing review of this place.” He waved his hand around, implicating the karaoke bar with an all-encompassing gesture. “No one will ever set foot in this place again. The lovely owners? Out of business. And, you guessed it—homeless. At this point we’re single-handedly fueling the housing crisis.” By now, Stiles was struggling to suppress a grin, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“And three, which is easily the worst of all: I’m going to jail.”

He barely took a breath before the next words tumbled out. “Last time I sang at one of these places, they made me sign a legal contract afterward—swearing never to traumatize an audience like that again. And if I break that contract? Straight to jail.”

The humor in his eyes left no room for doubt—this was all an elaborate joke, a carefully woven performance meant to steer Ryujin away from pressing the issue, or asking why Stiles really wouldn’t join him.

The background noise of overlapping chatter, bouts of laughter, and the sharp feedback noise of the next singer up on stage getting too close to the mic swallowed the nervous tapping of his foot against the floor with ease, and Stiles had long mastered the art of concealing his anxiety and insecurities from the people around him. He was no stranger to making a fool of himself, but usually he did so in a controlled way—be it through jokes, sarcasm, or self-deprecating humor. But whatever method he chose, it was always on his terms. He never allowed control to slip from his grasp, ensuring that even in the silliest moments, Stiles was in charge of other people’s perception of him. And while he was confident enough to burst into song spontaneously at home, or during long drives in his beloved jeep, getting up on stage required a different kind of confidence—one he didn’t have, and didn’t think he’d be able to fake. Especially not with Ryujin by his side, someone who actually had the talent and confidence that Stiles couldn’t muster.

Stiles wrapped his fingers around his glass and glanced at Ryujin, one eyebrow lifting in silent challenge. “Besides, if I’m going to a karaoke bar with a world-famous singer, you best believe I’m not here to listen to myself.”

[clumsiestgiantess]

Part 6 of the poll story; choice D D)“I don’t mind you staying, but I do mind you harming the neighbor’s cat,” you tell him.  “We can go out tomorrow and find you another form to take.”

“Tomorrow?” Ralyr thinks for a moment, “Alright, I suppose one more day like this won’t kill me.  It hasn’t since I’ve taken this form,” he adds with a chuckle.  Stepping around you, he clambers up an electrical cord towards an an outlet in the wall.  “Wait!” you call confusedly.  The little being turns to you with the cover popped halfway off the wall.  “Yes?”  “What are you doing?  Why are you opening a hole in my wall?”  Ralyr blinks, slowly lifting his hands off the cover.  “I.. I’m going to find a comfortable place to stay the night.  Unless-  Would you rather I go make a burrow in someone else’s walls to keep out of yours?”

Baffled, you slide over beside him, gently reaching around him to shut the cover back against the wall.  “Ralyr, you don’t have to go make camp hiding between walls!  I told you you’re welcome to stay here.  I can get you a bed to sleep in.  It won’t be so hard for me; all you would need is a blanket and a pillow, being so small.”

The gears are turning in his little head.  Ralyr slides down the cord until his feet hit the top of your fist that holds it, landing expertly on the uneven surface.  Your heart skitters at the feeling of his little padded feet against your hand.  His eyes never leave yours, but the fur along his bottom half bristles as you touch.  “A.. bed?  Like a human bed with feathers and fabrics?”  You nod.  “You’re not joking?”  You shake your head.  “Wow, I.. don’t know what to say!  I haven’t slept in a bonafide human bed in…  I don’t think ever.  I’ve wanted to, though.”  A small smile grows on your face, “Well, now’s your chance.”  Gently, you open your hand and he adjusts, stepping onto your palm.  You’re about to lift him up, but he slips smoothly over the edge of your hand and slides down the electrical cord, gracefully coming to a halt at the floor.  “I don’t like to be manhandled,” he tells you simply.

Later that night, there’s a little bedroom made up across the floor in a newly-emptied corner of your room.  You’d offered to make him a place on a shelf or tabletop, but he’d declined.  Ralyr didn’t feel comfortable sleeping somewhere so high up.  “If I had wings it’d be a different story, but I don’t.  I know a girl who does, though.”  You had to step away for a moment just to process how casually he’d said that.  The both of you say your goodnights, Ralyr thanks you one last time, and both of you drift to sleep.  

You’re up before Ralyr the following morning.  On your way to the shower, you pass by his corner of the room.  The little being is curled up in the center of one of your pillows you’d given him, clutching a blanket to himself with only his head and the tip of his tiny tail sticking out of the side.  You have to admit, if only to yourself, that he looks rather cute sleeping cuddled up like that.  

As you get ready for the day ahead, you brainstorm some ideas as to where you can go with your little guest to get him a new form.  Four places come to mind.  There are two parks nearby, one a little further out of the way than the other.  There’s a national park that spans deep into a large forest about thirty minutes away which you have a pass to, but there’s also a neighborhood park down the road.  Even further away, there are two buildings that collaborate with eachother — a farm and a nature center.  However, you only have enough money to get into one of those places, which are on opposite sides of the road.

Will you go to: A) The large protected park

B) The neighborhood park

C) The farm

D) The nature reserve

[jotunkhiicha]

One ending away from getting 8/8 and 8 achievements away from 100% completion on steam! Needless to say, I’ve fallen in love with this game.

So more writing for it!

“𝐽𝑢𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒’𝑠 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠.”

How had everything good in life fallen with her? How had the darkness weaved its way through every interaction, every single movement and every single light fixture? Why was it so painful to be seen to exist and be something more than the absence of her presence?

How had it come to this? Stuck in a prison beneath the heavens and left to collect weights, personifications of his guilt as it feels like a thousand hands are pushing him down, a thousand angels using their palms to pray for hell to swallow and take him away for what he has done.

Each weight claws at him, drags him closer to that damnation with each step, each thundering step across the metal floor. The sound comforts him, in a strange way, it reminds him he is still real inside this impossibility. It grants him something to focus on, aside from the monsters that skitter across the ceiling, their legs like little pinpricks of terror that inject their venom into his ears as he speeds up to a light jog, but not before stopping to check on her.

When he stops, he hears the scuttling come back and he draws his rifle, searching the darkness and, in a swift movement, he shoots down a creature that comes cascading down from the unfathomable heights of this place, only to crumble in on itself like when a spider is stepped upon—all legs, not much else.

“Sorry,” He mumbles out with a sigh, lowering the rifle as he turns to look at her, “You doing okay? Need anything?”

She shakes her head and smiles slightly at the warmth his questions give, that was a gift in of itself. “Just… want to get out of here. Are you okay though? You’ve been running backwards and forwards.” She tilts her head and steps closer, a warning wail from the darkness echoes as she does so.

He grimaces at her comment. “I’m fine, Yariv, just looking for a way out.”

She frowns. “You’ve called me that before. That’s not… my name. It’s Eliona,” She furrows her brows in thought, “How do you know that name?” Her inquiry is as probing as the shining moonlight upon his sins as he lay in bed—alone—wondering what had become of him.

His gaze dithers, his attention unfocused as the last weight is heaviest in his hand, dragging him deeper, deeper until all he can possibility reconcile with is how he dies; after all, choosing how he dies is the last freedom afforded to a prisoner.

“James?” She calls hesitantly.

Her voice is akin to the light that moths pine for and he’s drawn to it as such, but she feels like a burning flame, too hot to touch and too risky to be near. She threatened the very structure of his thoughts and the smell is strong like gasoline, a roaring fuel to the fire in his veins. It frightens him, this burning finality that she is, the very thing that Prometheus was scorned for, but he could understand why, he could make sense of it in his mind. He could piece together the fragments of his psyche to put something concrete—something tangible beneath his fingertips like the fragile silken delight of expensive sheets.

He steps back from her, realising he’d come to close.

“James? Are you okay?” Eliona looks concerned for him as he rolls back into his steps, tentative but assured in his decision.

“I’ll… come back.” He trails off, his mind racing a mile a minute, much like his heart, and his eyes still do not meet her as he turns back.

He breaks off from temptation, off from the war between man and heart, from beast and jailer and from heaven and earth, and he moves towards those two metallic doors that clang each time he passes their threshold.

This time, however, is different.

There’s a light of the promise of sunrise on the cusp of the four walls in the yard, like a dusting of hope sprinkling over his bristling despair. Would the light of dawn, the promise of a new day, bring with it Mary? His beloved sent from the heavens and come to rouse the evil from within the depths of his depravity so that he might come with her to those gates that he prayed for.

Would she wait for him? Would she call to him?

As the doors clang, a curtain call as the gallows come into view, his name is sung from angels far and wide, but the angel rests in a cell he left it within.

Eliona.

