#This is my first time writing a fic

[angelbambisworld]

Alcohol-Induced Buffoonery

A Gene Simmons(Specifically current Gene because yall know i love that silly old man) x Reader fic

Summary: Y/N returns home to Gene from a party, having gotten a little drunker than intended. Shenanigans ensue. Gets very crackfic-y at times.

Tagging some of my mutuals here: @elrohare @eatinaborgerwitnohoneymustard @starry-eyed-never-satisfied @namelessbutters-doodles

I'm sorry if I forgot anybody. It's hard to keep track of all yall

You wave goodbye to your friend, who was nice enough to drop you off at your house after she noticed you had had one too many drinks at the party you both had attended.

After her car has driven from your line of sight, you make your way up the steps to the front door. You dig around in your coat pockets for your house key and when you do eventually find it, the front door already opens. Standing in the doorway was your boyfriend, Gene.

You give him a big dopey smile and squeal out "GENE!" at the top of your lungs as you wrap your arms around him, squeezing him tightly. Gene immediately shushes you and covers his ears. "Don't yell so loud, I can hear you just fine!"

You stop smiling and look down at your shoes, apologetically. "Shit, my bad."

Gene returns the hug and then asks "So, did you have fun at the party?"

Your wide smile returned again. "Yeah, I had fun." The wind picks up and blows in your general direction as you shudder from the cold. Gene takes you by the hand and leads you into the house.

The world around you is spinning a little as you and Gene sit down on the couch in the living room together. Kinda like clothes in a washing machine. You laugh out loud at the thought of it. Gene raises an eyebrow. "What's funny?"

You shake your head. "Nothing!"

Then you let out a hiccup. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Your face turns red as you cover your face with your hands, utterly embarrassed. Gene can't help but chuckle at your cuteness, which only made your face go redder. "D- *hic* Don't laugh at *hic* me! I *hic* can't help it!"

*I know, sweetheart, I know." Gene says as he cards his fingers through your hair. "Do you want me to get you some water?"

You shake your head and try to get up to go get yourself some water. Only to bang your leg on the coffee table and fall back on the couch, thanks to your shitty balance. " *hic* Ow! *hic* ".

You try to get up again but Gene stops you. "Let me get you something to drink."

"I'm *hic* fine!" you protest. "It didn't even *hic* hurt that bad!"

"It sure looked like it did." Gene said as he walked into the kitchen.

Pouting, you stumble into the kitchen where Gene has finished pouring you a glass of water. He handed it to you and said"Go sit back down on the couch."

"No!" you whined, stomping your foot a little for emphasis. Gene rolled his eyes, slightly amused by your childish behavior. "Do you want me to fix you (Favorite Food) while I'm in the kitchen?"

You paused at the mention of (Favorite Food). A small little smile crept up on your lips as you said "Maaaaaybeeeee."

Gene nodded. "Go sit down on the couch and I'll bring it to you."

You shook your head. "No, I wanna stay *hic* here with you."

Gene didn't feel like arguing with you, so he pulled a chair for you to sit in while you watched him cook. You looked at your leg on where you banged it on the coffee table. There was a dark blue splotchy bruise there, which you stupidly poked. "OW!"

Gene turned to look at you, startled by your sudden yelp. He noticed the bruise on your leg and bent down to your level to inspect it. ((LOL Dr Love to the rescue!))

"Hmmmm...I think we're gonna have to amputate your leg."

You let out a horrified wail that was quickly broken up by more drunken hiccups. Gene immediately burst out laughing at your reaction. "I'm just messing with you, you're fine!"

"You can't cut off my *hic* leg, how am I gonna walk?!"

"Y/N, I was joking."

"How *hic* am I gonna live?!"

"It was a joke!"

"How are we gonna *hic* fuck?!"

That last sentence sent Gene into another fit of laughter. "Y/N, you are gonna be just fine. Don't worry about it."

Gene went back to cooking (Your favorite food) as you shook your head. How dare your beloved boyfriend fool you like that!

At least your hiccups were slowly coming to an end. Anyways, now that you had mentioned fucking, you were starting to feel a little...naughty, to say the very least.

Your eyes wandered all the way down to Gene's backside. You always joked that out of all the members of KISS, Gene's ass was definitely the fattest(and it was). That's when you got an idea.

You got up from your chair and raised your hand as high in the air as you get it and-

SMACK!

Gene immediately flinched once your hand made contact with his bottom. He turned around to look at you, blushing and eyes wide with surprise. "Did you just hit me?"

"It jiggled when I hit it."

You gave Gene's asscheek a squeeze and then another smack, this time a little softer. You look up at the stove top. "Is the (favorite food) done yet?"

Gene turned his attention back to the food. "Almost."

"Why do they call it oven when you of in the cold food of out hot eat the food?"

Gene looked at you and pondered if perhaps he was having a stroke. "What did you just say?"

You laughed. "It's a meme, you wouldn't get it."

"I guess not."

You wrapped your arms around Gene and slipped a hand under his shirt as he continued cooking. You started groping his plump man tits™️ .

"Goddamn, grandpa," you said out loud. "You got a nice pair of tits for an old man."

At this point, Gene was getting rather fed up with your shenanigans. "Go sit down on the couch and I'll bring you your food."

"Why are your boobs so big anyway?"

"They're not boobs!"

"Do you have to wear a bra when you go on stage?"

"Y/N, go sit the fuck down!"

Annoyed, you sat back down in your chair. "No, I meant in the living room."

You looked at the distance between where you sat and the couch in the living room. You decided that it wasn't worth the energy. "Noooo, I don't really feel like it."

You tried to scoot yourself into the living room while you were still sitting in your chair but you didn't get very far. "Get off your lazy ass and go sit in the living room."

You let out an overdramatic groan and stood up. "FIIIIIIIINE!"

You set up a tray in front of yourself as you waited for Gene to come back. Gene walked in with (Your favorite food) which you immediately devoured.

After that, you decided to take a shower. Gene insisted on taking one with you. "God only knows what would happen if I left you unattended in the bathroom."

In fact,Gene had to help you wash yourself since you were too busy staring at his glorious man tits™️ again

"Did you think I took you to a doctor and asked them to give you bigger boobs, they'd do it?" you pondered as Gene washed your hair.

Gene stuck you under the shower head as the shampoo ran down your hair, body, and into the drain. "I think they would lock you up in an insane asylum and leave you there."

You laughed. "That's fair."

After you both showered, you got dressed for bed and turned in for the night. Gene kissed you on the forehead. "Goodnight, Y/N. You're clearly insane and a pain in the ass, but you're my pain in the ass. I love you."

You tried to kiss him on the forehead back but missed and ended up kissing him on his left eyeball. "I love you, pookie bear."

The next day you woke up with the mother of all hangovers. But luckily Dr Love was there to tend to you until you were well again.

