#and put up with three seasons of fucking Nonsense for it

[n7punk]

what's the worst thing you watched and kept up with (at least for a while) because you were gay and begging for scraps? mine was probably pretty little liars

[lovecla]

IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW | jack hughes.

00.1. how it happened:

➴ warnings: none!!

➴ word count: 1.2k

➴ author’s note: welcome everyone!! as i promised, here’s the start to our fuck buddies jack ‘n soph series<3 hope u love them as much as i do!

—♡

IT all started as a joke.

Not your career, no, that was very serious. Sometimes you still couldn’t believe how big you’d gotten. Seriously, it was like magic. People now paid to see your concerts, asked to take pictures with you and related to your songs, your situations.

How crazy was that?

But that isn’t the main joke.

It all started a few weeks after the release of your single, Nonsense. You were alone in your home studio, doing some writing and recording a few ad-libs for your new upcoming album— all songs dedicated to your shitty, fucking cheater of an ex, yeah— when Grace, your best friend and manager, barged in with her phone on her hands.

“Jesus,” you said, putting your hand over your heart. “Don’t you know how to knock? You literally scared the shit out of me, dumbass.”

“Knocking is for the weak. Also, I need to show you this. Ain’t no time for knocking.”

She sat on the chair beside you and showed you her phone. It was some kind of TikTok but even if you tried to understand what it was, you couldn’t.

“So?” Grace asked, a huge smile on her face.

“Hum,” you said, sounding uncertain. “Cool video! Are you leaving me for a TikTok career?”

She laughed out loud. “What?! You’re such a dumbass sometimes,” she showed you her phone again. “This, my love, is the New Jersey Devils account.”

“People who praise the devil like my songs? Didn’t see that coming…”

“Sophia, don’t you fucking tell me you don’t know who they are!” Grace furrowed her eyebrows.

“Hum… I do?” You lied.

She made a weird sound, which sounded a lot like a frustrated scream.

“They’re hockey players, they are in the NHL, National Hockey League. And this video alone has three million likes. And why, you ask me, little puppy,” Grace started using her theater kid voice and you rolled your eyes.

“Probably because they’re hot, I don’t know?”

“I thought that too. But then, I went to check the comments, and all of them were talking about your songs. So I watched the video and I realised, half of the team, grown ass men, were listening to your songs!”

Raising your eyebrows in shock, you watched the video again. And Grace was right. It was one of those “what are you listening to?” videos, but with a bunch of men wearing suits. And at least half of them said one of your songs. Mostly Nonsense, Espresso, Read Your Mind, and, shockingly, one of them even said one of your oldest songs.

Apart from that, the video’s caption said “should we make a Sophia Montenegro x NJ Devils collab??” and, to your absolute surprise, more than a half of the comments said “yes, collab, please!”

Which made you laugh. You were used to all sorts of people listening to your music. Kids, teens, adults, even old people sometimes, but hockey players? Those big ass men who liked to beat each other up during the games?

“That’s new, huh.”

“Apparently, people went crazy over the fact that they listen to your songs. And that’s not even the best part,” Grace squirmed. “Their marketing team reached out to your marketing team,” she pointed to herself. “And they asked you to perform at one of their charity dinners next month!”

You both yelled and jumped out of your seats to hug each other and jump around— being careful with her new Goddess braids. You were so grateful to have someone like Grace to help you out.

“This is, like, a huge thing for you, honey,” Grace teared up a little bit. She cried almost every time you got a new job. “They want to set up a meeting with you, nothing too fancy. They said something about the end of the hockey season and whatever that means, they want you in it.”

“That’s awesome, right?” You smiled. “I’m certain that you said yes already but I’m still going to ask you. Did you?”

“Duh, ‘course I did. You have a meeting with,” she looked at her phone again, reading something. “Shanon Anand tomorrow morning.”

“I love you, Grace Morgan.” You whispered, looking at the woman in front of you, your heart feeling full and warm.

“I love you too, Sophia Montenegro. Let’s rock some hockey boys.”

—♡

TURNS out that Shanon Anand is a very beautiful woman, with Indian features and a smile that would make any dentist proud.

“We are very pleased to have you here, Mrs. Montenegro.” She had a bit of an accent and it was so cute.

You smiled. “Thank you. It’s an honor, really. And please, call me Sophia.”

“Alright, Sophia it is,” she smiled back. “So, I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Hockey world but we’re currently walking towards the end of the seven month season.”

“I have to be honest with you, all I know about hockey is that they skate on the ice and beat each other up. That’s about it, I fear.” You felt your face getting warm.

“It’s alright, dear, no one’s going to ask you questions about Power Plays or penalties,” Shanon laughed and you sighed, thankful. Interviews were something you actually enjoyed doing but answering questions you didn’t really know the answer sucked. “We will hold a charity gala next month, and Grace told us you are available?”

“I am, yeah,” you opened your planner, looking at your summer schedule. “I do have to be in California by the second week of April to perform at Coachella but before that, I’m free.”

“You would be needed in the last week of April, on the 30th. Is that okay?”

“I think so, yes,” you nodded. “Do you have a preference for a performance or?”

Shanon grabbed a huge binder and opened it. “Actually, we do have a few requests, I hope you and your team don’t mind them,” you nodded, grabbing a pen just in case you needed to write anything. “First things first, we’d really like it if you kept it all PG,” she smiled, looking embarrassed.

You laughed, nodding with your head. “I expected it already. Don’t worry, I’ll try to keep my dirty mouth closed.”

“Perfect, thank you. Besides that, we’d request for at least three songs, and if you could maybe sing an acoustic version of them? It’s a night event and the vibes we’re going for are like, jazz club? Sorry if it sounds confusing, we’re still working on the details.”

“Acoustic? Yeah, ‘course. Do you have any songs in mind?”

“No, we thought it’d be better if you chose them. What suits your voice better and all of that.” Shanon ran her hands through her hair and blinked twice in a row. She looked stunning, but tired.

“Alright, I’ll think of a few options.” You nodded again.

“At the end of it, we’d like to take a picture of you with a Devils jersey, if you don’t mind?” She sounded hopeful.

“I don’t, really. I’m fine with it.”

“Perfect!”

The meeting didn’t last long after that and your mind was working really fast to try to have everything perfect. You still had more than a month to prepare so you knew everything was going to be fine.

At least you hoped so.

[hotchtits]

go on bby. talk about hotch. as much as you want ill read it all

*kisses you on the mouth sloppy style*

How I feel about this character

AAARGSHHSIDK AA AAAJDJEJ AHHHDJSJSJ

uh i mean he’s cool i guess.

no all jokes aside there are very few characters that are doing it like him.

he’s the leader of one of the most elite teams in the FBI. he’s a wet cat. he’s the epitome of traditional heterosexuality. he’s a boy kisser. he’s cold and distant. he loves his team more than anything in the world. he’s the next best profiler after gideon. he’s a massive idiot and a dork who collects coins. he’s got the skill level of a sniper/marksman. he does most of his team's paperwork so they can focus in the field. he’s no nonsense and straight laced. he seriously considered using web shooters at the FBI. he frequently catches an attitude with his boss, bigoted cops, and generally people in higher positions of power than him (and they just kind of take it). he has enough connections to get the italian government to revoke diplomatic immunity of a vatican priest. he's on a first name basis with the attorney general. he's kind of (at first) an absent father. he's a single mother of 6. he killed a man with his bare hands. he's so unbelievably gentle. he’s a white guy in a basic ass suit. he serves unprecedented levels of cunt.

what i keep coming back to is how much he cares. he cares about victims, he cares about unsubs (the ones that had justifiable reasons for being the way they are), more than anything he cares about his team.

the lengths he goes to to protect them or even just let them know he's there for them. he doesn't raise his voice, even when he's furious and when they lash out at him, he just absorbs it. aaaaaaugh. even roy, who hates his guts, he still cares about and still tries to make nice with for the sake of his son still having a grandparent in his life.

long story short i love aaron hotchner for all of his fucked up ways, big wet eyes, and self sacrificing demeanor.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

am i insane for saying the whole team? poly bau has a special place in my heart. i think he should get to have several boyfriends and several girlfriends. and his boyfriends are boyfriends and his girlfriends are girlfriends and they're all just happy.

hotch x happiness thats actually my favorite ship.

i mainly go for hotchgan, though, they make me want to rip my hair out. their push and pull, their similarities, hotch's head vs morgan's heart. kill me please.

i feel like him and rossi couldve also had a thing back in the preshow days. they give The Subway by chappell roan when he comes back in season three there is nothing casual about them.

hotchley before the divorce was so sweet :( i have such mixed feelings though because i can see how both of them would be frustrated with the other.

john blackwolf gets to be here as a treat because i think they would be absolutely destroy a buddy cop comedy thats actually a slowburn enemies to lovers. im aware this is just the plot of The Tribe.

My non-romantic OTP for this character

jessica brooks. im being so serious she stepped up in a way that very few others did. her offering to look after jack after hailey dies, staying with him when hotch gets called away, defending him against roy. also their banter is wonderful they r sooo siblings to me.

him and garcia are a very close second. obviously her and morgan are It but we gotta start putting some respect on him and garcia because

“i know you see the best in people, and i’d never want you to change that”

and the way she stayed with him when he collapsed in s9 aaarggh.

also hotchniss but as a wlw/bisexual friendship. they both agree that hotch has awful taste in men and that emily is a useless lesbian.

My unpopular opinion about this character

i mentioned this in someone else’s ask about unpopular HCs but i dont think he’s this #daddydom character in bed that people write him as. (disclaimer, headcanons are headcanons and im not bashing them, this is just what i think)

i can see him being dominant in bed (tho im a sub!hotch truther) but i dont think he’d go in for sadism or degrading or anything like that. given his childhood abuse, i cant imagine he’d enjoy hitting his partner or making them cry (even if it is consensual). in the show, he's very overtly gentle, especially with the people he loves.

i also dont think he’d enjoy a big age gap relationship with a subordinate either (i also see this being floated around). my man is a stickler for the rules and if theres a fraternization policy, i doubt he’d break it. im aware i sound like a massive hypocrite bc i ship him w the team but im mainly talking about x reader pairings here.

i was actually gonna put a different headcanon here but i saw a stepdad!hotch x reader fic and i,,, just,,, no. again write whatever you want but he Would Not Fucking Do That lmao.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

PISSED BEYOND BELIEF WE NEVER GOT AN “AARON” EPISODE

i guess 100 was kind of in the same vein but Reid got both “Revelations” and “Spencer” so i think we deserved an “Aaron”

for the love of god expand on his backstory. he was sent off to boarding school, he was a lawyer, a federal prosecutor, he was on SWAT, he's an accomplished sniper, he was with the BAU for something like 8 years before the show started i think. where is he finding the time for this?

[slyvester101]

Club au where the reds and blues work at a club that Carolina owns and totally doesn’t use as a cover for the undercover work she’s doing in the city with the Freelancers to take her corrupt asshole of a father down.

Church, being Carolina’s sister, hangs around the club basically every night since he gets free drinks and has become the official unofficial manager and recruiter for the place since Carolina and the Freelancers are usually too busy going on missions to take down warehouses or gang members working for her dad, planning missions in the rooms upstairs, or acting as innocent members of society that totally aren’t plotting to kill the Director and tear his illegal operations down.

The first of the reds and blues he hires is Sarge and Lopez, who are the club’s cooks. Sarge haphazardly tosses ingredients into a bowl and it comes out edible somehow? He doesn’t even toss in the necessary ingredients for the food; he put a chicken, a bag of chips, a whole bottle of garlic seasoning and a watermelon into the oven and out comes a beef burger with loaded fries. Lopez is in agony trying to figure out how he does it. But it always ends up good. In fact, it’s so good that it ups the club's foot traffic and creates a much better cover to all the cartel members coming in and out to talk with the Freelancers.

Grif and Simmons come next, Grif being the no nonsense bartender who gets to listen to all the juicy gossip going around the club as well as the annoying drama that gets dragged to his bar. He makes a damn good drink so the bar gets a little crowded when he’s clocked in and he complains endlessly to Simmons.

Simmons is a waiter/occasional assistant cook who can guess a person’s order just by looking at them (something about statistics and body language and a bunch of stuff that Grif calls him a nerd for) as well as know their intent and reason for being there with just a couple words. He weeds out a lot of undercover cops. They both get scolded since they constantly get distracted while flirting talking at the bar.

Tucker was next, a dancer with enough spunk and spite to fill the whole club and moves that leave everyone jaw dropped and star stricken. He loves dancing and loves entertaining the crowd even though he has to deal with a lot of shit (he can split-kick a sucker unconscious if they even think about touching him because unfortunately, people think they have the right to touch you when you show off a little skin and dance in front of a crowd. Sometimes people think they have the right to touch you just because you exist and they’re an asshole). But it pays well and he gets the freetime to spend with his son, who is the main reason he works hard for those extra tips to support him, so it makes up for the less favorable situations.

Caboose and Donut were hired one right after the other; Caboose being a bouncer who knows every patron by name (not always the right one) and can carry three full grown men over his shoulder with a smile on his face; Donut being a DJ/event planner/decorator extraordinaire and is basically just an assistant manager at this point with how much work he does with Church to keep the club up and running, but he refuses to take the title because it doesn’t “fit his vibes��.

All the reds and blues know some kind of illegal shit is going on with their bosses, but they stay willfully ignorant about it and only get involved when they think something will put the club at risk. They all love the club and all the people who work there so they work hard to keep it from being shut down by cops or blown to hell by a rival gang or whoever the fuck their bosses are fighting.

That being said, they’re all rather wary of the Freelancers despite Church’s insistence that they’re not bad people (mostly) and wouldn’t bring any harm to them (probably). Things are civil between the two groups, especially since the Freelancers are the one writing their checks, but there’s this underlying tension and nervousness that no one can seem to break.

The Freelancers are kind of disheartened that Church’s friends aren’t really keen to talk to them more than they have to, especially the dancer who hasn’t said more than a word to any of them and will literally get up and leave in the middle of a conversation to avoid talking to them.

This changes with the addition of Caboose and Donut, the two balls of sunshine giving the club a bit more energy, a lot more color, and a bit more balance.

No one is willing to anger the giant bouncer who can easily lift a table with one hand and the feisty DJ who can get you banned for life with another. There’s a lot less creeps roaming around and the whole club seems to relax at the changes Donut makes to the club and the safety Caboose brings.

Carolina seems to lighten up around Caboose, which in turn makes the reds and blues feel less on edge since she doesn’t look like she’s gonna murder one of them. York and North are finally able to get some more friendly conversation outta Grif and Simmons after Donut gets York and Simmons on a rant about hacking as North and Grif snicker at their geeky counterparts. (“I am not a geek! I am a nerd! There is a difference!” “The fact that you know the difference between a nerd and a geek makes you a geek.”)

Maine, who would sometimes work as a bouncer when not on a mission, finds Caboose rather companionable and likes to stand with him outside and listen to him chat during downtime. South comes by a lot more because Donut has somehow started a passive aggressive off between her, himself, and Tucker (and occasionally Church but he’s more overtly aggressive so he doesn’t really count). It’s a lot more fun than it sounds. Connie likes chatting with Donut and adores the gossip sessions she can get outta him, Grif and Simmons. There is a lot of tea to be shared around the bar.

Everyone agrees to keep Wyoming and Florida from meeting Sarge. That is a war crime waiting to happen.

Wash isn’t at the club often (none of the Freelancers are) and instead drowns himself in work with Carolina, planning and plotting and mapping and debating. He’s a bit more standoffish, a bit more gritty and a lot more like his Recovery One counterpart in canon. He’s cold, he’s calculative, he’s bitter, but he’s also patient and knows they can’t rush their takeover of the Director. It worries the other freelancers, seeing how mean and withdrawn he’s become, especially after knowing him as the upbeat, if nervous and oblivious rookie who did everything he was told with a smile and a lot of puns.

But he’s still convinced to come out for drinks to relax after a particularly stressful mission that went off without a hitch. For as distant as he’s become, he’s still a softy underneath and caves at York and North’s insistence that he needs to let loose a little after spending so much time under duress.

Wash hasn’t looked around the main level of the club since Tucker, Caboose, and Donut have been hired and is rather surprised by how lively and joyful the club has become. Caboose greets him with a smile at the door, happily introducing himself to the “new friend” coming into the club. He calls Wash “Mister Washingtub” and helpfully tells him that it’s performers night, so be nice and respectful to everyone who goes on stage or be kicked to the curb. Wash doesn’t doubt that with how massive the guy is.

