#fic retirement post

[asheepinfrance]

thank you @cha11engers for helping. All is owed to you

INT. White Room in a government facility. Our only setting. It's got a sterile feeling, like a hospital waiting room. In it, two chairs face one another. Between the chairs, a large, metal door.

In the left chair is a GIRL. young, skittish, wearing plain, oversized white clothing. She’s fidgeting, head down, visibly nervous.

Across her, CONNOR MURPHY, a young, male, in the same outfit though his hair and clothing are more disheveled with time. He’s calm, unfazed: clearly, he’s been here a while. He’s observing the girl across from him silently. He is cool but fairly unnerving. A man on the verge.

(after a beat)

CONNOR

So… what’s your deal?

(The GIRL looks up like she hadn’t noticed she had company)

GIRL

My deal?

CONNOR

Yeah, your deal. Like, how’d you end up here?

GIRL

I- I don’t- I mean one second I was home, and the next I’m here, so… and what is ‘here’, anyway?

CONNOR

We think it’s some kind of… court or something like that. Think of it as… pest control.

(He laughs. It’s dry)

Post-suicide pest control. We show up, plead our case, and they… whoever they are… get to choose where we go. Reincarnate or rot. Simple, really.

GIRL

If only suicide victims end up here, then don’t you already know my deal?

CONNOR

Huh… I guess I do.

(After a tense pause)

GIRL

You said- you said they choose where we go... so, reincarnation, right? And what about the rest?

(A beat)

CONNOR

What do you think?

GIRL (processing)

Oh.

CONNOR (mocking)

Oh.

GIRL

Well… what about you? How long have you been here?

CONNOR

You see a calendar in here?

GIRL

No…

CONNOR

So your guess is as good as mine, then, isn’t it?

(He’s slightly angry, though it’s masked by that same coolness. Closer to snapping)

I wouldn’t say too long. Days, weeks, months, maybe. Probably not years, though… probably.

(GIRL is dejected, horrified. A potential-end-of-life crisis.)

GIRL

So I just wait here, dead, to what? Die? I mean, they can’t do this! I- I’ve got family who must be worried sick and they'd want me to-

CONNOR

What makes you so sure?

GIRL

What?

CONNOR

If you’re here, they may not have even noticed you left. What makes you so sure they care? What makes you think they know at all?

GIRL

Because I… Because! I just know. I mean, I’m a good person, I don’t deserve to just go and have no one notice. I deserve better than that. I deserve better than all of this!

CONNOR

You think you deserve better or you want to deserve better?

GIRL

Is there a difference?

CONNOR

I think we both know there is. I mean, all of us want to think we’ve done well, but… here we are, learning maybe we haven’t. We deserve what we get or we wouldn’t get it at all.

GIRL

And you’re fine with that? Knowing your life so far has possibly amounted to nothing?

CONNOR

I am now.

GIRL

So you weren’t before?

(CONNOR smiles without any joy, and observes GIRL again)

[machveil]

uuugh Retired!Simon Riley yeah. yeah, retired DadBod!Simon Riley, uh huh

Retired!Simon Riley who’s still strong as a horse and works out, but now that he doesn’t have to worry about deployments and risking his life he can indulge a little. he was already eating large, hearty meals to maintain a healthy weight and physique, but sometimes he’ll go back for thirds now - if you smile sweetly and indulge with him he might be talked into dessert (nine times out of ten he agrees). it’s nice to see him eat to his hearts content and relax afterwards

Retired!Simon Riley who gets a tummy after a while, a soft layer of fat rounding out his muscles. he’s still quiet and reserved, intimidating to most, but now he’s a little soft under your fingertips. chest a little more pillowy, perfect to rest your head on. he’s slowly relaxing his sleep schedule, not worrying about getting out of bed with the sun. he might go for a morning jog if it’s nice out, but it’ll always be nicer to stay warm under the covers with you

