#can the leaves start turning orange and yellow and red already

[gloomwitchwrites]

You send him a text "Thanks for the flowers, babe" attached with a photo of a bouquet as a prank. Obvs, he gets jealous/possessive.

Anon, I love this. I cackled the first time I read it, and I've been wanting to get to it for a while. There are so many requests (and I will get to them all), but with my health being shit, I'm trying to select from the pool where I'm not overworking my brain or stressing myself out trying to come up with something. This prompt came very naturally to me.

These are all spicy. Period. I didn't hold back with this one. Maybe I'm ovulating or some shit but I literally couldn't write anything but smut for this prompt. I had a lot of fun with this one, and I hope you enjoy.

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, dirty talk, praise, spanking, oral sex (female & male receiving), face fucking, restraints, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, jealousy, possessive behavior, orgasm control

Word Count: 4.4k

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ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it, attention stuck on Price who stands in front of a large map of Europe.

There are pictures—some have a red “X” through them while a couple others have black question marks. The mission isn’t done, but that isn’t surprising. This has taken months to complete. It’s been slow, and entirely too complicated for Simon’s liking.

His phone buzzes again, the vibration pulling his attention away.

When the third buzz comes in, his agitation turns to worry. Simon never allows messages to come through at work unless it’s from very specific people. To have three come through in less than two minutes stirs something in his gut.

Price starts talking again but Simon’s brain is melting. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out his phone. Keeping it next to his thigh, Simon awakens the screen.

Your name is there and 3 new messages.

Simon glances up, but no one is looking at him. Silently, he unlocks the phone and clicks over to his messages, tapping on your name.

At first, Simon doesn’t understand. His brain short-circuits, and then unbridled jealousy comes roaring forward.

The first message is a photo of a beautiful bouquet sitting on the kitchen island. It’s fucking large, taking up most of the space. The flowers are different shades of pink, yellow, and orange. It looks like spring.

Beneath the picture are two texts.

Thanks for the flowers!!

I love you!

But Simon did not get you flowers. He didn’t order these, and he certainly didn’t have them delivered to the flat.

Fuck. What the actual fuck.

Someone else did this.

Simon’s first thought is that Johnny did it to prank him. But Johnny has been a bit subdued today, and his attention isn’t on Simon at all.

No. It’s likely not him.

Simon locks his phone and stews. He can’t just leave this meeting. It’s important, but he’s going to get to the fucking bottom of it.

By the time Price dismisses them, Simon is already out the door, charging toward his locker to grab his stuff. It usually takes him a half hour to arrive home, but today he does it in twenty. When Simon bursts through the front door, he’s ready to toss those flowers right off the balcony.

But then he sees your face—how happy you are—and Simon melts. You throw yourself into his arms, and Simon instinctually responds, embracing you tightly. He presses his face into your hair and inhales.

“Missed you,” you say, grabbing both sides of his face and kissing him. “Thank you for the flowers.”

I didn’t get you any flowers.

Simon smiles because it’s all he can manage. That jealousy from earlier starts to curl back up, twisting around in his ribcage.

“Did you like the note?”

You frown. “What note?”

The way you ask is…odd. It’s far too innocent in the presentation. Simon knows your cues and this seems forced to him. But the sender didn’t leave a message. That doesn’t give Simon much to go on if he’s going to track down who sent them.

“Maybe they forgot,” he replies, kissing your forehead. “Show them to me.”

With a bright smile, you take his hand, guiding him into the kitchen. They’re much more stunning in person and Simon momentarily freezes. Did he forget your birthday? An anniversary? An important event?

Simon recalls nothing for today’s date.

The jealousy rises again but he clamps down on it. Anyone could have sent this, especially a friend of yours or a family member. Doesn’t mean there is someone out there with predatory intentions. And for all Simon knows, you’re having a laugh, riling me up. You’ve done it before.

“They’re lovely,” observes Simon. “Better than the picture.”

Your grin is gorgeous, a thing Simon wants to bottle up. You open your mouth to answer him but the dryer goes off. “Hold on,” you call over your shoulder as you dash away. “Let me change over the loads.”

When you disappear, Simon goes for the bouquet. He quickly checks through every flower and between the stems, even sticks his fingers in the dirt. Simon doesn’t know what the fuck he’s looking for, but he’s grasping for anything.

The only thing of note is the business card which Simon quickly plucks from its holder and tucks into his pocket. Simon steps away from the bouquet when you appear again.

Jealousy is stewing, showing its fangs, curling tighter around Simon’s ribs.

When you reach for him, Simon sweeps you off your feet, planting you on the kitchen island. You giggle, but Simon cuts it off, drawing you to the edge to seize your lips in a fierce kiss.

That jealous viper between his bones tells him to possess you.

Simon’s hands drop to your waist and then your hips. He settles himself between your legs, hands moving down to your bare thighs.

You’re flushed with embarrassment, attempting to hide your face from him, giggling his name as you fist his shirt.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” rasps Simon.

Your lips part and Simon slides his tongue inside. You moan, suck on his tongue, and release him. Simon’s grip on your thighs tightens.

“All day?” you ask softly.

Moving his hands to beneath your thighs, Simon tugs you into his arms and carries you over to the dining room table, but doesn’t place you on top of it. He brings you to your feet, and then his fingers curl around the shorts that are little more than underwear.

“Take these off.”

“Simon—”

“Do it,” he growls, releasing them and bringing his hand back to his side.

Slowly, you do as he says. You bring them up so that Simon can see them before tossing them to the side. That viper in him hisses, the venom leaking into his system.

Simon slides his hand between your thighs. You lean back against the table, hands resting on the edge as you part your legs. What his fingers find only makes him groan.

Withdrawing, Simon licks his fingers clean. “Turn around. Bend over the table. Show me what I want.” With a smirk on your lips, you face the table, and bend forward, going up on your toes.

Fuck the flowers and whoever sent them. You’re his.

Simon unbuckles the front of his belt, undoes the zipper of his pants, and frees his aching cock. He needs to be inside you, to hear you say his name, to feel you come around him. He needs to possess because it’s the only thing he can do right now.

Guiding with his hand, Simon rubs the head of his cock through your slickness. You’re already so wet for him—so fucking needy, and he’ll devour it all. Give you exactly what you want while taking something for him.

As he starts to slide in, you whimper. Reaching back, your hand grabs your ass, opening yourself a bit wider for him.

Bloody hell.

Simon doesn’t want to go slow. Using his grip on your hip, he slides all the way in, making you take him to the hilt with one forward thrust of his hips.

Your gasp is choked, and then Simon is lost, pounding into you as if this is the last time he’ll ever fuck you. It’s only your tightness, your breathy moans of pleasure, and the desperate why you say his name. It wraps around him, satiates the viper, calms the rising jealousy until it’s only you Simon can focus on.

Through the haze, Simon finds your clit, plays with it, slows his thrusts until your orgasm arrives, squeezing him so tight he almost finishes right then and there. But once that wave crests and crashes, Simon is back at it. Planting both hands on the table on either side of your waist, Simon stutters out, his lower back tensing, everything draw up.

Simon’s orgasm is an unraveling. All the tension melts as he finishes, and even then, he continues to thrust, pushing his cum deeper inside you. His chest heaves, body shuddering as he draws back a bit. Your breathing is just as labored.

Easing out of your body, Simon admires the bloom of cum at your entrance. He presses it back inside before helping you unbend from the table. Turning you around to face him, Simon claims your mouth in a deep kiss, his grasping the back of your head.

You form to him, and Simon’s hunger flares.

“To bed,” he says, drawing you away with a tug on your hair.

“To sleep?” you ask, smirking.

Maybe you did all this. Planned it all from the beginning.

Naughty girl.

Simon shakes his head. “Not yet.”

He releases you, and then smacks your ass for good measure. Squeaking, you scurry away toward the bedroom. Simon stands there for a moment, composing himself. Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws the business card. There is an address and a phone number.

Glancing over his shoulder at the bouquet, Simon comes to a decision. Stalking toward his duffle, Simon secures the business card in a side pocket. He’ll deal with this at work.

Right now, you’re getting undressed.

And Simon is much more interested in that.

Flowers can wait.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

You send the final text and lock your phone, leaving it on the coffee table.

It’s just a little prank. A tease.

Kyle is always a gentleman even when he makes your toes curl and pulls unseemly sounds from between your lips. But riling him up can be just as fun. Kyle isn’t one to be jealous or even possessive of you. He’s certainly protective, and his presence always makes you feel safe, but you’re aching for something else right now.

The flowers weren’t all that expensive. And they are pretty.

Your phone buzzes. You ignore it.

It buzzes again.

When you check the screen, you see two new texts from Kyle. You stare at it, and set it back down. You’re going to let him stew and question. If anything, Kyle might think the flowers innocent.

Tapping your fingers against your knee, impatience stirring in your belly, you stare out the patio door. You need to distract yourself, but the urge to look is too strong. Snatching the phone back up, you glance at the messages.

That’s sweet, love.

But I didn’t get you flowers.

Honesty. This man is terrible at lying or hiding his feelings.

You tap out a reply.

Of course you did! Loved the note you left with it!

Kyle’s reply is instant.

Note?

You nearly cackle at the ceiling and when you hit send.

I want you tonight. You know you can have me whenever lol. No need to send flowers about it.

Within seconds of you hitting send, you phone starts to vibrate. Yelping, you nearly drop the thing. Kyle’s name and a photo of him at the beach pop up on your screen. You stare at it, allowing it to go to voicemail. He calls again immediately.

You launch off the couch, pacing as the phone falls back into voicemail. It’s a bit thrilling knowing that Kyle is likely worked up on the other end.

Answer the phone, comes Kyle’s next text, and then, I’m coming home.

Oh shit.

You are all nervous excitement waiting for him. And when he does come barreling through the door, you’re a bit shocked at the sight of him.

Slowly, he shuts the front door, striding into the kitchen where the bouquet is. He stares at it for a long moment before turning his gaze on you.

“Kyle,” you say brightly, walking toward him.

He holds up a finger and walks past you. You hear the opening and shutting of doors, of drawers being opened, and items moving around. Kyle returns, hands on his hips, concern on his features.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“I didn’t send you those flowers.”

“Didn’t you?” you reply, innocently, moving toward them.

Kyle shoots forward and begins digging through the stems. “Where is that bloody card?” he mutters.

There is no card. No note. You made it all up.

“Kyle,” you say, but he ignores you.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he says, ripping opening the plastic to see inside.

“Kyle,” you repeat, adding a bit of volume behind your voice.

Again, he ignores you, scattering the flowers across the countertop.

“When I find the fucking wanker that—”

“Kyle!”

He turns, eyes a bit wild. Kyle looks ridiculous, and you suddenly feel terrible. You reach for him, placing both hands on either side of his face. “There’s no note.”

Kyle blinks like he didn’t hear you correctly. “What?”

“There’s no note,” you repeat. “I bought the flo—”

Kyle groans loudly and places his entire hand over your face, muffling the last few words. “Bloody hell, baby girl.” He lightly pushes off, dropping his hand, and stepping back.

You grin sheepishly as Kyle crosses his arms over his chest.

“What was the goal?” he asks, leaning forward a bit.

You shrug your shoulders. “To rile you up?”

Kyle laughs, short and clipped. “Rile me up?”

“Yes,” you say slowly.

He leans in a bit more, a smirk on his face. “And what do you think was going to happen once you riled me up?”

You know that Kyle already knows the answer to this question. But he’s indulging you. As he always does.

“I didn’t think that far,” you reply, but it’s far from the truth.

You wanted to rile him up so that he’d come home and fuck you like a man possessed.

Kyle bites down on his bottom lip and you track the movement. “No, love. You did.” He straightens. “And I know what you want.”

Kyle steps into your space, his head dipping as if to kiss you but pausing just before. “You need a good throat fucking. I need an apology. And then I can give you what you want.”

“Kyle,” you breathe.

“On your knees, love. Present your mouth.”

You obediently drop to your knees, and part your lips.

“Wider,” he almost growls.

You do so just as Kyle reaches down and undoes the front of his belt. He doesn’t even look. Doesn’t flinch. The belt is gone and the front of his pants are open by the time Kyle grabs your face and brings you close.

“Tongue out.”

You do so, and Kyle taps the head of his cock against it before sliding it back and forth over your tongue. His hold shifts, falling to the nape of your neck.

“Take it like a good girl. Got it?”

You nod, and Kyle draws you forward, forcing you to take all of him. Holding you in place for a few seconds, Kyle only eases you back once your gag reflex kicks in. Kyle adjusts his stance, and your hands grasp the sides of his thighs.

Kyle’s hand on the back of your neck tightens as his other hand tangles in your hair. Keeping you in place, he starts to thrust, fucking your mouth like he would your pussy. All you can do is cling to him, to hold on as he grunts above you.

There isn’t any anger there, just a stern brow and a need for control. It’s delicious. Entirely mouth-watering. Your core warms, a slickness blooming, indicating just how much this turns you on.

To bring Kyle toward his end, you make little sounds in your throat. It makes him stutter. It makes him moan. Beneath his pants, you feel the muscles in his legs tighten. And then he’s forcing you down his length, throating him entirely as he comes down your throat.

Breathing through you nose is the only thing holding you together. And when he slides you off, you cough, wiping at your lips.

Kyle’s hand caresses your cheek, drawing your gaze to him. He arches a single eyebrow.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

Reaching out, Kyle draws you up to your feet, bringing you close. His smile is soft, and when he comes in for a kiss, it is consuming.

“Now that you’ve riled me up,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ll give you what you want.”

Kyle pulls away, his thumb pressing on your bottom lip.

“Take off your clothes. Kneel on the bed. And bend over. Got it?”

You nod, and Kyle drops his hand.

“That’s my good girl.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny’s ears are ringing.

“You better be bloody joking,” he growls at his phone.

On the screen is a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Flowers that you’re thanking him for. Flowers that he didn’t send.

And the card? Bloody fucking hell. That card is going in the shredder. Johnny will tear it apart with his own teeth if he has to. Some fucker had the bright idea to send you flowers like he’s the one you’re dating.

No. Fuck that.

Johnny might be the demolitions expert, but he knows Ghost could dig around for him if he asked. Scratch that. Johnny is asking right fucking now.

“Hey, Lt!” Johnny jogs over to Ghost and turns his phone around. “Can you trace who sent these flowers?”

Ghost’s expression behind the balaclava remains flat. “It’s a fucking photo, Johnny.”

Cursing under his breath, Johnny forwards the image to Ghost. Ghost checks his phone, enlarging the image.

He grunts. “Should be easy.” Ghost glances up from the screen. “Why?”

“Someone making a move on my woman,” replies Johnny, holding back a growl.

“Done,” says Ghost. “Give me a couple hours.”

It doesn’t take Ghost long, and Johnny has to laugh out loud.

“You fucking naughty thing,” mutters Johnny as he unlocks the door to your flat.

When he enters, you’re nearly on your toes, eager for him. It’s cute, but you need to learn first. Sure, the prank is harmless, but you were wanting a rise out of him.

Punishment is needed.

“Johnny,” you say brightly, coming around the counter to greet him.

As you arms reach for him, Johnny removes his belt. Your gaze drops, but he is faster than you. Johnny has the belt around your wrists and secured before you can even protest.

“What are you doing?” you ask breathlessly.

“Thought I wouldn’t find out?” Johnny tuts. He yanks you forward, bringing the two of you almost face-to-face. “Bought those flowers yourself.”

Johnny tugs on the belt again. You stumble into him and he spins you around. With another quick tug, Johnny has the belt looped onto one of the coat hooks embedded in the wall.

Reaching down, Johnny palms your ass, his lips pressed to your ear. “Got me all jealous at work. Had Ghost stalking the flower shop and everything.” He squeezes, and then smacks your ass. Hard.

You whimper. “Johnny. I’m sorry.”

“No apologies, love.” He kisses your throat. Your skin is soft and he inhales, savoring your scent. You’re freshly showered, and the smell of your shampoo invades his nostrils.

It doesn’t take much to rid you of your underwear. It’s just you in an old shirt and your bare ass on full display. Johnny slides his hands between you clenched thighs.

“Spread them.”

You do so obediently and a primal part of him simmers with pleasure. Johnny slowly drops to his knees behind you. He savors the view, taking his time to enjoy the sight before him. Even from here, Johnny can see how slick you are. How wanton.

He’s going to devour you. Make you beg. Deny you what it is you most want until you’re a fucking mess for him. That’s punishment enough.

Johnny tests by running one finger over your pussy. It comes back glossy. He pops it into his mouth, groaning at your taste.

“Want me to eat this pretty pussy?” asks Johnny, running his finger over you again.

You nod frantically. “Yes. Please.”

That’s a start.

Johnny leans in, the tip of his tongue playing with your entrance. He traces it with his tongue before slipping inside, slowly fucking you with it. It’s not enough, but Johnny knows this. He needs to suck on your clit and give you his fingers to make you come.