[gravemations]

Doomed Together

A figure sat at their desk hunched over, Suffering from aches and pain in his arms but they couldn’t stop. Ink dripped from their pen spilling all over their desk onto the old wooden floor.

He needs to get more frames done, he was nowhere near done and his next deadline was around the corner. How dare he think of himself at a time like this, what would the rest of his career be if he didn’t finish this project on time?

The Lankman Foundation was not kind to those who got in their way or caused problems, He knew that Alex the VA for Toon version of the man himself “Lankman '' was wanted by the police and he knew The Foundation had something to do with it. 

He needed a break even if he thinks it’s selfish to take one, his arms hurt so bad he can not continue at this rate. He slipped his finger under his right glove to take it off, His hands were boney, his nails would grow faster than usual and his hand covered in what he thought was ink in line covering his fingers and lower forearm. 

He had tried to clean it off before but no matter how hard he scrubbed it would never fade.

He heard a creak of his office door open from behind him as his wooden floor creaked, He put his hand casually under his desk but as he did this he heard a familiar voice call out to him. 

“Mortimer? Are you available” The voice came from the person entering.

Mortimer shot up out of their seat, they couldn't believe what they were seeing, it was Alex standing right in front of them. He took a second to rub his eyes with his gloved hand to see if he was seeing things. 

“Alex, is that really you? I thought you wouldn’t come back.” Mortimer said, amazed. 

Alex stood in front of Mortimer, he looked disheveled but who could blame him, he was running from the cops. 

“I just need some documents I gave you a month ago from the Lankman foundation, I know it's a lot to ask for and if you don’t want to can you please not tell anyone I was here.” Alex Explained clearing, he was nervous and not a threat to Mortimer even tho He could tell something was wrong about him. 

He couldn’t  tell right away was it their hair, or their face were they taller? 

Then he looked at their hands, they were covered in green paint, Mortimer looked into Alex’s eyes as they simmered in the yellow light of his studio.

You know what, I think I have it here somewhere in my filing cabinet, anyway have you been painting lately?  Mortimer asked a question as they got up from their desk.  

Alex looked confused as Mortimer said this “What do you mean, I haven't had time to really do anything, don’t you know what going on?. Alex said panicked.  

Mortimer while looking at a few files turned to him with a sympathetic look on his face. 

“I’m a good judge of character and I can tell you are a good person, that's why I picked you as the voice of The Lankman Foundation unlike that company. Also I ask because your hand is just covered in green. I’m not judging though I’m not much better.” 

As he shows his uncovered hand to Alex's and he is getting files out and bringing it to Alex. 

Alex stood still in cold shock looking at Mortimer hand and how casually he just showed Alex this.

Mortimer, noticing Alex’s worried look, puts the files on his desk and walks over to Alex. 

“Is everything ok? He asks the very worried Alex that is processing this information. 

“You too???… Mortimer, that's not paint or ink.”

[frogstappen]

𝐳𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐯𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐭, 𝐧𝐥

best friend!max verstappen x reader / 3k

you watch max's home race from the red bull garage.

⚠️: description of major crash, some mentions of injury. sickly sweet friendship with a hint of something more. jealous!max, soft!max, cheeky!max.

“Headset?”

“Yep.”

“I got some snacks for you. Where are the –?”

The bag rustles as you lift it. ��Pretzels. Got them.”

“And you know where the bathroom is? Out that door, down the corridor –”

“Max,” you push his arm down, “You know who we sound like right now?”

His eyebrows lift. “Who?”

You giggle. “You and GP. Radio, check. Headset, check. Bathroom, check.”

Max sighs, propping a hand on his hip. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just – listen to me, please, okay?”

“I’m going to be fine,” you assure him. “I’ve watched you from the garage a thousand times before.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t been down here in a while. I’m just making sure.”

The track is already deafening. The roar of tens of thousands of bloodthirsty Formula One fans isn’t quite as earthshaking as that of twenty racecars – but Jesus, there’s not much in it.

The attendance in Zandvoort this weekend has reached well over three hundred thousand. Earlier, you stood out front to watch the drivers’ parade with some of the team.

Max lifted his head as the bus turned the last corner and trundled down the main straight. The crowd thundered all around. He caught your eye and, with a smirk, lifted a waggling hand – and you felt your bones vibrating with the cheering.

An orange sea parted by a strip of black asphalt; they twirl flags between thick clouds of tangerine smoke. They paint their faces and wave their banners, topple their drinks with the thrill that just a half-second glimpse at their Dutch Lion ignites.

Formula One fans go hard. Max Verstappen fans go harder.

An assistant taps Max’s shoulder. She flicks up the mic on her headset as he turns. “Three minutes to anthem.”

He nods, and she totters off.

“Promise me,” he takes hold of your elbows, “that you’ll stay right here. I’ll find you after, okay? One of the guys will bring you to the podium.”

“Confident,” you snort, though his expression tightens.

Your phone buzzes on the desk. You flip it over and the screen lights a name adorned with a heart emoji. Beneath, a picture of the classic overhead of the grid, stretched across a flatscreen TV.

Bet your view is better than mine! Miss you. X

Max grumbles, grabbing his balaclava. “I should go.”

“Hey, wait.” You tug on the sleeve of his suit, dangling from his waist.

He sways back into your side, the weight of him familiar and gentle. “Mhm?”

“Have a good one, okay? Be safe.”

“Safe?” He smirks, toying with the cord of your headset. “That’s no fun.”

“I’m serious, Max. Don’t be a dick.”

Okay, he mouths, patting your head. “Speaking of dicks,” he taps your phone, “Better reply.”

His head tilts back in laughter when you shove him off, and he swaggers out of the garage. An assistant hoists a parasol in the air and scurries down the pit lane at his side.

He’s so calm, you think, that he may as well be out for a Sunday drive. It comes naturally enough to him.

He’s on pole today. The car has been good, Max’s form even better. The sky is clear (save for the fans’ fluorescent flares), and there’s no chance of rain – though, sometimes, you find yourself praying for it.

He’s Dutch, okay? The rain is always on his side.

It’s been a decent weekend, for once. No hiccups, no setbacks. He’s soared his way around the track, producing lap after perfect lap. The way he always does, when he knows you’re somewhere nearby.

His lucky charm, since his first go around a karting track. So Max says, anyway.

He’ll say it with humor; that wit of his that you’ve learned like a second language. Still – sometimes, after his hardest races, his toughest battles, he wraps his arms around you tight enough to convince you that he might just be telling the truth.

Just for a moment.

You’ve been best friends for as long as you can remember. Never one without the other; always whispering into each other’s ears or otherwise communicating through flashes of eye contact, kicks under the table.

Wherever he goes, you go. You bicker like a married couple, and trust each other much the same. From the school playground to the Circuit de Monaco – and everywhere in between.

The orchestra swings to life, sending the sound of Wilhelmus skyward. Onscreen in the garage, the camera focuses in on Max: calm, composed, staring off down to the first corner like it’s his next meal.