When they walk in, he gets an armful of bright pink and a chipper blonde man guiding him and the other Freelancers to a reserved seating area near the front of the stage. York and North laugh at his face as he’s dragged by the hand of this upbeat man.

The whole club has changed since he was last there, much more open and welcoming, the decorations not as drab or outdated and the bar and stage have been renovated into something Wash can only describe as glamorous. Even the patrons and workers have changed, more smiles and jovial laughs echoing over the music, more people dancing on the floor or chatting at the bar. It’s so full of life and excitement that Wash is half convinced he walked into the wrong building.

He reacquaints himself with Simmons, the no longer skittish waiter with clumsy hands. He gets a polite smile from him before he rushes back to the bar to chat with Grif, the much more relaxed and not quite as grumpy bartender.

Wash is still reeling a little by the time the music stops and the man in pink is up on the stage starting up the event of the night. Singer after dancer after comedian go on and on throughout the night, entertaining the crowd and adding to the high spirits of the place.

It all comes to head during the final act, a dancer who has the whole crowd applauding before he’s even on stage.

Lavernius Tucker.

Wash is just as hypnotized as the rest of the crowd as Tucker swings and dips and spins around the pole on the center stage, showing impressive feats of strength as he pulls himself up and flips around with poise and precision. It’s beautiful and artistic and you can tell how much love and work has gone into the man’s routine.

The dance ends with thunderous applause and Wash sits there in awe at this graceful dancer taking bows and tips at the front of the stage.

Maybe he should come to the club more often.

[rcmclachlan]

screaming: alien invasion!!!!!!!!

slightly quieter but no less enthusiastic: pre-lawsuit alt meeting?

:)

Okay, so, I started a story around the alien invasion idea and then I thought, wouldn't it be funny if that's how they top the S8 premiere? Legit fucking alien invasion.

So I decided to write it as an actual spec script instead. I wrote treatments for the three episodes and have just started on the teleplays. For the season 9 alien invasion 3-part premiere event. Which will never be made. You know, like a completely normal person.

Here's the gist:

Episode 1:

The lead-up to the invasion! The episode opens with Los Angeles ARTCC, which has been dealing with odd radio interference all morning. They get a call from a pilot (guess who) who reports oddly behaving air traffic in his vicinity that isn't showing up on any radar. The scene builds until the call suddenly drops out. The rest of the episode is split between three subplots:

The 118 dealing with a weird call in which a no-nonsense bank executive is believed to be having a psychotic episode when he makes a scene about seeing some kind of spaceship in the sky.

Bobby and Athena having a discussion about the possibility of life elsewhere. Bobby's surprised that Athena is so adamant that aliens are real; he has a monologue about how the concept of aliens is in conflict with everything he's been taught about God.

Maddie, Sue, and Josh—who, thanks to the radio wave issues, hear the second half of Tommy's call to ARTCC when it glitches in to a 911 call that Maddie's working—evading some shadowy military figures. Terry gives them the call on a thumb drive, they end up meeting with Buck (who's going out of his mind because he's been unable to reach Tommy) and playing him the call (it's very sad).

The last scene involves Buck, Maddie, and everyone else convening at the 118 where they're met by the military people who've been chasing Maddie, Sue, and Josh all day. Just as a disheveled woman in her mid to late 50s shows up and claims to know Tommy, the spaceship materializes above LA. The episode ends as it begins charging up and Bobby shouts for everyone to get inside the station.

Episode 2:

This episode is entirely focused on Tommy. It begins with him taking his helicopter up for an early-morning joyride and then making the call to ARTCC (same dialogue as the first episode, but now from his POV) when he sees some kind of flying craft moving non-ballistically. He gets caught in a strange light that freezes his helicopter in midair and then pulls it into the atmosphere. Believing he's about to die, he asks the controllers to locate Evan Buckley at the LAFD 118 and tell him that Tommy loves him. Everything goes white.

Tommy has a very Fire in the Sky abduction experience, and he also meets some fellow abductees—including Dev, the woman at the end of episode one, who's with the Air Force out of Edwards AFB.

The subplots include:

Everyone getting to know each other. Tommy talks about Buck and how he was planning to propose the day he was abducted.

Tommy undergoing a harrowing experimentation scene in which he loses his left eye.

The group escaping once they determine it's been a week and the invasion is underway. They realize they're not the only species being held captive and free as many as they can. At one point, it becomes apparent that someone will need to stay behind to act as a decoy. It's Tommy, natch.

Tommy barely evading capture a second time and stumbling upon the ship's hangar.

The episode ends with him in one of the ship's fighter crafts, falling in line with a squadron as they make their way into LA airspace.

Episode 3:

The episode opens in Buck's kitchen, where Tommy and Buck are making dinner. Tommy tells Buck to cancel all his plans for his 48 because Tommy's calling dibs. The music playing on Tommy's phone switches to something slow and Buck laments about never getting to dance with him at Maddie's wedding. They end up slow dancing. Tommy puts his mouth to Buck's ear, but instead of whispering sweet nothings, it's Tommy's final words from his ARTCC call.

Buck is shaken awake by a soot-covered, exhausted Hen, who tells them their shift is about to start. Buck, equally filthy with cuts and bruises all over his body, allows himself a moment to visibly grieve, then gets up. They make their way out of the hollowed-out station, where the others are waiting.

The 118 (plus Athena) venture out into LA, which is in ruins. Ever since they dug themselves out of the rubble, they've been trying to find and help any survivors.

Subplots include:

Coming across people trapped in a collapsed restaurant. They're able to save two of the five. All the while, the last gasp of the military is taking on alien fighters in the sky.

Bobby having a major crisis of faith and nearly giving up entirely. He tells his team he doesn't know how much more he has to give. Hen tells him they can only do their best for as long as they're able (and it's implied it won't be for much longer).

A wave of alien fighters descending upon LA, which makes the 118 think it's finally the end for them. But one fighter breaks from the others and starts shooting them down. Eddie recognizes the flight techniques as American military and Buck is certain it's Tommy. Thanks to Karen's makeshift radio out of Athena's police cruiser, they're able to alert everyone nearby that someone on their side is fighting in an enemy ship and needs support. They watch the military join the fray and start taking down the other alien ships.

Buck and a battered but very alive Tommy are reunited.

The episode ends with everyone watching as various non-enemy alien ships, including ones recognizable from episode 2 (implying the some of the aliens Tommy helped escape have joined the fight) descend from the atmosphere. The tide turns.

ROLL CREDITS, BITCHES

[solomons-finest-rum]

Hello to one of my favourite Alfie fic writers! Since you're taking requests, I'd like to make one as well.

I don't know how it works but how about a scenario/imagine where Tommy gets in some kind of trouble (as always) and Alfie suggests that his lovely gangster wife could help and goes to introduce them but as it turns out it's none other than the Shelby's sister/cousin/relative/friend/or maybe even an ex? (Your call one this one) who they thought was dead or something?

Idk if it's even worth your time and effort but I just wanted to make a request ;) No pressure, of course!

Love you and your writing a lot!

“As The Crow Flies” (Alfie Solomons x fem!Reader) — PART 1

SUMMARY — By all accounts Anna Gray died in Australia and had no business standing in Alfie’s living room, nor calling the man “darling” for that matter. But there you were, identical to the picture they took when they shipped you off to the colonies.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Thank you to @zablife for being the most gracious beta!💗💗💗💗💗 and thank you Anon for this request, because actually it inspired a full-blown multi-chapter idea! So this is set around... Season 5 I suppose? But I'm going to ignore everything in it and Season 6 too. Let's pretend none of it happened and just focus on the fun part! That is driving Tommy insane and making Alfie say outrageous lines.

WORD COUNT — 2,286

Masterlist

In retrospect, Tommy Shelby felt he should have known better. He should have fucking known that the moment, the moment, he came to Margate to sort the bloody situation out, exactly two things would happen.

One, he would have to sit and listen with a straight face to Alfie’s inspired monologue, the subject of which had swerved from elephants to bank robbery in about two and a half minutes, and then managed to touch upon just about everything else under the sun.

Tommy remained quite sure that the sense of Alfie’s rambling had been long lost to history and the point of it all was just to talk him to death, really. Put him out of his misery with nonsense alone.

“Now then, Tommy, as I said, right, I ain’t the vindictive type, I really ain’t, so I am gonna help ya out just this once, right, outta the goodness of my own heart.”

Tommy managed not to roll his eyes. Barely.

“‘Cause I am a changed man these days, Tommy, an’ it can be that the old man that I am, I’m goin’ soft on ya, right, an’ so tradition dictates, mate, to ask for more than ten thousand for my troubles.”

Tommy raised a brow.

“But as things currently stand with the medical bills, on the account of bein’ shot in the face by some cunt, right… Fifteen would sound proper fair, mate.”

Thank fuck for small mercies, Tommy thought, then lit another cigarette and promptly got up to leave. Alfie apparently managed to settle both sides of the conversation, negotiations included, and their American problem could very well sort itself out all on his own—thus proving to Tommy once more that the only thing he could really count on in this world had always been lunatics.

“Right, the fuck you’re doin’ now, sit down!”

Tommy frowned and remained standing, cigarette in the corner of his mouth and sheer outrage emanating from his entire person. The question of “what in fuck’s name do you want now, you crazy bastard?” overtook his face.

“Right, I need to make a bloody phone call,” Alfie said then, which explained exactly nothing.

Yes, that was the second thing Tommy had been so sure would happen. Alfie would first go on a tangent, then formulate a plan that involved three separate layers of deception, a bribe, and a crate of dynamite (probably).

Then Tommy would get caught in the middle as bloody always and Polly would have his head for going along with Alfie’s plan in the first place.

What he didn’t expect was for Alfie to change his tone of voice completely as soon as the person picked up on the other end:

“Yeah, darlin’, it’s me. Come to the house, alright? Right, ‘cause I need ya here for somethin’. No, not like the— Bloody hell, woman, just don’t fuckin’ argue with me for once, alright?”

Sometimes a rare occasion would present itself for Tommy Shelby to become fucking speechless. Truth be told, he remained rather surprised that two such occasions had also involved Alfie Solomons, undoubtedly purely for the Devil’s bloody amusement.

“Who was that then, Alfie?”

“None of ya fuckin’ business.”

Tommy had a sneaky feeling there wasn’t a clever enough question in existence that could have pushed Alfie to say anything more. He looked smug as hell for having pulled that stunt off so Tommy was willing to see it through.

For old time’s sake.

The sun was setting and they had another drink, then Tommy let Alfie go on another tangent about… Tea import. Perhaps. Who knew, he wasn’t really listening.

On drink three Tommy was alerted by a car pulling up to the house, followed by a door slam and a rhythmic clacking of high heels on the porch. Tommy looked to Alfie, but the man remained infuriatingly calm.

Just as Tommy was about to reach for his gun, the door to Alfie’s study opened unceremoniously and a scent of expensive perfume wafted across the room. Tommy turned around and tried his best to keep up the indifferent facade, but failed miserably. Nothing could have prepared him for you walking through that door, with a giant bodyguard no less, following you like a second shadow.

“Alright there, Billy?” Alfie greeted the bodyguard casually and the man grunted in response. “Right then, might ya wait in the car for us, mate? This whole bloody business will take a minute.”

Tommy then watched as Alfie approached you and planted an affectionate kiss to your cheek, at which point Tommy stood up abruptly.

For a moment he just stood there and stared; a state he didn’t find himself in too often these days. 

“Darling, are we having guests?” you asked Alfie in a tone so familiar to Tommy; so like your mother. Pleasant, on the verge of sarcastic. 

By God, either that Camden bastard was a magician or you had a twin sister that Polly never mentioned. Because it wasn’t possible… It couldn’t be you. Not according to the file he stole from the parish. By all accounts Anna Gray died in Australia and had no business standing in Alfie’s living room, nor calling the man “darling” for that matter. But there you were, identical to the picture they took when they shipped you off to the colonies. 

“Right then, Tommy, might I present my lovely wife,” Alfie said. “Sweetie, this here is Tommy Shelby, right, all the way from the ungodly place they call Birmingham—”

“Tommy Shelby?” you interrupted and looked at Tommy with a smile so like Polly’s that Tommy nearly lost his composure again. “My, my… And there you went and promised you were done with the life, Alfie.”

“Right, an’ how could that—”

“Anna,” Tommy interrupted what he was sure was a budding monologue from Alfie. 

“Yes?” you asked. “You know my name?”

“I… Know your mother.”

“Know?” There it was again. That curious smirk of yours that could really mean anything. Tommy found it harder and harder to keep up the charade.

“But that’s not possible, Mr. Shelby.”

“What’s not possible?”

Your tone remained polite, but your dark eyes said it all. The expression of quiet resolve Tommy thought only one person capable of delivering with such resentment.

“I’m an orphan, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy said nothing to that, because what in hell could he even say? All of a sudden the American issue faded into nothingness, replaced solely by the phantom standing before him.

“So you did not lie, I see,” you turned to your husband with a quizzical expression, seeing as Tommy went quiet again. “He really is as strange as the papers make him. No matter, though, Mr. Shelby, I hope you like chicken? My husband insists I’m a terrible cook, but you must stay for dinner.”

Tommy nodded mechanically and put out his cigarette just to busy his hands with something. When he looked at Alfie, though, Tommy noticed how the man’s mouth twitched, clearly indicating the scheme was playing exactly how he wanted it to. Mad bastard, Tommy thought. There was no saying if he was being played or tricked or helped. Probably all at once, but solely for Alfie’s benefit of course.

“Right, curious as I am, luv, what delectable fuckin’ option you maimed and butchered for dinner, Tommy isn’t stayin’—” Alfie then stopped himself when two sets of identical Shelby scowls got directed his way.

Tommy did stay for dinner and made sure to clean his plate, too. He didn’t mind the food at all; it reminded him of Polly’s simple cooking back in the day when she would take care of Tommy and his siblings in Small Heath.

The more he listened to you talk and bicker with Alfie, the more of your mother he saw in you and the angrier he got at seeing you here of all places, as Alfie’s wife, unable to speak to you in plain terms. Tommy wasn’t exactly sure which made him angrier, though—the fact that you were Alfie’s wife or the fact that the sly bastard had kept you from your true family for who knows how many years. How did he even find you?

All the questions he had were still swirling around in Tommy’s head and he wasn’t particularly paying attention to anything else, besides staring daggers at Alfie. He was hoping there would be a moment to talk to you alone, but of course your husband would never allow it. He watched Tommy like a hawk the entire evening, sometimes with just a hint of a smile to suggest he was still three steps ahead of everyone else.

“See you never got accustomed to that fancy cookin’ they’re offerin’ ya at the mansion these days, Tommy,” Alfie said, undoubtedly truly enjoying the charade. “Tommy’s an MP, darlin’, right about two steps from gettin’ a knighthood I reckon. Yeah, a real prince he is.”

The way Alfie said the word was so clearly a jab at Tommy’s ancestry that he didn’t even flinch. What he was curious about was your reaction, but you remained perfectly pleasant: 

“Don’t tease, love, we haven’t had guests in ages and I’m not letting you drive this one away.”

When the maid took away the plates, you lit a cigarette in a swift overdone gesture and Tommy was once more taken aback with your resemblance to Polly. 

“Well, I’ll leave ya both to it,” you announced as you got up. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Shelby.” You extended your hand and Tommy shook it. “I know you tried your best with the chicken and I appreciate it,” you paused and tilted your head to the side as if sizing Tommy up.

“I rarely trust your husband’s judgement,” he replied.

The way you smiled reminded Tommy of a cat that got into the pantry. He decided not to think about it too much.

“I see. Goodnight then, Mr. Shelby.”

As soon as Tommy heard you got upstairs, he turned to Alfie who, unsurprisingly, already had a gun pointed at him. It was a casual way of it that was the most infuriating—Alfie’s hand was more so resting on the table and the gun just happened to be there, pointing at Tommy. 

“Now then, Tommy, let’s be reasonable about this, mate.”

Tommy clenched his jaw and remained silent, but his murderous glare said it all.

“There are four people at the house, right, includin’ you, me, my wife, then the maid… Then there’s Billy outside, right, who’s gonna be rightly worried once he doesn’t get my dismissal for the night. So I want ya to be real cold an’ calculated about it, Tommy, just like I know ya can be, ‘cause if ya decide to off me for no reason now…”

“No reason.”