[boowritess]

bonus part 2

simon can't cook-

okay no he CAN. okay? but it's very much- chop up whatever the fuck is in the fridge throw it in a pot, add as much meat he can find. then he's sorted. creating some sort of stew. but if not that. he thrives off 2 minute noodles.

listen, he's a working man. he can't be fucked thinking about what to make.

and if he needs to eat while not deployed and wants something, he'll get takeaways so he doesn't have to think about it.

and if ya'll are together - whatever you make... motherfucker eats that shit up like he's in a 5-star fucking reasturant.

you made scrambled eggs with bacon??? he's astounded. absolutely in love. has never been more satisfied in his life.

but oh lord. when he retires..

retired!simon fucking riley finds his fucking calling in cooking.

you no longer have to worry about cooking. nah-uh. not with this man who has all the time in the world to hone in on this new culinary world.

idk i just think it's so cute to think about simon going from beans on toast for breakfast to fluffy buttermilk pancakes or french toast with bacon a berry compote.

then for dinner; it's suddenly a whole line of sushi with all your favourites, dumplings to follow and a beef udon recipe dish. or maybe it's a simple roast - however, a perfectly seasoned meat has been sitting for a while in the oven for so long that when you cut into it, it's juicy and tender. and simon fucking beams at the faces you make.

dessert is a whole other game that simon fucking mastered. seriously. because he's placing down a skillet brownie, topped with ice cream and cream. And when you put a spoon into it, it fucking drips with chocolate ya'll.

just rahhhh retired!simon that turns into chef!simon. who just spoils you day and night with food. who gains the ability to make whatever dish you want, whenever you want. 3am and you want a grilled cheese? he can whip it up in seconds and it'll taste like the most gourmet grilled cheese you have EVER had.

btw, i'm torn between making him a gordon ramsay in the kitchen or him being the complete opposite and being so sweet and patient with you when you want to help him.

WAIT- speaks like gordon ramsay but treats you softly. like, you're not cutting with the knife correctly you fucking donkey. but instead of taking it off you, he presses up behind you, gently cups your hands with his and shows you how to do it safely. and he's speaking so sweetly and softly. a stark contrast to when he called you a fucking donkey - but hey you'll get your bite back. ;)

a/n: i can't fucking breathe this was so funny to write. i'm sorry idk why he called u a donkey. i'm fucking hungry if it wasn't obvious with this post.

[dukeofthomas]

Here's my controversial opinion; if you're trying to write Bruce as a non-abusive, good parent, you should also write him respecting his kids' privacy, boundaries, and not stalking&surveying them.

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter Three - Smoke and Whiskey

<< First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Alcohol mention, Smoking mention (Tobacco, cannabis), plus-sized reader, female reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me.

~3.2k

When you go back inside, you wind up wedged between John and Ghost on the bigger couch. Johnny’s stretched out on the smaller one, and Gaz claimed the chair that you’d been sitting in earlier, leaving you with no other option. Neither of them makes any effort to give you more space, even though they could. Ghost’s leg is pressed against yours from thigh to ankle, and John’s pinky finger keeps finding your thigh when he rests his tumbler against his knee. You want to curl up properly, tuck your feet up underneath yourself, but you can't without pressing even closer to at least one of them. At least Ghost isn’t quite as intimidating without his mask on.

After a while, Gaz and Ghost go out for a cigarette. The chair looks inviting, and you’d like to get a little space, but Price’s arm drops around your shoulders casually, pulling you in a little closer to his side. “Relax,” he says against the top of your head. “You’re alright, doll.”

The door opens again. “Soap, we’ve got a spliff, you want?” Gaz asks.

Johnny picks himself off the other couch, grinning. “Aye. An’ then cake?”

“Fuckin’ forgot about cake,” Ghost says. “Hey doll, d’you want some of this? Cap?”

“Who rolled it?” John asks. “Because I’m not smoking one of Gaz’s joints ever again.”

“Oh fuck off, Price, I can roll just fine.”

John looks at you and shakes his head slightly. “He really can’t.”

“I can roll,” you say. “I always do with my friends.”