Nothing has ever happened between you. Not really. No secret rendezvous nor dear diary crushes. Once, and only once, a chaste kiss during a high school game of spin the bottle.

It was about as awkward as it should’ve been. This quick, electric shock of a kiss. Over all too soon and not soon enough. He tasted like the lager he’d been drinking. He steadied himself with a hand on your thigh.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your lips with the sleeve of your sweater, and aped Max’s look of disgust. You snickered with your girlfriends as the circle moved on – but anytime you snuck a glance at him, he was already looking straight back.

He never brought it up again, though – and so neither did you. As far as either of you were concerned, it never happened. You’re just friends.

Best, best friends.

This new guy you’ve been seeing – you met him in a bar in London. He said he liked your dress, said he liked your smile, then offered to buy you a drink. It’s been no more than six weeks, but Max had already quietly decided his thoughts over summer break.

He’s a nice guy, he said, deliberately bumping his rubber ring into yours.

You pushed away from him, floating across the pool. Nice? That’s all you got?

What do you want me to say? I’m not the one dating him.

I just don’t believe that nice is all you have to say. You’re not that good at pretending. I know you too well, Verstappen.

Okay, fine. Too much styling of the hair.

Too much…What?

Yeah. And he wears weird shoes.

Well, he likes F1. Said he’s a fan of yours.

Ha, Max clicked his fingers, That’s the biggest red flag of them all.

Your phone buzzes again. You turn it facedown without looking, and pull your headset on.

The circuit shudders as the anthem comes to an end. The drivers split up, pulling off ice vests and zipping up their suits. The mechanics prop chairs in front of the screen, thumping their helmets over their heads.

Almost ten years in, the anxiety still hangs heavy in your stomach. The rumble of the engines, the babble from the loudspeakers. The rapid-fire orders shot over your head in the garage.

It comes naturally to Max, sure – that doesn’t mean it’s easy for you.

You watch him as he lowers into his car. Eyes narrow and focused, blurring everything but that first bend from his vision. All good humor shaken off, replaced by a vicious hunger to hit the end of the straight first, to be a speck on the horizon before the first lap is through.

Your thumb picks at the 33 sticker on the side of your headset. You burst open the bag of pretzels.

Max checks the radio and GP replies: “Loud and clear.”

“Beautiful day,” the driver says, weaving through the formation lap. “Simply lovely.”

You smile, suckling on the salty snack. As nervous as you may feel, at least he’s having fun.

He brings the car to a soft stop on his line and waits as the others follow suit. The lights flick on one by one, a painful pause between each. One sharp breath, held at the bottom of your throat, – and the red dissolves.

The Red Bull fires down the track.

Your lungs fill with a gulp of fuel-fumed air. Veins flood with warmth – the ice-cold grip around each nerve thawed as soon as Max begins to lead the flock.

He fights off contenders for first all the way to turn four – snuffing the flame of a Ferrari here, squeezing the papaya of a McLaren there. He catapults ahead just past Hunserug, and the garage springs to cheerful life.

In your headset, the pit wall is serious, fixed on the race. They murmur over wavelengths, static fizzling between words. Voices flat and emotionless; statistics on top of statistics, strategies on top of strategies.

You crush more pretzels between your molars, watching, unblinking. You twist the cord around your index finger, draining the tip of blood, then loosen again as Max puts more than a second between his car and the next.

He’s doing good. He always does good, as far as you’re concerned.

He’s doing what he always says he was made to do. He was raised this way, weathered into shape by each storm he powered his way through. Not born, not destined – Max doesn’t believe in any of that shit.

God doesn’t drive F1 cars, he’ll say. I do.

A couple tense laps pass. The Red Bull is still up front, though he’s tussling with the Ferrari now hot on his tail. Each chance his pursuer takes, each split-second jab at his lead, Max has already squashed before it materializes.

He rips around turn fourteen, following the track through its widest bend down to fifteen, and hits the main straight to thunderous applause. The cars scream past the pits, a roar sliced in two as they barrel straight for Tarzan.

The gap is barely two tenths. The mechanics clutch their helmets. Max taunts the corner on the outside of the track, eyeing his target.

“Defend,” one of the mechanics growls. “Hold him, Max.”

The Ferrari tucks behind, its front wing edging closer and closer.

You blink.

The red car swings out, shuddering with the force of the maneuver. He steadies himself and floors it, each closing centimeter perilous.

Blink again.

They’re side by side. Almost wheel to wheel. There’s no way Max can’t see that scarlet smirk from the corner of his eye. The apex is right there, though, it’s right fucking there.

Another blink, and –

He’s gone.

He’s gone. He’s –

Hurtling off the track. At almost two hundred miles per hour. The gravel spits at him as he spins; smoke and dust billow from beneath. He slams straight into the barrier, and, finally, the moment ends.

Your chest shrinks; a weak wheeze passes your lips. “Oh, my God.”

The mechanics leap to their feet. They bark amongst themselves like a pack of angry dogs, though you can’t make out a word.

Your hearing is shot. Every sound bleeds into the next; one long, high-pitched scream. You move without thinking, without feeling; slip off the stool and tug your headset. It hits the desk with a distant clatter, though you’re already wandering away.

The sound of the crowd rattles against your skull. Numb, muted. An awful groaning sound as the cloud lifts, revealing the chewed-up car.

It’s bad. It’s the worst one in a long time. He must’ve hit that barrier at near-enough full speed. The dread fills your lungs like torrents of heavy, black water. Sickly salt, suffocating sea. Oh, God.

You scan the garage for any of his mechanics. Matt. Ole. Chris. Fucking – any of them. Who did he say would bring you to him when this was over? He said he’d meet you at the podium. He said he’d find you –

A rough hand grabs your elbow.

Max’s face flickers across your vision. Blue steel gaze, freckle above his lip. The dust pulls him away from your grasp. He hits the barrier again and again and again.

“Max –”

The voice is calm – too fucking calm, you think, when it tells you, “He’s talking. They’ve got him talking.”

“Talking,” you echo, begging it to solidify in your brain. “Can you put me on to him?”

The engineer pulls you over to the exit. He plucks at his mic, murmurs some response down the line to the team. He takes your wrist and leads you out, muttering, “C’mon.”

“Hey,” you tug on his arm, “Please let me speak to him.”

“You will,” he replies, snaking through the tight corridor. “Once he’s out, they’ll check him over. He’ll be taken in for evaluation, hitting the wall at that speed. Force must be bloody nuts.”

The thought sends another bitter stream of panic through your blood. “Can he move? Is he –? Can he get out of the car?”

He gives one quick nod. “Medics are there. They’re helping him out.”

Sunlight floods overhead, dazzling as you follow him out front and towards a sleek car. An attendant opens the door for you, and you slide into the backseat.

The engineer gives your shoulder a friendly shake. “He’ll be fine,” he says. “He’s done worse.”