“James!” Her voice breaks with fervent panic and he runs back, he regrets every choice he made that landed her in the position where he is in this yard with the nooses begging him to give their construction a purpose, and she is in there, with the antithesis of his very self pulling rusted metal bars apart with practised ease.

The glow of the red light, the broken lights atop those ornate doors, bathe its mask in the colour of blood and, as James stands here, unable to do a single thing about it, he fears that its form will drink her blood—bathe in her ichor to feel something real.

James throws all of his weight into doors that do not budge, begging them to move so he can do something, so he can die trying to save something that has meaning in this hapless circumstance that has befallen him.

“Eliona!” He calls as he shoves the doors, powerless and left to watch this horror, tuned just for his bewailing, through those impossibly small prison windows as a white hand, gloved and stained in black soot from the blood of all the creatures it slaughtered along the way, snatches her from where she has scurried to.

“No—get off of me!” She screams vehemently, her cry like a thousand needles come to rend the life from his worthless corpse, “James! Help me! James!” She reaches out to him as she is dragged back by the scruff of her collar, like pathetic trash, to bring his palm into hers, interlace their fingers so that she might be pulled free from death’s claw.

In her eyes, he sees terror as the tears slip from her eyes and her screams, though far, bounce back to his ears like a thunderous percussion. Her presence fades, its presence fades, but her gut-wrenching fear plays clear in his mind like a rewound tape with a notch, constantly replaying in his mind to remind him of his weakness and his inability to reconcile with himself.

She called out to him to save her, and what did he do? Nothing.

He did nothing.

Left with nothing but the rain above and the heavy consequence of his actions, his mouth falls agape at the absence of her presence, of her gaze from afar, and he’s infuriated by his own self for leaving her to rot there—to decay amongst the ruins of life as a white flower should.

Perhaps the gallows are precisely where he should be, for he had become nothing more than a criminal, set to die for his actions and allowing those near him to come to harm.

First, it was Maria, in that impossibly long hallway that stretched on for all eternity and, no matter how many times he plays it over in his mind and upon the back of his eyelids, the result is the same. He can still feel her blood upon his cheeks and the clumps of her flesh and bone stuck in his blond hair.

And, now it was Yariv—Eliona—the woman he had met in the fog and come to know as a restless soul in this prison beneath the sky. She hadn’t recalled their conversation in the thick of the fog as she danced amongst the creatures, deftly weaving between them to lead him to a prize amongst the rubble of civilisation. She had only remembered flickers of their interactions when she would bleed through the surface and those eyes, green like luscious foliage that he missed the supple feeling beneath his fingertips, and the time in Heaven’s Night where it turned up again.

What kind of man is he? is he a man at all?

Is he Charon, ferrying people down into hell in exchange for his own life rather than golden coins?

What has he become?

This town has changed him, changed Mary—it has changed everything. Nothing is the same anymore.

And, as his feet carry him to a noose, marked by the Roman numeral 6, he wonders if she stands at the lever, watching to see how he will struggle as he dies.

He pulls down, yanks it with a fervour so that he can meet rapture.

These hands that create,

The hands that take.

[shady-scripter]

Whumptober Day3

(Solitary Confinement)

Did…did you guys expect levels of silly? Well damn, you were kinds very wrong. However, I still remain silly

Anyway, if Someone has read The Sunbearer Trials, PLEASE TALK TO ME AND/OR RECOMMEND ME FANFICTION BECAUSE OW-

Crazy? He was crazy once. He was locked in a room, a rubber room, a rubber room with rats. Rats made him crazy. Crazy-

He didn’t know how many days it’d been. Four? Seventeen? Fifty? All he knew was that these guys were going to pay and pay hard.

He hadn’t eaten in so long, he was actually tempted to eat the slob they set down for him. He stayed in his corner wondering if this was what all of them got. Is Nico okay? Is Hazel okay? Frank? Leo? Piper? Annabeth…?

He tried to shake those thoughts away, the impending doom looming over him. He could worry about them as soon as he got this chain off and he could escape. He didn’t want to be alone again.

The same vicious saying circled around in his head. It was once an annoying joke at camp, coming from the internet and all, but damn was Percy feeling it right now.

Crazy? I was crazy once. They locked me in a room, a rubber room, a rubber room with rats. Rats made him crazy. They skittered across the floors when he was most quiet, poking at the food he refused to eat. He let them, but their constant squeaking was going to make him go insane.

He already heard the voices of his friends. He already saw mirages of his mother’s blue chocolate chip cookies. He missed them…his friends, but mostly those cookies.

The ones he hated the most were the ones with Annabeth as the center. She coaxed him with hope of escape, saying that they’d see each other again. What if they didn’t? What if he never got out of here? Would she hate him?

He knew that she shouldn’t, but what if she did? What if his mother heard about something that he did and didn’t tell her? What could he go back to after this? Would Camp take him?

Percy chuckled at his own thoughts.

Camp? What camp? Camp Half-Blood was gone. He was there when it was attacked. He didn’t want to kill those people, they were only doing there job. He wish that he killed them. He should’ve killed every last one of them. Especially because of what they did to Leo.

The thought hit Percy like a bus. They have Leo too…

And all he could do, is cry. He’s cries for hours upon hours a day. He cries for his friends, his family, himself. He rolled in self pity. Part of him was disgusted by himself, the other part was just tired and didn’t care.

“Percy?” It wasn’t real. He begged himself not to look, but he did anyway. His wise girl…

She was just as he remembered her. Tan skin, blonde hair, gray eyes. By the gods could he get lost in those eyes of hers. “We can do this! Just as we always have. Let’s do this together, yeah?”

He turned his head away, covering his ears. “Not real..” he croaked, his tears only falling faster.

“Percy, how could you say that I’m not real? I thought that you loved me!” Her voice was cracked and broken as if he had put a spear through her chest.

“I-“ he choked on his words. Of course he loved her. Most of the things that he had ever done was for her! “Leave me alone!” He tried to close out all of the surrounding noise, but her voice was still so clear it hurt.

It was all a lie! Nothing was real! He was alone! She wasn’t here, but fuck he wished she was. He wanted to hug her, to feel her, to kiss her…

“Percy!” Another voice screamed. It wasn’t Annabeth’s, it was the voice of a friend long gone.

He let out a choked up sob. “No! Please!” He didn’t want to hear his voice. Sometimes he found himself wishing that he did, but why did it take this to make him hear.

He was scraping at his ears, begging them to rip off. “No, no, no, no, no!” He curled himself in a ball, crying into his knees.

He felt like a kid again, crying to his mom about the things he went through. About fighting monsters three times his size or those times that he almost died or when Annabeth almost died, when Jason did die…

He felt like he was reliving that trauma. From the Minotaur, from Chronos, from Gaia. The things he grinned and beared because he had to be strong or no one else would.

“No, no, no! Please! MAKE IT STOP!” He screamed.

He heard no more voices, only the sound of silence.

[arts-and-drafts]

Your Boldness Stands Alone (Spider-Man!Tommy)

AO3 LINK

YES I'M PREDICTABLE I KNOW, I've nearly written 10k words for this fic in the span of like three days I need to be sedated /j (Title for this one comes from 'Little Lion Man' by Mumford and Sons >:])

CWs: Arachnophobia, mention/depiction of illness, minor emetophobia

-

Tommy wasn't scared of spiders.

His friends all thought he was a freak for it, and for that he vehemently stood up for them every chance he got. They were fuckin' cute! All those little legs, and they had four times the amount of normal eyes! Eyes are the window to the soul, you know, which meant spiders had so much soul. Eight eyes worth of soul.

The point is, Tommy wasn't scared of spiders, so his only reaction was to be pleasantly surprised when a spider he'd never seen before crawled up onto his hand when he was at the bug museum.

"Hey there, little guy!" Tommy cooed softly, slowly raising his hand to his face to get a better look. "You're gorgeous, aren't you?"

The spider was colored starkly red and white, with spindly black legs and a large abdomen. It was about the size of a half dollar, and froze in place on Tommy's hand when he moved.

"Oh, sorry, fella, I didn't mean to scare you." Tommy murmured, and took his eyes off of the arachnid to fish for his phone in his pocket. He found it easily, and clumsily unlocked it with one hand to open his camera app, keeping his other hand as still as possible.

"I'm just gonna take a little photo of you, and you can go about your way, little guy." Tommy assured gently, holding up his phone as close as he dared. The spider didn't react, so Tommy took that as an okay to push the shutter button.

Three things happened very quickly after that.

The first is that a flash of light erupted from Tommy's phone, surprising him and making him flinch.

The second was that the spider finally reacted to the stimulus, and in the way that wild creatures always do when they perceive a threat, which was to lash out and bite Tommy's hand.