You can see the calculation running behind John's eyes as he adds new information to what he knows and assumes about you. You want to laugh. You almost do. Most people take one look at you, with your big doe eyes and round face and and sunny disposition and think that you're some innocent little thing. Sure, you tend to live life with your arms open, and that might come across as naive to some, but you're not inexperienced by any means. You're nearly thirty years old, you're by no means a child.

"Let's see, then," he says. "Box on the coffee table has everything."

"Does tha' mean we can smoke inside again?" Soap asks. "It's startin' ta get pure Baltic out here."

John looks at you expectantly. "Up to you, doll."

"It's not my house."

He hums. "You're stayin' a while. Might as well be. It's important that you're comfortable."

You slide to the floor and reach for the box. "Well. You'd better open a window or two. But I don't mind."

Making a fuss over the semantics isn't worth doing. You probably are staying a while. Even if John really won't force you, you'll still need his cooperation to get all your stuff loaded back into the van, and all four of them are likely headed for hangovers.

John tells them to open the windows, and leans forward to watch you break up slightly sticky buds into the grinder. He brushes your hair behind your shoulders for you, and when you tip your head back to look at him, there's something in his eyes that makes your ears warm.

Johnny drops down to the floor on the other side of the table, a crumpled looking joint hanging out of his mouth. You can see what John means about not wanting to smoke it.

"You want a drink, doll?" Gaz asks. "More tea?"

You twist to look at him, hanging over the back of the couch, that handsome face smiling. "Have you got pop? Wouldn't mind a ginger ale."

"Got irn bru too," Soap suggests. "Ye've got some Scot in ye, aye?"

"Yes."

"Didja want more?"

You level an unimpressed look at him across the table. "I should've seen that one coming."

"I'd like to see ye com--"

"That'll do, Soap," John says firmly. "She's not goin' to have sex with you."

"Might feel a bit better if she did," Soap says, shrugging. "Ah'm just sayin'."

"You're not saying anything." Gaz sets an unopened can of ginger ale on the table next to you. "If you're gagging for it, we'll take care of you in a bit."

"And if you don't behave yourself you're not goin' to get anything," John rumbles from behind you. "She's been good. Surprised none of you have been slapped."

"Just the once." Gaz snags the joint from Johnny and sits back in the chair.

Ghost snorts. "What did you do?"

"Surprised her picking her up. My own fault."

You lean back and hold up the neat joint you've been rolling, hooking your arm over John's knee. He sets his whiskey to the side and takes it, holding it up for an inspection. "Nice work, doll," he says warmly. “Got a bit of a wild streak to you, eh?”

The praise makes you glow, despite yourself, and you laugh aloud at the second part, a real laugh, not nervous or bitter. All four of them shift their attention to you at the sound, snapping a tension you hadn’t noticed until you felt it’s absence. It’s important to them that you feel comfortable, and your genuine laughter is the first sign that you’re on your way. They really did think that they’d done you a favour.

Insane. But almost sweet, in a fucked up, unsettling way.

You pluck the joint out of John’s fingers and meet his dark blue eyes evenly, not missing the hunger that sparks into existence. “Got a light?”

John pulls his lighter out of his pocket, a little awkward with you leaning on his other leg, and holds the dancing flame out for you. You have to lean in a little to get to it, so you do, your eyes still locked on his as you inhale, the slight sizzle of paper and weed igniting clear in the otherwise silent room. You can hear the way his breath catches too, taken by surprise yet again. You offer the joint back to him, holding in a lungful of smoke.

“Shite,” Johnny hisses, breaking the heavy silence. “Yer absolutely sure ye dinnae want your cunt licked?”

You blow smoke at him from across the coffee table. “I’m sure.”