But even then, you’ll have to wait.

You’ll have to beg.

Johnny trails upward, swirling his tongue, finding your clit. He teases it. Flicks it back and forth in a steady stroke. You’re already growing wetter. You’re already moaning above him. Too bad you don’t know what’s coming.

Johnny slides one finger inside of you, pumping twice before inserting a second. You’re tight around him. He can feel the stretch.

He works you slowly, lightly thrusting his fingers in and out of your pussy as he teases your clit with his tongue. Above him, your moans come unbroken and loud. It’s sweet. He loves the sound. But Johnny knows your tells, and when your muscles begin to clench and unclench quickly, he ceases all movement.

“What the fuck,” you gasp, glancing down.

Johnny chuckles. “You have to earn it love.”

“Johnny, please,” you beg.

“What’s that, love? Didn’t hear you?”

“Please,” you say, drawing it out.

“Please what?” he prompts.

“I want to come,” you murmur.

Johnny smirks and starts fucking you with his fingers again, but doesn’t put his mouth back on your clit. It’s not enough for you. You’re squirming. Wiggling. Needing more.

“You pull another stunt like this again, love, and this,” Johnny smacks your ass with a sharp thwack, “will be red.”

“I’m sorry, Johnny. Please. Just—please.”

Johnny teases your clit with a quick swipe of his tongue. “Beg some more.”

You do. All sorts of obscene things fall from your lips. When tears form in the corner of your eyes, Johnny finally gives you relief.

He fucks your gorgeous pussy with his fingers. He tastes and teases until you’re crying out, clamping around him as you come undone.

Johnny withdraws. Straightens.

You’re still hanging on the hook.

He frees you from it, but does not remove the belt from around your wrists. Johnny presses you against him with a flat palm upon your stomach.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmurs.

“I won’t.”

Johnny kisses your throat. “To bed.”

You frown, holding up your bound hands. “But the belt.”

“Stays on,” he says, fisting the tangling leather. “Until I’m done with you.”

John Price

John isn’t one for texting.

You’ll send him a barrage of texts only for him to call you hours later asking what you were texting him about.

Which is why you didn’t think this plan would work.

But then it did, and now you’re bent over John’s lap, bare ass in the air.

John told you that he was working late to catch up on paperwork. Whenever that happens, he always gives you a call to check-in and hear your voice. It’s routine at this point. A comfort. Most of the time, he just wants you on the other side, to have you talk about the day or whatever you want while he’s working. John will usually remain silent, listening, basking in your voice.

You planned it perfectly, knowing that he’d check his phone before giving you a call. You sent the photo of the flowers. A beautiful display really. And they were on sale. You also sent him a picture of the makeshift “note” that you made for it. All it said was “thinking of you” with no name. All of that was follow up by a “thank you” and promises to please him later.

John was calm when he called you—almost eerily so. When you thanked him from the flowers, he didn’t reply. He simply pushed past it. The thing is, John saved all of that energy up for when he came home.

Your ass stings. John rubs the spot he just smacked before squeezing.

“Now, love. Tell me the truth.” He says it so sweetly, like it’s such a simple thing.

And you don’t know how much longer you’ll last under this barrage.

“You bought them for me,” you whimper, keeping up the façade.

John shakes his head. “We both know that’s not true.” He squeezes your ass again, the sting burning slightly when he let’s go.

“I’d guess you’re seeing someone else but that would be lie. Wouldn’t it?”

He punctuates this statement by slipping his hand between your thighs, his fingers running over your pussy, parting your slickness. John dips one finger inside and then another, only to retreat and grab your ass cheek with the same hand.

“I know just how to make you wet, love. You have no one else to run to.”

“I told you—Fuck! John!” You jolt in his lap as his palm comes down on your already throbbing cheek.

“Be honest, love. Or you’ll get a few more.”

You swallow down your pride. You wanted him riled up, but you weren’t expecting this. Not for John to come home, strip you down, and bend you over his lap.

“I bought them,” you grumble.

John’s hand eases. “You what?”

“I bought them,” you snap.

“I knew you did.”

Before you have the chance to form a retort, John guides you up and into his lap. He grabs the front of your throat, bringing you close to him. He does not kiss you. He simply hovers.

“You’re going to straddle my lap and bounce on my cock until I fill you up. You understand?”

You nod, and Price let’s go of your throat.

“Get to it,” he purrs.

John is fully clothed, and you’re wearing nothing at all. You undo the clasp of his belt, pull the zipper, and he flexes his hips enough that you can work his pants down a bit. When his hard length is free to you, you straddle him, lining yourself up.

He remains impassive as you start to sink down. The stretch is perfect—as it always is, and you groan as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. Gripping his shoulders, you roll up and back down, rocking when you can to give your legs a break.

John still stays quiet but his gaze is assessing. Slowly, his hand comes around your neck again, and this time he squeezes slightly. It’s not to hurt. It’s to dominate and possess.

“Who do you belong to, love?” he asks.

“You,” you murmur, sinking down on him.

“Say it again,” repeats John.

“I belong to you,” you gasp, coming up and then back down.

“Again,” and this time there’s a growl in his tone.

“I’m yours, John.”

“Fucking right,” he says, crashing his mouth to yours.

The kiss is a claiming, one that shoots through your body and consumes your limbs and control. You shudder, pussy clenching, and then John is fucking up into you, his hands on your hips.

You’re no longer in control. It’s just John, and his need to possess.

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[pitchsidestories]

taste II Ingrid Engen x Mapi León x Reader

masterlist I word count: 1018

a/n: dear readers, this short, a little silly but cute oneshot was inspired by this request here, happy reading. 🫶🏻 🐈‍⬛

Autumn has finally arrived in Barcelona. Leaves painted in red, orange and yellow started to fall from the trees for one last dance. Baghera was entranced by what nature did and watched everything from her favourite spot in the living room close to the window.

Every year you both were falling in love with that season of the year, as it might be an ending to a summer you fully lived, but also the beginning of something fresh and new.

The champion’s league was about to start and games under the lights were always something special, alone the thought of it filled you with giddy excitement.

“Girls, I invited Esmee for dinner. That’s alright, right?”, you asked your girlfriends who were already in the kitchen.

“Yes, of course, kjaerste.”, Ingrid nodded friendly, standing in front of the stove. While Mapi was launching around in one of the chairs in a sitting position which screamed gay, and parents would judge because of bad posture.

“She was so sad that her parents left again. I thought she could use the distraction.”, you continued. The sad face of the young player was still fresh in your memory.

As a foreign player yourself you knew that being separated from your family for such long periods of time was hard especially when the nights got colder and the daylight shorter.

When you first came to Barcelona at Esmee’s age you were glad that Mapi and Ingrid welcomed you into their home with open arms, the appartement you began to share with them turning into a home away from home soon.

“That’s very sweet of you.”, the Norwegian commented, her forehead covered in frowning lines, looking concentrated at the recipe ahead of her.

“What’s for dinner?”, Mapi questioned smirking.

“I’ve something delicious planned.”, Ingrid announced delighted.

The Spaniard and you took a curious glance at the cookbook before exclaiming, faces formed to disgusted grimaces. “Pumpkin soup?!”

“Why do I have two children, one who has no patience and the other has the taste bud of a toddler?”, the dark-haired women groaned in response.

“Excuse me?”, you replied, pretending to be offended.

“I said what I said.”, Ingrid declared who tried her best to suppress a smile.

“Can’t you make some chicken nuggies?”, you asked your girlfriend, giving her puppy-eyes which you hoped would warm her Scandinavian heart. Often this worked out perfectly fine.

“Please, please, please.”, Mapi supported your suggestion loudly.

“Girls, seriously?”, Ingrid sighed, the defender and you knew from her sigh alone that you both had won in the question of what’s going to be for dinner.

A knocking on the door interrupted the discussion. You opened the door for Esmee and led her into the kitchen.

“Hi everyone. Ingrid, what are you cooking? Can I help you?”, the young player asked politely, peeking over the shoulder of the tall Norwegian.

“I’m making pum-…“, she started, one last attempt to get someone on her side.

“We’re having chickie nuggies!”, Mapi and you announced simultaneously.

Finally, Ingrid gave in: “Yes, we’re having chicken nuggets…“

“Thanks, love.“, you thanked her, beaming.

A small smile appeared on her face as she nudged your side: “You’re lucky I love you two so much.“

“We love you too, amor.“, Mapi replied, kissing Ingrids right cheek while you got on your tiptoes to kiss her left.

Esmee cleared her throat, making sure you hadn’t forgotten that you had a visitor.

Blushing, Ingrid pushed the two of you away and got to work.

You grinned at Esmee: “Hope you like nuggets, Esmee.“

She nodded happily, looking a bit relieved that it wasn’t pumpkin soup: “I do.“

“Then sit down while Ingrid shows us her cooking skills.“, you joked.

Ingrid rolled her eyes next to you. Of the three of you, she was definitely the best cook so making chicken nuggets was beneath her actual cooking skills.

Still, she managed to present you with a batch of perfectly crispy nuggets, a homemade dipping sauce and a bowl of fresh salad. You were all athletes after all.

“This is…“; Esmee said between two mouthfuls of salad.

“Delicious as always.“, Mapi completed the sentence for her, gleefully biting into a nugget.

Ingrid smiled across the table, seemingly happy that you all enjoyed her food: “Thank you, girls.“

“You’re the best cook.“, you agreed with the others.

“I’ll try the pumpkin soup another time though.“, the Norwegian warned you jokingly.

“I promise we’ll try it then.“, you assured her. It was only fair that she would get her pumpkin soup.

“Appreciate it.“

The food was quickly gone, leaving the table cluttered with empty dishes.

Mapi leaned back in her chair with a yawn: “Now time for a nap.“

“Thanks for the dinner, girls.“, Esmee said after she made sure that Ingrid didn’t want any help washing dishes.

“No worries, you’re always welcome here.“, you assured the young player and pulled her into a quick hug before she left.

You smiled to yourself as you closed the door behind her, you loved providing a safe space for the young players, making sure they had everything they needed even if it was just dinner.

“Y/n, Ingrid, hurry up!”, you heard Mapi call from the living room.

Ingrid left the kitchen, rolling her eyes: “That kid has no patience.“

“You still love it.“, you laughed as the two of you entered the living room where Mapi laid sprawled out on the sofa.

“Come into my arms, my loves.“, she laughed, making space for both of you on each side.

You didn’t even think twice as you launched yourself onto the sofa: “Coming!”

“All here.“, Ingrid smiled as she took the other side of the sofa.

Mapi sighed with content, wrapping one arm around each of you: “That’s how I like it.“

“Sandwiched on the sofa? We know.“, you teased her.

Ingrid chuckled lightly, reaching over Mapi and intertwined her fingers with yours: “Me too. With my two favourite children.“

With her eyes already closed, Mapi mumbled something unintelligible, already snoozing.

You cuddled closer into her side.

There was nothing better to do on your free day.

[johanna-517]

"Special and unique"

(CHAPTER 5)

You were sitting quietly on the small couch in your house, watching some cartoons while your mom prepared dinner.

"Mamá... ¿Por qué yo no tengo papá? " you asked, with a curious expression as you turned to look at your mother.

She stood still, a little surprised by your sudden question, but... After all, you were almost six years old, it was obvious that sooner or later you would ask yourself that question.

You'd seen your friends with their dads, and you'd also seen how the characters in your favorite TV shows had dads too. So, eventually, curiosity arose in your little mind... Why didn't you have a dad too?

Mom never mentioned anything about Dad, you never met your father until now, you don't even know who he is, let alone the reason why your mom doesn't tell you anything about him.

"Ah... Escucha, mi adorable (y/n), tú si tienes un padre, es solo que... Él no está aquí, él vive muy, muy lejos. Y no puedes conocerlo" She explained, leaving the kitchen and walking towards you.

"De todas formas... No necesitas un padre, mi pequeña hija. Te prometo que yo te voy a cuidar y amar tanto que jamás te hará falta un padre" She murmured sweetly, hugging you.

"Tú me tienes a mi y yo te tengo a tí, eso es todo lo que importa". She finally stated, her voice as warm and soft as ever, as she placed a small kiss on your forehead.

Oh, how right your mother was when she said that... You didn't need a father. You didn't need Bruce. Because... It was obvious he didn't need you either.

After the incident on the stairs, you had to rest and stay in bed in your room for almost two whole days. And... It wasn't even difficult for you to accept having to stay locked in your room resting these days, since, after what happened... You definitely didn't even want to run into Tim, much less Stephanie or Cassandra. So it was better to stay within the safety of your own room, without any of them being able to get close.

Alfred took care of you; in fact, it's thanks to him and his diligent care that you've already recovered quite a bit. The pain in your body disappeared; only small marks remained, but nothing serious.

In times like these, you definitely appreciate that Alfred at least makes time for you. If it weren't for him, living in this mansion would be much more complicated.

He takes care of you, listens to you, makes sure you eat all three meals a day, teaches you English, explains to you about this family, and helps you in every way he can. You're truly grateful for that.

You sigh softly, really... It was so boring staying in your room all day. Luckily, you have something to help you entertain yourself a little.

You take the notebook and pencil that were next to you on the table, and you start to draw a little bit of the first thing that comes to mind.

Your grip on the pencil is soft, and you have a calm expression as you slide the pencil tip over the white sheet of paper.

You draw a house, a small but pretty house, with a garden, three windows, a big tree next to it, and a sun in the sky. Then, you take some colored crayons and start coloring.

The walls of the house are yellow, the flowers in the garden are pink, yellow, blue, orange, and red. Of course, the tree is green. And finally, you paint the sky light blue and the sun bright yellow.

You smile slightly at the result... You've drawn the house you used to live in with your mother before. Of course, a simple drawing can't fully capture your beautiful, warm home. But at least... This will help you remember what your house used to look like. Your real home.

You look to your side and suddenly remember that Toti isn't with you. You lost him when you fell down the stairs, and at the time, because you were hurt, you didn't notice and didn't pick him up. And for now, since you had to stay in your room resting, you hadn't been able to go out to look for Toti.

But... Now you feel better. Your body no longer hurts when you move or walk. So you could go out and look for Toti, but you hesitate for a moment, not sure you really want to leave the room, afraid you'd run into Tim, Cassandra, or Stephanie if you left your room.

You sigh softly, trying to calm down a little. Toti is important to you, you can't leave him alone any longer... Besides, with luck, you won't run into anyone this time.

You finally decide to get up and go outside to look for Toti. You get out of bed, walking toward the door. Before you leave the room, you notice that the little monarch butterfly you knew had returned. She flew in through the open window, approaching you and landing on your shoulder.

You laugh softly at the sight of her again... You're so happy to see your little friend again. She seems to want to go with you, so you let her tag along.

You walk calmly through the long, almost dark hallways of the mansion, trying to remember exactly where you fell and lost Toti.

After a while... You finally reach the spot. You shudder a little at the sight of the stairs and remember what had happened; what Stephanie said about you and how she pushed you at the end.

You shake your head, trying to push those memories away. Right now, the last thing you need is to remember that moment... After all, when there are painful moments, it's always better to try to forget them as if they never happened, right?

With determination, you approach the stairs, and look around carefully, searching for Toti.

You frown slightly when you can't see him; you can't find him on the stairs. So you decide to go downstairs to see if you can find him at the bottom.

Once downstairs, you tense up when you hear loud footsteps nearby. Then... You see him, you see Jason for the first time.

He... He's definitely very tall and intimidating, with a serious, tense expression. You freeze for a moment when you see him, not knowing what to do.

You remember Alfred telling you a little about him earlier, saying that Jason had a somewhat complicated and strained relationship with Bruce right now, and that was why he didn't come to the mansion regularly.

As you look at him, you notice he has a small wound on his face. He's hurt.

A feeling of concern fills your chest at the sight of him hurt, and without thinking, you try to approach him, but... He stops you, not allowing you to get any closer to him.

"What do we have here? Looks like this is the new little freak Bruce brought to the mansion... Really, he should learn not to accept just anyone here." Jason's tone was aggressive, a cruel, mocking smile on his lips as he looked at you, observing the peculiar color of your eyes.

You flinch at hearing him be so directly hostile toward you. You feel afraid of him, of how big and intimidating he seems. But, deep down... You can't help but feel annoyed by what he said, too.

"I'm no freak..." you muttered under your breath, looking away.

"Of course you are, just look at your strange eye color and you'll know. Only a freak could have eyes that hideous," he replied, completely indifferent to what his words might provoke in you.

Definitely... This is too much, you can't stand him talking about your eyes like that, he has no right.

With anger flashing in your eyes, you walk over and try to push him away in revenge for what he said about you. But... He stops you instantly, grabbing your arms in a tight, almost painful grip.

"Do you really think... that a little weirdo like you can do something to me? How ridiculous," Jason stated in a mocking tone, staring at you.