The door falls closed and the car moves off, purring through the paddock towards the medical center.

You slump into your seat and press your fingers into your eyes; a headache already blooming between your temples.

He’s moving. He’s moving and he’s responding. They’re helping him up out of the car. He’s probably already being checked over.

He’s probably already asking for you.

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, fingers dragging down your cheeks.

The center is a polite little hut inside the circuit. By the time you pull up, the race has already resumed. The remaining cars whizz by as you jog over, slipping inside behind a couple guys from Max’s team.

He’s had his fair share of scraps on the track. You don’t make it to the top without a sincere sense of dare, and an even sincerer lack of fear. Some call it idiocy. You’re often one of them.

Sitting on the other side of the clinic door, though – knee jerking, nails picking at the skin on your fingers – you’d be thrilled to never see these four walls ever again. Idiot or not, you care about him.

More than anyone else in your life? Jesus. Probably.

The door clicks open, and your blood jumps.

A pale woman in a pale coat steps out. She peers over her glasses, eyes you from the sneakers on your feet to the worry on your face – and says your name.

You push yourself up, squeezing past her into the room.

Max is perched on the edge of the bed, still in his fireproofs. Hair disheveled, face flushed and exhausted. Translucent with shock or concussion or worse, he lifts his head and flashes a lopsided smile.

It’s weak, barely there – but it’s him.

You care about him more than anyone else in your life. Definitely.

He opens his arms, fingers beckoning you in. “C’mere.”

“Oh, my God,” you sweep over, already in tears by the time you meet his body, “Oh, my God – you fucking idiot.”

His shoulders shudder with a bottled laugh. He wraps his arms around your waist, turning his head against your chest. “How was I supposed to know he was going to turn into me, huh? I had the line, I was –”

“Max,” you pull back, staring into his bleary eyes, “I don’t care. Just – don’t do that ever again.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispers, corners of his mouth twitching.

You sigh, collapsing onto the bed at his side. You lean against him and he winces a little, before pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

“You really scared me,” you admit, turning in to his chest.

Max slings an arm around your shoulders, holding you tight. “I’m fine, no? I mean, everything’s blurry and I can’t really hear much, but – it could have been worse.”

He props the pillows against the wall and pushes himself back gingerly, reaching past you for a paper cup of water at his bedside.

You move slowly, carefully, waiting for him to get comfortable before settling back, too – leaving a safe gap between his battered body and yours. Your cheek rests on the curve of his shoulder; fingers trace the logos on his sleeves.

Max breathes in the scent of your hair. He turns his hand and watches as your fingers trail down his wrist, circling his palm. He sucks in a deep breath, sighing to the ceiling.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” you whisper, and he hums.

“Nerves,” he mutters.

“From the race?” You lift your head. “You don’t get nervous.”

He takes another breath and turns to you. He’s blushing, and doing a shitty job at hiding it. “No,” he says. “Not from the race.”

You gulp. “Are you sore?”

“Yeah. My back, my ribs.”

“Do you want me to get up?”

“No. Stay.”

He wears the same expression he did all those years ago, sat too many people apart from one another in that drunken circle. The same expression you only allowed yourself fleeting glances at: bashful, a little awkward – all the more endearing for it.

Maybe he actually doesn’t remember that night. Maybe he was just too tipsy – alcohol gone straight to his teenage head. And maybe he won’t even remember this, what with the concussion and all.

It’d make things a hell of a lot easier, that’s for sure. You could go back to your old ways: arguing over the best flavor of chips, screaming while playing video games. No second-guessing, no jumping to conclusions. Hell, maybe you hope he doesn’t remember any of it at all.

Somewhere, though, deep down – you know that’s not true.

“How’s, uh…whatshisface?” Max asks, nudging you with his elbow. He takes a feeble sip of his water and offers you the cup.

“Oh,” you shrug, “No idea. I left my phone in the garage.”

He scoffs, staring at your lips as you take a drink. He takes the cup from your hands once you’re done. “I don’t mean to give him shit, you know. If you like him, I like him.”

“Well, there’s liking someone,” you pout, “and then there’s willingly watching them crash full-speed in a racecar.”

Max smiles, lifting his cup.

“Whoever that is, sounds pretty cool to me.”

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

[snoopyracing]

wanna be yours 2.0 // ln4 social media au // part one

part two | part three

pairing: lando norris X american!reader / mclaren photographer!reader and slight pato o'ward X reader

warnings: swearing

summary: a remix of my fic wanna be yours in social media au form. or basically lando and the reader both being in love with each other but being too stubborn and scared to say anything so they suffer in silence until one finally crumbles.

contains: best friends to slight strangers to lovers, pining, angst, jealous!lando, asshole!lando, clueless!lando, and perhaps a little lando or pato? situation.

masterlist

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

may 5th, 2024

liked by landonorris, y/bsf, oscarpiastri and 100,000 others

y/n.jpg: miami baby! i think the guy in the second pic won some kind of race involving super fast cars but i could be wrong.

landonorris: who is that guy???? he's really good looking...

↳ y/n.jpg: i think his name is lando onewin.

↳ landonorris: bye. that doesn't even work.

user1: you always take such good pics of lando.. thank u queen

user2: lando always being the first to comment. dude's down bad lol

y/bsf: the kids miss you. please come home.

may 6th, 2024

may 8th, 2024

may 9th, 2024

liked by landonorris, mclaren, patricooward and 200,000 others

y/n.jpg: back at the mtc today for a very special reason! everyone was there to celebrate my amazing photography skills and editing on all the pictures from the season so far! lando was even kind enough to show up with a trophy to give to me! i love my job <3

in all seriousness. could not be more proud of you lando!!! it's been a long time coming, but we both know it's only the beginning!

landonorris: that awkward moment when you tried to take the trophy from me....

↳ y/n.jpg: DON'T SAY THAT PEOPLE ARE GONNA THINK IT'S TRUE.

↳ landonorris: i'll make sure they engrave the next one with your name too.

↳ y/n.jpg: ok but as long as my name is listed first.

mclaren: our favorite photographer ❤️ -liked by author

user1: ok but where is y/n's trophy fr??? she's hands down one of the best photographers in the game rn.

user2: y/n and lando you are so dear to me

user3: pato in the likes??

↳ user4: y/n used to work for arrow mclaren before working for mclaren f1. also pato is literally the reserve driver for f1 this season... honestly the web that is y/n, lando, and pato intertwines so much it's kinda crazy...

may 11th, 2024

may 14th, 2024

y/n.jpg added to their story

landonorris replied to your story

↳ WHY WOULD YOU POST THAT??? IT'S MORE THAN A JUMPSCARE!

oscarpiastri replied to your story

↳ why do you always catching me folding in front of lando like that :/

may 15th, 2024

may 19th, 2024

liked by y/bsf, oscarpiastri, patricooward and 100,000 others

y/n.jpg: imola 2024.

y/bsf: best photographer in the world. i love you!!! -liked by author

user1: not even a pic of lando's car.... oh no :/

user2: no funny caption... no lando like or comment... guys we are in the trenches

user3: we love you y/n! -liked by author

may 21st, 2024

y/n.jpg added to their story

landonorris replied to your story

↳ what the hell?