It doesn’t take long before drowsy complacency overtakes you. Curling up against John’s leg, your arm still hooked over his leg, you let conversation wash over your awareness, not paying enough attention to pick out one thing or another. John’s hand settles on your head, fingers threading into your dark hair, combing through soft strands idly. When you glance up at him, he’s watching you, blue eyes half-lidded but still plenty aware, a funny smile twisting the edges of his mouth upwards. He has nice lips under that bristling moustache of his, not as thin as you would have expected. His voice is a pleasant rumble when he speaks to the others,

He takes a sip of whiskey, and you follow the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way the tip of his tongue darting across his lips. It takes a moment for you to realize that he’s watching you study him.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

For the first time since you’ve been there, you don’t feel scared. Just dozy and content, like a cat curled up next to a fireplace. “I’m alright,” you admit. “It’s been a strange day.”

His fingers flex, not quite gripping your hair, just holding you in place with the lightest pressure, encouraging you to keep facing him rather than turning away. “I imagine so.” His hand glides along to your ear, his thumb grazing over the shell, sending shivers down your spine. “It won’t be so strange tomorrow.”

“No more surprises planned?”

John glances up, looking at each of his men in turn, and then back to you. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“We do have cake, though,” Soap says. “Ye want some, bonnie?”

“Yes please.” You only turn to look at Soap for a moment before John is gently coaxing you back, curling his fingers around your jaw. Can he feel the way your heart leaps into your throat, thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings? It’s hard to look John in the eye, but harder still to pull yourself away. His touch leaves burning traces behind, and you’re all too aware of your body and the way you respond to him. It’s all too much, too soon and too strange.

He catches your hand when you try to brush his away. “Why don’t you come on back up here, doll?” he asks. “Be more comfortable than the floor, don’t you think?”

“No, I’m happy down here.” You tuck your knees to your chest, looping your arms around your legs, extricating yourself from his sphere of influence just a little. You’re still pressed up against his calf, but you don’t need to go that far, you just need to face forward so you won’t get pinned under that blue stare again.

John has a certain gravity, a magnetism that you can’t help but be drawn in by. It would be all too easy to sink into his arms, but the idea that you’d been given to him still bothers you, like a persistent, sharp little stone in your shoe, ruining what might have been something.

You perk up some when Soap hands you a plate with a slice of chocolate cake on it. It's not the prettiest thing you've ever seen, but it tastes incredible, rich dark chocolate and an icing that had so much whiskey in it that your teeth feel funny after a few bites.

"This is really good, Johnny," you tell him. "If the whole military thing doesn't work out, you could consider becoming a baker."

"Thanks, hen. And dinnae think I havena considered it. Gettin' closer to packin' it in awl the time. Just cannae leave Gaz until he's got a good team watchin' his back."

"We've got some good sergeants," Gaz says. "Nitro's got real promise."

"Shivs too. Little devil," Ghost adds. "You need a door smasher though. Those girls are tough as 'ell, but some occasions call for a big boot."

"Aye, ye'd say that, bein' the biggest fuckin' boot the Queen's army has ever seen."

"King now," John points out.

"Oh, fuck if I care which poncy arsed Windsor is sittin' in the big chair."

"Bloody leeches," Ghost agrees.

"I've got Sanderson in mind." Gaz winks at you, like you're in on some secret.

"Gary Sanderson? Is he no' dead?"

"No! Turns out he locked himself in a cryo chamber when the bomb went off. That facility was full of 'em, all kinds of experimental tech. It was finally safe to take a team in and we found him. Nitro started calling him Roach, and it's stuck."

"He's a damn good soldier. Be good for the taskforce," Price agrees. "Would've picked him ten years ago."

"Well, he's had a nice long nap, and he's hopping mad about missing so much. He'll make a good doorsmasher," Gaz says.

"How about that Lucky kid? Nitro’s brother.” Price asks. “He looked pretty promising. Unless his luck ran out.”

Gaz hums, licking frosting off his fork. “He’s a good kid, but his problem is that as soon as Nitro’s around he lets her do all his thinking for him. Splits her focus.”

You sigh, setting your half-finished slice of cake down on the table in front of you, and climb to your feet, wincing at the ache of not moving for so long. You edge between Ghost’s knees and the coffee table and skirt around the edge of the couch wordlessly. No one stops you, and there’s no falter to their conversation despite the eyes that follow you until you disappear upstairs to use the washroom.