“Right.”

“You’re old enough to be her father.”

“Yeah an’ fortunately I’m not, ‘cause that’d be right fuckin’ awkward at the temple, mate.”

“Temple?”

“What’d ya think, Tommy, that I smacked her over the head and dragged her into my cave?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Right, we’ll have to show ya the pictures then, she looked stunnin’.” Alfie leaned back in his chair. “Tell ya what, mate, why don’t ya come by for tea one day?”

“Tea.”

“Yeah. We have it, Tommy, we’re not animals.”

Tommy said nothing to that. He was still reviewing his options, but as he wasn’t a fan of spontaneous action, the patient approach seemed appropriate. The offer, though, just like everything else about the situation, was fucking infuriating.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Fuck you, Alfie.”

That finally made Alfie smile and for some reason he lowered the gun.

“Right, so seein’ as we’re family, Tommy, and what a happy coincidence this is, I must say, I feel like we should talk fuckin’ proper. None of that shit.” Alfie then gestured between them as if he hadn’t been responsible for “that shit” in the first place.

“We’ve been talking, Alfie,” Tommy deadpanned.

“Yeah, but then there’s still somethin’ ya haven’t told me about your American troubles, isn’t there, mate, so I’m expectin’ you’ll be more honest with me in the future. Now that I’ve brought the right arguments to the table…”

The hint of a threat in that statement almost made Tommy wish he still had his razor cap around.

“She’s Polly’s only daughter, Alfie.”

“Right, I’m aware of that.”

Tommy nodded, feigning understanding between them. As always, handling Alfie very much resembled handling a live grenade without a pin.

“This can’t be the way to end things.”

“Who’s endin’ things, Tommy?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, an’ I’m going to let this one slide, Tommy, ‘cause you just got a lot to process, mate, so I’m prepared to be understandin’.”

Tommy shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket, at which Alfie uncocked the gun. Tommy slowly pulled out his cigarette box, but Alfie never even flinched. It was gruesomely reassuring to still have been right, even in the position that Tommy currently found himself in. 

Alfie Solomons would always remain Alfie Solomons, even with the whole song and a dance about getting old and senile. He was still the same mad bastard Tommy came to know all those years ago, and as things stood, Tommy found himself wondering if this time he shouldn’t try poison instead of a bullet.

“Tommy,” Alfie sighed, “with three good eyes workin’ between us, mate, I really would greatly mind if I somehow acquired a fuckin’ tumour in my lungs, too.”

Tommy said nothing and he knew Alfie hated it.

“Which means put that shit out, mate, and listen to what I’m about to say, ‘cause I got a feeling you’ll really wanna hear it.”

[agendabymooner]

time to rock and roll || fa14 fic (1)

THE BREAKUP AND MAKEUP DUOLOGY — PART ONE

“when will you learn? i’m the queen and i’ll put you in your place.”

Summary: It was 2007, and Fernando Alonso had to learn the hard way that his ego and pride were getting in the way of the love that he built up with the recently-retired professional wrestler Trish Staedtlander. OR the 2007 Canadian GP left Trish no choice but to put on a brave face and show nothing but indifference. It’s safe to say that Fernando’s pride was immediately humbled by her words and impassive expressions as he begged her to come back.

Content warning: 2007 McLaren driver!Fernando, mentions the spygate scandal, exes-to-lovers trope(ish), use of explicit language, poorly Apple-translated Spanish dialogues, platonic!Lewis Hamilton x OFC, brief Jenson Button x OFC content, mentions brief alcohol consumption, jealous!Fernando, 6300+ words of nonsense.

Note: I cannot believe I have returned to my Nando fucker phase. Enjoy xx

masterlist

“¡Si así es como funciona, entonces me voy! Feliz jodido aniversario para ti.” If this is how it works, then I’m leaving! Happy fucking anniversary to you. 

“Vuelve, Trisha,” Come back, Trisha. Fernando sighed exasperatedly. 

“No, Fernando,” Beatrice Staedtlander was a force to be reckoned with. With enough time and money, she could do whatever with her life— yet she had chosen him. She expressed her feelings towards travelling with him, telling him that out of those 52 weekends of a year, she only had him for less than a half. 

He wasn’t keen on the idea of taking her to every race. The worst part about this was that he decided to turn her down at their second anniversary— three weeks or so after she initially proposed the idea of being around him more often through a call. 

Was it because of the grid girls? She asked herself. Because she was certain that she could take it. She fought against the most attractive women in the wrestling industry before, hell she was declared the poster girl for all of them. She definitely had no problem— knowing that she was the one that the Fernando Alonso would come home to. 

She tried to explain to him that she was fine with any kind of issues that may come as they travel. She could adjust for him. But that wasn’t why he kept rejecting her. 

He could have simply said that he didn't want to be angry at her if he had lost. It was much better to cool off on the flight back to Canada instead of having her witness him in the worst way possible. He could have said all of that, but all he said was that he didn’t want any distraction. 

Was that what he really thought of her? All those times she had been with him and he’d be reading something while she spoke… is she just a distraction? Seventeen weekends to compete and another twenty to prepare for the season and all she was to him was something to fill up his schedule?

She really shouldn’t have flown to England for this. She could have just left him working at the McLaren headquarters for his break until the next race.

“I’m going home,” she told him firmly, her voice shaky as she stood there. Her hand gripped the handle of her suitcase as she spewed out, “17 weekends are what I always miss, Fernando, and twenty of those you’re always working or out— so if I’m just a distraction then I’ll make sure to make the rest of your 15 weeks as peaceful as they can be. I don’t want to see you so please don’t come to my house.”

She slammed the door on him and left as soon as she hailed a cab— it took her three minutes to do all of that. Yet it took Fernando five minutes to catch up with her but she was nowhere close to him. She wasn’t in the lobby nor outside waiting for a taxi. 

She already left.

“I shouldn’t have retired early.” “You had a bad injury last year, you had to retire early.” 

“How do I unlearn Spanish?” “Don’t speak it.” 

“Seriously, I really would just like to stay at home and not be here,” Trish whined, playing with the ice on her empty glass. “I’m not fully miserable, guys. Why am I having some sort of intervention?” 

“Psh,” Amy scoffed. “I just watched you eat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s for an hour straight while you’re watching Dirty Dancing. It’s been exactly what— seven weeks since you broke up with him. You need the intervention, trust me.”

“I think it’s very brave of you to break up with him,” Jay told her with a slight shrug. Of course he would say that— they’ve dated for three months and Jay constantly flirted with her even after she began seeing Fernando. “Look, maybe if you try to attend the Grand Prix tomorrow you’ll have some sort of closure. You’ll see his face and realize that you deserve better than someone who only cares for you if it’s convenient.” 

“I’m not going to fucking go— thank you,” Trish nodded at the server who walked away after giving her the second glass of rum and coke. Sipping on it, she found herself being stared at by her best friends. “I don’t even know why I decided to go to Montreal of all places! I could have gone to Banff for a vacation instead.”

“Because there’s a part of you that wants to support him,” Amy said. “He sent those passes to you in hopes that maybe you’ll watch him race.” 

“Tried telling him that before,” Trish huffed out petulantly, “look where that got me.” 

“He probably didn’t mean it,” Jay tried to reason out, leaving the blonde to glare at him. She had heard that pathetic excuse before, and she wasn’t about to hear that when defending what she thought was the love of her life. Jay caught the look in her face and grimaced, “Okay, poor excuse, sorry— but maybe there are some things that he hadn’t said?” 

“Did he ring you or something?” Beatrice raised a brow. 

Jay shook his head slightly, “No, but you’ve seen the man. Does he look like the type to ditch you because he’s looking for something new or something?” 

“Yes,” Amy and Trish answered, both looking at the only man at the table. 

Amy looked at Trish, “But Trish, come on, how bad could it be? We only have two days to watch— the chances of seeing him may be slim. Plus, we can pull some strings from Stephanie and maybe get some extra privileges that come with the pass?” 

“I do like the sound of that,” Jay nodded. “Talk to the McMahons. Probably find a way to get out of the McLaren area?”

“Yeah, I’ll call Steph or something. If not, I'm sure Shane would be generous enough to get us some other paddock passes,” Amy stood up and reached for her phone, flipping it open to contact their former employer’s daughter. She walked away from their booth. 

Trish sighed and realized that her drink was empty.

“She’s not calling Shane right? Like my ex, son of my boss Shane just so I can see my other ex race?” Trish asked Jay with a ridiculing face, leaving the other Canadian to shrug his shoulders.

She wished she hadn’t gone to Montreal because she could feel his presence regardless of which part of the city he was in. Those weeks of being alone were hellish, if you were to ask them. 

Everyone had taken notice of the model-turned-wrestler-turned-legend when she, alongside her former coworkers, arriving at the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve. 

It was surprising, to say the least; she assumed that with what she was wearing - a low rise jeans with her custom buckled belt and some tight white tees - she wouldn’t have stuck out. She wasn’t sure if it was the buckle that caught everyone’s attention - or maybe it was the cowboy hat that she wore in the colour of McLaren. But everyone saw her and had taken photos left and right. 

Jay and Amy had also signed some things — seeing as the three of them were to become legends of WWE. They’ve gone around the grid and talked to people. Team principals were rather glad to see the three of them, telling the trio that they made a good impression as professional wrestlers during the Attitude Era. 

The three tried to cut the conversations short, not wanting to withhold the staff’s attention to their own racing teams.

Trish dreaded going to the McLaren area, not wanting to see her lover, Fernando, and feeling like she was imposing once more. Like he said, she was just a distraction… so she saw no reason why she should see his team before the qualifying. Her feet were backing off and she was ready to walk away. 

She would have gone had it been for a young Lewis Hamilton who caught a glimpse of the Canadian wrestler. He was quick to reach out to her.

“H- Miss Stratus!” He greeted her, nervousness written all over his face but he smiled nonetheless. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. My name is Lewis Hamilton.” 

Trish quickly recognized the name, “Ah yes! It is very nice to meet you, Hamilton. You’re extremely impressive you know? I’ve watched the races from the television and you’ve got a lot of potential. It’s too bad I’ve never seen you race in person ‘til now.” 

“That’s a lot of compliment coming from you,” Lewis chuckled meekly, “and you’re the one to talk. You’ve been an amazing wrestler and character during your active years. Some may think that your championships were nothing but a joke but I think they were rather fitting for your character.” 

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, “when someone tries to bring you down, it’s just easier for you to either ignore them or eat up the attention.”

“And you chose the latter,” Lewis laughed. 

“And I chose the latter,” Trish nodded. “As much as I’d like to keep talking I think I’m gonna have to cut the conversation short. I'd hate to impose and distract you—“

“Nonsense!” Lewis insisted, “Alonso’s been looking for you since we arrived a few days ago. I think he was worried you weren’t coming this weekend—“

“What?” Trish interfered, disbelief written in her face as she tried to comprehend what was just said. 

Fernando’s looking for her and he’s scared she wouldn’t come.

Her lover had always been confident, some people thought of his personality as something more boastful and egotistical. She always loved that he could get self-assured at times, and that he would often infect her with the same energy until she was at the same level of confidence as him. 

But even his fears could get irrational. 

Sure, the breakup became the talk of the month or whatever (so far there had been ten magazines that had written about it), but not once did he allow any personal problem to get in the way of his racing. Whatever happened in the tracks, he’d make sure to address it, but he would never jeopardize his race just because he had an argument with his parents prior to the competition. 

So his fear of her not being there? Trish was sure that he wouldn’t allow that to get in the way of his world drivers’ championship. 

“Yeah, really,” Lewis nodded in confirmation. “I know he had flown out his mother from Spain too, seeing as this was your country and all. Mrs. Alonso keeps telling me that Fernando’s been keeping you from her so she just decided to come here for you.” 

Okay, maybe there was a reason why he was scared. But they’ve broken up, have they not? It’s been nearly two months, why hadn’t he told Mrs. Alonso about their breakup? Perhaps she found out already, she probably just wanted to see Trish and possibly bitch-slap the Canadian. Maybe.

“Right,” Trish nodded. “I’ll see him around eventually. Maybe you can let her know I’m here? I’ve got to get back to my friends before the qualifying.”

“No problem, Miss Stratus!” Lewis grinned.

“Beatrice,” Trish told him, “call me Beatrice or Trish. Miss Stratus makes it sound like I’m old or something.”

“Alright… Trish,” Lewis chuckled. “I’ll pass the message to her for you. Hope you find your friends before it gets even worse in the paddock.”

“Thank you so much, Lewis,” Trish smiled softly at the man. “Good luck on your qualifying. Try to aim for the pole.” 

“I’ll work hard enough!” Lewis bid his farewell to Trish before returning to the garage. Turning away, Trish kept a small smile on her face before she set off to find Amy and Jay. There was a lot for her to say about what she just found out.

“HOLY SHIT! HAMILTON’S AT POLE!” Jay screamed, his mouth gaping as he turned to look at his friends with widened eyes. The shared flabbergasted look on Amy and Trish’s faces matched with the man as they yelled excitedly, trying not to jump up and down in joy.

“He’s fucking pole tomorrow!” Trish yelled, grin widening even more as she shook Jay’s shoulders.

“…I think you should be more excited for something else, Beatrice,” Amy poked Trish on the side, making the Canadian turn around to face her best friend. Amy pointed at the screen, all of them watching as a checkered flag was displayed next to Fernando’s name and his final qualification time showing up next to the second one. “Nando’s at P2 tomorrow.” 

Trish’s smile faltered for a moment, taking in the information as her chest swelled with pride. Her mouth returned to its curled position. She turned around to celebrate Hamilton’s pole position for a literal second and her man came running to retrieve the second position. Talk about a win. 

Before they could even leave the McLaren’s hospitality they were approached by a media relations member to let them know about being interviewed. It wasn’t as if they could get out of that duty— Martin Brundle would most likely be the one to approach them if they hadn’t been notified and if there was anything Trish had learned it was that you don’t simply walk away from him. 

“Trish, this is the first time I have seen you since last year’s Canadian Grand Prix,” Martin started once he introduced the three. “With what’s happening between you and a certain McLaren driver, or what even happened, how do you feel being in the circuit?” 

“Well, I am quite excited for tomorrow. Seeing McLaren with a pole and a second position made me feel so giddy,” Trish grinned. She wasn’t lying, but she didn’t mention him nor the comment that Martin made about their famous break up.

“Rumour has it that you weren’t planning to go this year,” Martin asked her. 

Amy decided to answer for Trish, “She wasn’t supposed to. She didn’t want to, I mean. And I know that this had been her tradition since she got her what— fifth— sixth Women’s Championship title?” 

“Fifth,” Jay piped up, “if it’s 2005, yeah it’s fifth.” 

“Yeah, so this was something that she had been doing since 2005 and if there’s anything that I knew since working with her was that she doesn’t like to skip out of certain traditions. We had to drag her ass out of Toronto a few days ago because well, we didn’t want to waste the passes given to us by a generous driver,” Amy continued, smirking towards Trish’s direction. The Canadian shot her best friend a look. 

“Quite the generous driver, indeed,” Martin said, “have you three congratulated him by chance?” At least the man wasn’t singling her out now. 

“We have not,” Jay answered, “we were planning to call it an early evening after we speak to their team principal however—“

Meanwhile, next to the trio stood Lewis Hamilton, who was being interviewed as well. He spoke about landing on the pole and how confident he was tomorrow. 

Trish thought she misheard what he said as he continued, “I’ve seen Trish Stratus earlier. Trish told me today that I should get the pole position, and obviously being one of my favourite wrestlers and all— I can’t disappoint her.”

“She’s just right next to you actually,” Lewis’ interviewer pointed, making the cameraman pan his camera towards the wrestler who then turned only to see Lewis and the camera in her direction. 

“Oh Lewis!” Trish exclaimed, interrupting the conversation between Amy, Jay and Martin as she apologized meekly, “Sorry, Martin. I’ll just move aside for a moment to speak to Lewis.” 

Then she walked three steps towards the driver, “Can I give you a hug? Congratulations!” 

Lewis took that friendly offer as he grinned, finally pulling away as he said, “Thank you, thank you! We were actually just talking about you and how you told me to get the pole position.”

“And clearly Lewis fulfilled it,” Trish giggled, clapping him on the back. “It’s going to be really exciting to see you tomorrow. And I’ve heard this is your first pole?” 