[writeouswriter]

My followers: And is this “writing” you’ve been “working on” in the room with us right now?

[zweig-eater]

art turning his brain off every time you guys are together…

something about you, everything about you.. he feels safe, cared for, wanted, needed even. it all just makes his head dizzy and clouded with nothing but his love for you.

you noticed it gradually as he became more and more relaxed with you. it started simple, he would let you order his food for him, and pull him wherever you wanted during dates. he was your puppy, just happy to be there and tingling in your presence.

the longer you were together, the more time you spent together, he leaned further and further into you. as soon as he walked into your dorm room, his head fell and his shoulders relaxed as he dropped his bag to the floor, racket clanking as it landed, and padded over to you. every millisecond spent without your skin connected felt like a millennia for art. your room smelled of coconut and vanilla, your perfume, making his brain start to melt already.

you laid on your bed, sat up with your back against the head board. as soon as he stepped in, you closed your laptop and gave him your full attention. something he always noticed. at the beginning, this undivided attention was enough to well tears in his eyes as he realized he might have finally found a home as warm as he’d always longed for. as his eyes met yours and he was in arms length, you reached out, and just that was enough for him to give in and collapse into you.

laying directly between your legs, he rested his head against your chest, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him. your hands found his hair and lower back and instinctively started scratching and tracing heart shapes into him. your legs tangled naturally and you gave art a few moments of this bliss. both of your breathing matched paces, your heart beat thumped in his ear and he swore he could feel it through his whole body. as if your heart was beating for the both of you. he breathed in your skin, your scent, every inch of you lulled him into a state of tranquility.

he could feel himself slipping. not into sleep, no, he was wide awake. slipping into some other state. his head spun, brain melting to mush, all his worries, stress and the never ending expectations piled onto him disappeared into thin air. he couldn’t even remember how he got to your dorm, god, he was forgetting his own name. everything he knew was just out of grasp, leaving only you. he felt hypnotized. tranced into this state of consciousness that was just past the brink of reality, but close enough that he knew you were real. you both were. and he was yours. entirely. you owned him. he craved it, you. he wanted to be nothing but an extension of you.

“hi puppy”, you whispered gently into his ear. the nickname sending him over the edge as everything inside of him unravelled. his tight wound strings, gently lacing and connecting with yours.

“nng i love you” he whined, it sounded pitiful, and he didnt care for a second. it was all he had the mental capacity to utter, he was drowning in his love for you, and it practically spilled out of his lips, as his hands pawed and gripped you even harder.

“i love you baby, endlessly” you told him. as you gently tugged his hair and left a kiss on his forehead.

and he believed you. you loved him. him. not art donaldson the tennis player. not the versions of him everyone else seemed to create. not the version of him he felt like he had to be. not the versions of him he couldn’t even recognize in the mirror anymore, but everyone else claimed to know so well. just him, and all of him, with no caveats or expectations. he didnt have to fight, or play, every single day for your love, for your praise. he was just him, and you loved him. and he was devoted to you.

the hearts you continued to trace on his lower back, a constant reminder, he was yours, entirely, your lap dog, and he fucking loved it.

[plistommy]

Steve takes Eddie’s virginity by riding the older boy after a long session of smoking and drinking inside the metalheads cramped van.

He’d praise Eddie on how good he’s making him feel, how big his dick is and how he’s so pretty under him that it makes Eddie moan loudly, strong hands roaming and squeezing the fat of Steve’s ass as he begs to fuck Steve harder.

”I need to fuck you, Steve- please, sweetheart-”

Steve would kiss him, sloppy and wet as he whines into Eddie’s mouth when the dick inside him hits just right.

When he pulls back, breathless, he picks up the pace and finally lets Eddie buck up to meet his thrusts.

Eddie would just look up at Steve, brown eyes wide and realize he’s so in love with the gorgeous boy on top of him and he never wants to let go. Never.

[magpie-trinkets]

continuing that "maya tries to contact claire" post, i present you the post-Spirit of Justice follow-up

[frownyalfred]

I cannot emphasize this enough: sometimes the draft sucks because you keep looking at it. It doesn’t actually suck. You just need to post it and stop beating yourself up.

[psychotic-nonsense]

In October of 1967, Steve Harrington is born in Hawkins, Indiana.

He's raised there, forced to live under the strict expectations of his parents, Richard and Samantha. Barely escapes their clutches, freedom fueled by the kids and adults that take the role of guardian and family when the time is right. Keeps himself in check with the always impending apocalypses that arise beneath his feet.

In June of 1985 - when Steve Harrington is 18, while Richard and Samantha Harrington are visiting New York for an extended work trip - Veronica Harrington is born.

She was carried and raised in secret from their hometown. They take care of her between their business hours, dropping her in the hands of nannies and babysitters galore. They don't even think of Indiana during Veronica's early childhood, too focused on work and making sure their daughter starts up right.

In October of 1986 - when Steve Harrington is 19, aged further by ending the Vecna War, yet tamed by his newfound love in Eddie Munson - Richard and Samantha Harrington return to Hawkins.

They don't ask about what happened to their son. They don't ask about the town. They don't ask questions, just give responses to them. Sneering at Steve's friends, complaining about the state of the house, commenting at the disfunctional chaos their home has become.

In November of 1986, Richard and Samantha Harrington disown Steve.

They just let him go. They at least give him a folder of his legal documents, but otherwise just tell him to get out of their house and never use their name again. Claiming Steve doesn't need anything from the room because the Harrington's own everything in it. They don't call him son, they don't say goodbye, they don't acknowledge who's actually taken care of the house, they don't admit most of Steve's former room has changed with money Steve earned himself, they don't dare to give him any money or care where he goes. They just say they're sick of dealing with an unworthy mistake of a child, and force him out of their house.

In November of 1986, the Party's adults adopt Steve.

He runs to them first after everything happens. Held himself together at the start, but broke down the second the words were out. While everyone was trying to comfort Steve, Wayne Munson and Jim Hopper were the first to succeed. They know firsthand that this family would never be the same as blood, no matter how much that blood has boiled and burned before, but the love will be stronger and it will be here. When everyone seconds it, Steve finally accepts it. He becomes a child of the Party - he's everyone's son and everyone's brother, taking whatever surname he sees fit.

In November of 1986, Steve Henderson and Eddie Munson leave Hawkins.