You wince slightly at Jason's grip, and try to pull away, but to no avail, as he's definitely much stronger than you.

At that moment... The little butterfly on your shoulder finally flies away, going straight for Jason's face, as if it wants to get him to let go of you.

And he succeeds for a moment, Jason is taken by surprise and lets go of you, now using his hands to try to push away the annoying butterfly that was fluttering near his face.

Jason was already angry, so having a butterfly trying to attack his face definitely pisses him off even more. Without hesitation, Jason manages to catch the butterfly in one of his hands, and then... He crushes it, closing his fist tightly until the small butterfly is completely crushed. Then, he opens his hand and lets it fall to the ground.

You felt like your heart had stopped the moment you saw it. You watched as the butterfly fell to the ground, its wings crushed and broken, not moving at all.

Instantly, your eyes filled with tears, you dropped to your knees as you stared at your little friend on the ground, completely broken.

Before you could complain further, Jason simply walks away. He turns around and walks away with cold indifference, not regretting what he's done at all.

You watch him walk away and turn his back on you, your eyes filling with tears after what he did.

"Jason... W-why?" your voice trembles slightly, looking down at the butterfly on the ground again.

You reach out with one of your trembling hands, touching the butterfly's broken wings. You try to murmur soft words, asking it to move even a little, to not leave, that I didn't leave you. But no matter how much you beg, it doesn't budge.

You carefully pick it up in your hands, making sure to pick up every little fragment of its wings as well.

You try to stop crying, you try to ignore the way your hands shake, you try to stop feeling... The pain in your chest.

You arrive at your room, close the door behind you, find a small, empty box, and put the butterfly in it.

You stand there for a moment, staring blankly at the small box on the table.

'I... I didn't do anything to him, I didn't do anything wrong to Jason, so why... Does he do this to me? Does he hate me too?' you thought, sighing softly. You were definitely no longer surprised to being hated by someone in this family.

But even if he hated you... It doesn't justify what he did. He literally shattered the little bit of hope and joy you had. Because that's what the monarch butterfly represented to you; hope and a chance at happiness. And he just... shattered it right in front of your eyes.

It's okay if he has issues with Bruce, if maybe he's upset all the time, it's okay if he doesn't like you, but... He didn't have to do this.

The unpleasantly warm tears continue to fall from your eyes, your gaze still fixed on the small box.

How should you feel? Angry, disappointed, or maybe... just sad? You don't know. All you know right now is that you've never felt that way in your life.

This is a different kind of pain, not the same longing you feel for your mother. This is much more... cruel. Being hurt without even a shred of mercy from people like them is too much.

It's incredible... As soon as you arrive, everyone seems to hate you. Every time you meet a new family member, they do something worse than the last.

And the worst part? The worst part is that you have to suffer in silence. Because you can't tell Bruce, you can't tell your own father about the way your siblings treat you. Because simply... He doesn't care about you either. And you're absolutely certain that he much prefers his other children to you.

You don't want to tell Alfred either because you're afraid of what will happen. What if he also prefers others to you? What if he leaves you behind too? You can't risk it. For now, it's best not to say anything.

❦: (I was going to post this chapter last night, but my internet was failing too much, so I better post it today. Thanks for reading, I appreciate the support, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.)

✯/Tag list: @hopingtoclearmedschool

(If anyone else wants to be added please ask in the comments :D)

[sirhamburrger]

colour(less) - m. kaiser x f!reader in which you are his maker and subsequently, his undoing.

wc: 923. tags/cw: hurt no comfort, reader dies in this one, mention of kaiser’s past, they meet at ten years old and this ends when they’re eighteen, self-harm and alcohol consumption at the end a/n: unfortunately i have never been more proud of my writing :((((( this was really sad actually

red is the colour streaked across michael kaiser’s knuckles the first spring after he turns ten. probably his face too, but the more pressing issue is the way his already-bruised hands sting. honestly, it’s a miracle his wounds haven’t gotten infected yet.

but red is also the colour of the dress you wear, hair in neatly done braids as you walk up to him on the street. for a second he thinks you’re another one of those rich kids who poke fun at his plight as if they can even begin to understand what he’s going through. 

so he’s utterly stunned when you procure a red rose from behind your back, smiling shyly before running off to rejoin your friends.

you bring him flowers every day from then on. he lurks in different places around town day to day, but somehow you manage to find him every single time. when you run out of red roses from your neighbours’ gardens, you bring him orange tulips instead.

you sit on low rooftops with him as the sunset paints the sky into a firestorm. your parents don’t know you’re here with him, you say, and when he asks you if they’ll be mad at you, you tell him you don’t care.

summer comes around, and you bring him bright yellow sunflowers now. lemon popsicles are a rare treat for him to beat the heat, and you giggle as you watch him crunch on the flavoured ice, poking out your own tongue for a taste.

that summer is also the first time you see him playing soccer on the streets. you chase after him through the busy sidewalk, watching as he weaves through crowds of people with his old scuffed football close to his feet. he stops in an alleyway for you to catch up, and a small smile stretches his face as you double over, panting.

you stop bringing him flowers in the autumn because your neighbours are catching on to you. he brings you to a local park, ignoring the dirty stares passers-by give him, so you can enjoy playing in the green grass before it dries up in the later months.

this is when he gets into his first fight since meeting you. the beatings from his father are bad enough, but when he sees you cornered by three troublemaking boys, he can’t just stand by and do nothing. the result is bad scratches and gashes, worse than the injuries he sustained the day you met him.

you rummage around in your pockets for a while and the day ends with you sticking green plasters all over him. he flinches away at your touch, but then he begins to lean into you, letting you take care of him how you tell him he deserves to be taken care of.

you share your first kiss, then, in the fresh grass.

years later, michael kaiser is famous. but he does not belong to bastard münchen, or to its managers or his team and certainly not to his parents. he belongs to you, and he shows it through a tattoo he gets. 

it starts at his neck, blue roses with their stems snaking down his arm and ending in a lock on the back of his hand. because as corny as it sounds, he still remembers the day you met, when you gave him that rose - and only you have the key to his heart. (you pretend-cringe when he tells you this, but kiss him sweetly anyway.)

he says yes to letting you dye the ends of his hair - even the rattails you’ve slowly grown to accept - and you pick a baby blue. and he thinks he might really see a future with you, because he’s nodding absently when you ask to do his nails in a matching colour. his fans go crazy on bastard münchen’s socials for weeks after.

the day you leave him, you’re wearing indigo.

you never saw it coming, or so witnesses say. the drunk driver came out of nowhere. michael watches him stumble out of his car with his own eyes, and he feels the familiar urge to punch something. anything. the crowd is too scared to hold him back, and he moves towards that dirtbag, that piece of scum - when he remembers you wouldn’t want him to do something like that.

none of that matters three days later at your funeral. for the first time ever, bastard münchen is worried for michael kaiser, and the country is heartbroken for him. 

they bury you in elegant pastel violet in late autumn. he can’t even glance at ness without seeing the purple tips of his hair, without thinking about the way your hands look brushing against purple chrysanthemum petals at the florist’s. how mauve remains in streaks of mauve on your face after messy baking sessions. how glistening lip gloss, along with sparkly purple glitter coats his own lips.

maybe that’s why he leaves the service at the earliest possible moment, and drinks himself to delirium at a nearby bar.

maybe that’s why he cuts his hair short when he returns home that night, removing the blue and erasing every trace of your love. 

maybe that’s why he ends up slicing his palms open on the thorns of the black roses he brings to your grave a week later, then sobs brokenly because he’s failed you. back then, and even now. 

you brought colour into his life, helped him see his own beauty. now that you’re gone, the world is grey and bleak; devoid of you.

bllk masterlist || general masterlist © sirhamburrger 2025

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 9: Hollywood]

A/N: We're in the home stretch now, besties! Only 3 chapters left until the curse is lifted 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, Maroon 5, illness/death, angst, ice cream, Sunshine makes her red carpet debut! 😍

Word count: 6.5k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

Time machine, walls like glass, the dial turned back to 2009. It’s Viserys’ funeral, and no one can even pretend they’re sad. They stopped being sad years ago, and only relief is left. No more long nocturnal hours of the deathwatch, no more hushed sympathetic updates from the hospice nurses, no more unrecognizable white-haired organic matter contorted in his hospital bed. The chains are broken and they are free, all except one of them, the nineteen-year-old son who believes—without proof, without logic—that the curse is not lifted but only transferred, living on in him like an echo down a long hall.

It’s 2005, and Viserys has turned mean: paranoid, volatile, lashing out with fury at his increasing limitations as his brain is hollowed out like a Halloween pumpkin, like a cored apple. He roars and he throws things. He forgets his family are not torturers. Alicent could shut him away somewhere, but she doesn’t, the guilt would eat her alive; and so while nurses are present at the Malibu mansion around the clock, the Targaryens are not spared his wrath. One night Viserys breaks a window and wields a shard of glass like a dagger, and when the nurses flee screaming, Aemond stops Alicent from entering the room and goes in himself to clean up the mess. Someone has to.

It’s 1999, and after years of anomalies that nobody knew were symptoms—mood swings, muscle weakness, difficulty making decisions, balance problems, memory lapses—Viserys has been diagnosed with a disease that must have been lurking in his forebearers for generations, unbeknownst to them without the longevity or genetic tests of modern medicine. And like so many absent husbands and fathers who experience a revelation of their impending doom, he is determined to make up for lost time. He bakes with Alicent in the kitchen. He walks with Helaena in the garden. He stops condemning nine-year-old Aegon for long hours spent with his favorite toy, a charcoal gray Nintendo 64, first edition; the Fire Orange console won’t be released until the following year, part of the Funtastic Colors series. And now that it’s too late, Viserys’ children learn to love him.

Viserys takes Aegon’s hand and asks the boy to show him how to play Nintendo 64, here at the very start like a mirage, already beginning to disintegrate around the edges.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Thursday, August 7th. You don’t have an appointment to see Aegon, but you’re here in Elysian Park anyway. You park on the curb and sweep out into the gilded morning glow, already mid-80s and rising, wrinkled goldenrod-yellow sundress that you left in the drier too long, flip-flops, bare-faced. You barely slept and ran out the door as soon as you clawed your way out of brief, fitful dreams, autumn leaves and endless corridors through apple orchards, distant stars and deep water.

At his desk, Brandon is on the phone and making notes with his flower pen. He gives you a smile; you can only manage a quick wave. You continue into Aegon’s office, where he is engrossed in Mario’s expedition into an ice world where snow falls in unhurried, harmless white spheres. The music is pleasant, but the pools of frozen water are so cold they burn. Mario is making his way towards a block of ice in which a star has been hidden, accessible by navigation through narrow tunnels. Aegon, his green Nike Killshots propped up on his cluttered desk as usual, is surprised but not disappointed to see you.

“Hey, sunshine!” he says, still clicking the buttons on his transluscent orange controller, still swiveling the joystick. “What are you doing here so—?”

“Your dad died of Huntington’s disease.”

He freezes, and on the television screen, so does Mario; a malevolent snowman entity appears and hurls snowballs at the abandoned avatar until he is dead. You wait for Aegon to say something—no, that’s not true, no, you’re wrong, no, that would be a death sentence—but he only sits there, jaw fallen open, eyes filling up his face���and then he jolts to his feet and goes for the door.

You whirl around to watch him leave. “Aegon…?”

He stops in the doorway to the lobby and calls out: “Brando, you’re done for the day. Bye.”

“Oh for cute!” Brandon replies. “Let me just send an email to that moving company and then—”

“No, now. You’re done right now.”

Brandon sounds perplexed. “Okay, literally right now, you got it.” You can hear him gathering up his things, the jangling of car keys, the snapping shut of a laptop, and you remember all the hours you’ve spent gazing into a small rectangular blue-light screen as you combed through Aegon’s filmography, inspired potential that came to a collision of a stop in his mid-twenties. From the threshold, as he waits for Brandon to leave, Aegon watches you with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes thrashing with dark choppy waves like the riptides of the Pacific. You stare back thunderstruck, and only now do you realize how desperately you were hoping you were mistaken.

Out in the lobby, the front door of the half-duplex opens and closes, and now you and Aegon are alone. He walks back to his desk—loose papers, manila folders, framed photographs, that ever-present bowl of Honeycrisp apples—and drops into his chair, drags his fingers through his slicked-back hair, gazes vacantly at the mint green wall and sighs deeply.

“Who told you?” he asks, like hardly anyone knows, like the few who do wouldn’t have said anything.

“Nobody,” you say, startled. “I just kept guessing different diseases, and I didn’t think it was cancer, and…and…Aegon, Huntington’s is genetic.”

He looks up at you. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“Have you been tested? Because if one of your parents had it then you have a fifty percent chance of inheriting the gene.”

“No, I haven’t been tested.”

“Why not?!”

“Because I just haven’t, okay?”

“Have your siblings?”

“Yeah, and they’re all negative. But I didn’t take the test.”

“I think you should take the test, Aegon.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you should know!” you burst out, and your hands are trembling like his do sometimes, dire adrenaline in your bloodstream and your voice frayed like someone has taken a razor blade to it. “Because if you’re negative then you’ll be relieved, and if you’re positive then you can…you can plan for it, you know? And there are treatments that can help manage the symptoms! I looked it up, I spent like four hours last night on Wikipedia—”

“But no one can stop it,” Aegon says. “They can’t even slow it down.”

“You think you have the gene,” you realize, horrified. “You forget things. Your hands shake. And that’s why you’re leaving Los Angeles and avoiding your family, and that’s why you’re marrying Becca—”

“Stay the fuck out of my head,” Aegon says, the first time he’s ever spat his venom at you, and his knuckles are unbruised and yet it feels like he’s hit you, a crack in a wall, bones that split and arteries that hemorrhage.

“Aegon, you can’t run away like that when you don’t even know for sure if you’re sick!”

“It’s actually really common for people in my situation to not want to take a test.”

You speak without any awareness of what you’re going to say. “I would take care of you.”

“You think I want to hear that?!” Aegon shouts. “You think I want to imagine you being there when I lose the ability to walk, and speak, and feed myself, and remember who the fuck I am?”

“I would do it,” you insist. “You believed in me. You helped me. I would help you.”

He shakes his head and glares at you, his eyes going slick and glassy. “You have no idea what you’re offering.”

“Your family has money, they can afford the best doctors and nurses. You wouldn’t be a burden on any of us, but we’d still get to be with you—”

“I saw what my dad dying did to my mom,” Aegon says bitterly, hatefully. “First he was himself, mostly. And then he was depressed, and then he was angry, and then he became a monster. He’s the reason my mother still has nightmares. He’s the reason Aemond lost his eye. You don’t do that to people you care about. You don’t inflict that on someone you love.”

“But what if you move to Texas and you’re fine, and you don’t have Huntington’s, and you don’t die and nothing terrible happens to you?!”

“Then it will be a relief,” Aegon says softly. “And I can always come back.”

“What about me?” you ask, your voice splintering. “If you’re sick, you’re just never going to see me again?”

Aegon smiles faintly, sad, resigned. “I would rather you remember me the way I am now.”

“Afraid? Avoidant? In denial?”

“Just get out,” he snaps, rubbing his face with his palms, wincing like he’s in pain.

“Aegon—”

“No, you don’t know what it’s like to watch someone die of this!” he roars, slamming his fist on the desk. Documents rustle; photographs fall over. “And if I don’t want a diagnosis, if I don’t want to live staring down the barrel of a gun, then that’s my fucking right and you don’t get to say I’m a coward for it!”

“You’re already living like you know you’re dying,” you moan, you plead. There are tears flowing down your cheeks and turning to salt on your lips; your face is hot with blood. “You don’t have anything to lose.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“But you’re making all these choices for the wrong reasons, and you deserve to know the truth, and if you take a test then you can make an informed decision about what you want your life to look like—”

“I would never pick you,” Aegon says, flat, direct, gutting. “So get that out of your head, because it’s not happening.”

You gaze at him helplessly. “Then what are we doing?”

He shrugs, like this is an idiotic question. “I’m your agent. I’m helping you get jobs.”

“That’s not what this is!” you sob. “It’s always been more than that, it’s been more than that from the very first day! Why did you sign me when no one else would? Why were you feeding me boneless spare ribs off your fork? Why did you throw me that apple?!”

Aegon is incredulous. “Why did I fuck you in this office, why did I fly to Minnesota to have dinner with your awful parents? Because I wanted to. Because I really like you, and I think I’ve been honest about that. But that doesn’t mean it’s serious.”

Never serious, you remember miserably. That’s how Aegon had described his affairs. “Does Becca know you could have Huntington’s?”

“No,” Aegon says. “But if she did, it wouldn’t change anything. She would still want to get married.”

“She would want to take care of you.”