As you wash your hands, you stare at your own face in the mirror. You look pretty, even with your eyeliner a little smudged, and your lipstick faded to nothing. The buzz of THC is your system makes you giggle. Pretty enough to kidnap, even.

You think about it for a long moment, and then take your makeup off and braid your hair back so you can wash your face properly, and brush your teeth too. All the weirdness of the day is catching up, and all you want to do is sleep it off. The low buzz of their voices carries up the stairs when you step out into the hallway again, seemingly unbothered by your absence. There's no reason for you to say goodnight-- you don't owe them any kind of civility. But you still hesitate.

Long enough that John appears at the bottom of the stairs. "You alright, doll?" He asks. "Comin' back down?" The stairs creak slightly under his weight as he starts coming up towards you.

"I was thinking-- I'm just tired, is all. It's been a long day."

He stops two steps down, so he's still looking up at you. "I understand. We can talk more in the morning."

"I'm sure there's a lot to discuss."

"If you say so. Already told you most of what I needed to tell."

"Just most?"

He nods, and beckons you closer, a conspiratorial smile on his face. You take one halting step toward him, and then another, until you stand right at the top of the stairs. His big hands catch yours, holding you in place when he moves one step up, taller than you once more.

You stare up at him, and your breathing is turned shallow, your heartbeat rapid and heady. His eyes glitter in the dim light as he leans close, the tip of his nose skimming yours, as if he means to kiss you. Like a deer pinned under the headlights of a rapidly approaching truck, you stand frozen, unsure if you even want to move, or if you welcome the inevitable collision.

He smells like smoke and whiskey when he speaks, his lips so close to yours you can feel the soft brush of breath on your skin. "Forgot to tell you how good you look in my shirt," he purrs. "Been thinkin' to say so all night."

Heat licks across your cheeks, his words waking something dangerous in your core, something that wants his hands on you more than anything else. It’s unfair, what he does to you already, barely more than a stranger, and you want him to be a good man so you can indulge that desire without fear of consequence. It’s been such a long time since someone looked at you the way he looks at you now, an almost indescribable fondness that you haven’t even begun to earn.

“It’s a nice shirt,” you say lamely. “Thank you for lending it to me.” You don’t mention that it smells very pleasantly like him, and how it’s been a bit difficult to keep yourself from sniffing at the flannel all evening.

“You’re welcome to anything I have,” he says, and you know he means it.

“I hope that includes your bed,” you say jokingly, trying (and failing) to diffuse the intensity in his eyes. “Because I think that’s where I’m headed now.”

“Of course it does.” His thumb rubs across your knuckles, the other hand coming up to cradle your cheek. You shake, all nerves, worried that he’ll close the distance and kiss you, but he just taps his forehead against yours instead, eyes smiling. “Off you go, sweet thing. You give us a shout if we get too loud, eh?”

You swallow nervously and nod, taking a step backwards. “Goodnight, John.”

"Goodnight, doll.”

You quickly shut yourself into the other room, flicking on the light while you strip down to your panties and wrap the flannel shirt around yourself again, and tuck yourself into bed. It’s been a bizarre day, and the room feels strange, too open and too dark, but it still doesn’t take long to fall asleep.

Hours later, you wake at the sound of the door opening and clicking shut again. You sit up before you’re fully alert, dreams shredding apart and solidifying into reality as you blink away sleep.

“Shh, s’just me,” John’s voice comes out of the darkness, slurring slightly. You can’t see anything in the darkness, until he crosses over to the window and opens the curtains, letting in a little light from the waxing moon outside. He turns towards her, his big frame silhouetted against the scant light, humming. “Bloody hell, you’re a pretty little thing.” The soft clink of his belt buckle is far too loud in the quiet room, as is the rustle of his clothes as he strips down to his boxers.

“John, what are you doing?” you ask nervously.