The third was that Tommy yelped, and before his mind could catch up to his reflexes, he flung the spider off his hand as hard as he could.

" Shit! " Tommy balked and wildly looked around for the spider, his eyes starting to water from the pain already radiating from his hand.

He quickly zeroed in on the spider skittering away across the floor, its unusual coloring making it a stark target against the white tile floor. Tommy abandoned his group without a second's hesitation to chase after it.

It was just as he got close enough to leap and grab it (carefully, of course) that it disappeared under a boot with a ‘ squish ’.

"NO!" Tommy blurted out, a pang in his heart. That poor spider was just existing, it was Tommy's fault he scared it in the first place.

The boot jumped back at Tommy's outburst, confirming that the spider was now just a crumpled, gooey, white and red mess.

"Shit, what was that?" The owner of the boot spoke, and Tommy looked up to see a young man looking extremely concerned at Tommy's reaction.

"Oh, fuck, did I step on your bug?" The man asked in horror, taking a few steps back. Tommy turned away from the sad sight and sighed, his hand twitching as he registered the burning pain once again.

"No." He muttered, and halfway met the man's eyes. "Sorry. It was just a random spider."

"Well, still." The man scratched the back of his neck and winced down at the mess. "I didn't mean to. I know they're pretty important."

"...Yeah." Tommy agreed, slightly surprised. "Most people don't care about that." He remarked, and the man smiled lightly.

"Yeah, well. Not me!" He laughed awkwardly. "Uh, I'm Bill, by the way, I’m really sorry-"

Tommy opened his mouth to return the courtesy, but his teacher's voice rang out to interrupt him.

" Theseus! What on earth are you doing?"

Tommy winced. "Uh, sorry, I've gotta go. Nice to meet you." He added as an afterthought, and hurried away to his glaring teacher before Bill could reply.

"It's Tommy, ma'am." He said as soon as he was in earshot, gritting his teeth as his teacher just raised an eyebrow in response.

"I'll call you by your legal name, mister, and don't you talk back to me." She scolded, and a flash of anger tore through Tommy.

"I don't know what you're thinking, running off like that, but you're staying right here for the remainder of our trip, do you understand me?" She demanded, and Tommy glared at her. The pain in his hand was getting really distracting by now, and he absolutely wasn't in the mood to play nice with a teacher who wouldn't even call him by what he preferred.

"I need to call my dad." Tommy said in lieu of answering her rhetorical question, which was true. His hand was well and truly burning right now, and it was getting harder to think about anything else but the pain with every passing second.

His teacher scowled and opened her mouth to inevitably refuse him, but Tommy ignored her completely and stepped away to pull up Phil's contact with shaking hands.

…That was probably not good.

" Theseus Innit!! " His teacher seethed, but Phil picked up the phone right at the moment, so Tommy once again turned away from her.

"Tommy? What's up?" Phil asked, concern already apparent in his voice, which was fair. Tommy only really called him from school if something was wrong.

"Heeeyyy, Phil." Tommy said, suddenly very aware of how sweaty he was. How was he sweaty? He felt all shivery and shit all of the sudden, that didn't make any sense.

"Uh, so we're at the bug museum, right? And uh..." Tommy flinched as his hand panged with burning fire. "I don't feel good."

Phil would make a huge scene if he found out Tommy got bit while at the museum. Like full Karen levels of fury. Tommy was pretty sure the spider didn't even come from one of the exhibits, but he didn't want the poor staff to witness the wrath of Philza at his full 'mumma bird', as Wilbur called it.

No, Tommy just wanted to be picked up and sleep off the bite.

"Do you need somebody to come get you?" Phil asked, his worry creeping in over the phone, and Tommy nodded. "Er, uh, yeah. Please." He added weakly, and he heard Phil take a sharp breath.

"I'm on my way. Ten minutes, okay?" Phil assured, and Tommy breathed a sigh of relief that almost turned him dizzy. "You're the best, Phil, you deserve all the wives you have."

"Just the one." Phil corrected fondly, and Tommy heard the tinny sound of car keys jingling through the phone. "Find a place to sit down, I'm coming."

"Thanks," Tommy said, and hung up right as his teacher stormed up to him.

" Detention , Theseus." She hissed, and grabbed his arm tight, making him grunt when her nails jabbed into his bicep. "Hey—let go of me!"

He tried to pull out of her grasp, but she was tough for an old lady and didn't budge. "My dad's coming to get me, let go!"��

He pulled again, harder, and this time he broke free, but the world spun around him and his vision went dark.

He opened his eyes looking up at the ceiling, even though he could've sworn he was on his feet a second ago.

"Tommy!" The concerned face of his friend Eryn appeared in Tommy's vision. "Holy shit, are you okay?!"

Tommy ignored the question to look directly at his teacher, attempting to glare the best he could through his swimming vision. "My dad's gonna sue the shit out of you."

He then promptly passed out.

-

"Phiiiil, I'm hungry ."

Phil turned from cleaning the counter to Tommy, eyeing the nearly full bowl of soup broth on the coffee table. Tommy himself was confined to the couch where Phil could keep an eye on him easier, and he was making it his dad's problem.

"You shouldn't eat anything solid until your stomach has settled." Phil said for the eighth time in two hours, ever patient. Tommy huffed and threw his head back dramatically. 

"Nobody loves me anymore." he lamented. "Me! Tommy Innit! What a cruel world this has turned out to be."

He could practically feel Phil's flat stare. "You'd think you'd feel better based on all your chatting." He commented, and Tommy froze.

"Oh?" Phil noticed, and Tommy cringed. Dammit. Shit fuck wank. 

"Tommy, have you been playing sick so you can get doted on more?" Phil deadpanned, and Tommy sheepishly raised his head to grin at him. "Er...no, Philza Minecraft, I would never. I've never lied in my life."

Phil let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, something he did when he was exasperated but not furious, so Tommy was still in the clear.

"Figures." Phil sighed, and carefully collected Tommy's bowl of broth. "Glad you're feeling better, mate." 

Tommy brightened. "You're still gonna get me food?" He asked hopefully. Phil snorted. "No. You can do that yourself, now that you're all better."

"Oh, Phil!" Tommy wailed, throwing his head back again. "You're the cruelest father I've ever known!"

"Now I know that's not true." Phil retorted with a smile in his voice, and Tommy heard the sink turn on. He let out a weary sigh and pulled out his phone, scrolling in his contacts until he came across the name 'Wilby Poo'.

"Tommy?" Wilbur picked up on the first ring, concern that he'd never admit out loud in his voice. Tommy cleared his throat.

"Wil," he croaked as pitifully as he could. "Phil's committing child neglect."

"I am not, you shit!" Phil called from the kitchen, and Tommy heard Wilbur shift on the other end of the phone. "Are you calling me from upstairs?"

"Well, I didn't feel like getting up, Wil." Tommy reasoned, and he heard Wilbur sigh. "So you called to complain to me? I can't make Dadza do what you want." 

"Oh, but you're the favorite , Wilby." Tommy protested, putting on his best 'weak little orphan' voice. Wilbur paused.

"Okay, you're definitely trying to bribe me." He said, and Tommy squawked in indignation. "I am not!" 

"You only say I'm the favorite when you bribe." Wilbur said. Fuck. Shit.

"I'll be quiet for an entire hour." Tommy offered, abandoning the act. Phil let out a cackle from the kitchen.

Wilbur hummed over the phone. "Not good enough. You'll be quiet every time you enter my room." 

"Forever?!" Tommy gasped. 

"Yep." Wilbur confirmed, not missing a beat. Tommy stuttered for words.

"Wh—how am I supposed to tell you things?!" Tommy demanded.

"This seems to be working for you just fine." Wilbur answered smugly.

Tommy mulled over the deal in his head. Did he really want Wilbur to dote on him more than he liked talking?

...Yeah, that was a fair trade.

"Deal." Tommy said.

"I'll be right up." Wilbur replied, and hung up on him. Tommy pulled his phone away from his ear and scowled at it. Prick.

His eye was drawn from his phone to the back of his hand, where the spider had bitten him. Where there used to be a jawbreaker-sized lump on the back of his hand that almost had him giving in to telling Phil about it and begging for a hospital, all that remained was two shiny pin prick scars that he had to squint to even notice.

It'd not even been a full day since he got bit, but throwing up more than he ever had in his life and passing out for fourteen hours straight seemed to fix him right up.

Tommy tried to reverse image search the photo he took of the spider to figure out what kind it was, but the accidental flash pretty much covered the entire arachnid in unnatural light, rendering the picture nearly incomprehensible. The research he'd done on his own to try and find the spider was also unsuccessful; every red and white spider he managed to find didn't look like the one that bit him.

Eventually, he decided to let it be. The bite didn't kill him, so there was nothing else to worry about.