“It is, it is,” Lewis nodded eagerly. 

“God, I am so happy for you, Lew!” Trish exclaimed.

“And what do you think about McLaren getting another higher position on the grid tomorrow with Fernando Alonso getting a P2?” The interviewer asked, making the wrestler pause for a moment. Her face remained impassive, not wanting to give the papers more things to write about. 

Her quick thinking, thankfully, led her to respond with, “I have always been supportive of each driver and just like the previous races, I never failed to believe that Fernando Alonso would be able to make it in the top ten. Each race that I have been to— I rarely go now— always has the same result with him being successful one way or another.” It was so nice having a media relations manager in WWE. At least she knew how to respond without losing her shit at people who kept on bringing up her ex.

“Do you think that his success in the races you make your appearance in would have to do something with you?” The woman across from the British and Canadian continued to ask, a smile on her face was rather genuine— if you would ask Trish. It was as if they were asking about a romance that had somehow brightened up the racing and wrestling community’s images. 

Everyone did tell her and Fernando that while their relationship was made public they somehow managed to show genuineness instead of the fake smiles and pretentious display of affection. 

So it never hurt for Trish to reminisce no matter what their situation was now. Trish answered the interviewer and said, “You know… that’s something that isn’t up to me. I know for a fact that Fernando was always made for this sport so me being there wouldn’t change a thing. I could be gone now and he’d still land in P2, you know?”

Amy: Gone down to the bar downstairs. Raikkonen and Button r here. R u coming? 

Beatrice: No, too tired. Enjoy though xx

Her room telephone started ringing by the time she shut her phone close, groaning as she glared at the direction of the phone. There was too much to unpack after arriving from the venue that she scolded herself for staying a little longer at the McLaren garage. 

Somehow she found a reason why Fernando refused to take her to the races. Being told that she was some distraction did hurt— but being left in the dark about what could potentially jeopardize his career was another. IFinding out about the information from Ferrari being passed to McLaren left a distasteful feeling on her mouth. She never wanted to take back her words of praise from earlier until now. 

All the more reason to avoid Fernando right? 

Right. But he was determined to make things right for them. 

When Trish answered the phone she initially thought that it was either Jay or Amy, exclaiming, “What? I texted you alr—“

“Trish, hija!” The voice on the other side of the call silenced the Canadian, feeling too stunned and unable to speak for a moment as the sweet voice continued, “¿Te parece bien que hable español?” Is it okay if I speak Spanish?

Trish swallowed the lump on her throat and stammered, “Sí, por supuesto, señora Alonso.” Yes, of course, Mrs. Alonso.

“Hace tiempo que no sé nada de ti, mi amor. ¿Cómo has estado?” I have not heard from you for a while now, my love. How have you been? God, those words were angelic. For it to come from her lover’s mother was a blessing that was hard to believe. 

Fernando’s mother had always expressed her fondness for the woman. Whenever Trish flew to Spain for holidays— all of which were spent with Fernando— his mother would always make sure that the Canadian had everything she needed. She even taught the younger woman a lot about Spanish culture. Needless to say, Mrs. Alonso enjoyed Trish’s company and vice versa. 

“Ah, ha sido duro, pero estoy trabajando duro para pasar el día.” It’s been rough but I’m working hard to push through the day. Trish felt herself smiling before it fell off and asked, “If you do not mind me asking… How did you find my hotel room number?” 

“Espero que no te importe, pero Nando ha sido muy reservado sobre ti últimamente. No me gusta ser entrometido, pero si significa para mí hablar contigo, entonces encontraré algo de sus cosas que me lleve a ti.” I hope you don’t mind, but Nando has been very secretive about you lately. I don’t like being nosy but if it means for me to speak to you then I’ll find something from his things that’ll get me to you. 

Trish nearly laughed at this. Mrs. Alonso, whenever the couple were miles apart, would take it upon herself to talk in the background and join in at the conversation held between Fernando and Trish. She was rather dedicated to keeping her relationship alive with Trish and the younger woman appreciated that. 

“¿Te parece bien si cenamos esta noche? Solo tú y yo, Fernando no estará allí.” Is it okay if we have dinner tonight? It’s just me and you— Fernando will not be there. Mrs. Alonso’s voice sounded more like a plea than it was a suggestion. “Tell me everything that happened.” 

And who was Trish to say no? After all, she was the Alonso that Trish liked the most— not that she would ever tell Fernando that. There’s got to be at least something to lie to him about. Especially when he’d done it multiple times. 

Their dinner wasn’t tense at all. It was as if they’d forgotten about Fernando for a moment as they chatted away, exchanging their thoughts on the current events and laughing about whatever.

Beatrice wasn’t too keen on telling Mrs. Alonso about the silliest things, but the older woman was a woman of detail. She needed to know how their relationship came to an end so easily. And instead of fighting back on it, Beatrice’s shoulders dropped as she started to tell Mrs. Alonso about what had happened weeks ago. 

“We’ve been together for years,” Beatrice said, dropping her hands to avoid playing with her food. She offered a rueful smile to the older woman. “Me hizo sentir como si fuera una carga.” He made me feel like a burden. 

Mrs. Alonso sighed quietly, unable to speak on behalf of her son. Fernando should be the one who would own up to his bullshit, and the pride that he carried within him hindered almost every good thing ahead of him. One of them being Trish. Mrs. Alonso figured that her son bringing his girlfriend along on a trip to Spain for holidays was a sign of love he could offer. 

But hearing about how he exploded and called her an inconvenience? Fernando couldn’t be more wrong and stupid. Even Mrs. Alonso called him that. 

He wouldn’t take Beatrice back home in Spain if she was just another woman to string along. He wouldn’t have lasted for two years in their relationship if he thought that Beatrice wasn’t the woman he wanted to marry. He hadn’t sat her down for three hours while drinking a bottle of wine, teaching her how to speak in Spanish at an intermediate level, just to toss her aside once he got her body trembling. 

A non-committal person would do things like that. But Fernando was in love with Beatrice. He’d see the grid girls wink and even put their hands on him, but not once did he ever try to get a taste of infidelity. He wasn’t like that. 

It baffled Mrs. Alonso to no end, but at least she expressed her empathy for the younger woman while telling Trish that she’d have a word with her son. 

Fernando was an idiot, and Mrs. Alonso was going to remind him how idiotic he could get. 

It wasn’t Fernando’s weekend this weekend, but it was Lewis Hamilton’s. 

And Trish couldn’t be happier for the young British driver. She spoke to him before his race about keeping his pole position all throughout the race. Then she told him that he’s becoming her favourite driver in the grid (which was true). Lewis Hamilton merely grinned and told her that, “I’ll make you even prouder then, hm?” 

And proud, she was. The moment he got an opportunity to be away from the media people, Trish didn’t take her time to drag Amy and Jay to find the man of the night. The Canadian merely rattled off at how exciting the race was for them as they were rooting for Hamilton. Lewis exchanged words and said something like, “I was nervous! I honestly thought I was going to fuck up at some point but no. I didn’t want you to see me race for the first time and watch me be shit at it.” 

Their conversation was cut short when he was pulled away by his press officer. Lewis had to beg his press officer to pause for a moment before giving the three a heads up about a party to celebrate his win. Trish hadn’t even realized what she agreed on, waving him off and nodding as if to tell him that he needed to go. He took this as a yes to the invitation. So when she received a text from him (when he took her number) about the details of the party, she only turned to her friends and said, “I hope you’ve got some nice clothes.”

Being invited to a party wasn’t on their agenda. She thought of staying for two or more days in Montreal to visit the basilica and cathedral church— and maybe she’d check out a farmers market and see if they’ve got a stall of local distilleries. So to be a guest of this race weekend’s winner? She was more popular than some of them yet she was worried about how atrocious she looked. 

She really lucked out when she managed to pull a going out top from her suitcase. A halter neck handkerchief top was what her eyes had settled on. Blue sequins were shining as she continued to hold it under her room’s light. She didn’t waste any time and prepared to go out tonight with her friends— and her new one, Lewis. 

As soon as she arrived with the two, her eyes scanned the place. The dance floor wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t crowded either. She saw Lewis by the dance floor and had chatted with him for a moment before she waved at him, telling him to enjoy his night. She immediately went straight to the bar and ordered a martini. 

Her eyes couldn’t help but wander, watching as bodies sucked in the air of freedom and happiness on the dance floor. She could see nothing but enjoyment, one that she craved the most after all those weeks of crying over some man. 

Her gaze shifted to a rather expensive space inside the club. She could see a VIP booth full of familiar faces— those that she saw while she walked around the paddock. If everyone were here, as Lewis had told her, then that meant…

“My, my,” she turned away from the VIP table back to the direction of the entrance, finding herself face to face with Jenson Button. He leaned against the bar counter and offered her a smirk. “Aren’t you a beautiful sight to see.” 

Thanking the bartender, she sipped on her martini with a scoff and asked, “Did that ever work on the girls you wanted to bed?” 

He chuckled heartily, shaking his head as he sipped on his drink — rum and coke. “No,” he teased, “it didn’t work on you, clearly.” 

Her face flushed before she turned away for a moment, hearing him laugh at the embarrassment that she felt. 

Regaining her composure, Beatrice looked back at Jenson. 

She knew that he was joking, but she had heard a lot about the grid singles; they were all trying to gain her attention when she attended the Grand Prix two years ago. Even now, there were still some drivers that were attracted to her. Jenson Button had an underlying problem and it was that his joke was half serious. 

She cleared her throat and pointed at the glass in his hand, “Fifth drink?” 

Jenson shook his head, “First.” 

“I don’t blame you,” raising her martini, she responded with a nod before tipping the drink over her open mouth. The burning sensation down her throat left her hissing quietly, making her companion chuckle in amusement. “It’s nice to know you get off at the sight of a woman in pain.”

His chuckle turned into a snicker as his shoulders shook. He then continued to joke along with her, “Not your thing? We can always compromise.” 

She bursted out of laughter, the burning feeling long gone as she exchanged words with him at the bar. 

What she hadn’t seen, though, was a quiet Fernando. He was sat at the end of the booth, the dimly lit area hiding the deadly stare that he held while Beatrice and Jenson laughed at whatever the fuck they were talking about. 

And as if God was laughing at him, the speakers were playing a remix of Beyoncé’s Irreplaceable. The song mocked Fernando’s vulnerable state.

“I can have another you in a minute, matter of fact he’ll be here in a minute.” 

He didn’t know how long he kept his gaze on the same place, or how many drinks Trish had while he zoned out. He shook himself out of his thoughts when Nico Rosberg called him, asking if he’d heard what the German just said. He only nodded but somehow he ended up being roped into a short conversation. He lost sight of her.

“Baby I don’t give a damn, I know your man’s nowhere in sight.”

Kimi Raikkonen, who had downed four shots of tequila throughout the night, decided that it was the right time to speak. He wolf-whistled as he peered over Fernando’s shoulders, his eyes squinting as he watched the dance floor. “Look at that. Jenson lied about being shit at dancing.” 

“And your eyes don’t tell a lie.” 

Fernando’s head snapped at the direction where Kimi pointed and his eyes narrowed at the sight. It wasn’t a pleasant sight for him. 

Because she was his woman. Not anyone else’s. Not Jenson’s. 

But with their dire situation, Fernando couldn’t call her his woman. She was single. So he painfully watched Beatrice’s face inching towards Jenson’s. 

The BAR-Honda driver’s hands were touching her hips as if he was holding a steering wheel. She smiled at him as if she liked it; Fernando knew she loved how his bigger hands gently rested on her waist whenever he’d sneak up behind her as she made their cups of coffee. Trish didn’t like how Jenson held her. Fernando just knew. 

“I know you wanna come with me tonight.”

Right. That was it. 

Fernando cleared his throat and stood, wordlessly walking away from the booth as he marched his way towards the two. His hand dragged her away from the British man, his face seething while Trish protested. She could’ve just pulled away because of how little force he had on his hold. 

Instead she just followed along as they ended up in a quieter area of the club. A rarity for such a loud venue.

“I can’t believe you,” Beatrice, rather than causing a drama, merely whispered the first four words that she offered him since she walked out with a “happy fucking anniversary.” 

“Trisha—“ he tried to reason out, but he was quietened by her glare. 

“Everything’s falling apart,” she told him calmly, “everything’s falling apart but you refuse to take accountability for being a part of it.”

He remembered the controversy surrounding McLaren and Ferrari. And how he was somewhat a part of it. 

Earlier today, he hadn’t even offered Lewis a congratulations on his first win. He bitterly walked off, frustrated at Lewis’ win and his P9 result. P-fucking-9. He’s been a two time world champion. Now he landed in P9? He was upset. It was even worse when he saw some televised interviews of Lewis and Trish being a little bit friendly as she showered the younger driver with support. Fernando was her favourite driver. Now it’s Lewis. 

Then he remembered how he got into a huge argument with her, practically lying about being a distraction to him just to save face. He hated how his pride got in the way of the things he needed, blaming others seemed to be a better option than accepting defeat. 

Beatrice continued on, “I gave you two years. I gave you half a year, Fernando. Why haven’t you backed out at the beginning if you thought of me that way?”

“I,” he paused to regain his composure, making sure that he was sober enough to speak. “I didn’t mean that.” 

“You were quite passionate when you were screaming abuse at me,” Beatrice muttered sarcastically. 

“I don’t, I really don’t— you have to believe me, mi corazon,” as of this point, he no longer had the prideful attitude. He didn’t care if he didn’t. He wasn’t about to lose her for good. “Everything’s falling apart and I wasn’t sure how to get myself out of it.”

“I could’ve done something,” Trish told him, “I could’ve been there to comfort you, to provide input— and I know jackshit about whatever’s happening. You didn’t tell me anything. How am I supposed to believe you after all of that?

“I can’t be the only one responsible here,” she continued with the pain that felt permanent. “You— ugh.” 

She angrily wiped her tears away, a slight smudge of her mascara showing her exasperation as she asked, “These papers— those people… when they ask you about me— did you ever try giving them an answer?” 

“Did you even tell them how much I fucking meant to you? Or did you just let it all show in front of the cameras because I’m not worth a word to anyone? Did you even bother to look and wonder how the fuck I was doing? After all of that fiasco last year— you weren’t even there!” 

“And that was my mistake, Trisha!” He yelled in the same tone as her. Were they ever glad that nobody could hear them with all of the bass boosting inside the club.

Her lips trembled, unable to contain her sadness. She wasn’t even upset at the way he yelled. She was just sad it turned out like this. 

He sighed, slumping down against the wall as he leaned his head back for a moment. He couldn’t talk to her if he couldn’t contain his frustration. But then again, if he continued to focus more on himself and keeping his composure— she’d walk away again because of the lack of words he had given her. 

His hand reached on her wrist, squeezing it once, “Just stay. Don’t leave, mi corazon.” 

“I’m not leaving,” she spoke quietly, slightly tugging her wrist away from his hold. Did he really think she’d leave? She only left months ago because she knew damn well that he’d much rather be alone… and that he didn’t want her there. “Only did that to make things easier for the two of us. I want to talk- and so do you, so I’m not wasting my time on leaving.”

Fernando Alonso never felt the need to explain himself any further to anyone, he could admit. He didn’t give that much shit what anyone would think, thanks to his ego. But he had never felt the need to explain himself this desperately before. He knew too well that the moment he watches Beatrice Staedtlander slip away from him would be the moment when everything ends for him. 

“Ojalá pudiera volver atrás en el tiempo para poder contarte todo. Sé que he herido a mucha gente debido a mis acciones y he hecho tanto por ti, ojalá no dejara que mi orgullo sacara lo mejor de mí. Mamá tiene razón. Soy estúpido porque te he deje ir tan fácilmente en lugar de tratar de mejorar las cosas,” I wish I can turn back the time so I can tell you everything. I know I’ve wounded a lot of people because of my doings and I’ve done so much to you, I wish I didn’t let my pride get the best of me. Mom is right. I am stupid because I’ve let you go so easily instead of trying to make things better.

His mind was set on panic mode and clearly the rambling of Spanish words showed it. His eyes, ones that were often playful or stoic, softened as he kneeled in front of her, clasping both of her hands as he said, “Please. Let me back in your heart, Trisha. Let me learn.” 