“Coming to bed,” he says, like it’s obvious. “M’too old to sleep on the floor, and Gaz is on the big couch.”

“Oh. I’ll move then. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.” You throw back the sheets and swing your legs onto the floor.

“No, no, stay right where you are.” He swoops over and grips your legs gently, lifting them up and back onto the bed. He smells strongly of whiskey and mint toothpaste, and the clinging remnants of cigar smoke. “We can share tonight. Get things set up better tomorrow.”

“John…”

He slides into bed beside you and easily pulls you close, strong arms wrapping around you tightly, rolling so you’re half on top of him, one hand cradling your back and the other on your waist. “Yeah, doll?” he asks.

“John, we can’t— I can’t sleep like this.”

“Shh, just give me a minute to hold my pretty girl.” He nuzzles against the top of your head. “I’m gonna be so good to you, sweetheart. I promise.”

"You're drunk," you say, holding the flimsy excuse out for him, hoping that he'll take it. You don't want to think about him meaning it. It makes going home look all the more unlikely.

"A little," he admits. His hand drifts lower, fingers dipping below the soft lace of your panties to dig into soft skin around your hip. He groans. "You're perfect. Sweet and soft, so damn beautiful. I'll make you happy. I'll give you anything you want, if you stay with me."

"John! Stop that, we can talk later, just go to sleep."

"I know this all started wrong, doll. The lads got carried away. But this is right. You feel that too, don't you? We'll have to come up with a better story for our kids, hm? Something proper romantic." He kisses the top of your head, humming happily.

"Our kids?" you squeak. "Jesus, John, you can't be serious."

"Course I am. We can start trying whenever you're ready."

Well, at least now you know he's just as delusional as the rest of them. "You don't even know if I want kids."

"You do," he says confidently. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're drunk," you say firmly. "Go to sleep."

He chuckles. "You didn't say I'm wrong."

You push away and roll over so you don't have to look right at him. Even in the darkness, you're certain that your face betrays more than you'd like. It was none of his business if you wanted kids. You certainly weren't going to have them with him. "Go to sleep," you repeat.

"Yes ma'am," he says, looping his arms around you again, tugging you close to his chest. "Goodnight, doll."

Thanks for reading!

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[fruitcoops]

Hopelessly Devoted

O'Knutzy Week Prompt C2: "Hello, There". Prompts by @oknutzy-week-2024, and characters (of course) (with love) by @lumosinlove <3

TW for joking mentions of romance-novel smut

Leo had never seen someone work as hard as Finn O’Hara. He saw it in the straight line of Finn’s back and the solid set of his shoulders, even when he was calm. He saw it in everything he did—in love and, up until recently, in hockey. He was unequivocal dedication, embodied.

He was sure Finn would say the same about him; he was sweet like that, pretty face and prettier words that were always so honest they made Leo’s ribs hurt with the pounding of his heart. Finn liked to call him brave. Leo had started believing it after the last decade had proven it true in more ways than he cared to count.

And, Christ, Leo counted everything. Endless cycles of goals-assists-saves-loss-win-horror-victory that left him bolting upright at two o’clock in the morning well into his first season of retirement. Netminders kept perfect track of the game and every player coming at them. Remus’ mental playbook of every player in the NHL was only uncanny because he was out of the goal. Leo still remembered the tics and tells of most everyone he’d ever faced.

But what was there to count, now? Beautiful mornings? Those happened every day, though he hadn’t been awake for sunrise in three blessed years. Exotic vacations? He had a wonderful time on their honeymoon (all three of them), but he’d always prefer visiting one of their families.

The pan sizzled softly when he flipped the bagel with a practiced flick of the wrist. Leo smiled to himself. Maybe he should start counting Finn’s annual bacon-egg-and-cheese total. He’d probably come up with the same number if he bought a calendar and ticked the days by hand.

Finn’s commitment to his mid-morning snack was rivaled only by his unwavering passion for bodice-ripper novels, and the evidence of said passion filled their kitchen with a flurry of furious clicking while Leo slid the bagel carefully onto a plate.