"What do you want, child?" Wilbur announced his presence from the stairwell. Tommy flopped his head over the arm of the couch again and glared at him. "You hung up on me." He pouted.

"Going once." Wilbur deadpanned in response, and crossed his arms. Tommy let out a long dramatic sigh.

"Bring me a Coke, bitch." Tommy ordered, pointing at the kitchen, and he saw a muscle tense in Wilbur's jaw. He grinned saccharinely in response. 

Wilbur turned without a word and opened the fridge, rooting around inside for a few seconds before he straightened and chucked a can right at Tommy's head.

Tommy yelped and shot upright, somehow managing to catch the can with lightning speed before it hit the couch.

Phil let out a low whistle. "I guess you really are feeling better!" He noted. Tommy grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at Wilbur, who rolled his eyes.

"Anything else, your highness?" Wilbur asked. Tommy tapped a finger on his chin exaggeratedly. "Hmm, how about some biscuits for your dear brother?"

"You are not dear." Wilbur muttered as he turned back to the kitchen. "And don't say that, I'll cry."

Tommy's shit-eating grin softened into something more genuine. Wilbur was such a fuckin' softie. It'd been almost ten years since Tommy was adopted into the family, and Wilbur still got teary-eyed whenever the word 'brother' was brought up.

The reminiscent thought was cut short by a packet of biscuits flying towards his head.

Tommy's arm shot up and caught it an inch from his face before he even registered that anything was flying at him. He gawked at his arm, shock spinning in his brain.

"Holy shit! Did you see that?!" He exclaimed, lowering his arm to stare at the packet of biscuits in awe. Wilbur huffed.

"I'm now going to make it my mission to throw shit at you." Wilbur promised, trying and failing to keep the surprise off his face. Tommy grinned ear to ear.

"Try it, bitch." He challenged, jutting his chin at his older brother. Wilbur narrowed his eyes.

"Hey, hey." Phil intervened right as Wilbur grabbed another pack of biscuits to chuck. "If you're gonna fight, take it outside, I just cleaned."

"My bet is on Tommy." Techno's low monotone announced him from the hallway, dragging a punching bag behind him like it weighed nothing.

Tommy smugly beamed in Wilbur's direction. "Hear that, Wil-bitch?" 

Wilbur glared at Techno as the oldest brother moved towards his room. "We've literally sparred together since we were little. Why would Tommy win?"

"He's feral." Techno shrugged, seeming indifferent, but Tommy caught the glitter of amusement in his eyes. "Tommy's not afraid to bite."

"Nope!" Tommy agreed proudly, putting his hands on his hips and baring his teeth at Wilbur. His older brother still looked offended.

" Please , Tommy can barely throw a punch." Wilbur rolled his eyes, and Tommy's mouth opened in offense. "I can too!" 

" Boys ," Phil interrupted, fondly exasperated. "If you're gonna fight all day, take-"

" 'Take it outside' ." Tommy, Wilbur and Techno finished in unison. All three of them cracked a smile at their synchrony.

"Fuckin’—yeah." Phil added lamely, abruptly turning back to the clean sink as if to busy himself. Tommy snorted, and that made Techno bark a laugh. Even Wilbur had to tamper down a giggle.

"You feelin' alright, Tommy?" Techno changed the subject, his eyes meeting his little brother's.

Tommy replied by flexing. Before, he did so to make his friends laugh, since he was all skin and bone. Now, though, Techno's eyebrows raised in surprise.

Tommy followed his gaze to his bicep, and was shocked to see lean, lithe muscles where his lanky arm used to be. He blinked several times.

"I...guess so." Tommy finally answered, thoroughly unnerved. He was positive he didn't have those muscles yesterday. He would've bragged to everyone he knew if he did.

Spurred by a new urgency, Tommy practically leapt off the sofa, surprising his brothers even further. 

"I have to poo." He lied. "Big one. Like, the biggest shi-"

"Fuck's sake, just go!" Phil cried from the kitchen, disgust emanating off his tone. Tommy uttered a laugh that was more nervousness than mirth and ran to the bathroom.

He slammed the door behind him and locked it for good measure, though he knew nobody in his family would dare follow him in fear of the carnage of one of Tommy's Signature World-Breaking Shits. 

(Eryn came up with that one, way back in primary school. Tommy remembered laughing so hard that he discovered he had asthma through the resulting attack. It was still a good memory despite that.)

Tommy shook his head free of his thoughts, and leaned forward on the sink to take a good long look at himself in the mirror.

...Yep. Still Tommy. His face was the same, as was his hair and eyes, and the little scar under his left eye. Tommy didn't really know what he was expecting, but was relieved that nothing changed.

His eyes trailed down his shoulder, and he lifted his sleeve. 

Same crazy muscles.

Tommy flexed again in the mirror, for real this time, and his eyes bugged out of his head when his arm responded with an impressive show. Tommy pressed the fingers of his other hand to his arm, recoiling at the rock hard muscle that met resistance immediately.

What the fuck .

Tommy slowly lifted his shirt, stepping back a little to see his torso fully in the mirror. Like his arm, where there was once the body of a skinny seventeen-year-old was now incredibly toned. He had a fucking six pack. 

Okay. He was really fucking freaked out now.

Tommy let go of his shirt, and it didn't leave his hands.

"Wh..." Tommy whispered, gawking at his shirt still clinging to his palms despite nothing keeping it there. He gave his hands a little shake, and his shirt still stuck fast.

Fuck, what did he spill on himself? Superglue?

Tommy tried to wrench his hands free, and he tore his shirt off in one smooth motion like the fabric was made of tissue paper.

Tommy stood dumbly in silence, staring at his shirt tatters still sticking to his hands, before a laugh bubbled up in his throat.

It escaped with a loud wheeze, and soon Tommy was doubled over from the absurdity of the situation. Realizing that he was bent over crying with laughter in his bathroom, shirtless, only made him laugh harder.

Tommy tried to stifle his laughter when he heard a knock at the door.

"Uh, Tommy?" Techno's muffled voice sounded through the wood. "Do you need your inhaler?"

His brother sounded extremely awkward. Tommy took a deep breath to fight off another bout of laughter, and his shirt tatters finally fell from his hands.

...Huh. 

"Yeah, uh-" Tommy replied absently. "Can you get me a new shirt?"

There was a painfully long silence on the other side of the door.

"...I don't wanna know." Techno said, and Tommy heard his footsteps leave the door.

Tommy laughed to himself and turned back to the mirror, his smile falling as he looked at himself again.

What the fuck. 

-

Things only got weirder from there as the day progressed.

The weird sticking continued, even after Tommy washed his hands multiple times and scrubbed so hard that his palms were raw. Any time he got even a little heightened with any emotion, he could count on sticking to something. 

It was getting really fucking annoying.

"Come on." Tommy struggled in his room, using the pressure of his heel on his blanket and pulling his hand as hard as he could in the other direction.

Like his fallen shirt from before, the blanket ripped clean in half like it was as tough as a wet paper towel. Tommy sighed in frustration, thoroughly pissed.

Great. Just another thing to fucking fix.

He didn't mind sewing things up, but it was increasingly hard to do when his fingers wouldn't stop sticking . 

Tommy closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose to quell his rising anger. The blanket peeled off of his hand as soon as he did so, finally obeying gravity.

... Huh . 

Experimentally, Tommy picked up his spare hoodie off the floor. As expected, when he opened his hand, it didn't move.

Tommy took another deep, relaxing breath, his eyes not leaving the hoodie. Like the blanket, it finally unstuck from his hand and fell to the floor as soon as he did.

Tommy grinned. He finally got this figured out. The secret was to relax.

Feeling thoroughly relieved, Tommy went to his closet and reached for the handle to get his sewing supplies.

The wooden knob broke into splinters under his grip. 

-

It took an embarrassingly long time (and several broken things) for Tommy to re-learn how to hold things without crushing them into dust.

Because, apparently , in addition to the sticking, he had fucking super strength . If he hadn't literally just folded one of Phil's kitchen pans like it was origami, he wouldn't believe himself either.

(Said ruined pan was hidden underneath Tommy's pile of laundry, at the moment, next to the wood chips that used to be his closet door handle and the other broken things he'd amassed. Phil would be monumentally pissed if he found out.)

To try and get his thoughts in order, Tommy took to his desk, pencil in hand. He made sure to hold it like glass, because it pretty much was to him now.

The blank notebook in front of him stared accusingly at him.

Tommy took another deep breath and started writing.

Powers; 

Tommy scribbled that out immediately. That made the situation sound unreal. This was happening, whether he wanted it to or not.

He tried again.

Abilities; 

...Still too comic book-y. He scribbled that out too.