“Yes, exactly. She would be upset for a while, yeah, but she…she needs someone to need her. Her parents were doctors, and they weren’t abusive or anything but they were gone all the time, and the house was like a museum, and now she’s…I don’t know, I guess she’s obsessed with creating warmth, and for Becca warmth means homemade bread and bento boxes and dogs and getting my suits tailored for me, and me being her full-time project…I think a part of her would enjoy that. Having me to herself, finally being the center of my universe. And when I get really bad, when I’m…” Aegon swallows noisily. “When I’m dead, she can move on. She can find someone else to marry and she can have kids, and she’ll always have that trophy on her shelf: I was a Targaryen, I was the perfect long-suffering wife. And Aegon loved me more than any of the others.”

More than me, you think. And then a ricochet of Aegon’s words: I would never pick you. “She’s not mad at you? Because of what we’ve done?”

Aegon chuckles uneasily. “I mean, I’m sure she’s not thrilled about you still being around. She’s been a little temperamental, she’s been suspicious. Right before we left for Minnesota, I woke up from a nap and she was swabbing my cheek for an STD test, can you believe that? But she knows this is temporary.”

What had Becca said the day she pushed you just outside this office? And if he was going to leave me, he has better options than you. You nod like any of this makes sense.

“Can we just be us again?” Aegon asks, and now he’s calm, gentle, exhausted. “We have a month left together. I don’t want to waste it.”

“Okay,” you say numbly.

“Don’t forget about the music video premiere tomorrow night. And I haven’t heard anything from the vampire movie people yet.” Then he adds: “That doesn’t mean you didn’t get it.”

“But it’s not a good sign.”

Aegon tries to soften the blow. “They might just be thinking it over. They might still be scheduling the callback for the other actress.”

You—unsteady, dazed, despondent—stare down at the scuffed wood floor and try in vain to smooth the wrinkles out of your sundress. “Sounds like we’ll both be leaving Los Angeles soon,” you tell Aegon; and then you walk until the walls disappear and only the city is left, sun glare, humming air conditioners, dogs barking, children laughing, engines revving, the immense metallic shadow of Downtown on the horizon.

At home in your apartment building, just as you are about to scan your keycard to unlock the front door, you hear Baela and Jace talking inside. The television is on and the microwave is purring—maybe Jace is making one of his favorite snacks, corn dogs or pizza rolls—and their voices are just barely distinguishable.

“What am I supposed to say to her?” Baela asks, sounding distressed. “That I’m officially too rich and famous to need a roommate? I can’t just kick her out. It would break her heart. She’s so sweet, and I know she’s trying really hard but it’s just…well…”

“No, I get it,” Jace replies. “She’s chill.”

“It sounds like her parents are going to make her move home soon anyway, unless she lands a big part, and…you know…I don’t really see that happening.”

“Yeah.” The microwave beeps and someone pops open the door to retrieve the contents.

“So just please don’t say anything, okay? And when she’s gone in a few months we’ll start looking at apartments in Venice or Santa Monica…”

You put your back to the hallway wall and wait long enough that they won’t think you’ve overheard anything, listening to the sounds of cars whooshing by outside, people coming and going from the places where they belong in the world, and you wonder what that feels like.

~~~~~~~~~~

You stay up too late watching YouTube videos of people with Huntington’s disease, and so the next morning at Cold Stone Creamery you are in a haze, dull throbbing headache, eyes bloodshot from crying, and the frat bro you’re making a Gotta Have It-sized Cookie Mintster for probably thinks you’re high but it’s the opposite: you’ve never felt lower, you’ve never been adrift like this, and you don’t know what to do next. You can’t unknot the threads fate has tied to Aegon. You can’t imagine a life for yourself back home. You can’t remember why you ever thought you’d be able to build something here in the City of Angels, glittering and golden and ever-rushing towards perfection, those who fall behind drug under the wheels.

“Can I get some gummy bears on that?” the frat boy is saying, but your gaze catches on someone behind him. The little metal bells on the glass door jingle and Aegon scrolls inside, khaki cargo shorts and a wrinkled short-sleeve white Oxford thrown over a pink tank top, and he’s traded in his Nikes for flip-flops, and his hair is gelled back from his face so you can see him clearly, vividly, and he leans against the window with daylight flooding in all around him and grins at you.

Why…?

“Can I please get some gummy bears?” the frat boy asks again.

Your manager Josh is blending up a strawberry banana smoothie and glowering at you. “Yo, what is wrong with you today?!”

But you don’t care what he’s saying, because Aegon pulls his black aviator sunglasses out of the pocket of his cargo shorts and slides them on and beams at you, and you hear the words as if he’s spoken them aloud: You are so bright, sunshine.

“I got the part?” you say from behind the counter.

Aegon nods. “You got the part.”

You scream and sprint to him, and when you throw your arms around Aegon he catches you, laughing and warm, and right now his hands are perfectly fine, steady and strong as they cradle the small of your back, the arc of your neck.

“Where the hell are you going?” Josh snaps from the blender. The frat boy, still waiting for his Cookie Mintster, is glaring at you impatiently. “I didn’t say you could take your break yet!”

“Hey,” Aegon says, taking a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and waving it around so Josh can see before dunking it in the tip jar. “She’s quitting. Call someone else.” And then he pulls you, grinning and exhilarated, out of the Cold Stone Creamery and into the August air, moving swiftly beneath a cerulean sky full of cumulus clouds, 90-degrees and diesel fumes.

“Aegon, I can’t quit yet, I still have to pay my rent—”

“I’ll pay your rent,” Aegon says. He stops when you are under the shade of a palm tree and stands there with you in the oasis. His Sebring is parked illegally in a fire lane; it is adorned with a new malady, a massive dent in the bumper. “You’re going to have costume fittings and table-reads, and you have to learn the script, and you’ll have appointments with hair and makeup, and you’ll have a personal trainer, and promo obligations…you won’t have time to work.”

“You didn’t force them to hire me, did you?” you ask, the effervescent high dissolving away. “You didn’t threaten to blacklist them with your whole family or anything, right? Because I don’t want this if it’s not real.”

“What?” Aegon says, mystified. “No. No, I swear, I wouldn’t do that. And I don’t think it would have worked even if I’d tried. First billing is a huge deal. Not even Taylor Swift has managed to buy herself a starring role in a movie yet. They liked you. They wanted you.”

The hope quivers in your voice. “I’m going to be an actress?”

Aegon smiles. “You already are one.” He takes off your red apron and your grey hat and stuffs both in a nearby trashcan. “Are you parked around here?”

You point to your Honda Accord, 2003, Desert Mist Metallic paint that gleams under the sun. “I’m just across the street.”

“You aren’t bringing Jace to the Maroon 5 thing tonight, right? Because it’s in your best interests to appear unattached.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “Unattached?”

“Yeah. Being ostensibly single makes you confident and alluring and mysterious. Dragging along your mop-haired boyfriend makes you look like a high school kid at prom.”

“And how does dragging along my sulky, disillusioned Targaryen agent make me look?”

“Like a star,” Aegon replies simply.

“I’m not bringing Jace. Or anyone else besides you.”

“Great.”

“Can we drive to the premiere together?” You don’t want to be away from Aegon; you are a little petrified of the fanfare that awaits you in Downtown tonight. You have no idea what to expect.

“Yeah,” Aegon says, outwardly casual, unmistakably pleased. “I have a driver booked. We’ll swing by your apartment in the limousine around 7 p.m.”

“Why aren’t we taking the Sebring?”

“Because people don’t drive themselves to premieres, sunshine,” he says, like he’s explaining to a child an obvious and fundamental truth: the sky is blue, the Earth is round. Then he gestures to his white convertible and its sizeable new dent. “And also I keep running into things and I don’t want you in the car when I’m driving.”

Because his hands shake? Because his reflexes are slowing until they inevitably stop? “Maybe you’re just stressed because of the wedding,” you say softly.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Or it’s psychosomatic. You expect to see symptoms, so you do. But really you’re fine.”

Aegon sighs as wind blows eastward from the Pacific Ocean. He wants to change the subject. You can’t stop yourself from talking. “It’s possible.”

“Maybe whatever’s wrong with you isn’t Huntington’s. Maybe it’s something else, like a vitamin deficiency or a thyroid disorder or lupus or fibromyalgia, or diabetes from all the super unhealthy food you eat. Maybe it’s something a doctor can fix.”

“I’ll see you tonight, okay?” Aegon says; and he kisses your cheek and climbs into his Sebring and speeds off towards the interchange of the 110.

~~~~~~~~~~

You told your parents you needed a dress for Clara’s bachelorette party so they wouldn’t yell at you when they saw the charge on the credit card. You will have to devise a new strategy for future purchases; you are running out of wedding-related excuses. The gown is electric yellow and less formal than the one you wore to the charity gala, sufficiently frivolous for a music video premiere, a V-neck and a high-low hemline. Your hair is down and your eyeshadow warm and smokey: Gilded Ganache and Semi-Sweet by Too Faced, Night Star by NARS. You drench yourself with sugary Shimmer Mist from Bath and Body Works, then realize that was probably a stupid idea. But there’s no time to try to scrub it off; Aegon has texted you that he’s five minutes away.

You click out into the kitchen in the yellow heels you found at T.J. Maxx. Jace is sprawled on the couch and bobbing his head as he sings along to a Charli XCX song pulsing out of his iPhone:

“You wanna guess the color of my underwear,

You wanna know what I got goin’ on down there…”

Baela, who had been getting a can of La Croix from the refrigerator, turns and is startled when she sees you. “You’re glittering. And that looks like a prom dress.”

You scrutinize yourself, suddenly self-conscious. “Is it bad?”

“No!” Baela cries, overcorrecting, not wanting to hurt your feelings. “No, it’s so cute. Jace, isn’t it so cute?”

“Totally,” he says from the couch, not looking at you.

“No contrast, huh?” Baela muses, glancing at your shoes and clutch purse.

“Doesn’t yellow go with yellow…?”

“Of course it does.” She beams, too broadly. “Have fun tonight! Walk really slowly on the red carpet. It will feel ridiculous, but that’s how they get good photos. And cycle through four or five different poses. Count to ten in your head and then switch to the next one. And don’t smile too much! You’ll look creepy and your cheeks will get tired and go numb and you’ll start twitching. Do a small smile and then laugh a lot when the interviewers make their dumbass jokes. It’s good television and they’ll like you and give you more airtime.”

You try to commit this to memory. “Okay.”

“Here.” She gifts you an ice-cold can of La Croix, coconut flavored. “Drink this on the ride over, then make sure you have a lot of water at the premiere. Stay hydrated. Keeps you peppy and glowing.”

“Okay,” you say again, a good little foot soldier.

Baela gives you a quick hug goodbye; but you catch the way she frowns at your carefree hair, the deep but not-so-revealing V of your neckline. Maybe she’ll reconsider the implants thing, Baela’s face reads. You can feel cold beads of sweat bleeding from your ribs, your spine. Then you are out the door, descending in the elevator, trotting onto the sidewalk to find the limo already waiting there, black and sleek under a sky that is slowly sickening from midday blue to dusk embers. The windows are tinted so dark you can’t see anything from outside.

“Hey, sunshine,” Aegon says as you slide into the back where he is waiting in the suit he wears to auditions and film shoots and, apparently, premieres: skinny black tie, slightly rumpled and untucked white shirt. He sees the La Croix. “Don’t you not like that?”

“My roommate gave it to me.” You set the can, wet with condensation, in a cupholder. Aegon hands you an iced vanilla latte to replace it. And as you buckle your seatbelt and the limo driver coasts east to hook into the 110 and then heads dead north towards Downtown, Aegon pulls a tiny spiral notebook out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and reads off names to you: people who were involved in the production of the music video you filmed over a month ago, people to praise, people to thank. You’re trying to listen to him, but your thoughts are fuzzy and your heart is racing.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon asks, and you return to him and smirk guiltily.

“I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.”

“Why? You’re not nervous when you’re acting.”

“Because I’ve acted a million times, but I’ve never done a red carpet before. Not even a mini one like this. What if they ask me something I’m not expecting and I freeze up? What if I accidentally offend someone? I’m always saying things that make people think I’m stupid.”

Aegon laughs lazily, peering through the window as the freeway takes you through Vermont Vista, Broadway-Manchester, Florence, blurs of houses and palm trees and graffitied concrete barriers. “Yeah, you are always saying ridiculous things. But that’s who you are, and it’s charming.”

“You think it’s charming.”

Aegon smiles at you. “I do.”

You stir your latte so the ice cubes clink together and you make a jittery little sound, half-sigh, half-whimper. Aegon puts a palm on your bare thigh, pushing the hem of your dress just above your knee; his hand is warm, and gentle, and heavy enough to ground you.

“You’re shaking,” he says, alarmed.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I’m fine. I think it’ll stop once we get there.”

Aegon lifts his hand away—no! you think, pathetically—and then unbuckles his seatbelt and crawls over to the window just behind the driver’s seat, which is all the way down. The limo driver is in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard, classic rock radio station. The opening notes of Dani California pump out of the speakers, the bass reverberating through the leather seats. “Hey,” Aegon says to the driver, thumping his fist on the window slot. “Roll that up.”

“Yes sir,” the driver assents immediately.

“Don’t park or unlock the doors until I tell you to.”

“Yes sir.”

The dark opaque window closes, the driver disappears, and Aegon comes back to you. He takes your half-finished latte out of your hand and places it safely in a cupholder.

You’re smiling as you ask: “What are you going to—?”

He reaches beneath your dress—tulle ruffles the color of unclouded daylight, or lemons, or butter, or sunflowers—and his fingertips know where to go, their corporeal memory is perfect, and they apply divine spiraling pressure over your panties, silk to leave no lines beneath your dress; that’s a trick Baela taught you. You gasp and clutch for the back of the seat, sweated skin on black leather, your spine arching, your blood cascading south as the freeway runs northbound.

“Are you nervous now?” Aegon whispers; and his words are taunting but his voice is hushed, and he’s in front of you, leaning in so close your lungs are filled with him, Juicy Fruit and sunlight and the heat and the city, and his other hand turns your face away from him so he won’t ruin your makeup. Instead of your lips, his mouth finds your throat and collarbones, and he kisses you there as his fingertips press down more forcefully beneath your dress, so insistent, so hungry, and you are blinded by the realization of how much you have craved him, how desperately you miss him each time you’re apart, and only being with him feels like this, you don’t belong anywhere else, and your chances to touch him are vanishing like sandcastles turned to ruins by the surf.

He’s getting married in a month.

But he’s here now, and you want him.

He’s choosing Becca.

But his hands are choosing you, and his lips, and the outline of his hardness that you can feel when he leans against your thigh, nudging your legs further apart, and surely even through the silk he can feel how wet you are.

“You shouldn’t have taken your seatbelt off,” you say breathlessly. “That’s not safe.”

Aegon laughs as if this is a ludicrous concern, and maybe he doesn’t think that dying in a car accident of a fractured skull or an aortic dissection would be the worst thing in the world. “Don’t worry about me.” He breezes the fingers of his left hand through your hair, nuzzling you, inhaling you, saccharine sweetness and young frenetic nerves, endorphins pouring from your bloodstream.

He’s good, he’s very good; but for you it can take a while, and how far is the limo from the premiere venue? “I’m not going to be able to finish—”

“Yeah you are,” Aegon says, drawing back to look at you, his eyes locked with yours; and you moan as his fingers move the strip of silk aside and sink into you, and you are filled with him as his palm keeps up the euphoric friction, and then it collides with you—knuckles, gravity, riptides, fate—and it takes everything left in you, worn wrung-out scraps, not to cry out, because you’re not alone now, and you’ve never truly been alone with him when this happens, and you know you never will be. The sweetness and the bitterness are coiled up together like threads of fabric, like the lines of a family tree.

You are still panting as Aegon sweeps his left thumbprint just beneath your eyes, clearing away the eyeliner and mascara that has begun to run as your eyes water.

“Don’t cry, sunshine,” he murmurs, concerned.

You chuckle shakily. “I’m sorry. You know I get like this.” When it’s good. When it’s with you.

“Are you still nervous?”

“No,” you answer truthfully.

“You’re going to do great.”

“What should I say?”

“Whatever you want,” Aegon tells you. “Be yourself. Be real.” Then he kisses you on your lips only once: feather-light, immaterial enough to not mar you. “Oh, we have to clean up,” he realizes, panicked, and he hasn’t thought this through.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

You open the can of coconut La Croix that Baela gifted you and soak a handful of napkins that Aegon gets from the driver. You erase the evidence between your legs as best you can; Aegon cleans his hands and gives himself a generous squeeze of hand sanitizer from a tiny travel bottle in your clutch. Then he uses the corner of a napkin to dab away stray flecks of mascara on your cheeks. You check your face in the mirror of your makeup compact: dewy, but acceptable. Natural. Lived-in. Aegon rearranges a few wayward strands of your hair. You slurp down the rest of your vanilla latte. The limo is rolling to halt. You reach for the door handle.