See, Leo thought it was a joke, at first. A funny little prank Finn was playing on his new rookie roommate, tucking raunchy paperbacks into the bookshelf between Brontë and Dickens to make him blush. Har-dee-har-har, you got me, I’m such a prude.

Finn had not been joking.

And then it was endearing, like all the other Finn-isms of which he was so fond. It was just…such a silly hobby for an athlete—a former frat boy, no less!—to have in an environment like the NHL. It felt absurdly right that Finn, with his big smile and open heart, would unabashedly love books with oil-paint cover art of a lady fainting into the arms of a conveniently topless bodybuilder. Leo had tucked it into his heart and let it lie.

Finn retired.

Finn was utterly horrific at sitting still.

Finn started with Marie Adkins’ 1942 classic A Rogue for a Lady and ended with Eleanora Zimmerman’s yet-unpublished installment of Zoe Cross’ Cross-Continental Affairs: Volume III, officially clearing the romance collections of all three public libraries near them. His whoop of joy when Ms. Zimmerman answered his email inquiry with a PDF of her manuscript had startled Logan so bad he spilled coffee across the kitchen island and into his lap.

But reading—devouring—the books wasn’t enough. Finn’s systematic rip-through of every literary soap opera he could get his hands on came with an elaborate Goodreads account as well as a nightly debrief.

Leo fucking loved it. Listening to Finn parse out his opinions like an Ivy League lecturer quickly became the best part of his day, especially when the season wound down. It was permanence and consistency while his head whirled with thoughts of this one, just this one single last year and then I’ll really be done, this time for sure. Finn loved hockey like everything else: with no holds barred. He left it, and he was okay. More than okay—he was thriving.

But no hobby was without its faults.

So fucking stupid, Finn had muttered with a sharp shake of his head. I just can’t. It’s a disappointing plot and, worst of all, it’s poorly paced.

Leo and Logan had shared a look across their spaghetti. Finn could give no greater insult to books known for their overdramatic style than ‘poorly paced’.

Well, Logan had said, carefully, almost casually. We all know you’d write it better.

Damn right I would, was Finn’s forceful answer as he stabbed a noodle onto his fork.

Then do it.

Leo had to admit even now that he hadn’t expected that. Perhaps he should have, from Logan. There’s an issue? Solve it. His ‘no more running, no more bullshit’ oath when they were first starting latched into most things he did.

Finn had wavered about it for three days. Once (and only once) he nudged Leo awake at 7:30 in the morning, still sweaty from his run, to ask him if he thought publishing under his real name was a bad idea. He had been forced to mull that one over on his own when Leo banned him from post-shower, mid-coffee cuddles for the crime of dripping sweat onto his pillow.

Finn decided to start writing a book on a Thursday morning in the middle of March, bought a new notebook and a nice pen, and promptly didn’t write a word until his birthday in August.

I’m a failure, he had moaned into Leo’s chest, half-suffocated by the thick fabric of his hoodie. I’m so stupid.

No, baby, you’re not stupid, Leo had soothed. It was a little hard to breathe with the full weight of him splayed useless across Leo’s body, but that was nothing new.

I’ll never write a word. I’m cursed to keep reading forever and being mad about shitty romance with bad, boring characters. The 70s did it best.

Leo remembered sighing in sympathy. But they’re all straight.

But they’re all fucking straight! Finn had groaned. He didn’t move from his puddle of misery and writer’s block until Logan came home and knocked on the back of his head with a pack of pre-sharpened pencils and a cow-print composition book.

Goodreads reviews became graphite smudged on Finn’s hands and cheeks. Small spiral notebooks cropped up around the house, and eventually settled as Finn’s stalwart companions on his morning jogs. When the pencils wore down to nubs, he bought the crappiest pen Leo had ever seen in his life—when that ran dry, he bought another, and a third, and then all the notebooks grew into a teetering tower on Finn’s desk overnight.

A stapler followed, and red pens.