And she couldn’t even fathom the thought of refusing him. Because those two years of relationship didn’t build up to nothing. She hadn’t learned intermediate Spanish in his childhood home for nothing. She hadn’t stayed up late to receive his call for nothing. She wouldn’t have done anything as remotely outrageous as putting his driver number in her tiny bikini for a magazine cover if it hadn’t been for the love and dedication she had for him. 

“You’ve always been in my heart, Nando,” she murmured, peering down at him as she held his face against her smaller hands. Pressing down a kiss on his lips, she then said, “But god if you fucked this up, then maybe we really aren’t meant for each other.”

Fernando stood from where he kneeled, his lips capturing hers in a heated yet gentle kiss as his hand sat on her hip. He couldn’t even seem to answer, but it wasn’t as if he'd ever refuse her. She was someone he’d never turn down; not when he knew that she was it for him.

But this wasn’t the first time they’ve broken up. And this definitely won’t be the last time Fernando Alonso would find himself making the biggest mistake of his life. Thank god, Beatrice Staedtlander was there to remind him that his pride would only hinder his chances of making things right. 

[waynes-multiverse]

Soldier boy x breeding kink because we all know he has one 🥵🤰

@syrma-sensei

A/N: A fun one! Wasn't even surprised I got this one twice. Like lovely anon put it so perfectly, we all know that man has a heavy breeding kink, and I was all too happy to make his (and your) wishes come true. Let myself get a little inspired by the lyrics of the Zombie's song for this one 😈

Pairing: Soldier Boy x F!Reader

Warnings: +18/NSFW, drinking, celebrity name drops, smut (rough p in v, dirty talk, breeding kink, daddy kink, spanking, slight degrading, a technical age gap), naive reader, SB being a manipulative asshole

Word Count: 1.5k

Main Masterlist || Dirty Drabbles Masterlist

Time of the Season

April 1969

“She’s too young for you.”

Soldier Boy heaves an irritated sigh at his manager’s words but keeps his sparkling green eyes stubbornly trained on the young waitress who’s currently refilling Alan Arkin’s champagne glass. “Nonsense, Legend. She’s perfect. Just fuckin’ look at her,” he huffs and nurses his scotch.

“I am,” his manager insists. “She’s too fucking young for you. You’re technically turning fifty this year. Times are changing. You can’t just wet your dick with any pussy you want anymore. That girl doesn’t look older than twenty.”

“Twenty-three, actually,” Soldier Boy smirks cunningly. “I asked around. Prime of her life.”

The Legend scoffs and shakes his head. “Why don’t you fuck someone your age, huh? Like Katharine Hepburn?”

“You’re fucking kidding, right? That fucking broad is even older than me,” Soldier Boy bites and motions down two tables to the actress in question, admiring her little golden statue. He almost won one of those himself in 1951 for his biopic – not that he needs that useless glory.

“Do you know who has to clean up your fucking mess if you go a little too rough on this poor girl again? I do! And then there’s the reporters and the tabloids…”

“I’ll be careful, okay? Trust me. Last thing I wanna do is fucking break her,” he chuckles devilishly and empties his tumbler, flagging the young waitress down for another drink.

“Yes, sir? Can I get you another one?” She smiles brightly at him, shifting nervously on her low heels.

“That would be fantastic, doll,” Soldier Boy smiles charmingly up at her, causing a red tint to haunt her cheeks. “And how about you give me your name as well and tell me when I can get you outta this boring event, hm? Someone as pretty as you surely deserves to have some fucking fun, too.”

“Wow, I’ve never been here before,” the young girl gasps with eyes as wide as the illuminated Hollywood sign on the hills when Soldier Boy shoos her into his usual suite at the Chateau Marmont – room 29. “Was that Desi Arnaz in the lobby?”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” Soldier Boy mutters disinterestedly as he shuts the door behind them and wanders to the bar, pouring himself a glass of scotch on the rocks. “Lucy’s probably nagging the shit outta him again.”

“Really? But they seem like such a lovely couple,” Y/N, that's her name, says in surprise and eagerly accepts the glass of alcohol he hands her.

“Yeah, it’s called TV, doll. It’s all fake,” Soldier Boy forces a smile to his lips and sips on his drink as he leans against the dresser across from her, raking his eyes over her exquisite, hourglass body. Nice rack, juicy ass, and perfectly wide hips with a small waist he could squeeze between his large hands. With a figure like hers, she surely wouldn’t have any trouble bearing his sons.

“It’s so crazy. I grew up in a small town in Kansas. Never imagined any of this when I came here, much less meeting someone like you,” she explains, her cheeks blushing rosy-red.

Soldier Boy only chuckles, loving that he already has this girl exactly where he wants her without putting much effort into it. “Well, sugar, it’s my pleasure. Like I said, gorgeous girl like you deserves some attention,” he coos and saunters over to the bed, sitting down next to her. His hand reaches out and gently brushes a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, practically feeling the heat radiate off her cheeks from the simple gesture.

“I’m not that pretty,” she swallows insecurely and hides parts of her face. “Why did you pick me? There were way more beautiful and more important women in that room. I saw how Brigitte Bardot looked at you the whole night.”

Ben purses his lips, shaking his head. “Nah, you have something that these whores don’t have, doll. All they want is money and fame. I’m not interested in that. I’m not even interested in that for a fuck,” he lies before mixing in the truth, “You see, what I want is a family. A nice, obedient wife to come home to after a long, hard day.”

“Wife?” Her eyes widen in disbelief, but as he expected, she isn’t appalled by the idea.

His smile widens as he strokes the apple of her cheek. “Yeah, you know? Someone who takes care of me, can give me kids, make me dinner, bake a decent pie,” he tells her.

“Really? Well, I actually make a great blueberry pie. Even won a contest in my hometown a few years back,” she informs him proudly.

“See? I knew you were the perfect girl for me the moment I laid eyes on you,” Soldier Boy grins broadly. “And I mean, I don’t wanna impose, but you’re probably sick of waitressing and working odd jobs to make ends meet at this point, aren’t you? C’mon, lemme take care of you, huh? I can give you everything you want. You want a house? A credit card? Nice clothes? I’ll make sure every dream you have comes true, baby girl.”

For a moment, Y/N chews on her bottom lip before she meets his gaze with a hopeful look shimmering in her eyes. “You mean it?”

“Of course! I’d never lie to you, my sweet girl. You can trust me. I'm America's hero, after all,” he smiles slyly and lifts her chin with two fingers, forcing her to keep eye contact. “There’s just one thing you have to do for me.”

“Okay, anything,” Y/N all too eagerly nods her agreement. “Can I just ask your real name first? I don't wanna call you Soldier Boy during, uhm...”

Soldier Boy laughs lowly. “I’ll tell you in the morning, baby girl. How about for tonight, you just call me daddy, hm?”

“Fuck, daddy! Harder, please!” Y/N moans as he has her bent on the bed, crying out on all fours for him as he fucks into her from behind. Her perky ass is high up in the air as he grips the flesh on her hips, bruising her delicate skin purple, green, and blue.

Y/N has been a bit of a very positive surprise. So much so that he’s actually considering keeping the bitch. First of all, she’s deliciously loud. Dickhead Howard Hughes has already knocked on their door twice and complained about the unbearable noise level. Secondly, Y/N’s submissive and obedient and does just about anything he tells her to do. Nothing seems too shabby or naughty for that little whore. He fucked her throat till she was choking and crying, and still, she didn’t even whine once. She’s damn responsive, too, and comes faster than lightning. And last but not least, her pussy is probably one of the tightest ones he’s ever had, and if he didn’t plan on fucking a spawn into her, he’d love to fuck her asshole as well, but he supposes that one has to wait till she’s on her period, or better yet – already round with his child.

His balls tighten at the thought alone, slapping against her cunt as his thumb furiously rubs her clit to force another orgasm out of her. He just needs one more clench of his cock before he’s ready to burst as well and coat her walls with his seed.

“You’re gonna be my little breeding bitch now, huh?” Soldier Boy prompts, his palm sharply coming down on her asscheek as he spanks her luscious flesh, both globes already burning red from his constant abuse, but damn, he just can’t get enough of that noise.

“Yes, daddy… Wanna be full of your cum,” she whimpers needily and even pushes her hips back into him to meet his thrusts.

“Such a good slut you are,” he praises her and spanks her other cheek as well. “‘M proud of you, baby girl. You’re gonna make a great mother to our sons.”

“Fuck yes!”

“Gonna come for me again, hm? Need you to come one more time when I’m deep, so I can pump that pretty pussy full of cum,” Soldier Boy groans, spearing his thick cock in and out of her abused cunt.

One last harsh pound of his hips and Y/N breaks down, her pussy violently pulsating around his throbbing length and milking him dry as she takes him over the edge with her as her orgasm ripples through her small body. An animalistic grunt leaves his throat as he shoots hot ropes of cum deep inside her.

When he feels his dick soften, he carefully lays them both down, keeping her in place and his cock in her cunt as their sweat-clad bodies stick together on the filthy sheets. She’s breathing heavily, close to passing out, as he chuckles and lays a flat palm on her lower belly, gently brushing the spot.

“Fuck, you’re gonna look so good carrying my child, baby girl,” he whispers softly into her ear.

“Thank you, daddy. You’re the best,” Y/N mumbles blissfully, her eyes closing.

Y/N’s the sixth girl he fucked raw in the last couple of months. He always tells them the same thing but ends up fucking and leaving. All he wants is to know that his DNA is living on somewhere, running around in the world out there. But honestly? Y/N’s so perfect that he might just keep this one as a side piece and fuck a million more kids into her. Maybe he'll even buy her that fucking house.

Pfff, can you tell I had fucking fun with this one? 🤣

Btw, I've decided to keep the dirty drabbles open for now, so you can keep sending them in if you have more smutty thoughts and kinks to get off your chest 😉 I already have a loooot for Dean, so Beau, Jensen, and SB especially are very welcome! There's no timeline when I'll post them. I figured this could just be a fun little idea we can keep doing in between ☺️🤷‍♀️

So, you have a kinky request? Then fill up my ask box, bitches 🖤

Tag Lists:

Everything J: @extraterrestriali @this-is-me19 @writercole @awkward-and-indecisive @eevvvaa @panicking-outside-the-disco @globetrotter28 @imherefordeanandbones @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior @xlynnbbyx @jassackles @maggiegirl17 @perpetualabsurdity @deans-spinster-witch @deandreamernp @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @lyarr24 @deanwanddamons @deanwithscissors @mrsjenniferwinchester @justrealizedimmascifygurl @akshi8278 @flamencodiva @chriszgirl92 @wittyboldsoul @djs8891 @leigh70 @snowlovespie @b3autyfuldisast3r @ladysparkles78 @muhahaha303 @mimaria420 @creepzeyecandy @iamsapphine

[bloomingdarkgarden]

My unabridged and uninvited Bridgerton season 3 thoughts live as i binge-watched until midnight last night:

fuck this show is euphoric escapism soap opera and idk what whimsical crack they put in it but it always manages to make my heartrate go insane. My expectations were low, maybe because ive been starved for any tiny crumb of this whimsy idk but i feel atrociously fed so here we go:

colin u are acting like an instagram influencer and we all see thru u bye.

Nicola is the most stunning person on television 50 shades of aqua move over boys I'm first in line for her dance card.

I would sell my soul to satan to have a cigarette with Lady Danbury in her afterhours tea room.

ngl the resurgence of the season 1 orchestrals is BEAUTIFUL and hitting harder than the new covers.

cressida's hair needs a dedicated gallery space and im completely here for her humanization she is a ruthless sad hoe and i understand. creloise good morning.

pen and francesca bonding over being introverts>>>>

pen is the people's princess for real, bookish as hell and socially awkward until she has 3 glasses of wine and then she's real as fuck. mood.

OH MY GOD THE KISS THE NIGHT GARDEN THE SHEER STARVATION his hand on her cheek and he's looking at her like he just touched god fucking hell i had to rewind and watch three times.

Pen trying to impress Debling "I LOVE BIRDS' no she did not I spit out my wine. yes penelope yes. don't let anyone tell u you don't have game honey.

omg balloon drama lol what is this shit peak bridgerton nonsense.

benedict has the personality of a rug on someone's back patio, polite and unnecessary. the reason why his scenes are so offputting every season is because he has been depicted as Goofy from A Goofy Movie no i have not read the books but boy they are gonna have to pay me money to digest him as a love interest i swear to god.

ugh penelope is the most relatable female lead in this entire series i am rooting for her SO hard.

thank fuck lady featherington is willing to discuss penetration with her daughters they now stand a fraction of a chance of surviving the world. lady f for president.

i found francesca's placidity / passitivity about the next 50 years of her life v frustrating at first but she grew on me immensely and am looking forward to more of her screentime.

debling has kind eyes and i will be sad if he's truly jilted... bravo netflix for once again making me care about the beta characters.

this danbury man flirting with lady bridgerton hello sire you are gallant as hell, wake up lady b.

colin's entire world being ruined for penelope is actual nirvana.

THE CARRIAGE SCENE THE CARRIAGE SCENE I WILL NEVER STOP LOVING THEM I WILL NEVER STOP I LOVE THEM IM INSANE ILL NEVER STOP holy shit. colin asking if the carriage can just keep going and pen laughing because that's a gd ridiculous thing to say is peak friends to lovers i felt their friendship in that moment and im aching with it ugh they are besties with hormones GOD i will never. stop. loving. them idc idc idc.

can't wait to watch 75 more times goodnight.

[wyattjohnston]

playing house - jack hughes

series: we don't have no time to waste

summary: luke is staying with jack and daisy. daisy is equal parts excited and worried.

word count: 1,426

Daisy was bouncing on her toes at the front door.

There was an assignment waiting to be finished, due in less than twelve hours but she’d had trouble focussing since UMich lost their game—since Luke called Jack, half downtrodden and half ecstatic, to tell him that he was going to meet him in Boston.

It had long been decided that he would be in Jersey when his season ended and Daisy thought she was prepared for the day it finally came. But she’d yelled at both of them on the phone when it was clear Luke wasn’t coming straight to their place in Hoboken.

So, Daisy was waiting at the front door, barely keeping herself from opening it and staring out it, for Jack to arrive with Luke in tow.

The doorknob turned, Jack’s voice coming through with a “Honey, we’re—” before Daisy pulled it open the rest of the way, throwing Jack of balance, and then throwing herself at Luke and sending him off balance.

She grabbed onto Luke’s arms, spinning him around in circles as she shouted deliriously and nonsensically.

“Is Luke your favourite? I thought Quinn was your favourite,” Jack deadpanned.

Daisy stopped their spinning, took in Luke’s bewildered expression, before she shrugged and told Jack, very seriously, that she didn’t have favourites and that she loved the three of them equally.

“I already regret being here,” Luke chimed in, still stuck in place.

“You love It and you love me and you will love it here. If you don’t I will be very upset because I put a lot of effort into fixing up Ty’s old room and making sure you could make it your own and—”

“Breathe, Daisy,” Jack said behind a smile. “Let us inside.”

With one last squeal, Daisy gave Luke a proper hug before letting the boys lug Luke’s cases into the house.

Daisy appreciated that Jack kept his mouth shut as they walked further into the house—the level of effort she’d put into cleaning, and baking cookies, and clearly having down a full grocery shop, was something she only ever did for Ellen and Jim’s visits. It had been important to her that Luke walked in and felt welcome. It was also maybe a little important that he couldn’t report back about the heaping pile of clean laundry that substituted as their wardrobes, or the fact that at any given time there was mostly just enough food for Daisy to snack on and some assorted cereals.

“Rule number one is that you can’t complain about any noises you hear coming from our room,” Jack said while they were dropping things in Luke’s new room. “This is the furthest you can get from our room and Ty never said anything.”

“Ty was too nice.”

“Rule number two is no bringing random girls into the house.”

Luke scoffed, throwing his backpack heavily onto the bed as he said, “You’re such a dickhead.”

“You can bring home whoever you want,” Daisy said, elbowing her way past Jack into the room. “But no knocking anybody up—if you need condoms or lube or anything—”

“Jesus Christ, it’s like I moved back home.” He paused, thinking. “Mom and Dad might actually be less annoying.”

Daisy let out a muted, oh, and took a step back so that she was hiding more behind Jack. She felt her face fall and didn’t particularly want Luke to see. Jack knew it, though, looking over his shoulder as Daisy walked back.

Pointedly Jack said to Luke, “Rule number three is no upsetting Daisy.”

“Sorry, Daze, long weekend,” Luke apologised sheepishly.