“No,” Aegon says, stopping you. And he gets out first and then waits for you, hand open, until you emerge from the limousine and into a new world: flashbulbs, video cameras, microphones, assistants dressed in black, screaming Maroon 5 fans. Aegon fluffs the train of your electric yellow gown and then leads you into the chaos.

The music video premiere is being held at the historic Broadway Theater. The red carpet rolled out for the occasion, in a nod to the name of the band, is not a bright bloody red but a deep maroon. People are shouting and waving at you, and you have no idea what’s going on; and yet in your ribcage your heartbeat is slow and measured and strong. Aegon has a hand on the small of your back, and you think: I want it to be like this all the time. I want it to be like this forever.

Now a young man in a teal suit is rushing up to you and Aegon has disappeared to the sidelines, and the man is telling you that he is from E! News, and although he says his name you immediately forget it. You don’t panic; you smile softly and try to listen through the noise of the crowd. Now Maroon 5 has arrived and is posing for photographs as the fans screech and beg for autographs.

“So how’s your day going?” the man from E! News asks, a microphone held to your lips.

“It’s been so exciting, this morning I got to quit my job!”

The man laughs hysterically. “What? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’ve been working at an ice cream place for months, but not anymore!”

“And do you have a passion for ice cream?”

“Not really, I just had to pay rent, you know?”

“Girl, do I ever!” the man says, still laughing. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”

You smile sheepishly. “Vanilla.”

“Oh, so you’re a vanilla girl, huh?”

“I am, I really am, and I know the joke. But vanilla can be great! It’s a classic, and it’s sweet and uncomplicated, and it’s not trying to be anything it’s not. It’s pure. It’s innocent.”

“Oh my God, that was poetry! I might have to give vanilla another shot. You’ve convinced me.”

“Cool,” you say. Aegon is watching you from behind the video camera that you’ve just noticed; he is nodding, he gives you a little thumbs-up.

The man from E! News asks next: “So, ice cream expert, if I was an ice cream flavor, which one would I be?”

You ponder this. “Well someone once told me that interesting adults like strawberry, and you seem really interesting, so I’d say you’re strawberry ice cream.”

“Adorable,” the man sighs, marveling at you. “What are you going to be up to now that you aren’t working at the ice cream shop anymore?”

“Well according to my agent—and I have the best agent in the world, he’s absolute magic—I just got my first starring role in a movie.” The E! News man shrieks in excitement. “And I can’t really tell you anything more about it just yet, because I don’t know what I’m allowed to say publicly, but I’m so so so excited and so grateful, and Los Angeles is an incredible place. I’m in heaven and I’m thrilled to be here with you tonight.”

Another E! News correspondent, a woman in a salmon-colored dress, dashes in to join the conversation. She has blindingly white veneers and so much Botox she can’t move her forehead. “Could you tell us what it was like working on this music video?”

“It was an amazing experience,” you say; and in this moment you believe that, and Dan doesn’t exist, and neither does the bathtub scene that almost happened, and neither does the terror that threatened to consume you before Aegon smothered the flames. Now, Aegon is watching closely as Dan navigates the red carpet. They make split-second eye contact, Aegon glares fiercely, Dan keeps a wide swath of space between you and him as if you are radioactive, a silent poison that cooks malignancies into blood and bones. “We filmed in this gorgeous mansion in Beverly Hills, and everyone involved in the production was so imaginative and professional. I got to wear outfits designed by Schiaparelli and Rodarte, oh, and Phoebe Philo, and the actor playing my awful ex-boyfriend was fantastic, and there were these weird exotic cats that kept trying to bite me…”

You keep talking and interviewers keep descending, appearing out of nowhere, and then you are posing on the red carpet—you even take a few awkward photos with Maroon 5, none of whom remember who you are—and to your surprise, several fans even ask you for an autograph. Without thinking, you add a tiny sun after you sign your name each time.

“There, a little bit of sunshine,” you say to a preteen girl who beams up at you. “Not that you need it, look how brightly you’re shining!”

As you are about to enter the theater, you glance back to see where Aegon has gone. An interviewer has entrapped him, although Aegon clearly resents being caught on camera. He’s a good sport though; he forces a smile and answers the questions. He’s being asked about you.

Aegon says: “She has a great attitude about work, and about life in general. She’s very talented. And obviously she’s beautiful, so…yeah. I feel really lucky to have found her. She’s usually the best part of my day.”

“And are we going to see you in any upcoming films?” the woman from Entertainment Tonight asks flirtatiously. “We all know you have the chops!”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles. “No. You wish. Okay, thank you very much for your time, I’ll talk to you afterwards.”

“Thank you, Aegon!” the interviewer calls out, waving, and you think: He really could have been a star if he never left acting.

You and Aegon sit together at the screening, and he keeps feeding you pieces of popcorn—your lips brushing his fingertips, salt stinging on your tongue—and you have to resist the urge, no, the gravity, the effortless instinct to rest your head on his shoulder. Maroon 5 do a panel after the music video and take questions from the audience. They manage a few comprehensible responses.

Afterwards, Aegon doesn’t take you straight home to Harbor Gateway. He doesn’t take you to his office in Elysian Park either. Instead, he tells the limo driver to follow the 101 northwest to Hollywood, and he drags you out into the cool indigo night—veined with florescence and neon—and onto the intersection of Vine Street and Sunset Boulevard at the genesis of the Walk of Fame, a trail of 2,800 stars carved into the sidewalk, into eternity.

Aegon stands on a star of this earthbound constellation and says: “You’re going to have one of these someday.”

And here under the aisle of a streetlight with Aegon smiling like that, kind and radiant, you could almost believe him.

[mandarinmoons]

Hi Kettle, I was wondering if I could request perhaps a small fluff blurb where you and Spencer get married and live happily ever after in ur dream house. No pressure xoxoxoxo

You know I'm not one for writing something too self indulgent, but I could never pass up a request from you sweetheart hehe. Not exactly written as per request, but I think it's cute and that's all that matters x

“Hold on, I got it!”

Spencer grabbed the box out of your arms after you not even holding it for five seconds. You weren’t the strongest person, sure, but you were able to lift a few pounds, or twenty.

“Spencer, I can handle it. I’m not going to crack like a piece of China.”

“That might be true, but you definitely need to be handled with care as if you were a piece of fine porcelain.”

A chuckle left your lips as Spencer pressed a kiss to your cheek and strode off as he took a box of kitchen ware to the correct place.

A cool breeze brushed over your skin and you went to close the ajar patio door, but the sight of falling colorful leaves invited you to step outside and admire the beauty. Fall was your favorite season and no one was going to stop you from taking a moment to enjoy it.

Walking out and breathing in the crisp morning air felt satisfying beyond words. Spring is usually the time of year for people to start anew and get a fresh start, but for you, that feeling crept up during the last few weeks of summer. Relieved didn’t even begin to describe how you felt when your skin didn’t feel as clammy anymore due to the sweat brought on by the summer sun and as you packed away the swimsuits and made room again for the cozy sweaters.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when a hand snaked around your waist and were brought against their chest, but feeling the familiar sensation of nuzzling against your hair made you keenly aware who the person was and accepted the sweet gesture.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“Just how perfect everything seems.”

“I second that thought.”

Spencer’s thumbs caressed your side as you both took in the sight in front of you. Piles of red, orange and yellow foliage gathered around the backyard and in the distance you saw squirrels gathering up all the acorns they could find. All the greenery around you seemed to be wilting, but you found comfort in the fact that in due time it would bloom all over again.

“Do you want to go in and have some tea?”

“In a moment, I want to savor the feeling just a little bit longer.”

“Aren’t you cold though?”

You chuckled as you turned your head to look at the man behind you. His cheeks were already tinted pink from the cold, meanwhile you hadn’t felt a chill go down your spine since he took you in his embrace.

“As long as I’m in your arms I could never be cold.”

Spencer nuzzled his face into your hair more, leaving a trail of light kisses behind, “Good to know I’m doing my job well.”

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[ferrstappen]

happy mother's day, sorry for the mess l Max Verstappen blurb

a/n: Charles' version will be posted shortly <3

pairing: dad!Max Verstappen x female reader

you can read more of dad Max and the twins here <3

summary: Mila and Luca Verstappen go rogue during Mother's Day, ignoring Max's plan.

Max sighed after putting Mila and Luca to sleep, both too excited to celebrate their mum in just a few hours, after spending weeks planning and buying gifts for you.

The living room was neatly decorated with yellow and purple balloons, the twins' favorite colors. Max had multiple red and white roses delivered. Of course that wasn't enough, the three of them had gone shopping for gifts, Max not caring about it being too much and the twins not having to think whether it was or wasn't expensive; whatever reminded them of you, it was bought.

Max knew you didn't really care about the Dior handbag, a long parka from Moncler, maybe you'd like the Cartier bracelet, but only because it was engraved with Mila, Luca and Max's name and date, but they could've had a cheap fake gold bracelet from Aliexpress and you would've loved it just the same because it had their names on it.

You'd also love the assortment of chocolates that would' probably be gone by today's afternoon. It was a situation Max knew too well ever since you started dating. Max was taught by his mother and sister that classics were classics for a reason, never failing to gift you a large box of chocolates on Valentine's Day.

He remembers vividly your first Valentine's, enjoying quiet time on his apartment not really bothering to go outside, wanting to kiss and touch as much as you wanted in the early stages of the relationship, not having to care about people taking pictures, fans approaching Max for a conversation or autograph, the only thing both of you needed was being next to each other. His memory is clear when picturing you wearing one of his shirts after he left the bathroom, the box of chocolates lying next to you and he opened it, suddenly craving a dulce de leche filled chocolate.

It was empty.

Max was surprised that you were able to eat the entire box during the day, but then he learned it was a common occurrence, but he still pretended to get surprised whenever the box didn't survive past midnight.

Maybe he was dreaming, the early stages of your relationship always brought a smile to his face and was the stuff of his dreams all these years later, but he was aware of his surroundings now. This wasn't his old apartment that he after shared with you, this was the penthouse you got after getting married.

And whatever was coming from the kitchen, wasn't your doing since your warm body was perfectly curved against Max; your back pressed against his back, bottom moving against him as you tried to get comfortable after he moved, Max's hand resting dangerously low on your stomach and legs intertwined.

This was one of the few times he rolled his eyes at Mila and Luca, already knowing they were up to something, absolutely not in their room. He was hoping he would get the chance to celebrate and cherish you before the kids had the chance to interrumpt.

Oh well.

Rubbing his eyes and dragging his feet Max followed the shushed voices, English and Dutch mixing as Mila reprimanded her twin for bringing jam instead of Nutella, but Luca responded 'mama prefers jam in the morning, Mila'.

Max crossed his arms, this not being the first time the twins decided to get started with breakfast. They didn't care that Max tirelessly reminded them that he would wake them up and prepare breakfast for you.

"What happened with the plan?" Max asked and noticed how the twins stopped their movements, carefully and slowly turning around to face their dad. "M, any reason why there's a puddle of orange juice right next to you? Lu, do you know why all those tea leaves are scattered on the sink?"

To make matters worse, a panicked Luca dropped the glass he was carrying, the sound booming around the penthouse.

Max asked his son if he was okay at the same time Mila told her brother he was an idiot.

they all failed to hear the hurried steps coming towards the kitchen. Your eyes were met with your barefoot husband tiptoeing around the glass as he told the kids to not come near.

"What happened?" You asked and this time, it wasn't just the twins who ceased their movements and slowly turned their backs to you. this time they were joined by Max.

Silence filled the room as you were still waiting for an answer for the small mess on the kitchen.

The three Verstappen clones looked at each other, mentally planning on what to say next.

"Happy mother's day!"

[respectthepetty]

The Loyal Pin - Episode 2

I have no idea what I am doing with this space each week. Am I thinking thoughts? Am I recapping the episode? Am I getting anxiety that I'll have to be more selective with the images I use since I'm only allowed thirty yet every second of this show is color-coded? Am I lusting after Pin and my girl Prik? All of the above?! Once again, I have no idea, so let me just get this post started at the beginning with Pin being the saddest Pink Person and cutting all the mangoes within 50 miles because her girlfriend is leaving.

The Blue Beauty Anin sends her loyal and trusty sidekick Prik to keep her girlfriend company while she is busy preparing for her move.

Because she knows no mangoes are safe and apparently papayas too! And while we get a flashback, we see that Pin is wearing blue ribbons in her hair because even if she can't put words to it, she's been in love with her Blue Beauty for a long time.

Probably before she even knew the word "love"

So while Anin is busy making arrangements with her color-coded brother,

Pin is haunting the halls already grieving her loss

Refusing to acknowledge that Anin is leaving (same girl, same)

Losing her appetite (and will to live), which her color-coded mother picks up on

And crushing Prik's spirit with the realization that Anin will be abroad for SEVEN DAMN YEARS!

Basically, Pin is in her sad girl era as she holds Anin's handkerchief and cries into her pillow.

But thankfully Prik acts like a ghost and snitches to her Blue Beauty Boss that their Pink Person is turning into Britney Spear's 2000 classic "Lucky" since "she cry, cry, cries in her lonely heart, thinking 'if there's nothing missing in my life then why do these tears come at night?'"

So Anin, in true Blue Beauty, fashion decides to make her girl happy by making food with her and eating it . . . alone since Pin still isn't eating.

And takes up every single waking moment of Pin's time.

They even celebrate Loy Krathong together, but the mood turns sad once Pin finally vocalizes that Anin is leaving FOR SEVEN DAMN YEARS!

So it's time for Anin to leave, and she says goodbye to her color-coded girlfriend and her color-coded aunt.

Oh, and her color-coded brothers!

But she immediately gets to writing her girl because if a letter is late, according to Prik, Pin is painting her nails black and listening to My Chemical Romance's "Ghost of You" on repeat until the letter arrives. Same girl, same.

However, Pin can read between the lines, and even though Anin is saying she is happy and writing about other friends (Anin knows other women?! Not in this sapphic love story she don't!),

Pin knows Anin is not happy and can see the teardrops on the letter as clear as day because they are the same album, but different songs. Alexa, play My Chemical Romance's "I'm Not Okay"!

Fuck it! Just play all of Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge! I'M in my emo feels!

But their SEVEN DAMN YEAR separation is coming to in end which we can tell because their hairstyles have changed, and our Blue Beauty has a plan up her sleeve!

Sidenote: The snow globe on her desk has one character in green and blue and the other is in red and pink. It's them!

But back to the plan! Now that Anin is graduating, she triple-checks with her color-coded family that the highly esteemed prince who just happens to be her dad is going to keep his promise of giving her anything she wants.

Because this bad (blue) bitch is getting the custom-made house she promised her girl! Sis secured the bag!

And Pin is proud as hell of her smarty-pants skirt (since the clothing is historical accurate?).

But as proud as she is of her, in the middle of a room filled with pink, blue, and purple (!!!!) flowers, she looks shocked to see her Blue Beauty right in front of her when the episode ends.

Anin is just full of surprises like appearing out of nowhere and coming back queerer than when she left. Good for her!

Bonus: Anin's mom is a Yellow/Orange Oddity, and I think as the girls continue to age, they will inherit more of their moms' colors into their wardrobes because of generational trauma, gender norms, and whatnot until they break against tradition and be gay do crime each other.

But either way, me and my huge emo album collection will be here doing whatever this is all season!

[lovebugism]

hi bug! could I request a fall back to school blurb with eddie and shy!reader, where he sticks up for reader in school against a bully? I love hurt/comforts!

ty for requesting lovely! this is sort of a part 2 for this drabble, but can be read as a stand-alone fic!! — eddie has a talk with jason when he finds out he's been messing with you again (mentions of bullying, hurt/comfort, established relationship, 1.7k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Eddie picks red and orange leaves from your hair. His touch is perfectly gentle despite the red-hot rage burning houses behind his ribcage. 

You’re a shaken-up mess in the back of his van. He knows Jason did something to you — you just won’t tell him what.

He pries, anyway, though, trying his best to keep a nonchalant air about him so you don’t shut down completely. Outside the open trunk, he stands in between your legs and takes care of you. It feels like human nature to do both.

“What happened, babe?” Eddie wonders with a forced laugh, plucking a brown stem from the crown of your head. He flicks it to the pavement below you. “Did he, like, trip you into a pile of leaves or something?”

He’s smiling so sweetly at you, but you know he’ll flip if you’re honest. 

You purse your lips to the side and shake your head, turning your glassy eyes to your swaying feet. 

“No, he…” you start, then exhale a trembling sigh. 

You don’t want to lie, but you don’t want to make it seem as scary as it feels. You twist your hands in your lap and ramble in a quiet confession. “I was walking to our picnic table to study, and he snuck up behind me, and I had my walkman on so I couldn’t hear him, and… I’m just— I’m just a baby, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

Eddie’s brows pinch as his face twists in something short of confusion. “Uh, yeah. It is,” he monotones, then scoffs out a laugh. “Honestly, I thought he knew better than to mess with you after what happened last time.”