Symptoms; 

Well, fuck, that sounded morbid, but it was the most accurate descriptor so far.  Tommy kept it and moved to the next line, making a bullet point.

Sticky

He quickly scribbled that out. Gross.

Unnatural clinging

Yeah, that sounded much better. Scientific, even. Tommy was so smart.

He moved on to the next bullet point.

Unusual strength

...And he had nothing else to add. This might have actually been a waste of time.

Tommy thought back to the instinct that let him catch the Coke can and biscuit pack that Wilbur threw at him. The can could've been luck, sure, but the biscuits? Tommy caught those without even trying. He didn't even know they were coming for him until he already caught them.

Was that a power?

(He corrected himself. Symptom. These were things that were happening to him, things he was scared of and didn't want. He wasn't some superhero or anything.)

Well, twice was a coincidence, but thrice was a pattern, or whatever Wilbur said. Tommy (carefully) got out of his chair and left his room, beelining for downstairs.

Weirdly, he hoped Wilbur was serious about throwing things at him. It would make the whole 'caught off guard' thing a lot easier for testing.

Tommy made his way downstairs and to his brother's bedroom, tentatively knocking on the door. He heard movement from inside, and took a step back as Wilbur opened the door.

"What do you want, child." Wilbur asked, peering at him with suspicion over his round glasses. Tommy frowned at him and crossed his arms.

"What, not gonna throw anything at me?" He taunted. Wilbur narrowed his eyes.

"You really want to play that game?" He asked dangerously. Tommy raised an eyebrow at him in challenge.

"Do it, pussy." Tommy goaded with an overconfident grin, and that was all it took.

Tommy's hand caught the thing flying at his face before he even realized anything was coming at him. Wilbur's mouth opened in shock as Tommy registered he was gripping his brother's wrist .

"You were gonna hit me in the face!" Tommy gasped, furrowing his brows at his stunned brother. Wilbur only gawked at him.

"How...how did you do that?" Wilbur asked faintly. Tommy frowned and let go of his hand, thankful in hindsight that he already got used to his new strength so he didn't crush all of Wilbur's wrist bones by accident.

"...I don't know." Tommy answered truthfully. "Weird shit's been goin' on, Wil."

His tone must've been more vulnerable than he tried to let on, because his brother's face instantly changed.

Wilbur opened his bedroom door fully, and stepped back, gesturing with his head to come in. Tommy raised an eyebrow.

Wilbur rolled his eyes. "You can talk in here." He sighed, exasperated. "Just this once."

Tommy grinned and finally accepted his brother's invite.

Wilbur shut the door behind them as Tommy looked around.

He hadn't been in Wilbur's room a lot, just plainly because it wasn't his own room and Wilbur liked his privacy. That said, it looked the exact same as Tommy remembered it last time he actually had a reason to go in there.

Fairy lights were strung up along the walls, illuminating the room with a soft yellow light in replacement of the sun hidden behind blackout curtains. Wilbur's bed was an absolute mess, unmade and practically serving as another space to hold all of Wilbur's junk instead of a place to sleep.

Papers cluttered Wilbur's desk, different stacks held down by various paperweights that didn't belong with the ‘antique aesthetic’ of his space, since he’d collected them from all over. Tommy smiled in particular at one paperweight, a wood-carved sheep.

He got it for Wilbur's birthday, way back when Tommy was still new to their family. He didn't know if Wilbur would like it, and he agonized for weeks after buying it before he finally managed to give it to his new brother.

He still remembered Wilbur's face when he unwrapped it. He looked at it like it was made of gold.

Wilbur brought him back to the present by moving to his bed to clear some space for Tommy to sit next to him. Tommy obliged, and took a second to gather his thoughts.

"What's going on with you, Tommy?" Wilbur asked gently. Tommy took a breath.

"Uh, some... weird shit has been happening." Tommy started, keeping his eyes on his clasped hands. "With me?"

Wilbur tensed next to him. "Oh, Christ." 

Tommy looked up with furrowed brows, feeling a spark of defensiveness at his brother's tone. "What?"

Wilbur looked increasingly uncomfortable. "I don't—I'm not the right person to talk to about this, Tommy." He said stiffly. Tommy blinked at him before he realized what had made his brother all weird.

"Oh! Oh, no, it's not fuckin’—Wil, I'm seventeen ," Tommy stammered, his face flushing. "I went through that shit already!"

Wilbur eyed him hesitantly. "Are...you sure?" He asked awkwardly. Tommy rolled his eyes.

"Fuck's sake, yes." Tommy assured. "This isn't puberty."

Wilbur visibly deflated with relief. "Okay, thank God. I did not know how I was gonna do that conversation."

Tommy snorted, despite himself, and shook his head. "You're a fuckin' moron."

"Hey! I'm well within my right to kick you out, you know." Wilbur reprimanded, mercilessly ruffling Tommy's hair, who yelped. " Oi! Cut that shit out!" 

He batted Wilbur's hand away from him, and his fingers caught on his brother's jumper sleeve. Tommy froze.

His own clothes were one thing, but he didn't want to ruin Wilbur's favorite sweater.

Wilbur must've noticed his face drop, because he stilled as well, his eyes flicking to where Tommy's fingers were clinging to his sweater. 

"What the—did you spill juice on your hands or something?" Wilbur asked, his tone still light with teasing. Tommy took a breath and closed his eyes, and his hand freed itself from his brother's jumper.

"Er...no." Tommy said, suddenly self conscious again. He crossed his arms and stared at Wilbur's messy floor.

"That's the shit that's been goin' on." Tommy explained. "I keep--I keep sticking to shit. And breaking things."

Tommy glanced up at Wilbur. "Don't tell Dadza." He ordered, attempting to beam his seriousness into his brother's brain. Wilbur blinked at him in response.

"What do you mean 'sticking to shit'?" He asked, raising his hands to make air quotes. Tommy looked around in lieu of answering, his eyes landing on a random poetry book on Wilbur's desk.

"Like this." Tommy said, and reached for the book, intentionally only pressing his palm and fingers on the cover. When he lifted his arm, the book cover firmly stuck to his hand, falling open with gravity.

Tommy turned to Wilbur, raising the book hand and gesturing. His brother had furrowed his brows as he stared.

"...You probably just spilled something on your hands, Tommy." Wilbur finally said, his tone a tad exasperated. Tommy felt a flash of annoyance.

"Wh— no!  I washed my hands like fifteen times!" Tommy argued. He took a breath, and the book dropped from his hand, landing on the floor with a loud ‘ thud’ that made Wilbur jump.

Despite that, he still looked unimpressed.

"What about when I caught your hand, huh? Or the Coke? The biscuits?" Tommy needled, a prickle of real worry seeping into his mind.

He wasn't crazy, was he? No , definitely not! Wilbur was just being a skeptical bitch boy like he always was.

"It's not out of the realm of possibility for somebody to have good reflexes, Tommy." Wilbur crossed his arms in that snooty way that made Tommy furious.

“Fine, dickhead, check this out.” Tommy snapped, jumping up to smack his palm on the ceiling.

Predictably, Tommy just hung there, glaring at Wilbur, who gaped like a fish.

“W-what-“ Wilbur stammered, getting to his feet and adjusting his glasses as he stepped forward, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

“How are you doing that?” He asked, his voice faintly awed. Tommy breathed in through his nose, unsticking from the ceiling and dropping to his feet.

“I don’t know , Wil, that’s why I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” Tommy huffed. Wilbur stared at him like he was finally seeing him.

Wilbur took Tommy’s hand to stare at it, running a finger experimentally over Tommy’s palm. “ Woah . It feels like—you know burrs? Plant burrs?”

“It does?” Tommy asked, curiously looking closer at his hand. He didn’t notice it feeling prickly like that—though, he guessed he wouldn’t, if it was his own skin.

“Come—c’mere,” Wilbur dragged Tommy over to his desk by his wrist, making Tommy stumble and swear. But Wilbur didn’t falter, shoving junk on his desk to pull over his antique microscope that he had vehemently told Tommy to not even breathe on in the past because of how ‘fragile’ it was.

It must not have been that fragile, because Wilbur pressed Tommy’s hand under the lens palm-up and peered through the eyepiece, his hands coming up to the old dials on the side of the ancient machine to carefully zoom in. “Don’t move."

Tommy huffed impatiently, but his curiosity won out over his annoyance, so he stayed put as Wilbur silently configured the old machine to look closely at Tommy’s hand.

“...Woah,” Wilbur eventually said, and Tommy paled. “What? What is it?”

“I don’t…know,” Wilbur mumbled, lifting his head to frown quizzically at Tommy. “It looks like a bunch of…like, I dunno, hairs?” 