Despite all this good, Steve can't bear to stay in this damned town a second longer, where everyone knows who he is and will soon know everything he isn't. And it's not like Eddie was looking forward to sticking around Hawkins either, especially without his Steve. The kids are the first to agree, surprisingly, and the adults promise to find a way for the boys to get out. Later that week, when Richard and Samantha leave the house to prepare for Veronica, Steve and Eddie break in to take everything that's rightfully theirs. While they're there, not sure what prompts him, Steve makes a bag of his clothes with shoes and his wallet tucked within it, shoving it into his closet. Dustin's mom uses an old favor to get the boys an apartment in Chicago, the Party has one last farewell, and the two boys are gone.

From 1986 onward, Veronica Harrington is raised in Hawkins, Indiana.

Richard and Samantha are adamant in their daughter coming out exactly how she should. They steadily convince the town to forget the Harringtons ever had a son and lock the room on the second floor next to the stairs without ever touching the inside. They raise her with formality and pride at the top of their expectations, wanting at least one child to come out right.

But Veronica is the spitting image of Steve's honesty and care. She puts on a facade when needed, but even at a young age, she wants nothing more than to be someone's light in the darkness. She plays with every lonely kid at school, and tries to make people laugh at the business parties she's dragged to. It's not received well by her parents, but Veronica is much too strong willed and stubborn to let it phase her.

In April of 1991 - when she's 6 and they're so much stronger around their hearts - Veronica Harrington meets Steve and Eddie Munson for the first time.

It's the year Erica is set to graduate high school. Steve and Eddie have been making the drive for every holiday this year, ordered determined to give her the best senior year she could have. It's Easter Sunday, and Wayne somehow managed to drag his boys away to church - a Munson custom, as even Eddie insisted they go.

While at the snack table post sermon, a little girl comes up to Steve, mistaking him for her father. He and Eddie gently comfort the girl, introducing themselves and offering to help the girl find her parents. That's when Veronica introduces herself, striking Steve deep in his heart. Still, he keeps quiet, even gifting her a little origami crane made from napkins at the table. He calls her "chickpea" for the color of her dress, tells her to keep the crane secret and safe, "If ever you need to find your way back home, you hold that close, and it'll tell you."

Meanwhile, Wayne has come across Richard and Samantha in the crowd opposite the kids. Exchanging formalities, Wayne mentions his son and nephew are in town, news the Harrington's are surprised at, as Wayne didn't seem like the father type. However, trying to keep face, they remain civil and insist on introducing their daughter.

Cue Veronica running to her parents with Steve and Eddie in tow. Cue Steve calling Wayne dad right to Richard's face. Cue the Harrington's immediate leave from the church, Veronica waving behind her with a crane placed carefully in her pocket.

From then on, Veronica Harrington's life changes indefinitely.

Her parents' expectations grow tenfold. She finds out she's horribly allergic to chickpeas. All of her friends must be approved by her parents, and any that don't fit their image are ordered to leave her.

Veronica takes these changes in stride - is her class's top student, captain of the softball and volleyball teams in junior high, keeps the friends she wants in secret from her parents - but she can't help but keep the crane in a little box in her room. Gets a necklace with a little origami crane pendant, holds it whenever she needs to make a hard choice. Can't help but expand herself in secret, learn things her parents would never approve of - lock picking, other languages, sleight of hand, a clothing style that's nothing like the dark blues of her family, all warmth and light. She explores every room in her house, yet is unable to find her way into that room upstairs next to the steps.

In May of 1998, Veronica Harrington discovers the truth about her brother.

She's about to be a freshman. Her class was touring the high school in preparation, and while passing the athletics hall, her eyes hit the swimming trophies. Each row stuffed with trophies, and each one with a name that stabbed her right in the stomach: Steve Harrington.

After that, she couldn't bear all the secrecy anymore. Late that same night, she finally uses her lock picking skills to break into that room. And though it's devoid of life, it is a bedroom, so evidently lived in. It's frozen in time, twisted sheets covered in dust, old papers crinkled from being stepped on but not picked up, old clean clothes still sitting in the hamper. It's a boy's room, clearly, and Veronica is careful walking around this place of memories.

She does still explore, quietly clicking on lights around the room, too cautious to touch the overhead lights. She looks under the bed, finding a bat and a trash can lid, both embedded with rusty nails. A shirt that still smells like fresh laundry yet has a back stained permanently with long red lines down the shoulders. Dozens of stapled documents labeled NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT, detailing horrific events that each have that same name signed at the bottom.

With shaking hands she checks the closet, and finds it mostly empty. All except for a deep green graduation robe and cap, a cream Hawkins High letterman, and a duffel bag hidden in the back corner. The cap has a 1985 tassel, and the letterman has Harrington branded on the back with basketball and swimming patches galore. And the bag, when she checks it, looks like a survivalist pack someone would make in an apocalypse. At the top sits a wallet, and inside is an ID for a Steve Harrington, who has the same face as the one in her origami memories.

And Veronica is done. She wakes up the next morning and throws Steve's jacket on the kitchen table, startling both her parents mid sip of coffee. She finds herself in a screaming match with her father, demanding them to quit lying to her, begging to know who her brother is.

In a fit of rage, Richard tells her. Tells her everything Richard and Samantha never saw in Steve, about Veronica's secret birth, the disownment, Steve's disappearance from the Harrington house and Hawkins. She's reminded of that one Easter Sunday, and is told how Richard and Samantha faked Veronica's allergy to keep her mind from being tainted by whatever curse befell their bloodline before. Orders her to never say that name again.

In a fit of rage, Veronica bites back. Calls her parents cruel and overly expectant. Comes clean about her secret freedom. Says she'd rather be nothing than ever carry the burden of the Harrington name ever again.

She hides away in her room after the fight. Cries in her closet with her origami box cradled tightly to her chest, begging it to take her home because this place isn't anymore, maybe never was. Cries for the brother she never even got to meet, who went through so many horrible things yet still got put through this same punishment. Cries for the future she won't get to have, losing her hope for a new beginning that will now never be.

At the start of June, 1998, Veronica runs away.

She makes it through the rest of May in near silence. She writes notes for all of her friends at the end of the school year, and one for her parents to inevitably find. Finds 75 dollars in Steve's old wallet, stuffs the duffel bag the rest of the way with her belongings, and says goodbye to Hawkins.

She takes the first bus she can find out of town. Doesn't care that it's going to Chicago, doesn't really care where she's going now. She befriends an old homeless man riding the bus as well, becomes another interesting name in his "Book of Wanders (Pronounced as Wonders)." As Veronica's telling the story about unknowingly meeting her brother, she remembers the crane in her bag. She reaches in to retrieve the little box, then the crane, nearly crying seeing how disheveled and unfolded it is. Broken and doomed, just like her. But looking at it now after so long, she thinks she sees something written inside it. Despite it shattering her heart pieces, she carefully unfolds the little crane.

At its center, in old, bleeding blue text, reads, "Find the Swooping Bat if you've lost your way."