He’s talking about that evening at the arcade — the last time you had the utter displeasure of running into the douchebag of Hawkins High. The whole “the only shooting Jason Carver does is into a kleenex” thing from when summer still felt like summer. 

Everything’s grayer now. And colder. 

You feel a lot of the same. 

You shoot Eddie a half-hearted glare at the memory he won’t let you live down. He meets it with a crooked, pink grin — your own personal sunshine when the real thing is hidden behind thick clouds. You melt for him all over again like you always do, feeling like a child as he plucks pieces of dead leaves from your hair.

“There,” he announces as he untangles a sizable yellow leaf from the strands. It floats down to his dirty sneakers. He cups your jaw in his abnormally warm hands and gives you one more once over. “I think that’s all of ‘em, babe.”

“Yeah?” you ask, just to be sure, as you smooth your palm over the back of your hair.

“Yep. You’re good as new. Beautiful like always.”

You roll your eyes with a poorly hidden smile. You’ve been together too long for him to flirt with you like he does. You wonder if he’ll ever stop, or if he’ll treat every day with you like it’s the very first.

“Always a charmer, huh?” you hum with a lovesick grin.

“For you,” the boy croons, leaning closer so he can press a kiss to your mouth. His rosy lips smack audibly against yours in a chaste peck that leaves you grieving the moment he’s gone.

The worn heel of Eddie’s sneakers scuff against the rocky concrete of the parking lot when he parts from you. He goes without a word. You watch him with a gaping look of bemusement.

“What— Where are you going?” you call to him, trying ignore the melodramatic twisting of your stomach. 

You’d already missed class — too shaken after seeing Jason and too needy for Eddie. You thought he might keep you company until next period. God knows he’ll take any excuse to ditch Mr. Kaminsky’s chem class.

Eddie turns back around to look at you but doesn’t stop inching towards the entrance. He shrugs his leather-clad shoulders with a cheeky grin. “Oh. You know. Just got regular business to attend to.”

You deflate. Regular business for Eddie Munson often means complete and utter chaos. 

“Don’t do anything stupid… Please.”

“Me?” Eddie scoffs, bringing a hand to his chest as though you’ve wounded him in some way. “Of course not!”

—————

Eddie roams the vacant halls of Hawkins High with his hands balled into fists. He’s got no intention of using them for evil — Yoda always said to use the Force for knowledge and defense, never for attack. They more so shake with the withheld fury of not being able to avenge you. 

What kinda boyfriend would be if some douchebag was fucking with his girl and he just let it happen?

Then he finds Jason in the empty corridor of the west wing. He comes out of the bathroom in all his muscled glory, dressed in baggy sweatpants and a too-fitted tank top, and it feels sort of kismet. 

If fate didn’t want Eddie to do something, fate wouldn’t have put the douchebag directly in his way, right?

“Hey, Jason!” Eddie lilts in a tone so chipper it has to be sarcasm. “What are you doing down here?”

Jason meets the boy’s wide grin with a look of bitter confusion. “None of your business, freak,” he bites in response, walking past the wild-haired brunette as though he wasn’t there at all.

“I beg to differ, tough guy.” The nickname spills from his mouth, coated in venom. “Everything you do became my business when you started messing with my girl.”

Jason’s gruff laughter fills the vacant hallway. He turns back around, flashing a pearly-white smile. “Wallflower’s still with you, huh?” he singsongs, then shrugs sympathetically. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little surprised to hear that.”

“Yeah. She is, actually,” Eddie nods with a beam. “As a matter of fact, we just went on a double date with Steve and Chrissy. Harrington told me to say hi, by the way.”

The blonde boy goes suddenly grim at the mention of the girl who got away. His thin-lipped smile ebbs into a frown. His chiseled features sharpen when his jaw clenches. “Watch it, freak.”

Those words stopped being threatening the first time he said them. After the millionth or more, it just got redundant. 

Eddie huffs, impatient and annoyed. 

“Alright. Here’s how this is gonna go, okay? Seeing as you’re a little toodense to listen when my girl told you to leave us alone, I’m gonna spell it out for you,” he monotones, inching towards the boy with his hands on his hips. “Either keep messing with us, and I crack that pretty face of yours, or you can leave to be a douchebag with a nice jawline another day… How’s that sound?”

A beat passes. 

A laugh sputters from Jason’s mouth a second later. 

Apparently, he finds Eddie’s newfound confidence as strange as it feels. He might be a loudmouth sometimes, but he’s certainly no fighter. And even though he knows this just as well as the next person, the anger of not being taken seriously stings like a searing knife in his chest.

“Oh, and I have razor blades hidden in my hair, by the way,” Eddie monotones, using his freakazoid reputation to his advantage. He smiles when Jason goes somber. “Yep. Mm-hmm. All up in there—”

“You’re fucking crazy, man,” the blonde boy scoffs, choosing not to call his bluff and walking away entirely.

Eddie waits until Jason turns the corner to let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. It trembles on the way out, forced through a tightening chest. He wipes his sweaty palms on his black ripped jeans — not a fighter, indeed.

“Razor blades?” a familiar voice calls from a little ways down the hall, accompanied by a soft giggle that sounds like heaven.

Eddie lifts his head and finds you walking towards him — turning the opposite corner that Jason had just left from. Your hands are tucked into the sleeves of the sweater that swallows you whole. You wrap your arms around yourself, making yourself as small as possible yet taking every ounce of his attention just the same.

With furrowed brows, his gaze darts between you and the empty corridor. “How did you…?” he asks, then trails off with a laugh. “I didn’t even know you were here.”

“I’m Wallflower, remember?” you grin, wearing the name people use to taunt you like armor. “I’m basically the queen of hiding in plain sight.”

“Yeah?” Eddie hums with a smirk. His smile widens when you inch closer to him.

You shrug. “It’s just a superpower. No big deal.”

His fingers curl around the outsides of your elbows when you’re standing toe-to-toe. His touch is warm and firm, but still gentle as he squeezes you. He rubs at your arms with his thumbs. 

“So…” he singsongs and tilts his head to the side, making his wild curls bunch at his shoulders. His chocolate eyes dance with sincerity and amusement. “What’d ya think?”

“I think you were very brave,” you answer honestly, but with an inflection that sounds like you’re teasing him.

Eddie’s gaze narrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon, Eds… You’re a nerd who plays D&D for twelve hours straight, and Jason lifts weights in his spare time.”

“You don’t think I could take him?”

“I know you couldn’t,” you retort, too sincerely for his liking. 

The sting in his chest ebbs when you uncurl your arms to splay your palms over his collarbones. Your smile sparkles, quite like the twinkle in your eye. 

“But you’d try. For me. And I, for one, think that’s very brave of you, Ser Munson.”

You’re right. About all of it. 

Eddie would fight for your honor like it was one of his Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. And he’d lose — quite miserably, probably — because what Jason Carver lacks in brains, he makes up twice in muscle. But you’d patch him up after, and it’d be worth it.

Instead of saying all that and stooping down to the sap you are, Eddie deflects with a joke. “Ooh,” he croons lowly. “Ser Munson, huh? I like the sound of that… We should save that one for later.”

You swat at him, but your softness lingers.

Eddie’s boyish laughter fills the vacant halls. His smile is too pretty not to kiss.

[amywritesthings]

Hi! Hi! Hi! It’s the Floch friend again. I missed Levi and SU reader so much!!! They live rent free in the back of my head and I always miss them, I don know how you do it. I’ve already said a million times how I love your writing, but it always scratches the right part of my brain and I can’t stop rereading everything.

As for the Hallosleepover, I have a couple of prompts, you can choose either of them (or none, if you don’t feel like it). For Levi x SUreader - their first fall on the surface, and for Levi x P4reader - “when they instinctively put a protective arm out to protect the other when an actor tries to jump out and scare them” (a prompt from the second list).

Hope you had a nice week ❤️

hallo-sleepover '24! / accepting.

floch friend, hello my love! gosh you are always so lovely, i swear. you are the best. i would be delighted to give you a lil First Fall for our fearless duo

first fall.

pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader word count: 860 tags: big fluff vibes, changing of the season, mentions of the underground city, set in the flackbacks and universe of silver underground. credit: dividers by @saradika-graphics

Colors.

The trees change colors on the surface.

Levi’s busy fixing his carat in the freshly-cleaned mirror in the corner of the room while you button your ivory pants. Now that you’ve both been on the surface — him for four months, you for two — you’ve settled into a new routine similar to the one you abandoned below the surface.

After living a lifetime there, you’re both used to working in pure darkness. It gives you precious time to be in one another’s presence before you have to slip back across the hallway and into your quarters to pretend yet another day.

The day is still young; dawn fast approaches from its kiss goodnight.

As the sun creeps across the horizon, your eyes see the flutter outside Levi’s open window. 

Your chin turns to observe absently, but then the world stops.

Leaves.

Red leaves.

(It’s almost the start of autumn, Petra had told you at dinner not long ago. A new season. It’s beautiful this time of year.)

“James?” you hear from the side; Levi’s voice, gruff from the morning still.

Dropping your leather leg straps to the floor, you abandon dressing in proper attire for a chance to sprint out of his captain’s quarters towards the front door of headquarters. 

The wooden door slams against stone, reverberating down the hallway. 

The sound may wake up half of the squad from their slumber. 

You don’t care.

Ever since the two of you managed to survive the underground with bared teeth and taut fists, it’s been tough to simply be. The Survey Corps are by no means gentle — people die just as often as those who were once your neighbors — but the surface dwellers have no idea of the luxuries they take for granted.

Down there, the gentle caress of the breeze does not exist. Down there, warmth can only be found in another body and not the sky.

There are no trees, no trunks, no leaves. There are no changing skies.

But up here?

Everything lives and dies and lives again. Everything has an order, turning brilliant colors in the blink of an eye. Slowly the humid summer air flutters into a crisp chill. 

The start of autumn.

Boots skid against the floor as you rush towards the front entrance. You scoot through a sliver of an opening to find yourself outdoors — surrounded by a sea of brilliant vibrance. The trees that were once a staunch green have now faded into a cacophony of colors: oranges, yellows, reds.

No two trees are alike.

“The hell’d you run out for?”

Hearing the baritone sound behind you, your wide eyes find Levi following out right behind you. His hands are still fussing with the carat at the base of his throat, jacket abandoned.

Then he pauses.

Sees, what you see.

“The trees are finally changing. I saw it from your window and had to see it for myself,” you exhale with a childlike wonder, unable to contain your excitement. 

With Levi you don’t have to — just like the changing of the seasons, he knows just about every version of you; every color. You’re allowed to 

“Is this what Petra was talking about?” he asks, leaves crunching under the heel of his boot as he moves to stand beside you. “Autumn or whatever?”

“I think so. She called it a season. I think she said there’s four of them?”

“What was the last one?”

Sticking out a tongue as you concentrate for a moment, the word comes to you a beat later. “I’m pretty sure it was called summer.”

“Hm.”

“I can’t believe they’re all different,” you murmur, pointing one out in particular: its leaves are only just beginning to fade into a new color, causing it to stand out. “Look.”

“I see it.”

His statement isn’t said with annoyance but amusement.

When you turn to him, Levi isn’t looking at the trees. He’s staring at you, as if he’s more interested in witnessing your reaction to something so new and beautiful than living in it for himself.

“Well don’t stare at me.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

His eyes narrow with a fraction of amusement before blinking back to the trees. “Petra also said it will snow up here in the later months.”

“Snow?” you repeat. “What’s that?”

“Got no clue,” Levi admits, choosing to be honest in this private moment with you. If it were anyone else, he’d have a smartass remark. It’s too early for that. “Was hoping you’d know.”

Snow.

You wonder what they call the changing colors, if they have a name as foreign as snow.

Reaching for his hand, Levi does little to dissuade you as you pull him towards one of the adolescent trees to the east by the stables. When you reach to run a fingertip along one of the low-hanging crimson leaves, he squeezes your joined hands.

“Guess we’ll see it together,” he adds.

A promise.

To see everything, anything, together.

(A promise once made in eternal night, now carried into the light. I won't go far from you.)

Nodding, you squeeze his hand back.

“Yeah. Together.”

[otakusheep15]

Flufftober Day 11 - Leaves

Content includes: Floyd x reader, written as romantic but can be read as platonic, Floyd being Floyd, Crowley being Crowley

Fall at NRC is truly a beautiful experience. It’s cold but not overly chilly, the surrounding animals are preparing for the coming winter, and the trees have turned the most wonderful shades of red, orange, and yellow. 

Many of the leaves have already begun to fall to the ground, creating piles and piles all over campus. 

Piles you, of course, were put in charge of cleaning up. 

Once again, Crowley had decided that it was now your responsibility to rake up as many leaves as possible. Despite your many, many complaints, he turned a blind eye, reminding you of how fortunate you are to even have housing on campus and how generous he is, etc. etc. 

So, here you are, early in the morning, raking all of the pretty leaves. 

Grim had opted out of coming with you, but you didn’t mind. You knew he would only get in the way, so you didn’t push the issue at all. 

Surprisingly, this chore isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. The air is cool, no one is around since it’s still early, and the scenery is so pretty. In a strange way, it’s almost relaxing. 

That is, until you hear a very familiar voice shouting a very familiar nickname. 

“Shrimpy!” Floyd comes barreling up to you, and before you have time to stop him, he immediately flops into the giant piles of leaves you worked so hard on sweeping up. 

Bursts of red, orange, and yellow fly in every direction as you stare in a mixture of annoyance and horror. All of your hard work, down the drain in an instant. 

Floyd reammerges from the remainder of the pile, laughing like he has no worries in the world. You doubt he does, based on how carefree he usually is. 

You scold him as he stands up, but that doesn’t seem to spoil his mood for even a minute. Instead, he grabs you by the arm and drags you over the (now much smaller) pile, tossing you in before jumping down next to you. 

He continues to giggle with joy as you lie there, already dreading how much extra work you’re gonna have to do to make up for the mess he made. 

“Little Shrimpy, you work too much. You should relax for once.” He looks over to you, grinning like he didn’t just throw you into a pile of leaves. 

You stare back at him, deadpanned, reminding him that you don’t want to work this much. It’s not your fault Crowley constantly forces his work on you. 

Floyd stares back, his grin widening, fully showing off his razor sharp teeth. “I could always go squeeze ‘em if you want.” 

That manages to get a laugh out of you at least, and you gently nudge Floyd in the shoulder. You tell him that, no, he can’t go and squeeze the principal. That would only cause more problems for you in the long run, you’re sure. 

The two of you lay there for a moment, and you can feel yourself start to relax a bit. You can feel Floyd shift beside you, then an arm wrapping around your waist. When you look at him again, Floyd is resting on his side, looking at you with the most affection you’ve ever seen from him. 

You shift closer to him, enjoying the extra warmth his figure provides you. 

Maybe the leaves can wait just a bit longer.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

good morning!! it's @henderdads' birthday!!!! happy happy happy birthday to youuuu cass!!!

The minute Eddie Munson turned 18, he could see it; the only color he would see until he and his soulmate kissed for the first time.

Yellow.

Rays and rays of warm yellow sunshine, the middle light (and middle light only) of the one stoplight in town, one half of their school colors, the dandelions spotted agross the grass between the trailers, the stubborn daffodils that keep reappearing in Ms. Wilson’s garden though she’s long since passed…

The half-toned things he’s told are green, half yellow, half blue, and that he got lucky his soulmate’s favorite color wasn’t black or gray (then he felt glad he’d settled on a different color than either of those by time he was older, he didn’t want to subject his soulmate to more black and white..

After Steve Harrington turns 18, he can see the color of the lipstick his mom wore in their last family portrait, the color of the punch that gets spilled all over Nancy’s shirt at Tina’s halloween party, the stripes and piping on his godforsaken Scoops uniform, the red of his own blood rushing down the drain beneath his feet.

The dark tone puddled beneath Eddie’s limp body in the Upside Down.

The same color splashed onto Dustin’s arms and legs.

Pressing his hands into it to stop it from spreading, to start it flowing again, Steve presses his lips to Eddie’s once…he hasn’t done CPR since he worked at the pool….twice…”C’mon man, don’t leave him like this.”....

The third time is when it happens.

The feeble beat of Eddie’s heart starting again, the push of breath into his lungs, the sudden flood of cool, dark colors around them. 

“Eddie? Eddie! C’mon man, stay with me.”

It looks like it takes a herculean effort to do so, but Eddie’s eyes open. “H–hey, Harrington. Wh–”

“I’m going to pick you up now, Ed,” Steve says, doing just that, tucking Eddie into his chest and starting for the trailer. “El is keeping the gate open for us but we gotta hurry.”

The four of them manage to get him out through the gate and into the RV, this time with Nancy behind the wheel. 