“Hair?” Tommy’s mouth parted in confusion, and he shoved Wilbur out of the way to look into the microscope’s eyepiece, ignoring his brother’s indignantly offended noise.

Tommy narrowed his eyes, and the microscope’s image came into focus, revealing exactly what Wilbur described—he saw his fingerprints, his pores, and now tiny little hairs sprouted all over the underside of his hand.

“Wh—wait, I know this!” Tommy gasped, pulling away from the microscope to whip out his phone (which somehow survived his bout of getting used to his new strength). He googled at the speed of light—he couldn’t remember the scientific name of it, but those little hairs looked just like a spider’s-

“Scopulae?” Wilbur squinted at Tommy’s phone screen, taking it from his hand and reading over the wikipedia article Tommy had pulled up. “Like—the hairs on spider feet-?”

“Yeah, it looks just like-!” Tommy’s words left his brain as the realization hit him like a brick.

…Waaait a fucking minute. 

“I got bit by a spider,” Tommy realized aloud, and Wilbur reeled.

“What? What kind?” His brother immediately badgered, his eyes going wide and concerned.

“I don’t—I don’t know, it was red and white-” Tommy stared down at his hands with wide eyes, all the pieces clicking together in his head. Enhanced senses, clinging, super strength—holy fuck, that was—that was everything a spider could do-!

Did he have fucking spider powers?! 

“Am I gonna shit webs?” Tommy blurted, and Wilbur blinked at him, dumbfounded.

“Is that actually your concern right now?!” Wilbur asked back, his voice pitched higher. “Tommy, you fucking—oh my God, is that why you were so sick?! Are you dying?!”

“No, I’m not-” Tommy quickly said. “I’m fine! Wil, I’m—you actually wouldn’t believe how fine I am, this is-!”

A shaky smile started to grow on his face, and he raised his eyes to the ceiling. Wilbur seemed to realize what he was thinking as soon as Tommy thought of it.

“Tommy, don’t you fucking dare-” Wilbur started, his voice taking on the ‘Dadza tone’, as Tommy liked to call it, but Tommy had already made up his mind.

He leapt for the ceiling, and Wilbur yelped a swear and stumbled back as Tommy planted his bare feet and hands on the ceiling and hung there. 

Tommy laughed, almost hysterically pitched. “Holy fucking shit! Wil, I’m a fuckin’ spider!!” 

“Get off my goddamn ceiling, you menace!” Wilbur scolded back, and Tommy felt a strange tingle in the back of his brain. He reacted to it on complete instinct, pressing up against the ceiling just in time for Wilbur’s hand to miss grabbing him.

“H-how did you-” Wilbur was again dumbfounded, just like when Tommy caught his hand in the hallway. Tommy cackled at the look on Wilbur’s face, his hair obeying gravity and falling from their normally messy curls as he looked down at his brother upside-down.

“Don’t fuck with Spider-Boy, bitch!” Tommy crowed, focusing back on his stuck hands and feet. After a second to figure out the breathing thing, he started slowly crawling across the ceiling of Wilbur’s room, his smile getting wider and wider. This was fucking rad!! 

“Jesus, you fucking Exorcist child-!” Wilbur cried, and Tommy laughed again. “Get your fucking feet off my ceiling!!”

“Fine,” Tommy dropped his feet from the ceiling to hang rightside-up from his palms, smirking at his both annoyed and stunned brother.

“I can’t believe—how are you not losing your mind?!” Wilbur asked desperately. “You can fucking crawl on the ceiling!”

“I know!” Tommy grinned at Wilbur. “I have fucking spider powers!” 

“How do you have spider powers?!” Wilbur bunched his hands in his brown curls, staring in shock and a bit of real panic. Tommy tried to shrug, though it was a bit hard to do so when hanging from his arms.

“I dunno, I got bit by one at the museum-” Tommy said, and Wilbur blanched.

“You idiot child, why didn’t you tell anybody?!” Wilbur’s voice had practically gone up an octave. “What if that killed you?!”

Tommy tried to stick his bare feet in Wilbur’s face to get that expression off his brother, and Wilbur choked out a disgusted noise and smacked his feet away.

“It didn’t kill me, I’m fine!” Tommy swung his feet back up, doing a pull-up crunch with ease, holy shit, to plant his feet on Wilbur’s ceiling again and this time hang by his feet, just for the purpose of pissing Wilbur off. Just like his hands, they held firm against the plaster, as easily as his gravity having literally just flipped an axis, if it weren’t for his hair and the bottom of his shirt dangling down.

Wilbur’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Do you—do you have a goddamn six-pack?!” 

Tommy looked down (up?) at himself. “Oh, yeah! I’m strong as shit, now, I told you!” He made upside-down eye contact with Wilbur again to smugly wiggle his eyebrows, flexing his arms again. “Now I can definitely kick your ass, Wil-bitch!”

Wilbur just stood there with his mouth open, stunlocked. Tommy felt proud of himself—it wasn’t very often that he managed to render Wilbur speechless. That’s what Wilbur got for being a bitch and doubting him like that.

“Tommy, you—you can’t tell anybody about this,” Wilbur finally said, faintly, and Tommy’s smile slipped off his face.

“Well, duh , I’m not gonna tell Phil, he’d probably lay an egg.” Tommy said, and Wilbur vehemently shook his head.

“No—no, Tommy, I mean nobody . You—not Eryn, not Tubbo, not Ranboo-” Wilbur quickly said, and Tommy’s face shifted to dismay.

“What?! Why not? This is cool as fuck!” Tommy complained, and Wilbur growled out a helpless noise and pushed his hair back, his eyes looking his upside-down little brother over again.

“Tommy, do you have any idea what would happen to you if somebody found out about this?! The—the fucking government would snatch you up in a heartbeat and-!” Wilbur started to stammer, and Tommy’s face fell.

“...Oh,” He uttered, belatedly. He…he hadn’t thought of that. Wilbur nodded with wide eyes, like Tommy was stupid.

“Yes, ‘oh’! Fuck, Tommy, this-” Wilbur gestured to Tommy hanging from his feet from the ceiling. “This is insane! I’ve never seen-” He made more incoherent noises, and Tommy scowled.

“Alright, Wil, I won’t tell anybody!” Tommy huffed, effortlessly bending to stick his hands to the ceiling again to right himself and then hop down. He wasn’t even dizzy or lightheaded or anything that usually happened when he hung upside-down for a long time.

“I mean it, Tommy, you-” Wilbur grabbed Tommy’s shoulders as soon as he was on the ground again, his eyes uncharacteristically serious as he looked into Tommy’s. “You can’t. I—I have no fucking idea how this happened, but you have to lay low with this, okay?”

Tommy was taken aback by Wilbur’s almost frantic concern. He knew Wil was a softie under there, but, damn…he was acting like some truck would come scoop Tommy up and carry him away forever, like Tommy wouldn’t bite every bitch that dared try to do that.

“I–” Tommy’s hesitation must’ve shown on his face, because Wilbur’s grip tightened on his shoulders.

“Promise, Tommy. Promise me,” Wilbur said sternly. Tommy searched his brother’s stern yet worried gaze, and sighed.

“...I promise, Wil.”

[gaydepressedtheatrekid]

What One Drink Starts Chapter 3: No Evidence

Plants with dark leaves swayed from the wind entering the shattered windows. Hundreds of plants staked their claim in the main greenhouse after years of not being cut back. The interconnected buildings had been abandoned by all but one person.

The main greenhouse was several hundred feet long, and a few dozen wide. Dirty windows were shattered with pieces of glass glittering in the rising sun high in the sky, or frames were completely empty. The iron frame that originally held the frame in position was rusted into pieces, leaving the plants curling on the ceiling and roof to hold it together.

An old radio played crackling music as it strained to connect a signal, this deep in the forest. The radio sat on the floor covered in dirt and fallen leaves. Bugs skittered across the floor as nightfall came like a whisper.

Deep in the guts of a smaller greenhouse, two people feared for their lives. They were tied to the ceiling by rope made of bark and hung like pigs ready for slaughter. They struggled against their bonds as ants crawled up and down their bodies.

The sound of metal being sharpened behind them was as ominous as a flickering lightbulb in a basement.

Florence smiled at her guests as she sharpened an arrow. “Good news, I’m letting you two run.” She tightened the straps of her arm guard and kicked the switch to slowly lower the captives to the ground.

Seconds later, they sprawled together on the ground. Their ropes were cut and Florence watched them dash as fast as they could from the sum of everything of the past five days holding them at a disadvantage.

She watched them run out of sight and switched off the lights. She pulled her bow from its holster and took in a deep breath. “Bad news, I’m in the mood to hunt.”