The old man laughs then, taking Veronica's hand and placing it onto her chest, over her heart. "It's fate," he whispers in the dark bus. "There's a place called that in Chicago."

Veronica uses her money to rent them both a hotel for the night, giving the old man a warm bath for the first time in weeks. She gifts him the clothes as well, saying it's, "an honorary thanks from my brother, for helping me get here." They bid each other farewell in the morning, the old man telling her to keep hold of fate.

She finds her way to the Swooping Bat easily, hand on her necklace guiding her way. It's a quaint little diner, popular enough to be comfortably warm when she walks in. A young lady in a wheelchair - Max, says her nametag, with pins saying things like, "Summer work blows" and "USC grad or bust!" resting on her collar - guides her to a booth next to the sunrise.

"Anything I can get you today?" Max asks when Veronica's seated.

Veronica's fully ready to order everything on the menu, what with how delicious this place smells, but then she remembers her funds. 5 bucks, if she's lucky. "Just a chocolate milk, for now. Biggest one you have, please." She somehow plays off Max's skeptical look, her eyes sweeping over Veronica's no doubt disheveled and no-food-in-36-hours appearance.

It somehow works out, and Max is wheeling away. Veronica allows herself a moment to collapse, stomach growling in pain and eyes burning with the realization she has no idea what she's going to do now. She just has this last bit of hope to hold onto, and without it, she'll be nothing but a husk.

She's not sure how long she sits there, staring at the sunrise and letting sound and AC whisk her mind away, but there's suddenly a little knock on her table. Her head snaps up, and there's Max again, setting down a giant glass of chocolate milk... alongside a loaded breakfast plate.

"It's on the house," Max rushes to explain, all fondness when Veronica scrambles to get her wallet. "Courtesy of the owner. And between you and me," she whispers with a wink, "just take the damn food, kid."

Veronica stumbles over herself for a moment, rendered near speechless, before she finally comes back. She begs Max to thank the owner profusely, before rushing to dig into the pancakes before her. She's halfway done dousing the stack in syrup by the time Max wheels away, when there's suddenly someone laughing.

"Of course," says a choked-up voice behind her. "Can't have any chickpeas starving in my booths."

Veronica nearly drops her fork. She turns so sharply she gets dizzy. Seven years can't change a person that much, surely, because though he's bigger in the torso and he has glasses on the bridge of his nose and his hair is cut so close, he still has the same softness in his voice and the same slouch in his stance and the same moles around his eyes and his smile is so bright despite the tears in his eyes, and though Veronica can barely see through tears herself, it's not like she needs them anyway to know it's-

"Steve!" she cries, scrambling out of the booth to meet her brother halfway. The relief of it all working out has the rest of her restraint collapsing, forcing harsh sobs out of her and into Steve's shoulder. The siblings hold each other in the middle of a restaurant, a voice in the background asking everyone to leave them be. Steve doesn't stop whispering, even as his chest heaves with broken gasps between tears, "You're save, Veronica, I got you, I got you, it's gonna be okay, you're safe here, it's okay, sis, it's okay..."

"That you, lil' chickpea?" whispers a different voice once they've calmed down. Veronica reluctantly pulls away and finds a man kneeling beside them, a hand on Steve's shoulder and similar tears in his eyes. His hair and tattoos remind her of the tamed wild from seven years ago, covered in black in the middle of church yet glowing brighter than the stained glass, the one that Steve looks at in past and present with a glowing love Veronica never saw between her parents.

"Yeah," she whispers, wiping her tears away before placing a hand atop her necklace. It catches Eddie and Steve's eyes and make them beam with pride and relief. "Yeah, it's... it's me...."

[xuyaak]

same shape. new stuffing. (turn it around)

based on keferon’s empurata prowl au

[feathercreates]

"Old friend... I miss you so much. I'm so sorry."

[mccromy]

Hua Cheng and Quan Yizhen get hit by a de-aging curse that turns them into their 10 year old selves. Naturally, Xie Lian and Yin Yu take care of them while investigating how to reverse it. Unfortunately, Hong-er and Quan Yizhen take to the other like two stray cats forcefully shoved inside a small cage, hissing and spitting and yowling and growling and beating the shit out of the other on sight. Yin Yu looks away for one second and suddenly Yizhen is pouncing on Hong-er, punching the daylights out of him. Hong-er rips a chunk of hair out of Yizhen, both get bitten, blood gets spilled. Yin Yu is panicking while he drags a screaming Quan Yizhen away. Xie Lian is this close 🤏🏻 to throwing Quan Yizhen into He Xuan's lair.

They don't know what to do. Hong-er poured ink down Quan Yizhen's back, Quan Yizhen threw a live mouse at Hong-er's face, Hong-er locked Quan Yizhen inside a chest and, in retaliation, Quan Yizhen pissed all over Hong-er's Dianxia portraits. Hong-er had a meltdown in Xie Lian's arms and Yin Yu had a panic attack, which in turn made Quan Yizhen hide for eight hours of desperate search until Yin Yu thought to look under his own bed (he was there.)

"Why do you fight Quan Yizhen?" Asks Xie Lian, and Hong-er answers that Quan Yizhen started it.

Yin Yu asks Quan Yizhen why did he attack Hong-er, and Yizhen frowns and answers: "I don't like him" and refuses to elaborate.

They are so sweet otherwise. Hong-er brings every flower he finds to Xie Lian, hands anxiously twisting the hem of his clothes every time as if this time Dianxia won't like them. One time while cooking, Xie Lian glanced back and caught Hong-er praying to him and felt himself melt on the spot. Quan Yizhen tries to help Yin Yu with everything (and fails spectacularly), asking every two seconds if he did good, and smiling and wiggling every time Yin Yu tells him that yes, that was perfect Yizhen.

After a week of incidents, crying, screaming, broken vases and sleepless nights. Xie Lian, tired and desperate, brings them together to end this misery once and for all. He asks Quan Yizhen directly, and the boy doesn't answer, he asks again with a softer tone. Quan Yizhen frowns and kicks him on the shin, hard enough to make him stagger. Xie Lian is very impressed by that and doesn't see Hong-er in time to catch him before he attacks Quan Yizhen, clawing his face and screaming. Yizhen kicks and bites, thankfully forgetting all his martial training as they grapple on the floor. And while Xie Lian and Ruoye do their best to subdue them, Yin Yu stares at them as an horrible epiphany wacks him on the back of his head.

"Your highness," Yin Yu whispers, "that night, before Chengzu saw you, he panicked and tried to run away, so I picked him up... And he kicked me."

Xie Lian doesn't know whether to laugh or cry . "I take it Qi Ying saw it?"

Yin Yu nods miserably.

The next morning, Xie Lian coaxes Hong-er into apologizing to Yin Yu for kicking him, and Xie Lian explains Quan Yizhen Hong-er didn't mean it, he was just scared. Yin Yu, for his part, spent all night teaching Quan Yizhen a very long "I am sorry, your highness" speech, and makes him kowtow three times. Then he proceeds to do the same, both effectively groveling.