“I can tone it down a notch. I just—I don’t know,” she shrugged instead of finishing her sentence because she was entirely uncertain of where it was going, anyway.

“Daisy wants you to feel welcome and like this is your home, too.”

“It is your home,” Daisy stressed.

“She’s just gonna be a lot nicer about it than I am. Which leads me to rule four—did I tell you you can’t bring girls home?”

“Fuck you,” Luke said, rather loudly as he started pointing his finger between them. “My first rule is that you guys keep your sex life to your bedroom.”

“One day,” Jack said sagely, despite the handful of Daisy’s ass he was grabbing, “you will understand what it’s like to have a smoking hot woman want to spend the rest of her life with you. She’ll never be the hottest woman in the room when Daze is around but she’ll be too good for you anyway so I suppose that doesn’t matter.”

Daisy rolled her eyes, chided Jack for comparing women even if the primary purpose was to poke fun at Luke and the second woman was hypothetical, and then pushed Jack out of Luke’s room so he could get settled.

When they walked past the kitchen, Jack backed Daisy up slowly into the counter, both to greet her properly and also, Daisy knew, to shove proposed Luke’s rule in his face if he wandered out of his room.

Any other day, Daisy would have kissed him back, would have let his hand wander up her shirt, would have happily been on the receiving and/or giving end of an orgasm or two but it was different with Luke in the house—it was different when she couldn’t wrap her head around all the effort she’d put in just for his arrival.

“I don’t really know why I tried so hard,” she said, mumbled against Jack’s neck as she buried her face. It was with total uncertainty that she said, “It might be about not wanting to disappoint your parents?”

Jack held her closer, his fingers only barely brushing the skin under her top. The undercurrent of laughter in his voice wasn’t directed at her when he said, “We’ve been living together for nearly three years now; been together for so long that I think that ship has probably sailed.”

“You’re so in love with me I could set this place on fire and you wouldn’t tell them,” Daisy said turning her face but still hiding in Jack’s chest. Jack hummed in agreement. “Luke, though… He doesn’t have anything to lose if he tells them that we had milk in the fridge that expired a month ago and neither of us noticed. I go to an Ivy League school, dude—I’m supposed to be smarter than that.”

“Babe,” Jack said, now laughing at her, even if it was light-hearted, “They weren’t even disappointed when I told them about the pregnancy thing. You couldn’t disappoint them if you tried. And, Luke will end up on the street if he tries. I’ve seen photos of his dorm and I will send them to Mom if I have to.”

Daisy had seen those photos, too, and the photos of the houses some of the other players on the team lived in—both Luke’s teammates and Quinn’s—and knew that Ellen and Jim were under no illusions about what went on in college. It was satisfying, at least, to know that Jack was willing to blackmail his own brother for her.

For something so minor, she also knew that he would have done it for fun, though.

“I just want him to be happy here,” she said, finally pulling her head away from his chest. “This whole thing is such a big deal for him and I don’t want to make it any harder.”

“He wouldn’t shut up the entire flight about living here. He’s fucking ecstatic.” After a brief pause, his face screwed up. “You don’t even drink milk. That one’s on me.”

She groaned, the memory filling her brain. “It was the grossest thing I’ve ever smelled in my life.”

“You smelled it? Daisy, babe, I think that’s enough to get you kicked out of Columbia. Even I know you don’t smell the expired milk.”

Daisy shoved Jack away, making various attempts to get him to stop talking—from telling him to shut up, to trying to get her hand over his mouth, to making loud noises to drown at the ensuing taunting.

She was making a break for it when Jack’s arms wrapped around her waist, her feet coming off the ground just enough that she lost all traction and hope of escaping. She shrieked—half laugh, half surprise—when she was caught.

Luke emerged from his room, didn’t even blink at what he was seeing, and bypassed them to get water from the filter in the fridge.

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[fellthemarvelous]

I can't stop with the Staged parallels (crossing over with Doctor Who and Good Omens)

I think the main takeaway from Staged 3 is that David and Michael are so co-dependent they end up driving each other crazy.

Michael and David were asked to do an advert.

Michael said no, and thought that meant they were both saying no.

Then David said yes after Michael said no.

And neither of them want to do series three, but David thinks Michael is going to do with series three without him and Michael thinks David is going to do series three without him, so they both agree to do it just to spite the other.

And Georgia is just sitting there after they agree to do the third series like

because she got them to do exactly what she wanted them to do while making them think it was their idea. She knows that everyone just really loves to watch David and Michael bicker so she keeps putting them in situations where she knows they are going to do nothing but argue the entire time.

As Lucy said in season two, "I don't have a relationship like that with anybody" (something like that) after Georgia told her that David and Michael's conversations are like gas, just filling the room with their nonsense because neither of them knows when to stop talking.

And all of this is the very reason that Georgia and Anna and Lucy and Lily (Michael's first daughter) and Olivia Coleman all jump in on the call to be like NOTHING LASTS FOREVER because Michael had just told David he thinks they need to take a break from each other and David was refusing to let go because he's clearly not good at letting go of things...

That was the real David talking. David loved being the Doctor so much that those became Ten's last words. (Why do you think RTD trusted David to bring the old era of Doctor Who to a close?)

That is the real fucking David Tennant right there getting a happy ending with his best friend, Catherine Tate, because Doctor Who will always be her home as well even though she still knows absolutely nothing about the show and I love her for that.

Just wait until we see both Crowley and Aziraphale smiling at each other like that.

Anyway, things are going to be okay. Just like Michael said.

[jolalibrary]

iv. sunshine yellow

javier peña x dea! f!reader | chapter four of nowhere to run

Summary: Determined to do it better this time, Javier Peña returns to Bogotá to take down the Cali Cartel. With a new promotion, office and team, what he doesn’t expect is the pretty thing outside his office—or why they’re not allowed in the field.

chapter warnings: season three narcos spoilers, no use of y/n, ptsd/anxiety, lots of worrying for no reason, smut, p in v, desk fucking. wordcount: 6.2k an: the last scene in this i am both excited and nervous to share cause the walls are coming down. tehehehehe. as always, the biggest thank you to my bestie and cheerleader  @guyfieriii who lets me send her random ideas and also to @yeyinde who puts up with my nonsense and instils so much confidence in me.

“Panama DEA said no warrant, no detention.” 

Sweat pooled at the waist of his trousers, his thumb digging into the space on his brow. “Fuck—“

“Plus, Jurado didn’t stay in Panama.”

Staring around, Javi sighs. “They know where he went?”

Silence. Horrid, crackling silence, before: “No.”

Running his tongue against the front of his teeth, Javi shakes his head. “So Jurado could be anywhere. Fuck!”

Stoddard clears his throat. “Also, boss. Fiestl and Van Ness have been trying you. A lot.”

“All right, well, put them through when you get them. I’m on my way back—and, Stoddard.”

“Yeah, boss?”

He drops his hand, straightening his spine. “Jurado has a wife in Bogotá. She’s American.” He drops his head, thinking briefly of you—your words of protecting him. “Put a tap on her phone.”

Three days. It takes three days, and the papers are signed for them to go to Cali. 

You stand as you watch them being signed, your throat tightening the same as you did when you overheard the first talks of it. Feeling eyes on you, Stechner’s in particular. Waiting for a reaction, wondering if the volcano will finally implode. 

You don’t give him the satisfaction, hiding it, bottling it—capping it somewhere deep under layers and layers, even as it uncoils inside of you. The former wounds and nightmares coming undone. Their soreness open to the world, thin cuts—barely noticeable, but they sting when the air brushes over them; when you’re alone for too long, when your mind begins to run. 

You’re sure it took longer—and far more paperwork—to order a bag of decaf for one of the secretaries, than it did to send two more people to Cali. 

It’s why you uncork a bottle of wine the day they’re signed. Coating your throat in it as you lean your back against the wall of your living room. Music flooding through your place, drowning out the ringing phone—muffling over hope and better days.

Cali does that, it unearths things.

It shakes the foundation you’ve cautiously built. Threatens to pull you through the soil back into the hole, looming in a corner like a shadow, ready to remind you that you’re not whole anymore—and to stop pretending you are. 

Dan is well-versed in your coping mechanisms. Approaching you before lunch, hand on your elbow—not noticing the pair of brown eyes which burned into the two of you through the blinds. You hadn’t meant to meet them, but it’s natural. A pull, a magnetism. A soft smile etched poorly across your lips as you allowed your friend to drag you away. 

The warm Colombian air clung to you both as you leaned against the marble embassy wall, the words washing over you as you dug your shoulder blades into the wall—pushing your feet into the ground. 

“You gonna be alright? Cause you look like you’re about to murder someone—“ “I’ll murder you if you ask me that again.”  Dan rolls his eyes, moving next to you, leaning. “No one would blame you for not being okay. That’s all I’m saying.”  Sighing, you stare at the ground. 

Time moves too quickly. That’s what you think when you’re pulling into the spot outside the coffee shop. The radio on low, barely smothering the thick and jarring tension caused by you taking them both to the airport. 

Dan is the first to escape, opening the passenger side door before you can even murmur a request. Chris remains behind awkwardly, sitting in it—letting it thicken and boil as you continue to grip the wheel. The leather under your fingers warming, the veins and tendons in your hand rippling under your skin as you sigh before stepping out.

You don’t follow when he steps out from behind you—even if you want to.

Instead, you lean against your car, sliding your sunglasses on—not for sight, but for cover. Big, dark lenses that are large enough to cover the bags under them and the tops of your cheeks. 

It’s easier, means you don’t need to hide whatever emotion rises, comes, and crashes. You can let it drench you, stop it from festering and instead hide it, discreetly behind the shields covering your eyes. 

It was Chris who told you that you showed everything with your eyes. 

The anger—the one which has become a part of you. The worries, which have been bubbling to the surface since you’d learnt it was them who were going. It all sits on your chest. Furious, like a dragon which can’t be tamed, all set to burn anyone in its wake in thick, boiling flames.

You let your fingers slide against your thumb, digging your heels into the pavement. 

Flickers of Cali come to mind.

The sun, the warmth—the yellow-walled apartment. The laughter, the flowy fabrics around your skin. Then it shifts, night falling in the edges of your memories, burning and twisting—tightening your chest as you remember scarlet stained hands, graffiti letters against yellow— 

“Hey,” Dan exclaims, his hand on your forearm.  You steady your breath, filling your lungs, placing your palm against the cool marble. Letting it thrum through your skin, and slide into your blood. Pushing into the floor with your heels, rooting yourself, grounding down.  “If you don’t stop doing that, I’ll have to hug you,” Dan says, cutting through your panic. “And that’ll be painful for both of us.”  “I’m…” you meet his eyes, watching the rest of his face look as it usually did.�� Stern. Difficult to read.  But his eyes were kind, swimming in concern.  “Please be safe.”  Snorting, he slowly releases your forearm. “If I had my way—“ “You wouldn’t even be going. You’d stick behind your desk, blah blah blah,” you tease, his elbow nudging you.  Dipping his head, he sighs. “But, ‘course I will. He will too.” 

It grows, the lump—the one which forms whenever you think about that place too much. When you let yourself think of late-night talks and ears pressed against sunshine yellow, allowing them to twist, morph and shift into a nightmare you survived—

Graffiti-covered walls; scarlet clinging to matted curls. 

Your hand shakes, flattening it to your thigh, staring into the shop—watching the two of them talk to the owner. The odd word making its way to your ears, not enough to know what they’re ordering.

You are cracking. Thick lines appear through your exterior, leaving holes for more things to seep in, to ruin, steal breath and pull you back under. 

There’s still pain under your nails from how hard you had to claw your way back to your desk. To the DEA. To stand straight and not quiver under the stares, hearing their thoughts: failure, failure, failure— 

“Got you a coffee.”

He’s holding it out, Chris. 

Blinking behind your shades, unsure when he’d returned, or how long he’d been standing there with his arm outstretched, waiting for you to take it. You’re thankful they don’t tremble when you reach out—your fingers brushing his as they do. Glancing past him, needing a focus, you watch the small vendor excitedly speaking to a less-than-impressed Dan, something which provides more entertainment than it should. 

It’s still there, the torment—the past which likes to torture. It makes your throat dry, making standing seem near impossible, especially as you stare at him. At Chris. 

Smirking, you shake your head. “How’re you getting to the airport?”  “How’d you know I’m not driving myself there and leaving my car.”  Arching your brow, you softly laugh. “Dan. The second time meeting you, you ranted about the ridiculous airport car parking prices. So, let’s say it’s a hunch.”  Shrugging, he fights with a smile. You can tell. He has tells—just like everyone. His being that one side of his lip slides up, just a fraction.  “I’ll take you.”  He arches his brow. “I was gonna taxi with Chris.”  Swallowing, you sigh. “Then tell him I’ll pick him up second.”

You say nothing—even if you think you should. So much history pulsing between the two of you as the sun slowly spreads its glow across the street. Chris just watches, staring through your lenses—trying to unmask what it is you’re hiding. 

As if he doesn’t know. As if he hasn’t seen it all before—far worse than this. Seen you at the lowest, seen you on your knees, scraped and bruised. So, you watch him, until he tears his eyes away, staring down the quiet street as he sips his drink. 

“Thank you. By the way.”

“No problem. I know Dan’s feelings on airport car parks.”

Chris snorts, dragging his eyes towards you, but not quite landing. “No. For... whatever you said to Peña. To consider this—to consider me.”

Rolling your lips, you hold the cup tighter. Looking over his shoulder at Dan, dread filling the space left inside of you. It expands, pressing against the nervousness—making something more disruptive, more uncomfortable.

“I’m also… I’m sorry—for how I’ve been. And before you lie, to protect my feelings, like you always do—don’t. Because it isn’t.” 

You lift your chin, letting your glasses slide down your nose. It allows him a glimpse, lets him see your eyes, lets you see that familiar look in his own, an expression filtering across the face your fingers had once known so well. Slowly, just as your shoulders unknot from your ears, you watch him etch himself into someone you used to know. Someone you used to love, care for... want.

He sighs, smiling. “I’m sorry. I know why you ended things… and I get it. It made—makes—sense I just—I missed you. And…”

“I pushed you away.”

“If I hear from Stoddard that the two of you became friends—” “I will not be becoming friends with fucking Stoddard, Dan. I barely wanted you.” He smirks, nudging you. “You’re gonna miss me.” “I think you’ll miss me more.” Scrunching his face, he sighs heavily. “Maybe. You’ve got Peña, though.” Hands dropping from the wall, you frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Nothing,” Dan says, shrugging. “Just seems like a good boss, you get on with him.” 

You take a sip from the cup, the caffeine exploding into your mouth—the rich, herbs and fruit smothering your tongue. It silences your mind, and allows it to settle. Returns to a low-simmer than an overboiling mess as you stare at your ex. 

The ex who used to be your friend. 

Rubbing the back of his head, Chris snorts.“Yeah, you did. But, I know… I know you, Lun. You were dealing with a lot. You were so strong, and yet so broken, and then we ended. And you, just...” 

He shakes his head, eyes dropping to the ground, as his tongue sweeps over his lip. And you know.

You know, because you thought the same. 

It sat like an uninvited guest the moment you got back. Its presence had been more noticeable the moment you found yourself able to breathe, to stop yourself from shaking.

It grew larger when you flinched under his touch—when you purposefully curled away from him. It whispered in poisonous prose that it had been there before you left, but had worsened so much more because of who you were when you returned. It lay between you both as he snored, dreaming, and you lay, paralysed by nightmares that didn’t just play when you closed your eyes. 

Clearing his throat, Chris kicks a pebble, it bouncing down the pavement in the noiseless. “You just looked like you were doing better without me—and it hurt. And, I—I kept lashing out.” 

Nodding, you bite your lip. “I wasn’t…” you admit. “It hurt me too, to be without you.”

“Oh.”

It escapes a laugh. Short, but sweet—and very much genuine. It falls from your lips so surprisingly, his head snaps up, the moment growing, maturing as his lips rise at the edges as you add, “Oh? Really?”

Chris sips his drink, shrugging. “What do you want me to say?”

As you shake your head, you’re still sniggering, lighter, less obvious. “I don’t know, but I do know this is the first time we’ve been honest with one another in months.” 

“Yeah. I’ve missed you—not like that, but just…”

Nodding, you swallow. “I know.” 

His eyes meet yours, and all the unspoken words sound louder. 