She gripped the bow and loosely nocked an arrow without drawing it back. A sadistic smile creeped onto her face as she started to hunt.

Florence nodded along quickly with the music screaming from the radio moved to be on a rotting shelf as a chainsaw roared in her hands. Dark splotches were splattered across the plants hugging the walls and white shavings were strewn across the floor. 

She set the tool down and took off her sticky apron. After tossing it in the back of her truck, she picked up the limbs (Soymida Febrifuga) she cut and tossed them in the bed of her truck. The jars full of dark liquid siphoned from the limbs before they had been chopped off were set there as well in boxes of two, four, and six. A tarp was thrown over the back of the bed to keep them from flying out. She grabbed the paper stained red from the mess and put the folded up paper in her pocket.

The old sleeper crankily woke up when the key was shoved into the ignition. The engine roared to life as the driver cranked up the music and started to drive away from her home.

Her hands pounded against the wheel as the music sunk into her bones and her lips mouthed the words. This song, the Nightcore version, always got her blood pumping after she finished a job.

No other headlights were on the back road she was on, making her put more pressure on the pedal. She cracked the window and took a deep breath of all the clean air she could get as she went in the direction of the polluted city.

Her hands slowed as the song changed to a slower, but still upbeat one. She made it to the narrow bridge she used to drive over the river. She glanced to over the barrier of the bridge and out at the boats splashing across the water.

Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!

The red and blue lights blinded her in the rearview mirror and the siren howled over the radio. 

Florence rolled the window down all the way and stuck her hand out the window in acknowledgement. After making it off the bridge, she pulled to the side of the road.

She glanced in the side mirror to watch a cop make his way to her truck. She turned the truck off and leaned against the door.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” the cop asked when he made it to the window. His eyes scanned the inside of the truck as he leaned against the top of the door.

“I do not, sir,” Florence responded, looking up at him. Her eyes flicked to his nametag.

‘Officer Bender?’ She thought with a hidden grin.

He nodded at the bed of the truck. “What’s the red stuff leaking out of the back?”

Florence pulled into the drive way of the unassuming house with a smile on her face. She hopped out and cracked her knuckles. Grabbing the paper stuffed in her pocket, she checked the printed address.

She walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. Her hands adjusted the box.

The door opened a few moments later to show a middle-aged man behind the screen. He smiled brightly at the sight of Florence holding the box.

“Hello, Mr. Fairfax. I’ve got your order here.” Florence held up the box. “Would you like me to bring it inside?”

“Yes, please,” he said, opening the door all the way and holding it open. “Again, thank you for this on such short notice. I couldn’t find any other way to get this red gold in the winter.”

Florence walked past him and set the box down gently. She pulled out the paper and smoothed it out on the counter. She grabbed a pen and held it out to the man. “Of course, no problem. I know I could never live with myself if I kept all the goods of my hobby.”

Mr. Fairfield signed the paper and walked past Florence to the fridge. He opened it and scanned it quickly. “Would you like a slice of pie my wife made? She made it with our last order from you.”

“That, Mr. Fairfield—” Florence opened the box and pulled out the jars— “would be wonderful.”

After a bit of time just talking to catch up and eating pie, Florence bade her customer goodbye to deliver the other orders.

“‘Mr. Fairfield, four jars of Red Currant Jelly without the seeds.’”

[crankycreates]

Untitled fic, a.k.a

"I AM NOT WRITING THIS GODDAMN COFFEESHOP AU" ~Cranky, 23-04-14

AO3 link

Pagan Min x gn!Reader 845 words Coffeeshop AU, barista!Reader, businessman!Pagan, flirting (sort of?), humour (or I tried at least), prologue to a story that may or may not get written...

“Shit!”

You stared at the plate. Or, well, ex-plate. It wasn’t really recognisable as kitchenware after hitting the floor. Pieces had skittered off across the tiles in every direction, like a very sad starburst, made out of shards of probably very expensive china. How the fuck could you be so clumsy? Mindlessly, you dove after the ex-plate, crawling madly around the floor, sweeping your hands over the tiles to gather up the remains before anyone arrived, uttering a string of curses.

“Fuck. Fuck! Shit shit fuck!”

“Such colourful language! Yet somewhat lacking in … vocabulary breadth.”

You whipped around — still on all fours — and were met by the sight of a pair of slightly worn but expensive-looking slippers. Above them, plaid pajama pants. And your eyes travelled up, and up, and past the pajama pants there was an expanse of skin that made your mind white-out for a moment before you took in the face above; its eyes twinkling with what might have been faint amusement. It was very hard to tell from this angle, especially since your mind suddenly snagged on a detail it overlooked before, and your eyes slipped down again — past the chest with its patch of dark hair and down the trail from his navel to the—

“Enjoying yourself down there, hm?”

You squeaked something. There were meant to be words in there but exactly what, you had no idea. You tried again: “I’m sorry— Uh— I broke this plate— I’ll pay for it, of course!”

Which was an utterly ridiculous thing to say to a billionaire. But you were feeling utterly ridiculous at the moment, so.

Pagan, mercifully, twitched his dressing gown closed, and settled back against the kitchen island behind him. Less mercifully, he said, “What if I told you that plate was worth a fortune?”

You stared up at him. Some part of you was a little bit grateful: now that you were blanching at the idea of owing Pagan Min money, you no longer had to worry about him noticing you blushing after having checked out the bulge in his pajamas. From the floor. On your knees.

Fuck.

Okay, alright, okay — backing up for a moment. How the ever-loving fuck had you ended up here?

You’d woken up early, alone in a guest room in Pagan Min’s house. Mansion. Estate? Whatever these things were called, this side of the pond. You’d been cranky and hungry and maybe a bit sad, and absolutely appalled at the notion of approaching the man about breakfast. Or, even worse, using the room phone to call ‘the help’. (’The help’ had been his word for it. He had servants. Fucking servants! In 2014! Jesus.) Like this was some sort of hotel.

So, you’d gotten out of bed and thrown on yesterday’s clothes and shuffled off in search of the kitchen. Or a kitchen, anyway. For all you knew there were more than one. And when you found one, you’d gone looking for a snack, and somehow—

Okay, but none of that explained how you ended up spending the night in Pagan’s guest room in the first place.

“Relax,” Pagan said, lips curving into an amused smirk. “I’m only teasing.”

“Yeah,” you said vacantly. You were still busy reviewing all the questionable life choices that had landed you in this mess.

He cocked his head. “You’re awfully high strung, aren’t you?”

“What?”

Wow. Seriously, smooth. Not like you had any particular hope to impress him or anything — that ship had long sailed, by this point. You felt rather like a stray he’d taken in for the night. Here’s how it happened: Pagan had found you crying outside the Golden Path Café. You were his favourite barista, so of course he would offer you a place to stay after you had been so callously evicted by—

Except that didn’t explain how you came to work at the Golden Path, or why he — the owner of King’s Coffee, the most popular chain of coffee shops in the United Kingdom — frequented the establishment of his competitors/sworn enemies.

“Come on, get up, kid. Can’t have you crawling around on the floor like this. Breakfast and Omelette might get jealous!”

He was smiling now — a nice, friendly smile — and offering you his hand. A perfectly gentlemanly gesture. A host attempting to put their guest at ease with an innocent joke and helping them off the goddamn floor. The way you stared, it might as well have been a tentacle he was holding out to you.

You said, “Uhh,” and took the proffered limb.

So anyway. This would in fact only be the first time Pagan Min rescued you from homelessness, and mortifying as the whole ordeal was, the next would be worse. Perhaps it could all have been avoided if you had come better prepared — if your mother had actually told you anything useful before she died.

Because in truth, for you, it all started with loss. With grief and ashes. With a promise to your dying mother: to bring her back to the UK, and to Lakshmana.

Read it on AO3

[thejostenator]

Golden Boy Orange: Chapter Five

Holy shit, I can't believe it's been so long since the last chapter of this bad boy!

For those of you who don’t know, this is my project to tell AFTG from Matt’s perspective, and this chapter is almost entirely fully original scenes (fun fun fun)! If you haven’t read the first four chapters (or if you need a refresh since it's been aeons since my last update) you can read them on Tumblr, or on Ao3.

Tagging those I know were interested last time (@youhaveahomeinmyheart, @pipebomb-malewife, @accal1a, @sickbunsbro, @tntwme, @shayebutterrrr & @stay-because-now-you-have-a-home) but if you want to be added (or removed) to (or from) the tag list, just let me know!

Wednesday, June 12th:

Wednesdays, Matt decided, were the worst days of the week.

He was aware this was a somewhat controversial train of thought (see: the existence of Mondays), but at least on Mondays Andrew was there to keep Seth at bay. On Wednesdays, Andrew left practice early to grace their therapist, Bee, with his loveable presence, and as soon as he was gone, metaphorical shit hit the metaphorical fan.