Having to let him go at the doors to the ER is one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, but he manages, Robin telling him over and over again that she’d already called Eddie’s Uncle and that he’d be safe.

While they’re waiting, filthy and exhausted but victorious nonetheless, Nancy says to him: “It’s blue, by the way. The…everything down there has some sort of blue tinge to it.”

Steve doesn’t ask how she knew, just appreciates that he can look at something and she’ll tell him the name of the color. 

The pattern of the chairs is orange and purple, the plant in the corner is green (“All plants are some shade of it for the most part.”), the wallpaper is his favorite though.

“It’s yellow.”

“I guess I know what color Eddie’s been seeing the past few years..” It’s the first and last thing he says until Wayne Munson comes to get them.

“You three need’ta be looked at too. Not jus’ Henderson.”

He leads them back to a room, and Steve recognizes Dr. Owens there waiting for them.

They get looked over, they get cleaned up, and Steve gets a shot of something that’s supposed to help stave off anything those flying rats may have given him.

And for the next week, he stays. 

He and Wayne maintain a constant vigil at Eddie’s bedside. Wayne leaves for his shifts when he has to, Steve is allowed to stay because of his soulmate status, and Eddie wakes up a little more than a week later.

Wayne had left a couple hours ago, so Steve will have to call him at the plant but first: “Steve?” Eddie manages to croak out when his eyes crack open the first time.

“Hey Eds, welcome back to the world of the living.”

Eddie shuts his eyes and huffs a laugh, then cringes, “Still painful as always, I see.”

“Oh yeah? What else do you see?”

Steve watches his brow furrow as he tries to make sense of the question, watches as he opens his eyes again, a bit further this time, and when they widen in amazement as they travel around the room.

“What–? What the hell..?” The heightened beeping of his heart monitor makes Steve feel almost giddy, getting to watch him see this for the first time. “What nurse kissed me while I was out?” He pauses, staring down a painting of colorful wildflowers on the opposite wall before turning back to Steve. “And can they come back so I can get more pain meds?”

Steve chuckles as he stands stiffly from the hospital chair he’d been all but glued to for the last week, reaching over Eddie’s head to press the call button.

“What’s so funny?”

“You, of course.”

“Thank you, I try, but what’d I do this time?”

“It wasn’t a nurse, Eds.”

Eddie blinks at him for a moment, confused, “I don’t quite have the brainpower for riddles, Stevie.”

Steve’s stomach flips at the nickname, “It wasn’t a nurse, it was when we were still in the—down there.” he pauses, feeling suddenly embarrassed. Did Eddie want it to be him? His first assumption was one of the nurses… “Someone had to give you CPR.”

He watches as Eddie scrolls through what he can only assume is a roster of their “Team Vecna”; Nancy? It’s been known that she’s been able to see in full color since she and Jonathan got together. Dustin? Yeah..no. Ro–

“And it wasn’t Robin.” Steve says when he sees Eddie’s lips curl into an ‘R’.

“Then who—”

It dawns on him at the same time the summoned nurse arrives with a new shot of whatever it is he needs.

She leaves with an excited “We’ll call Wayne!”, and Eddie drops his head back to his pillow.

Steve’s stomach twists anxiously. “Eddie?”

“So you’re telling me that the one and only Steve Harrington gave me the kiss of life and also the gift of colorvision, and I wasn’t conscious enough to experience it properly?”

Steve ducks his head, scratching behind his ear nervously. “Uh…yeah…? Sorry Eddi–”

“Can you do it again?”

His head snaps up again, “Huh?”

“And preferably before I lose the battle for my consciousness?”

Eddie’s face is soft and open, a smile quirking the pink of his lips and crinkling those dark eyes of his…Who is Steve to tell him no?

He smiles softly in return and stands.

Leaning forward with his weight braced to one side of Eddie’s head, the other hand coming up to cup his uninjured cheek, Steve kisses him properly for the first time.

The first of many many many more to come.

eeee i hope you liked this little thing!!! i've never written anything w soulmates before!! 🥹 i hope you have the most bestest day today, friend!! 🫶🫶

[xxbrightshadowxx]

TF One Shatter Glass Au

Kay so I’ve heard about Shatter Glass before in transformers which is basically of the autobots were evil and decepticons were good(I think? I’m not sure. in the words of my cousin I’m still new to transformers) so I decided to come up with an au for Tfone for it.

Everything would start out the same, everything from the movie would play out, until the attack at the High Guard’s base. Instead of Bee and D-16 being captured it’s Elita and Orion.

D-16 is crushed and is ready to give everything up, he snaps at Bee and laminates that they are doomed and ask how can he do optimistic and naive when he was in a crappier position than he was beforehand. They argue for a while till D-16 kinda admits he’s jealous of orion for being so optimistic and kind even during horrible times. Bee helps him out and shows him to always look for good and tells him this is a chance to improve their lives.(kinda effy on this part)

With the power of persuasion aka, D-16 cannons, they convince the high guard to help them go rescue the others

Meanwhile back at Sentinel’s tower Orion thinks D-16 is dead and is depressed, the evidence is destroyed and he feels like crap. Sentinel mocks them like on the film, and Elita bites back at him which results in Sentinel berating Elita and nearly hurting her till Orion intervenes. Sentinel, tired of Orion being mouthy, takes the( I think it was a drill or a torch?? Can’t remember the name.) and uses it to scratch up his mouth. Orion’s optics turn to yellow

Basically similar thing happens, D-16 gets the miners to help(though is more threatening and uses the high guard to convince them) he freaks out when he sees injured Orion and the same thing happens in the movie except when D tries to shoot Sentinel Orion convinced him not to and D’s optics turn blue. While they walk away, Sentinel tries to stab Orion but D pushes him out of the way and gets stabbed. D and Orion tries to catch him but fails and falls into the well.

Orion turns around and his optics are a bright red and he kills Sentinel, less graphic than D-16 does in the film, a simple execution shot to the head. Meanwhile D-16 is, you guess it, is given the matrix for choosing good even in his darkest moments and sacrificing his life for him.

Orion steal Sentinel’s t cog and changes his designation to Optimus Prime, claiming himself the new ruler. His speech is able to convince several others including Elita, Bee, and several other miners that the only way to become equal they must steal their t cogs back from the ones that ‘wronged them.’ So attack the ones already with t cogs and steal them for their selves.

Megatron comes back and is horrified at what Orion has become but Op knows that’s he’s crossed a line he can’t go back and they fight. Megs wins but can’t kill his friend leaving him to leave. The miners feel in a way betrayed since Megatron told them he could change their future but he wants to keep the bots with t cogs alive. Basically saying he ‘deceptive’ them.(get it?)

The miners, Elita, Bee, and Op leave leaving some miners behind, the high guard, and Megatron behind.

In this au, while good, Megatron is still a bit violent and the decepticons methods are still a bit violent but they do want peace and equality. Most of his journey would be becoming a better leader for his team and for Cybertron. Starscream would still try to surprise him because, yes.

Meanwhile Op is kinda manipulative in this au. He uses his kindness to trick and gain bots trust to make them do whatever he wants. Op wants equality but his ideas to achieve it is fucked up and twisted. Elita, after realizing her entire life and all her effort was for nothing also sorta crashes out and is fully on board with OP’s plan. After Meg’s ‘death’ and seeing his two friends actively prompt their idea of rebuilding Cybertron, Bee kinda goes along with them. He is not as bad or evil as Elita and Op in this au so his optics are either yellow or orange. He’s like the thundercracker of this au.

I might write a fic about this one day. If I do, I’ll post a link here if anyone thinks this is an ok idea?

[hilarychuff]

A Crown Made of Candies and Crusts

a princess diaries au drabble

inspired by this au graphic; find the first in the series here, the second in the series here, the third in the series here, the fourth in the series here, or read all five chapters on ao3 here

Sansa ignores the doorbell when it rings.

Arya and Robb and her parents have already left for the ball, and with Rickon and Bran staying at friends’ houses for the night, she just wants to be left alone to wallow. Whoever it is, she doesn’t need to answer — and when she peeks at the security cameras through an app on her phone and sees Jon, well, she’s more determined to hide in her room than ever.

She does watch him, though. Watch the little version of him on her phone screen shift his weight from foot to foot for at least another few minutes, adjusting something in his arms that’s cropped just out of frame as he rings the bell again. When he still doesn’t get an answer, when no noise comes from inside the house, his shoulders slump, and then he’s bending down to leave the package on their door mat. It’s only once he’s gone, pulling the hood on his coat up over his head and turning back towards the street, that she can see what he’s left behind.

It would be gross, she tells herself, to leave a pizza just sitting on the porch for hours. Especially with the rain coming down like this, no matter that the porch is covered where Bran’s room extends over it. The least Sansa can do is throw it away.

Only, when she finally opens the front door and edges out into the cold San Francisco air, the cardboard box is hot in her hands. It smells good too, her stomach rumbling as the scent of bread and tomatoes and garlic washes over her, and maybe she is kind of hungry so she’ll just… She’ll just check what kind of pizza it is, maybe have one small slice…

And then she sees the M&Ms.

Sorry, they spell out, green and red and blue and yellow and orange and brown.

Sansa bursts into tears.

Before she knows it, she’s running upstairs to wipe her eyes and fix her makeup and start getting ready fast. She has to go. She has to go to the ball. She’s been so mean and so unfair and she knows that she was wrong, because if she really lets herself think about it, Jon has been going through a lot. What he’s had on his plate, she can’t even imagine, and instead of being there for him — even if it’s not going to work out for them as a them —

She should still be there. She should still be there to support him.

She should tell him that she’s sorry too, that she was the one who left him alone with it all when he tried to reach out to her to talk.

It’s only once she emerges from a cloud of hair spray and setting mist and perfume that she realizes she has nothing to wear.

This is a ball. A royal ball. A serious, internationally-recognized, Valyrian royal ball.

Her knees go wiggly underneath her even as she stumbles over to her closet.

Her normal dresses won’t work. None of them will be formal enough for the occasion. Of course, any of them would surely be more appropriate than whatever Arya picked out to wear, but, well, Arya is Arya. She seems to have a knack for breaking the rules that Sansa can’t quite figure out, and with her luck, any sort of fashion faux pas will be forever immortalized on the front of a newspaper and taken as some sort of international insult from an American guest.

There is one thing, though. One gown she never got to wear.

Floor-length and soft blue satin, it was probably too over the top for a homecoming dance, but when she’d first tried it on, she’d felt beautiful. Ethereal. With its full skirt and draped sleeves, she’d felt like something out of a period piece romance.

This will make him love me, she’d thought as she twirled back and forth in front of the fitting room mirror. When he sees me in this, he’ll have to love me for real.

It won’t look exactly the same now. Even though she’d had it tailored to fit like a glove, she’s grown an inch or two taller since then, and it’ll be tight in the chest — but potential culturally-insensitive cleavage aside, maybe Jon will like that?

With trembling fingers, Sansa unzips the garment bag hanging in the back of her closet, and inside the muslin cover, the dress is still perfect, pristine. Her heart starts to flutter at the sight of it, and then she’s slipping it off the hanger with reverence, hugging it to her chest.

She’s going. She’s really going to the ball.

–

Only, when she gets there, Jon still hasn’t arrived.

It’s strange, because of course he’d left before her. She’d watched him go on the camera. But now that she thinks about it, she’s not sure she remembers what he’d had on under his raincoat.

Had it been a suit? A tuxedo? One of those dark thermal Henleys that always makes her mouth water? She can’t quite conjure an exact picture of him in her mind, but she’s sure that even if he’d needed to go home and change first, he still should’ve beaten her here.

Of course, Sansa’s not the only one looking for him.

By the time she finds Robb and Arya (her sister wearing combat boots, a knee-length shapeless spaghetti strap dress, and a men’s blazer on top of it, which does look nice on her if certainly out of place), they’ve both already fielded texts from Lyanna. Apparently, Jon’s mother was wondering if either of them knew where he was. And despite the plentiful waiters circulating silver trays full of champagne and hors d’oeuvres among the buzzing, chatty crowds, there’s an impatient hum starting to build. At the fringes of the room, important, official looking people are scanning the entrances with sharp-eyes as they whisper into their ear-pieces, taking turns as they fast walk from one position to another.

As far as Sansa can gather, Jon is just sort of… missing.

But it’s probably some kind of mistake, right? One of his aunt’s people must’ve found him by now. She’s a queen, after all. She must have a whole retinue of people attending to her every need, and given how clear she’s made it that she needs Jon to be her heir, there’s no way they’re not on the case.

The ceremony is just running a little behind, Sansa tells herself. That’s all. Surely, any moment now, the speakers will be crackling to life with something other than the classical orchestra, and then Jon and his aunt will be stepping out on stage.

There’s no reason to worry yet. No reason to get worked up. Everything’s going to be fine.

–

Another thirty minutes later, Sansa is officially starting to worry.

She’s trying to stay calm, though. She’s trying to keep Jon’s mom calm too, reassuring Lyanna that Jon must be on his way.

Sansa had come to find her just to see if there was any news, any word, and the spike of Lyanna’s anxiety had been so much sharper than her own that Sansa had switched immediately into comfort mode.

They’re talking by the front entrance, Lyanna’s fingers squeezed tight around hers, when Jon finally steps through the door.

Sansa’s jaw drops when she sees him.

He’s wet. Dripping, really, tiny rivulets racing down the same raincoat she’d seen him in earlier. His new bodyguard Tormund is behind him, clapping him on the back, knocking him forward and fully into the room.

There’s a sudden flurry of movement as people rush closer, his mother first among them as she coos over him and brushes back his damp hair.

Jon steps past all of them, his eyes only on her.

“Wow,” he breathes. “You’re here.”

“Jon?” she asks, unsure, uneasy with all those eyes turning their way. “Are you OK?”

He must have a hundred places to rush off to, a thousand people still looking for him, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes off her.

“You look so beautiful.”

A fierce blush rises up in her cheeks.

Before she can say anything else or figure out some way to respond, one of his aunt’s people, Jorah something, emerges from the crush of security and staff to clamp a hand down on his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he instructs flatly, tone brokering no room for negotiation. “The queen has a tux waiting for you. Do not embarrass her any further.”

“Don’t leave, OK?” Jon calls back at her over his shoulder, even as the surge of officials starts to sweep him away. “I have to do something first, but I really want to talk to you after.”

All Sansa can do is nod, and then there’s a hand squeezing her shoulder, too.

“I should probably go check on him,” Lyanna says, and that gets another mute nod from Sansa.

Suddenly untethered, she finds herself drifting, and when she gets her bearings again she’s back at the table where she’d found the other Stark kids earlier.

“D’you find him?” Robb asks as he sidles up towards her, his words coming out muffled around a mouthful of kebab.

Sansa blinks, takes a sharp breath, then nods.

“He’s here,” she confirms. “They took him to change because he was all wet. I think he was out in the rain?”

Robb frowns.

“Huh,” he says. “Maybe he had car trouble.”

A lightning bolt of guilt zaps Sansa’s stomach.

Had it been car trouble? Was there something wrong with the mustang? Would Jon have caught it if he’d been able to complete the job himself? Was all of this Sansa’s fault because she made Uncle Benjen rush to finish the rest of the work?

Gods, she’s made a mess of this whole thing.

Her spiral is short-lived, though, because it’s not long before a woman is stepping out on stage to gather everyone’s attention, announcing that their guest of honor would like to say a few words. A moment later, it’s Jon’s turn to step into the spotlight.

As promised, he’s wearing a tuxedo. His hair is still wet, but combed back now, and with the bowtie and cumberbund and dress shoes, it almost looks like it’s been purposefully styled that way, slicked down.

For a second, he looks stiff, uncomfortable, his eyes squinting in the bright lights illuminating the stage and flashing from press cameras at the front of the room. And then something in his face changes, and when he does step up to the mic, he looks steady.

“Hello,” he starts, his gaze scanning the ballroom. He won’t be able to see her from this far away, probably, but he doesn’t seem to be searching for anyone in particular so much as actually greeting the people who make up the crowd. “First, I’d like to thank everyone here for coming tonight. I especially appreciate how many people traveled great distances to attend the Annual Valyrian Ball this year. I know San Francisco isn’t exactly the usual choice of location, and I’m grateful that so much effort was put in to accommodate me in this unique situation. My aunt in particular, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, couldn’t have more whole-heartedly embraced me as her heir.”

There’s applause at the front of the room, a cue picked up by the rest of the crowd, and Jon waits until it dies down before he continues.

“There’s a lot I have left to learn about Valyria and what being Valyrian means, and I’m excited to do all of that. To better get to know my aunt and my father and their ancestral homeland, and hopefully also the rest of my family too,” he says, “including my half-sister Rhaenys and my half-brother Aegon if they’d be willing to meet with me. But at this time, I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to accept the position of heir to the throne.”