They flutter like broken butterflies, flapping their damaged wings as you bite the inside of your cheek. Feeling the evidence of day-old teeth marks, the phantom twinges of panic that threaten to wrap their hands around you.

“Please be safe... I’d,” you stare at him, seeing—for the briefest moment—the person you lay in bed with, the person you made breakfast with and stole the sunglasses of. “I’d hate it if something happened to you.”

He nods, short but full of understanding.

And you think about it, curling into him. Letting your arms wrap around his waist, pulling him close. Your feet are almost moving, closing the distance to do so.

But he’s quicker.

The two of you falling into the old ways, your head finding the space along his shoulder, something sliding into place, something healing—one less crack somewhere deep inside of you. You let him hold you, let yourself be held—feeling the sting behind your eyes, the fear rising, before you glance over—finding, if anything, the most uncharacteristic smile on Dan’s face. 

You’ve always been good at remembering things.

Dates. Numbers. Faces—

They’re drilled into you—because you’re used to dialling them or because you have them banked somewhere in your mind. You knew Chris’s because the two of you had dated, you knew Van Ness’s because of lunch orders and after-work drinks; you knew Stoddard’s because he was who you reported to, and you knew the Ambassador’s because his clearance meant something.

But, Peña’s… 

You didn’t know it because you called him a lot. Didn’t know it because you’d rang him copious times—if anything, the two of you rarely spoke on the phone. But, you’d chosen to memorise it. Just in case. 

The same one you’d been dialling furiously for the last hour—eyes glancing to his desk, the one he’s been away from for hours. 

Sunshine yellow, splintered sobs, carmine-stained palms…

Digging your elbow into the desk, you grit your teeth. Fixing, staring at a spot on the carpet—old, dried gum that’s worsened over time. Something—anything. Taking a breath, banishing yellow—trying to rid the feeling that the walls are coming in as you place the phone back into the hook. 

Peña has been gone for hours. 

Something he doesn’t do without telling someone. Not when he had plans, ones you heard from Stoddard. 

Since the file room, the two of you had been swirling around one another, but not colliding. He told you things, but things you already knew. The way it had to be, you assumed. A line the two of you had drawn because he was your boss—and both felt you should. 

But, you couldn’t turn off your worries. The niggling anxiousness that something was wrong. 

It had nestled somewhere deep, spreading and merging with the worries Cali had dragged up. Your nails tap in rhythmic patterns on your desk, trying to concentrate on your screen, the names, the numbers—

Stoddard isn’t concerned. 

Doesn’t think anything of it when Peña doesn’t answer. When the phone rings out. 

Even if the man worships the ground he walks on. The hero he couldn’t wait to meet, to shake his hand—ask him all things Escobar like the two of them would be best buds. 

Now, though, when something does feel off, it’s a shrug, it’s a shake of the head. ‘He’s likely following a different lead.’ The annoying part… Stoddard could be right. Something which annoys you more. 

That able to smother your worries, your intrusive thoughts for a moment. A sense of peace begins to mist over you, until it thrums inside of you again. Like it has since the airport drop off this morning. It all untwisting, slowly oozing out until it collects other things, creating more anxiety in a lab of your own making.

The list ever-growing, collating— 

Van Ness. Fiestl. Javi.

It worsens when you call the number from earlier. The one for the plane he’d asked for, after you’d handed Peña the blue folder. You’d studied his features and committed each expression as he read the contents of it. 

If you blink, you still see the way his face lit up, the realisation that dawned over him—it was like magic. Like perfect sunsets and those mornings there isn’t a cloud in the sky, making your cheeks warm, especially with the way he’d stared at you after.  

“You okay, sir?”  Your heart quickens in your throat as he stands, tapping the blue folder against his palm.  “You got plans tonight?”  “What?”  “I owe you food.”  Shaking your head, you lick your lips. “No, you—“ “You bought me lunch yesterday, I’ll buy you dinner. Tonight. Here.” Stepping around your desk, you feel his eyes on you. “I’ll hold you to that, sir.” 

You know you’re rattled. Sensitive.

Split open at the poorly sewn seams, panic seeping out of every orifice imaginable as you bounced your heel into the embassy carpet. But, something told you to be—something outside of anxiousness and concern. Something not easily stifled by reassuring thoughts and hopeful thinking as you stared into the dirty, bathroom mirror. 

It’s heavy in your hand—your phone. Slowly placing it back into its position as you process what you’d heard. 

“Stoddard…” you mumble, swallowing the forming lump in your throat. “Neil?”

“Yeah.”

You can feel it, the ground shifting. Your vision sliding, blurring just at the edges as your pulse quickens. “He didn’t—um. He didn’t get on the plane. Peña”

He doesn’t say anything—barely even a frown. Just leans back in his chair, tapping his pen on the desk—as though Peña disappearing is something which happens regularly. 

As though he’s someone who would vanish on the day he sent two agents to Cali. 

The silence should unnerve you—usually, it does. 

It normally allows everything to breed, to worsen—double and multiply. It allows that string to stretch again, it always so close to snapping, as its plucked and plucked, shivers through you. 

Night has come and snatched the day. The office having slowly emptied over the last two hours, Stoddard having left fifteen minutes ago at best. You should go too, leave—try and sleep and reset. 

But, you slide into Peña’s chair, staring over the contents of a file that you’re not taking in. Instead, it’s for show. A pretence as you chew the inside of your cheek, spreading your fingers out over the small patch of his desk not covered in paper. Just feeling the wood, the smoothness of it. How cold it is. The chill stretching and weaving up your wrist—

“Oh, cariño…I didn’t know anyone was still here.“

You’re on your feet instantly, palms pressed against the desk. Eyes having landed on brown eyes and a figure that makes your heart stop. And then, relief. He’s okay. Pe—Javi. Alive. Well. Whatever bit of you you’d been gnawing, releases, freeing you. All the thoughts, ones of him being taken, of him lying in a pool of his—

“Yeah, I’m… I’m here,” you whisper, clearing your throat.

Barely able to say it any louder. 

Swallowing, finding yourself quickly smothered and wrapped in something you’d forgotten could exist in the last few hours. The sight of him almost forces you to cross the room, to wrap your arms around him. You stop yourself. Just. 

Dropping your chin, you watch through your brows as he throws his jacket and tie over the chair opposite you, blinking back thankful-tears as your fingers halt from drawing against the swirls in the wood of his desk.

He’s watching you, and as soon as you notice it, it’s all you focus on. They’re warming you, tracing you. Like he’s unable to tear himself away, staring stares at you as though you’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. Sometimes you almost believe you are.

“Surprised to find you still here. It’s late—even for you.” 

Snorting, you feel warmth slide up your cheeks. “Well, you did promise me dinner...”

He traces his jaw with his finger, a puzzled look on his face as he straightens, and your eyes take in the way his top two buttons are undone, that his hair is tousled—that he looks good. Alive, safe, breathing, and so good. 

Him all golden skin and a pair of eyes that made you want to see every expression flutter across them. Just like normal. A normal you try to camouflage, dress it up in disdain and faux-annoyance. 

Clearing your throat, you stand, stepping around his desk, not letting a finger fall from it. Suddenly needing it to ground you, to focus on—stop the shakes from your early worrying when everything felt like it was on fire.

It’s at the last moment you watch it bloom over his face—the realisation. 

“Shit… I’m so—cariño…” 

Shrugging, you lift your head. “It’s fine, I was just teasing—“

“I had—fuck, I had no signal. I’m—“

“Peña. It’s fine. I was messing with you. Where were you—to not have a signal?”  

His jaw tightens, dropping his eyes as he runs a hand over his face. “Stechner took me to a jungle.”

“Course he did,” you snort, taking some of the discomfort. “Lemme guess, because of our visitors? I know I shouldn’t say this, but—“

“He’s an asshole?”

“Such a fucking asshole.”

You laugh, merging with his. Both of them escape, puffing out of you both as you feel a thread loosen around your throat.

He’s looking at you again, differently than before. The silence from the rest of the building, the late hour providing nothing but quiet.

You’re sure your blood has ignited, simmering in your ears, head and chest. Something fluttering, wings brushing your ribs as you swallow it all. Needing a distraction, scrambling for one, remembering—

“Fiestl and Van Ness—“

“I know. Managed... I called them in the car. They’re staying there, they have…” His voice trails off, head tilting. 

You knew that. 

Had spoken to Dan. Almost wanting to tell him that—a flicker of annoyance stemming through the earlier worry—bite that you’ve been here, taking calls for him. 

But, Javi’s eyes are narrowing in the way he does when he’s figured something out. You can’t stop it, a mere passenger to the way your body warms under his sight—ears burning as you watch the corners of his lips twitch. 

“Why are you in my office, cariño?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you straighten your spine. “Stoddard isn’t great at answering your phone.”

You find yourself swallowing when Javi takes a step closer, eyes burning into his, the same as his are burning into yours. His screaming Liar. Noticing him swiping his thumb across his bottom lip. 

“I spoke to Stoddard—before he left for the night.” 

You swallow. 

Don’t push, you silently plead. 

“Come on. You can tell me the truth.”  

It’s fragile, easily able to shatter—the thin wall the two of you have built since the file room. The professionalism, the decency he was intent on giving you. You’ll tear it down yourself single-handedly if he keeps looking at you how he is, observing as he stops in front of you, drinking you in with his deep, velvety eyes. 

Licking your lips, you take a deep breath. “Stop hunting for—”

“Were you worried about me, cariño…?”

It pulses—the truth. Even if he says it with that tone, the one which is always accompanied by a smirk. The one which makes your skin flush with warmth. 

It mixes with the rattling around inside of you, the one born from actually worrying about him. It's all thrumming, vibrating. Making it hard to swallow as you lift your chin, almost defiantly. 

Then he says your name. 

Not Luna. Not your surname. Your first given name. 

It’s too much. The proximity, the scent of Earth, smoke and something so distinctly him. The silence made it crumble, blending with his smirk. You watch how it unfilters from his cheeks as he swallows. Being replaced by something far more annoying—concern.

Smiling, you hold his gaze. Realising you have little energy to fight. 

“And, what if I was, Javi?” 

It’s subtle, the shift in his eyes. The change to the way his lips had been turned upwards. All minimal. Barely much at all. His face only half-illuminated by the lamp on his desk, but it’s enough to see the effect his name has on him. It’s enough to make the air difficult, like it’s being squeezed from the room, his lips parting before closing. No words left to say.

He’s surprised. So much so, Javier Peña has been rendered silent. 

You consider leaving, taking your embarrassment with you, dipping your eyes as you fumble for an excuse—

And then he whispers your name. All breathy, almost like he did that night after the bar. As though he doesn’t want you to leave—it makes your eyes snap up. 

They shrivel, the thoughts of leaving. Vanishing as if they never existed, to begin with. 

His fingers, cautious and calloused, brush themselves over your forearm and the last piece of restraint crumbling and settling alight—as if it was made of paper, and he was the match. 

It’s instant the way your lungs ache—burning—when you crash your lips to his. Your fist is full of his collar as your heart thumps, over and over—hammering and knocking, banging and smashing. 

It’s messy. Far too desperate and uncoordinated. But it’s also bliss.

It’s freeing. It’s worry, and relief, and a sea of other things.

Your palm places flush with his neck, fingers clutching at his jaw as you feel his pulse thump against you. Alive, he’s alive. Repose settles over you, calming you as you taste cigarettes on his tongue and coffee on his lips. 

A taste you’ve come to crave more than your own bag of beans in your bottom desk drawer.

His hands grip you, fix you against him—little, to no space being left. Not that you want there to be. If anything, you want to remove the barrier of clothes between you. Have him press you against his desk, create a new reason to blush in his presence—

Wrenching your lips from his, you lean back in his palms, finding bewilderment and confusion flashing across in a storm. Swallowing, you size him up, how his eyes are darker and his lips are parted.

“You fucked anyone in your office, sir?”

It hits him, the question—an array of emotions fluttering across his features. “Fuck me...”

Smirking, you take a step back. Hands sliding down his arms until you release his fingers, and your lower back meets his desk. 

It allows him a moment—one to make a choice. A moment which stretches on far too long, your already frayed endings becoming frazzled with anxiousness. Then, you watch your daydreams play out into reality. It’s beautiful, and fascinating—and fucking everything. Studying the way his micro-expressions bleed into major ones, feeling his eyes rise, so inky and full of swirling lust, pulling you in like a siren song. It makes your throat dry—he makes your throat dry. 

“You becoming an exhibitionist, baby?”

Baby.

The word curls around you, dripping into your ear as your hands come down to rest on the edge of the desk. Watching him shift his jaw from side to side.

“Surprised you know that word, Peña. It’s quite long.”

He snorts. Nodding, eyes dropping to the floor. His fingers twitch at his side, thumb brushing over his index and middle, before he looks up. 

Banished is the doubt, the attempt at decency. His frame closes the gap quickly—quicker than you count on. Doing so in a number of strides, you don’t have a chance to count, before he’s on you. Lips crashing against yours, tongue licking past your teeth as you grasp fingers full of his hair.

It’s intoxicating, being kissed by him. 

He’s like fire in your bones and air in your lungs. Losing yourself in him until you run your lips across his jaw, enjoying running your prints up and along his neck, feeling his pulse again—before sliding back up into the soft curls of his hair as you take him in. 

The two of you drink one another in, lost in a moment that’s all your own. You swipe your tongue across your bottom lip, unable to tear your eyes from him. Thankful when he reconnects his lips to yours, all desperate to kiss you. 

So much so, you’re sure he does it with the sole intention of ruining you—of taking everything from you, leaving you with nothing.

You’d let him. You are letting him. Allowing his touch to consume you, to render you useless and breathless. 

If you were younger, less scarred—less fearful of getting hurt—there’s more you’d hand him. More parts of you that you’d let him into. Likely spill your secrets, worries and deepest desires—and not hide behind smirks and flirtations.

Instead, you offer him mild submissiveness. 

Hands falling from his neck to your trousers, undoing them—the metal grating against metal sounding, making him groan. It vibrates against you, feeling it in your chest as you let them fall to your ankles with a thud. They’re followed by your underwear, a simple pile, one he helps you step out as he helps slide the bare back of your thighs over his wooden desk.

His hand is quick to sweep files, notes and post-its into a messier pile than before. 

You don’t focus on it. Try not to. Choosing instead to busy your hands with undoing his buttons—reuniting your lips with his. Craving him, not needing him. A solid difference—a considerable one. Because you can admit you want the feel of him—whether it’s the way he stretches you or his fingers across the inside of your knees.

To need him means something else. Something under lust and fucking on a desk. It means letting him in, enough that you could tumble, fall—risk scarring your heart, soul and sense more than they already are. 

He knows it. Must do. You can tell from the way he kisses you—like he’s trying to knock down your walls and paper over old pain. His fingers hunt for the switch, the one which slides the imaginary door to your secrets. And his tongue, he tries to carve it into a key to unlock everything about you—discover the reason you protect yourself, hide, conceal. 

For now, he takes this. Having you in his office, his groan as you palm him over his trousers—as he hisses into your mouth. You equally take each sound you can have, like the sound of his belt undoing, and trousers falling to his ankles. Working him slowly up and down. How he’s trying to push you over the edge by curling two of his fingers inside you, finding the spot that made you coo his name. 

He stops, and so do you.

Both of you panting, watching his forehead meet yours as he tugs your hips closer. 

He’s beautiful. Something you had known before, something you had witnessed and accepted. But, this is different, the lighting, the intimacy—the earlier worries. 

Your hand curls against his cheek as he slides the head of his cock through your slick walls. Body aflame with arousal, with want. 

I’m glad you’re okay, Javi. Glad you’re here. 

It’s easy, the way he steals your gasp with his lips. Your hand clutches his side as he stretches you, making you feel so full—eyes clenching shut as you forget how to breathe. But your lips—oh, your lips don’t forget how to kiss him. They remember how to take as much of him as they can get. 

The same way you begrudgingly take how slow he rocks himself into you, that his forehead finds yours, and cariño rolls in soft murmurs from his perfect, kissable lips.

It’s worse when it’s slower, impossible to deny how perfect he feels—how good he makes you feel. 

“Thought of—fuck—nothing else.” 

He talks more when he’s sober, you're not the same.

Thankful you hadn’t helped yourself to his liquor, afraid you’ll be telling him how thankful you are he’s okay, that he’s back in his office. Alive. Well. Breathing. That he’s kissing you, that he’s fucking you. 