Kevin watched the door swing closed as the Monster left, and waited a beat to let it settle.

"Right," he said bluntly. "Renee, we'll switch you out for Andrew. Matt, if you could move-"

Seth cracked his knuckles loudly, stretching his palms out in front of him, and let out an overlarge yawn, cutting Kevin off mid-instruction.

Kevin raised a single eyebrow. "You have an issue?"

"Yeah, and his name's Kevin fucking Day," Seth answered. "Fuck you think you're playing at, cripple?"

Kevin stepped closer to Seth, atmosphere electric. "Excuse me?"

"You're not the captain, stop trying to tell us what to fucking do."

"I'm from the Ravens. Who, may I remind you, we are going to face in-"

"Fuck. Right. Off." Seth spat.

"Guys," Dan thundered. "Drop it. Both of you."

"If you want to do nothing and get absolutely destroyed," Kevin said through gritted teeth, "go ahead. Be my guest. Its not like the team will make it past the first elimination with him in it anyway."

Seth swung, hitting Kevin with a punch that sent his head jerking to one side while he was still looking at Dan. Low blow. Not undeserved, but still low.

Kevin whipped around, dodging Seth's next punch, and thrust his racquet in the direction of his ribs. All the ways that the situation could go violently, dangerously wrong flashed before Matt’s eyes, and he burst forwards, grabbing Kevin’s racquet from his hands and flinging it away.

It skittered across the floor, scraping the sleek surface, and Kevin seemed to blink back into focus.

“Don’t touch my racquet,” he snapped.

“If you cared about it that much,” Matt shot back, flexing his fingers, “you wouldn’t be using it as a weapon.”

“You hear that, Day?” Seth jeered. “Fucking good-for-nothing cripple.”

Matt moved on instinct alone, putting himself right between Kevin and Seth, grappling them both apart with his bare hands.

“Woah,” he grunted, pushing them both back, then echoing Dan's words, “drop it, both of you!”

Glowering, the two of them backed off in opposite directions.

“Shit, man,” Matt sighed, rubbing at his arms—there was no way he was getting out of that skirmish free of bruises, “I shouldn’t have to offer myself up as a meat shield to get you two to just stop fucking fighting!”

“Now, are you two going to hug and make up?” Dan asked coolly.

“Don’t patronize me,” Kevin scoffed, at the same time as Seth spat out: “I’m not a fucking child, Wilds.”

“Then don’t act like one.” Dan snapped her fingers. “Back to practice.”

Matt stayed rooted in place as the sounds of practice resuming trickled in around him—he got the unnerving feeling that someone was staring at him. When he turned around, it was to find himself in the midst of Neil’s dark gaze. Their new striker watched him, and Matt couldn’t help but shiver at whatever he saw in his eyes.

Saturday, June 16th:

The first thought Matt had was that he didn’t remember setting an alarm. Groaning, he rolled over and fumbled for his violently buzzing phone. Rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand, he squinted at the glowing screen. It was hard to believe it was actually his phone he was holding and not the sun, considering the light streaming from it. 

The time read 9:48AM, and he was getting a call from an unknown number.

If only to yell at whoever was calling him for having the gall to do it so early, Matt answered.

“Who’s this?” Matt murmured. It came out pretty much unintelligible. “Why’re you calling so early?”

“Matt, it’s Neil,” came a tinny voice, hoarse and drawn, barely more than a whisper. Like he’d lost his voice screaming, or just been winded. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah, I’m up,” Matt said, fighting back a yawn as he sat up in bed. “Where’ve you been? I didn’t hear you come back last night.”

“I’m in Columbia with Andrew.”

“You’re—” Matt was awake in an instant. “What?”

He burst up from bed, letting the sheets fly in every which direction, and scrambled for the door to his room. He couldn’t help the images flashing through his mind, flickers of memories from when Andrew took him to Columbia. Flashing neon lights, bass so loud the floor beneath him pulsed, and pain. So, so much pain.

“Jesus, Neil, what the hell did you do that for? Did he—” He couldn’t even stomach asking the question. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” came Neil’s simple reply. Something in his tone didn’t ring true.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Matt ground out, and he meant it. He really did.

“What’s all the fuss about?” Dan asked, groggily rubbing her eyes from where she had passed out on Matt’s couch. “What’s happening? Is it Neil?”

“He’s in Columbia,” Matt answered, angling the phone away from his ear.

Dan rocketed up from the couch, half-staggering, and leant against the back for support. “Jesus Christ.”

The doubt was worming its way back into Matt’s mind. Neil really hadn’t sounded truthful when he said he was fine. 

“Seriously,” he pressed, speaking into the phone again, “are you okay?”

"I’m fine,” Neil repeated, exasperated this time, “but I need a favour.”

Matt nodded, even though he knew Neil couldn’t see him.

“I think Andrew’s going to come looking for something of mine today,” Neil continued. “If I’m not there, can you keep him out of our room? I’ll owe you one.”

Matt could barely believe his own ears. “You won’t owe me anything,” he replied slowly. “Didn’t I tell you I’m good for it?”

“Thank you,” came Neil’s tinny reply. There seemed to be genuine relief in his voice.

Matt decided in that instant that he wouldn’t just fight the Monsters for Neil. He would do anything.

Matt spent most of the day before the Monster’s return just sitting on the single, dirt-green bench in the campus car park, just waiting for Neil to come back. Renee came out with a hot chocolate at one point, and then she stuck around to give him some company.

“You know that, whatever they did, it was something they needed to do?” Renee asked softly.

Matt’s grip tightened on the metal ridge of the bench. He refused to look at her. “Neil posed no threat to them,” he gritted out.

From the corner of his eye, Renee shrugged serenely. “We don’t know that.”

“Yes we do,” Matt spat out, eyes staring dead ahead. Neil’s gaze earlier flashed through his mind, but he dismissed the thought. Neil was innocent as a man could be, dark gaze or no.

Renee paused, opening her mouth to say something, then seemingly thinking better of it. She went back inside without another word.

Matt didn’t turn around to watch as she left. If there was one thing Renee was good at, it was reading the room. She didn’t pick sides. It was her thing. But she also knew that, one way or another, she’d have to now.

When the Monsters arrived, Neil wasn’t with them.

“Come on, my dear Matthew, Mattathias, Mattholomew,” Andrew said slowly, head tilted to one side, manic grin lighting up his face. “We’ve known each other for so long.”

“Then you should know by now I’m not going to let you in,” Matt said coldly, arms crossed over his chest just to stop him from reaching out and choking Andrew on the spot. There was no way in hell he was letting him through the door.

“This is cruelty,” Andrew responded, hand splayed out over his chest. He leaned forwards conspiratorially, voice lowering. “If I were you, I’d spare everyone all the fuss and just let me in. Neil asked me to collect something for him, and I am only too happy to oblige.”

“Since you’re apparently so close now,” Matt hissed, “maybe you can tell me where he is.”

Andrew dismissed the question with an airy wave of his hand. “Out and about.”

Matt snorted. “Get your ass out of here, Minyard.”

Andrew twitched. “It sure would be a shame if all the shots I deflect in practice tomorrow just happen to rocket towards your ankles, wouldn’t it? You might break something.”

“Like you could be bothered to raise an arm in practice,” Dan snorted from behind Matt.

“With the right motivation,” Andrew replied slyly. “And Matt is being very motivating right now? O Captain, my Captain, perhaps you could—”

“If I’d have known this was all it took to motivate you, I would have done it long ago,” Dan replied. “You’re not getting any sympathy from me, monster.”

“Oh, you wound me,” Andrew said. “But it's your loss, really, it is.”

“Andrew,” came Renee’s sweet voice as she appeared behind him. “Hello.”

Matt whipped his head up to face her, and they just stared at each other for a beat, standing on opposite sides of Andrew. Matt glared, and Renee stared back at him coolly.

Something indescribable flashed in her eyes.

“Renee,” Andrew grinned. “You remembered my name. I’m honoured. Now, if you would be so kind as to get these two to just let me in, for I am but a weary traveller who—”

“Actually,” she said gently, “I think it would be best if you went back to your own dorm.”

Everyone froze. Renee had chosen her side.

“Oh,” Andrew said. It was as if the smile had been struck clean from his face. “Oh, this is different.”

“It is different, Andrew,” Renee said. “Thank you for understanding.”

Andrew looked her up and down like he was seeing her in a new light. Matt couldn’t help but feel like he was doing the same.

“We’re going to talk about this later,” Andrew said.

“I hope so,” came Renee’s serene reply, and she watched calmly as Andrew turned and left.

Matt was left lost for words