A low murmur starts up, building in volume, but Sansa feels almost the opposite, like she couldn’t make a sound now even if she wanted to. Jon simply raises his voice so he can be heard over the hum of the ballroom.

“I know many are concerned about stability for the throne, but I think it is clear that my aunt has several living blood relatives capable of succeeding her one day, and it’s to no one’s benefit to rush to make a decision of this magnitude. It is an honor to be included in conversations such as this and to have an opportunity to serve the people of Valyria and hopefully help make our global world a better place. I look forward to doing that in whatever capacity my whole family determines is best as I continue to grow and discover what it means to be a Targaryen. Thank you again for your time.”

“Whoa,” Robb says beside her, echoing her same thought as Jon steps back from the podium.

It only takes a second, a second of near silence as everyone in the room processes that — what he really just said, what he really just did — and then what had been a hum explodes into a roar.

The crowd is suddenly alive with movement, and Sansa lets herself get caught in it, swept up by the tide as people crash forward and she slowly ebbs back. Washed away to a corner of the room, she looks up to find herself next to a set of double doors that open to the cool night air. It’s stopped raining outside, but everything is still glittering and wet, like grass in morning dew. Unable to resist, she steps out, and just beyond the patio she can see what must be a garden, something that might be a hedge maze towering tall over a row of camellia bushes, their petals almost periwinkle in the shadow of the night. She drifts down the stairs towards the grass, and alone in the quiet, she can hear a fountain bubbling somewhere out of sight.

“I thought you might like the gardens,” Jon says, stepping up beside her. “I was kind of hoping I might get the chance to show you them.”

Sansa’s not sure how long she’s been out here — when she looks down at her arms, she can see goose bumps starting to form — but somehow Jon’s appearance doesn’t startle her. Instead, it feels almost like she was waiting for him, like he knew just where to find her, and she blushes a little when they finally lock eyes.

He’s so handsome in the tuxedo, his hair drying more unruly than it had been on stage. With the way he’s looking at her, she can’t help but think about what he’d said when he first saw her inside. Wow, he’d breathed, something like awe in his voice. You look so beautiful.

She feels that way with his gaze on her now.

“You can show me them,” she tells him, soft, almost shy, and when he holds out his hand for her, she takes it.

Fingers laced together, Jon guides her down a twinkling path, and it’s not long before they’re tucked away around the first bend of the maze, a wall of green separating them from the rest of the world.

“I’m sorry I got pulled away so quickly earlier,” Jon says. “I was really glad to see that you came and I wanted to talk to you longer, but I don’t think my aunt appreciated that I was running late.”

Sansa hardly dares to ask. At the same time, she can’t help herself. She has to.

“What happened?”

Jon lets out some fraction of a laugh.

“Wouldn’t you know it, just as I was really gearing up to run away from all of my problems, I ran out of gas instead.”

“Oh no,” Sansa says, another swell of guilt rising up inside her. She’d always imagined what it might be like the day Jon finally finished working on the car, how she’d make sure the tank was full and the hood shiny with wax so that if he wanted to take her out for its first ride, everything would be perfect and ready. But then she’d just wanted the car gone, out of her sight, hadn’t wanted Jon to have any reason to be there, any obligations left at the garage. She’d made Uncle Benjen rush, and Jon had suffered for it. “Oh no, Jon, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault —”

His thumb strokes soothingly across her knuckles. He shakes his head, smiling a little, and somehow her stomach actually settles.

“It’s not your fault,” he promises. “I was the one who supposedly fixed the gas gauge as one of my first projects. I think, uh — I think I must’ve just gotten distracted by the cute girl working the front desk.”

Her grip tightens on his hand, nervous, and he gives her a squeeze back.

“Anyway, it sort of seemed like a sign from the universe,” he adds, slowly leading them towards the center of the maze. “I don’t exactly think I’m the right person to be the heir to the Targaryen throne — the media is definitely right that the position should belong to Rhaenys now that Rhaegar has confirmed Dorne’s accusations back in the day were spot fucking on — but that doesn’t mean I can just ignore my responsibilities either.”

Sansa nods along, because it feels like the right thing to do. The easy thing to do when she’s not exactly sure what she’s meant to say. Still, she wants to say something.

“Um, I got your pizza.”

Jon glances over at her, drawing a little closer.

“Yeah? I’m really sorry I missed the last one, Sansa. I would never want to leave you waiting anywhere, or make you think that I forgot you or that I don’t want to spend time with you, because that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I wish I could give you a good reason that it happened, and I’m really frustrated with myself that I let it.”

She nods again, but as they keep walking, she finds herself moving closer to him, too.

“What did happen, though?”

Jon sighs, head hanging a little before he picks it back up so he can look at her.

“Honestly? I think I just really couldn’t believe that you were interested in me. It made more sense to think that it was some weird fluke and that you must’ve changed your mind and come to your senses afterwards, but I shouldn’t have assumed anything. If I wasn’t sure, I should’ve called you to check.”

Sansa surges another step closer, reaching for him with her other hand so she can wind her body around his arm.

“I should’ve checked on you, too. It seems like you were going through a lot, and I didn’t mean to just… disappear. Everyone was just being so fake all of a sudden, and I didn’t want you to think that I was acting any differently around you because you’re a prince, but then I ended up acting differently around you anyway.”

Jon lets out another little laugh, but his grip readjusts in hers, tucking her in close to his side.

“Well, I think I’m probably not a prince anymore. I mean, I’ve only known Daenerys for about two months now, but I’m pretty sure she’s going to burn me off the Targaryen family tree for what I said back in there. With the way one of her advisers shooed me out of her sight backstage, I think I’m probably lucky she didn’t throw a lit candle at my head. But maybe it’s for the best to not have the American teenager who hasn’t lived under a monarchy for even a single day taking over the rule of a European country he’s never actually set foot in.”

They’re at the center now, and as they step out into the little clearing, Sansa finally sees the fountain she could hear from all the way out in the garden. It’s glowing, lit from the inside, and strings of fairy lights criss-cross overhead. The idea that Jon had wanted to show her this — that maybe it had been part of his plan for the date that she’d turned down, and that they’ve still found their way here — Suddenly, she needs him to know how she feels.

He looks down at her questioningly as she unwinds herself from his arm, but he doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t go far. She keeps his hand held tight in both of hers as she steps fully in front of him, and then she’s facing him head on as her fingers squeeze his nervously. She has to get this out, though. She needs him to hear it from her.

“I don’t know much about Valyria,” she says, the words coming out in a rush, “but you’ve always been a prince to me, Jon Snow.”

Her breath goes shallow as he looks at her, eyes searching, and then he reaches to touch her cheek so softly that she can’t help herself. She throws herself at him, arms wrapped around his neck, and then her mouth finds its way to his.

His lips are soft, warm, and she presses her body against him, eyes closed, one foot off the ground. One of his hands curls to cup her cheek, the other settling hesitantly at her waist, and she tugs him closer with a small, needy sound that has his fingers bunching up in the fabric of her dress. He gets the message though, holding her steady, tilting her head back, and then he’s stepping closer to take control of the kiss as she hangs pliantly from his neck.

When he finally breaks away, they’re both panting a little, breathing hard as Jon drops his forehead to hers. And then he lets out another laugh as he pulls her back close, his cheek pressed to hers like they’re dancing.

“Sansa,” he says, his voice a low rumble right next to her ear, “did you just pop your foot?”

Her face burns. He must be able to feel it, her skin warm against his.

“In old movies sometimes, when there’s a really romantic kiss…” she starts, embarrassed, not sure exactly how to explain. “It just, um. It just felt right.”

He lets out another low chuckle that sends shivers down her spine, and then his mouth traces its way back across her cheek.

“Yeah,” Jon says, kissing her again in a way that makes her melt, staying close after so his lips brush hers with every word. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Headcanon: Katniss tries to help Peeta at the bakery and burns her wrist. From then on until it heals after her bath at night Peeta sits behind her on the bed and brushes out her hair slowly and rhythmically

Can I interest you in some domestic post-mj fluff (or maybe it's hurt/comfort?). You'd think I'd know how to classify this by now. Rated somewhere between G and T depending on how you feel about non sexual nudity.

Enjoy!

<3 kdnfb

I’ve always hated burns. The way even the smallest of them causes excruciating pain. And now I have hundreds of reasons to hate them. And even though, as a baker, Peeta’s used to small burns on his own skin, he always submits to my care when I demand he let me soothe his hurts with whatever cold substance we have available. Ice from the freezer. Cold water from the tap. Snow from the ground if it’s winter and he tells me about the burn while we’re walking home.

But that hasn’t made it easy for me to accept his caring when I hurt myself. Sometimes, I’d rather hide it from him and find a closet to hide in while the memories of my sister feel contained in that tiny new burn, making the already unbearable pain into something unimaginable. At times, I think I may combust once again, the blaze starting at the new wound and consuming me within seconds.

This time, though, I can’t hide it. Peeta was right beside me as we were baking. He was trying to show me how to make the cheese rolls I love so much.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as he holds my arm under the tap, running it full cold over my wrist. His grip on me is too tight to allow me to even pull back, let alone escape and run away.

I watch his jaw clench and rest my forehead on his chest, repeating my apology as the tears in my eyes burn almost as badly as my wrist. I want to collapse, but Peeta’s body pressing me against the sink won’t allow for even that.

“Stop it, Katniss. Stop apologizing.”

“I ruined them. I ruined the rolls,” I whimper and turn my head enough to spot them still scattered on the floor from where I dropped the tray after it slipped just enough in my grip to burn my wrist.

“I don’t care about the rolls,” he says and then twists his body, reaching for the cabinet where we keep the burn creams.

He sets it down on the counter and then grabs my chin, forcing my head up to look at him.

“Hey. Look at me, Katniss. I’m right here. Don’t look away. Say it.”

I take a few deep breaths, entranced by the depths in those blue eyes. The plea in them that whispers to me, begs me to understand his terseness. “You don’t care about the rolls.”

“I really don’t. Come on. Let’s get some ointment on this.”

It still stings, the ingredients designed to continue cooling the area and numb it as well. But it’s never enough to completely get rid of the pain.

I only know when he’s done because Peeta scoops me into his arms and carries me upstairs. He sets me down on the bathroom counter and starts the water in the tub, drizzling in fragrant oils. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says and gently kisses my forehead. “I’m just going to make sure Buttercup doesn’t find the rolls and try to eat them. Don’t get in the tub alone.”

He’s only gone for a few minutes. I don’t budge during that time, but the tub is close to being full so Peeta turns off the water and helps me down from the counter, slowly stripping me, careful of my burned wrist. Then he lifts me up and lowers me into the tub.

As his arms retreat, he grips my injured arm and holds it out of the water before setting it on top of a rolled towel on the edge of the tub. I’m only half there as he brings a stool, screeching loudly on the tile floor, right next to the tub. Only half noticing the feel of his hands washing my body, all except for the injured arm. 

But he must wash my hair because when I am able to note my surroundings again, we’re seated on the bed, positioned so that I’m gazing out the window, watching the breeze play with the curtains and the vibrantly red, orange, and yellow leaves shivering in the trees outside. I turn my head slightly when I feel a tug on my hair and realize that Peeta is drying my hair. Carefully gathering up bunches of it and squeezing out the the water, absorbing into a soft towel. Again and again and again.

“Start your list,” he suggests and I inhale the soothing scent of the cream I use in my hair to make the tangles easier to brush out. The scent of rose oil, but not the cloying, mutated smell of Snow. Gentler, wilder, softer. Peeta works the oil in my hair as I start the list, with Cinna this time, because Peeta’s hands in my hair reminds me of my old friend.

My eyes drift shut and Peeta hums encouragingly as I keep talking. He brandishes a comb and when I shiver, he pauses.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s soothing, don’t stop just…” He waits and I breathe in deeply. “I used to comb Prim’s hair, when Mom couldn’t and… I miss my mother braiding my hair.”

“I know. I’m sorry I’m such a poor substitute,” he says, lighthearted and without any self-pity.

No one needs me.

I lean back and turn my head, until I can see his face. I bend my uninjured arm to cup his jaw and his hands fall away from my hair.

“Say it,” I whisper and tug on his blonde curls until his lips brush mine. “Say it, Peeta.”

“You like it when I comb your hair. Real or not real?”

“Real. Say the rest.”

“I’m not a poor substitute.”

We’re distracted for a moment as his lips move over mine. Until he gently pushes me forwards again.

“Let me finish, impatient,” he teases and I smile, ever so slightly. 

He resumes combing my hair. Steady and rhythmic, not unlike the way he kneads dough in the bakery, only much softer and gentler. Still, I find myself humming a quiet tune. A love song I remember my father singing for my mother. I don’t sing just yet though and the smile still curves over my lips when he’s done and secures the end of my braid with a leather hair tie. He bends over then and kisses my bare shoulder. 

It’s only then that I realize I’m wrapped in only a towel and stand to put on a nightgown. After, Peeta applies more ointment to my arm.

Every day after that, he helps me bathe and braid my hair, careful to keep my injured arm clean and dry until I can stand water on it again. When we finally deem the burn healed enough to no longer need bandages, I ask him to join me in the tub and scoot forward after he undresses, leaving room for him to sink into the water with me, His thighs hugging tight to my hips and his lips soft on my shoulders, the back of my neck. He gently grasps my wrist and bends my arm until he can kiss the small new scar. And after we bathe, he combs and braids my hair for bed.

[maisnamedmoon]

Identity Reveals #1

I postet this on AO3 too, just incase you want to leave Kudos or follow me :)

Here is the link v

"Coordination only works if you don't have siblings!" (Nightwing)

With the monitors and alarms beeping no one notices when the monotone Voice of the Zeta beams calls out “R24 Richard Grayson-Wayne”. Until the man walks to the front of the room “Good evening Justice League”

“Who are you?”, Green Arrow was the first to react, already pointing an arrow at the intruder, “And how did you get in?”

“I am Richard Grayson, ex chief of police of Blüdhaven and now your link between the police and military force on earth and yourselves.” The raven haired man said, giving a small bow before frowning and turning around to the computer, just for him to press a button and the beeping of the alarms to turn off. “I’m here to coordinate this Alien intrusion”

“We don’t need someone to coordinate our missions” Batman growled.

“I believe you don’t have a choice there, Batman”

“No, he is supposed to be here, I got a call this morning. Nice to meet you” Superman said, trying to calm the still sceptical heroes. Their questions were quickly forgotten, when an explosion rattled the Watchtower. Everyone jumped into action, Grayson quickly turning around, pressing his earpiece, informing whoever was on the other side of it that they were under attack, while typing away on the computer. Batman walked up next to him pulling up files, letting out little grunts and huffs when Grayson throws aspects and ideas for plans.

“Everyone got the new team groupings on their screens, suit up for battle” Batman calls out, still typing.

When the heroes got back into the room, now suited up, they heard what sounded like Grayson trying to not hit someone over comms “Get your ass moving Arsenal and take Red Hood with you ….. Don’t question how I know he is there ….. I literally could not care less if he refuses to take part in this or not ….. Tell him I’ll take his patrol privileges away from him if he doesn’t ….. Yes I can do that, do not test me, Roy ….. he better be” He lets out a huff of frustration and continues to talk, now with someone else it seems “Grayson to troops, status report” With each answer he got cities on the map in front of him turned different shades of orange, yellow and red, marking the severity of the attacks they were under.

And then he started to call out team names and cities, appointing the teams of heroes to different cities all over the US. “Batman, I need you to go to Gotham and coordinate the cave” Who without even the slightest hint of the BatglareTM that everyone, who tried to command him got, turned around and walked to the Zeta tubes.

“How did he do that?” Green Lantern asked looking in the direction Batman just disappeared in. “I don’t know but I’m more concerned with the fact that he knows Arsenals civilian identity” Green Arrow frowned, looking at their new team member.

With Grayson on comms coordinating the different teams, including military forces, the Justice League, Young Justice, Teen Titans and the situation that is Gotham, the whole ordeal was surprisingly easy to deal with. As more and more of the Justice League hero teams came back to the Watchtower, more cities on the map, that were before various shades of red, turned green.

Now with most of the cities Alien free and most of the Justice League teams back, Grayson only had to check in on the teams not stationed on the Watchtower, “Kaldur’ahm, status report”.

Aqualad’s voice called out through the monitor room: “All clear over here, Rob, some minor injuries, but nothing too concerning” The heroes seemed to slump a little bit, knowing that their sidekicks are fine.

After also confirming with the Teen Titans that they were fine, there was only one more team to account for: “Dick Grayson to Batcave”

“Access denied” The monotone voice of the computer rang out.

“Richard Grayson to Batcave” He tried again.

“Access denied”

“Oh you are so fucking dead RR” Dick let out a sight. “Nighwing to Batcave”

“Here Batcave” A male voice answered, slightly amused.

“Batcave, status report! Also Timothy, I will personally rip your head off and burn all your coffee!”