Instead, you find yourself unable to stop yourself from clutching him close. From smiling as he captures your lips, to smothering any moans and whimpers as you whisper his name. 

He grasps your hip, ghosting his mouth over yours, “I like the taste of my name on your lips, cariño.”

“Shit, Javi.” 

He peers down, a glint, a smirk—eyes speckled with the reflection of the lamp. Your head falls back as he helps you lift your leg. Just enough—until your heel meets the edge of the desk.

The groan he emits fills the air, and stains it. Feeling him so much deeper, creating so much pressure as he slides in and out. Your own moans stifled, buried, drowned in your throat with sheer fucking will— because he’s so impossibly, perfectly fucking deep.

“Anyone fucked you like this?”

Your eyes are already closed, the pleasure quivering, building. If your eyes open, if you meet his, you’ll lose—let him in, let him see you, all of you. He’ll undress your mind, peer in and see the broken mess behind the well-put-together woman he’s been thinking about fucking again.

That you cannot lose. Not him. Never him, but also not this—this perfectly matched game that could go on and on until one of you ruins it.

He breathes your name. Gruff. Peppered with pleasure and bliss as he snaps his hips against yours. It’s easier to shake your head as his pace quickens, as his grunts punch into the air.

“Need to—fuck, cariño—need to hear you—“

“No, Javi. Just you. Only y-you.”

One of your hands grips the desk, digging into the wood—enough to leave a mark. The other grabs him, the back of his neck, fingers digging into skin and hair. 

You arch your back, feeling only then his palm on your spine—having balled up enough of your blouse to keep it from being in the way. His hand slides under, fingers spreading, curling you closer, rooting you to him.

As if his cock isn’t doing that. As though it isn’t dragging through your walls, stroking parts of you which makes you almost see stars, light and fucking heaven—

“Give it to me, cariño.”

His hip presses against your lower calf, hitting that spot over and over. The sound of your arousal growing, the slick noises as he pounds into you, drowned only by his grunts and your whimpers. 

Tilting your head back, you take him in. The hair which is in strands, jaw tight, sweat building on his neck as he looks down at you like you’re everything. 

It almost pushes you to let go—let it wash over you, and then you hear the softest whisper from his lips.

“Please.”

Your eyes open, basking under his gaze—and it rips through you. Tears you into pieces as his name carves into the air, and he fucks you through it. His hand grips you tighter, keeping you as close as he can. For as long as he can.

Your focus is on feeling it—from head to toe. How it ripples, travelling to every nerve as it sets you alight. The rest only comes back to you slowly, the way your lips are already meeting his as he groans your name as he coats you in his release. 

It’s only when he slows, does the dull ache in your nails greets you, splinters carved into your skin. 

Javi waits a moment, drawing a shape on your lower back with his fingers before he slides himself free from you, leaving you empty. The low light casts shadows that make him appear softer. 

You almost are able to convince yourself it’s the lighting, but then he bends down to retrieve your clothes. Sliding your leg through the fabrics, seeing a gentler part of him showing through. You have to close your eyes, hiding from it.

Knowing you’re falling, descending. Still hearing the sound of him coming with your name on your lips—understanding what he meant when he said he liked the taste of his name on your tongue. 

You liked the taste of yours too. More so when it graced the air in a chorus.

Please. 

Please, he had whispered. 

You feel his thumb sliding up your thigh, garnering your attention again, flicking your eyes open as fabric follows his fingers. You smile, mirroring his, slowly realising that you’re losing the battle of keeping him out—greeted by kinder brown and flecks of softness.

“Javi…” He blinks, forehead smoothing out—no lines, no frown. “I was worried. I was worried about you.” 

Swallowing, he lifts his hand, thumb brushing the side of your lip as he parts his lips, all set to say something or another. But the phone rings. 

Another interruption—a yank back to reality. Standing, flinging yourself from his desk as he moves to  take it, trying not to listen, but listening all the same. 

His eyes meet yours—and you realise in an instant the call is important. His tells showing, unable to be masked from how you’d cracked him open only moments ago, staring until he mouths Fiestl.

Your heart hammering, pounding, waiting and waiting until he places the phone down. 

“They… they’ve found Gilberto Rodríguez.”

chapter five ->

[swissboyhisch]

New Home

Liked by elhughes, njdevils and others

y/nhughes: Only missing Huggy in NJ now 🥺 tagged: quinnhughes, jackhughes and lhughes

view all comments

quinnhughes: I quite enjoy my peace thank you

y/nhughes: but I'm your twin 🥺

quinnhughes: sometimes you're worse than the other two 🫢

user: the thought of Quinn being by himself in Vancouver hurts me a lot

y/nhughes: don't be sad, he's a little shit

eliaspettersson: big shit*

njdevils: trade deadline is yet to near 😈

canucks: better luck next time

user: wouldn't be mad if all three brothers were on the same team

user: I can't wait to see what she posts over the coming season

ethanedwards: moose is such a sister's boy

nolanmoyle: and what was the rest of the team when she worked for umich?

lucafantilli: simps 🤫

lhughes: please don't say that

adamfantilli: what... she's hot

Liked by njdevils, quinnhughes and others

jackhughes: Perks of your older sister coming to live in the same city as you... home cooked meals for free. Cheers to your new place too 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻 tagged: y/nhughes and lhughes

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y/nhughes: I really hope that doesn't mean you'll be at mine for every meal

jackhughes: nonsense

lhughes: of course sis

tzegras: you fucked up

user: TREVOR 😂

y/nhughes: I was just being nice

quinnhughes: that's where you went wrong 🫢

user: yo homemade pizza is bosss

user: are you seriously drinking water from wine glasses?

lhughes: we fancy 💅🏻

Liked by y/nhughes, lhughes and others

njdevils: We have acquired Y/n Hughes from University of Michigan as team photographer and the creative mind behind our team's tiktok. 3 out of 4 Hughes collected ✅ tagged: y/nhughes

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y/nhughes: Gotta catch them all

canucks: trade deadline is yet to near

njdevils: copycats

user: not the fact they're fighting over a photographer

jackhughes: put some respect on my sister's name. She's also a menace

user: not jack saying his sister is the family menace

tzegras: anahiemducks please trade. Jim Jam and I would much appreciate it 🫡

jamiedrysdale: we would thank you

colecaufield: on that note, canadiens bring my best friend back here please

y/nhughes: guys 🥺🥺

user: gonna miss Umich's tiktoks

nicohischier: and the better forward!

y/nhughes: thank you Nico, someone who knows where my talents lie 💅🏻

[tyetknot]

We live in a world in which the GOP is spending the day before the US federal election canonizing some dude's pet squirrel that bit someone when it was confiscated and had to be put down so they could check it for rabies and it turned out that the squirrel's owner was putting squirrel videos on Tiktok to drive traffic to his gay porn OnlyFans. As an outside observer I am having trouble precisely articulating the particular combination of horror and fascination I am experiencing, and I can assure you that I am a seasoned gazer into the abyss that is American political discourse. I don't even fucking live there! I live in fucking Canada, for Gods' sakes! But we have to hear about this frankly unhinged insane shit and act as though somehow America is a sane and rational nation in spite of all this insane shit that inevitably creeps up north because Americans refuse to stop exporting their brainworms and in three week's time we'll all have to hear Pierre Pollievre Adult Milhouse beaking off about something equally insane in the House and Trudeau will once again fail to reply with "shut up, nerd" and steal Petey's lunch money.

There should be two separate Internets that can never interact. One of them should be for Americans and one of them should be for the rest of us so we don't have to engage with this nonsensical trash anymore.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

@jegulus-microfic september 8 — colorful — 1.4k words

cookie baking vs beef cake jamie and reg being a mess

James was trying to put on weight.

Something or another about how you gain more muscle that way and after a few weeks you can decide to cut back and ideally the fat will get burned up and vanish and the muscles underneath will remain. However the hell that’s supposed to work, Regulus is no fucking gym rat.

His stupid brother and that one’s equally stupid best friend are though and so Regulus is subjected to witnessing them throwing back their morning protein shakes like berserks and nearly pissing himself when at night he wants another glass of water from the kitchen sink and is met with the sight of Sirius and James wolfing down blocks of Feta or spooning half a litre buckets of low-fat quark like feral fucking raccoons bent over a trashcan.

As well as, apparently, high calorie sugar cookie baking.

James had the ‘brilliant’ idea of getting thousands of edible baking embellishments to put on top of the cookies. Food coloring for the frosting, marshmallows, little chocolates, nuts, sprinkles, whipped cream– Regulus is fairly sure the list goes on. 

Pulling out every option under the sun, basically.

Somehow they’d ended up being abandoned by all three Sirius, Remus and Peter so now Regulus was to endure all…this all by himself.

This being James burly arms clad by his tight shirt that fits even more snugly now after the extra few pounds. Smooth brown skin, broad shoulder and a wide back, as always, and now he no longer looked fit as fuck but he instead fucking cuddly.

Regulus was led into a false sense of security believing that surely the less pronounced James’ muscles would get the less he’d internally melt down if in his close proximity.

Regulus was fucking wrong for that speculation because now the light pudge to James’ tall form makes him look so fucking domestic and warm and like home that Regulus wants to rip the hair out of his skull no less than a thirty times on a daily basis.

And now Regulus is being seducted bullied into baking cookies with that man. Looking the way he does now. For the next two hours minimum. Just the two of them. Alone.

“Arms up, love,” while tying the apron low on Regulus’ back.

Helping Regulus mix and knead and roll their dough, standing all close and smelling spicy and mind bendingly good.

Hunching forward and pressing his palms down into the counter to get it flat.

Smiling softly to himself when he places the excelled cookies successfully on the tray and snickering mischievously when he gets away with using the Christmas cookie cutters, producing several reindeers before Regulus catches him and puts an end to his nonsense.

It’s barely even Halloween season, christ’s sake. 

Regulus takes a breath when they slide the last tray into the oven. Rubs with the back of his hand at the crusted flour on his forehead as James sets the timer, grinning warmly at him.

They take a few on the couch in peaceful silence. And again, false sense of security.

Regulus thought the hard part was over already.

Regulus had not given James’ creative streak enough credit in his calculations.

They ‘have to’ make 4 different colored frostings.

A nice warm pink one, a light blue one, one is yellow with edible glitter, “Obviously so that it looks like gold, Reg, keep up.” and a last one James wildly pours the blue, green and purple into. Doesn’t mix the last one well so that it stays colorfully streaked.

“Galaxy vibes, hey?”

Regulus sighs.

James’ grin only widens at that, “What?”

And he pauses to lean right next to Regulus against the counter. Regulus busies himself with stirring the already perfectly smooth, equally saturated pink frosting, huffing an annoyed breath, “What for?”

“Why not?” James counters.

Regulus ignores that. “Don’t you think it’ll taste weird if the coloring’s not properly mixed with the frosting?”

James cocks his head at that for a moment, “Only one way to find out.”

And then proceeds to swipe a finger through the bowl and hold it up to Regulus’ face.

“Open up, love.”

And Regulus knows he shouldn’t.

Feels it in the way his shoulders draw tight and his breath refuses to come back out after the intake.

But James is looking at him with those deep brown eyes behind his glasses, the mess of raven hair streaked with flour dust and the slightest uptick in the corner of his parted lips.

Regulus slowly opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out.

Looks up at James as this one’s eyelids flutter once, twice and then he’s smearing the frosting from his digit down onto Regulus’ waiting tongue.

Regulus feels himself sway into the motion, tilts his head back to make James’ index slide down the tip of it and off.

Then James puts that same finger back into the frosting, without ever taking his eyes off Regulus, before leading it into his mouth as well.

Closing his lips around the sole fingertip and sucking. But still managing to get some on the lower line of his lips, having dipped his finger in too deep without watching what he was doing.

There’s a line of green in the formally white frosting and Regulus can’t stop staring at it. “You have a bit…”

James nods dimly, pupils blown, “You too.”

“Yeah?” it’s barely above a breath. James probably wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t so close. When did James get so close? Wasn’t there just an arms length between them?

There’s not anymore. James is standing so close that the body heat radiating off of him is threatening to seep into Regulus’ slim frame and whack a shiver up his spine. 

So close that he has to duck his head to keep looking at Regulus.

So close that it’s apparently necessary to get Regulus’ chin in a gentle grip and tilt his head up.

That would be an explanation.

What does not fit into the explanation is the slick index finger that’s now sliding back and forth over Regulus wet bottom lip. 

What also doesn’t fit into the explanation is how Regulus would have gotten frosting on his lips when James had smeared it onto his tongue directly. 

Honestly, Regulus’ mind is far too occupied with more important thoughts right now.

Like the way James’ breath puffs against his lower face and how he keeps manipulating Regulus’ lips to part more and more.

Satisfied apparently when the fingerpad disappears only to promptly be replaced by James’ own fucking mouth.

Sucking Regulus’ bottom lip between his teeth and dragging oh so slightly that Regulus’ brain simply shuts down.

Because then James is releasing it, having gotten rid of the bit of frosting, but Regulus keeps his chin angled up. Like an insane person.

James doesn’t go far and promptly breaks into a smile before he dives back in for more.

Licking into Regulus’ mouth more confidently now and Ah, yeah there’s the frosting and the food coloring.

Regulus has the stray thought that their tongues must be stained from the color now but then James is skillfully prying the other bowl out of Regulus’ palms and then he’s being twisted a bit and now his hands are free to do stuff like run up the swell of James’ arm and shoulder and neck.

Which is downright indecent, even more so when James rumbles a noise into his mouth at the contact and Regulus feels it vibrate down into his gut immediately.

It makes him gasp and James uses that space happily, hungrily swiping his tongue and sucking at Regulus’ like he could fucking eat him, or at least the frosting right back out of his mouth again.

Regulus digs his blunt nails into the muscle of James’ neck which has him drawing back with a gasp.

It’s a bit embarrassing how little control Regulus has over the “Oh my god,” that’s slipping right out of him.

James smiles into another two quick kisses he can’t seem to help himself but steal.

They’re resting their foreheads together breathlessly when James mumbles, “And?”

Regulus makes an inquiring noise that’s more high-pitched than it should be.

James’ smile is evident in his voice, “Did it taste weird with the food coloring?”

Regulus suppresses the urge to pinch the skin of his neck, “Dunno.”

James lifts his head a bit and Regulus blinks his eyes back open.

Feels a warm tremble surge his body at the way James looks at him, “I think we should try again then.”

Regulus swallows with a bit of difficulty, nodding his head embarrassingly eagerly.

[celestiall0tus]

Tell me, how did you feel about the messed up season 5 finale?

I think I see now why my Tumblr inbox total has been off by one for a while now. But! Better late than never.

So, if I'm honest, it's laughable. Adrien being denied the chance to face Hawkmoth hurt, but whatever. Bugnoire was ok, but eh. I was glad to see Gabriel trick Marinette so he could get the miraculous and make his wish. Which, fuck.

So, I've long since chosen violence when I woke up today, but I'm just gonna say it. Gabriel won. He wasn't redeemed through any normal means but got his wish. He wanted to be seen as a good guy and so he was. There was no redemption but a man's wish that completely rewrote the future of their reality. Hell, I'd barely call it a redemption anyway. He won, plain and simple. And, honestly, I'm glad he did.

I make no secret that I hate the writing in the show. I know it's supposed to be geared towards kids, but even I've seen kids shows that do such a better job than that shit show. Fuck, I would much rather watch Arthur and Bluey, true kids shows, over miraculous any day. I'd honestly put Miraculous damn near on par with the fucking nonsensical kids shows I have to watch while watching over a three year old that make me want to blow out my brains. All this rambling to say how piss poor Miraculous is as a kids show, has terrible messaging, and I'm glad Gabriel won.

Kids show or not, every part of this show is insulting. Fuck I've seen 6 year olds enjoy this show so much more than the intended audience. Which, the two gremlins (12 and 14) I know in that audience would be cheering with me that Gabriel won because they both hate Marinette.

Additionally (before I ramble again) if you want to add this example to the show glorifying abuse, have at it. Personally, I don't see it quite that way. The villain won. He got his wish, whatever that may have fully been. However, we know he had it with Adrien in mind. So, here we are in this perfect world for his darling boy who'll always remember him as a hero. Done deal. Wish accomplished.

All this rambling aside is to say, the villain won and everyone was screwed by idiot writers that can't even write a fucking 'kids show'