Xie Lian grimaces and interrupts the boy as he recites with a blank face and the enthusiasm of someone who's only doing this because his Shixiong asked.

"That's really too much..., there is no need,"

"I beg to differ, Your Highness," answers Yin Yu, still kneeling on the ground. He raises his head and glances at Hong-er.

Xie Lian really can't say anything to that.

Yin Yu nudges Yizhen, and the boy pulls out a golden bar from his sleeve and places it at Xie Lian's feet. "This Quan Yizhen uh.... Um... This Yizhen will... ah! This Yizhen swears to spend the rest of his days atoning for...! For his...?"

"Transgressions," whispers Yin Yu.

"Transgressions! And swears to keep others from laying their filth on His Highness' path, as this one once did. His Highness whims shall become this one's deeds. In penance, I place the West at your feet, Qi Ying's palace is at your service. And if this one's repentance cannot erase this one's grievous sins... Uhm... Give me a moment, I have a lot of rocks in here." Qua Yizhen rummages through his sleeve for a few seconds, and then triumphantly pulls out a dark box. "Found it! Um.. something something sins! In your hands I place the Waning Moon Officer's ashes-!"

"Yin Yu that's really not necessary!"

"It really is, your Highness," he says with a strained voice.

Quan Yizhen leaves the box on the floor, completely unaware of it's importance, and throws himself into Yin Yu's lap. "I did good, right? I only forgot one thing! Shixiong, Shixiong it came out right?"

Yin Yu sighs.

"Yes, Yizhen. You did well."

"That guy interrupted me in the end though, that was rude. Can we go?"

Yin Yu didn't know whether to laugh or cry or grab his shidi and find new employment under He Xuan.

Xie Lian shook his head, crouched and carefully took the box, placed it on Yin Yu's hands. He felt really fond of Yin Yu's earnestness, but truly, this was overkill (Yin Yu would beg to differ, and so would He Xuan if he was there, and so would Hua Cheng if he was 800 years older. As Hong-er though, he only agreed with his Highness because he didn't understand what the act meant. As it stood, he really wanted to push that other kid from a wall.)

Xie Lian waited until Yin Yu raised his head and said softly, yet firmly:

"Officer, I order you to guard this with utmost diligence. They belong to a dear friend of mine, who need not worry for his Shidi's wellbeing," Xie Lian smiled at Hong-er, who stopped glaring at the figures on the floor and smiled back. Not breaking eye contact with the boy, Xie Lian continued, enunciating each word clearly, "after all, said Shidi is also a dear friend, who always treated me with respect, and if something happened to him I'd be very, very sad."

Yin Yu stood up, holding Yizhen's hand in his and the box to his chest. He bowed, "This one apologizes for offending His Highness, this one knows his Highness to be kind and wise, and didn't mean to imply otherwise. This Waning Moon Officer shall do as his Highness commands,"

After that, the boys stop trying to kill the other on sight. And, after much coaxing and promises of candy and sparring sessions, they spend one peaceful hour interacting under the watchful gaze of the only people they cared about. The next day, they sat side to side. Quan Yizhen practicing kicks and Hong-er drawing, both tense in sullen silence. The day after that Quan Yizhen asks Hong-er to help him draw his Shixiong, and Hong-er accepts, both glance at the adults in the room for approval and smile giddily when they get it. The day after, Quan Yizhen teaches Hong-er how to throw a punch, and they mock fight until dinner time (which they eat separately,) . The day after that, the adults decide to leave them alone for exactly three minutes, they wait just outside the room, ear pressed to the door. At the minute mark, they hear the unfortunately familiar sound of two tiny boys doing their utmost best to brutally kill each other.

The day after that, the curse is broken.

Xie Lian takes Hua Cheng to Puqi shrine, desperate for some alone time with his husband. Though he misses Hong-er dearly, his husband's absence had been so painful that now he's drunk on giddy relief.

They work the fields, they make dinner together, and after they're done eating, Xie Lian asks what had been running through his mind.

"San Lang, you two were getting along so well, why did you start fighting again?"

Hua Cheng wrinkles his nose in a way that makes Xie Lian want to kiss him and says, "He didn't want to admit that Gege was better than Shixiong— I mean, Yin Yu. Ah Gege, don't make fun of your San Lang!" He whined.

Xie Lian did try to stop laughing, but not hard enough to accomplish it.

Once done, he wiped a tear and asked:

"Shixiong?"

Hua Cheng groaned.

"I didn't know what his name was! That animal kept talking about his Shixiong. Shixiong this, Shixiong that! so it stuck inside my head! I wanted to talk about his Highness this and that, but the little shit kept interrupting me!"

"Ahaha—"

There was a loud crash outside. Xie Lian jumped out of his seat, Hua Cheng's hand hovered above E-ming. Abruptly, The Martial God of the West barged into Puqi shrine.

Xie Lian relaxed and smiled, a greeting dying on his tongue as he was faced with a fulminanting glare coming from Quan Yizhen's usually stoic face.

Xie Lian sat back again, placed his hands on his knees and waited for the other god to speak.

Quan Yizhen huffed and bowed. Then, he slammed a gold bar on the table with such force the wood cracked. "You can't have him," He said, bowed again, and left.

Xie Lian was stumped. Silence reigned until Hua Cheng broke it by cackling. Wheezing, he fell off his chair.

"San Lang...? Do you know what that was about?"

Hua Cheng exhaled and smiled at his beloved. "Gege is so popular. I didn't know I had so much competition. Won't he tell me how many other ghosts have offered their ashes to him? Do I need to make Black Water a puddle for him to sleep in? Yin Yu may keep his room, but ah, Gege rejected my poor Waning Moon Officer, didn't he? How cruel, how sought after my God is."

Blood rushing to his cheeks, Xie Lian groaned and hid his face in his hands.

A moment later, Yin Yu's bashful voice spoke inside his head.

"I really didn't mean it like that, your Highness,"

Xie Lian made an embarrassed sound.

At least, he felt closer to laughing than to crying.

"I know."

"I apologize,"

"It's alright,"

"...May his Highness please ask Chengzu to stop calling me a homewrecker through my spiritual array?"

...

"Ah. I'm sorry, yes, of course."

[caught-a-dragonfly]

Red Alert

[kidovna]

Favourite fandom trope of the day: wisdom teeth removal

[densewentz]

Edwin has to bite his lip to smother his laugh, shoulders shaking minutely against tanned skin. The rough sound ratchets up a tick. Purring. The Cat King is purring.

Guys I wrote 2k of toothrotting catwin fluff! Check it out on ao3 💕

tags: edwin/cat king, established relationship, Teen, no archive warnings, kissing/cuddling, purring, excessive use of the words warmth and rumbling, just generally a sweet soft little thing tbh