March rolled around again and the tapping of Finn’s laptop became a comforting ‘hello’ when Leo came home from practice. Finn didn’t talk about his book, but Leo didn’t mind. As long as Finn was happy, he could be patient, even if curiosity chewed at him day and night.

When do I get to read it? Leo had finally begged in the heat of June, turning over in bed four nights after his final NHL game. He was restless already and hardly sleeping. He needed something other than endings to occupy his mind.

Finn had smiled at him. The point of his nose pressed to Leo’s. I sent the manuscript out last week. The first copy is yours, Peanut.

Leo had kissed him for that most thoroughly.

“Hello, there.”

Leo smiled into a hidden freckle behind his ear and wrapped his arms around Finn’s chest, giving him a squeeze. “Hey.”

“This for me?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Yeah.” Finn’s head rested back on his shoulder. Leo took the weight happily. “But not really. Ugh, my eyes hurt.”

“Wear your glasses.”

“I wore them yesterday.”

“Didn’t realize they had a recharge time.”

“You know, plastic and glass can be really high-tech these days.”

Leo covered Finn’s eyes with one palm; his lashes fluttered and his chest shook with a laugh. “Glasses,” he insisted, dragging his hand up to Finn’s forehead to tilt his face all the way up and meet his gaze. “Keep this shit up and I’m not putting special sauce on your bagel sandwiches anymore.”

Finn’s soft doe eyes went bright. “What special sauce?”

Leo quirked a brow at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“C’mon, that’s not—”

“Glasses or I eat it and you never, ever get to try it.”

Finn gasped. “You’re starving me.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Fucker.”

“You’re just mad yours never turn out as good as mine.”

“Poltergeist.”

“It’s because you don’t heat the pan enough.”

“I do!” Finn protested, sitting up and turning sideways in his chair to face him. “I did everything right when you showed me. It doesn’t taste right.”

Leo shrugged. “You’re cursed. Sucks to suck.”

Finn groaned and thumped his forehead against Leo’s collarbone. The hair at the back of his head was soft when Leo scratched through it; the muscles of Finn’s neck relaxed on a slow exhale.

“Same or new?”

“New,” Finn mumbled.

Leo hummed. For three weeks, he had been waiting for Finn to scatter his attention to the handful of ideas that had been left in the void. He refused to send books to his publisher until he could read them aloud to his captive audience of two without turning five shades of red and blowing a frustrated raspberry at the draft. Many had not yet passed that test. “From your list?”

“Nah.”

He nuzzled his nose into the top of Finn’s head. “ ‘S it about, then?”

“A prince.” Finn raised his head slightly. A kiss found the neckline of Leo’s shirt. “And a knight.” A second alit on his bicep, lingering long enough to feel his lips move. “And the sun.”

“That’s cheating,” Leo whispered through his smile. “You’re not supposed to write about us.”

“The New York Times bestseller list disagrees.” Finn lifted his head. His nose scrunched. Confidence rouged his cheeks, and Leo wasn’t a writer, but he’d pen poetry about that any time. “My self-imposed rules can wait. I have a good feeling about this one.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Finn raised his eyebrows and leaned close like he had a secret. The plate with his cooling sandwich chimed at a tap from his pen. “It’s funny. Something tells me they’re gonna end up together in the end.”

Leo looked at him for a long moment, then darted a kiss to the bridge of Finn's nose. "Are you putting porn in it?"

"Are you going to let me eat my bacon-egg-and-cheese with the special sauce that you made because you love me so much and you think I'm so cute and sexy?"

"Yes."

"Sunshine, I will write all the porn you want."

"Hmm." Leo let his eyes drift to the laptop screen (just a little peek, a tiny one, not even a real spoiler) but Finn's hand lowered it before he could catch more than a glimpse. He made a disgruntled noise and straightened. Foiled again. "Wear your glasses and I'll make you one tomorrow, too."

[miyamiyano]

It's valentine somewhere

[romanscool]

a little something I totally forgot to post on here after last Sunday,,, so enjoy some badly-written-because-written-at-6am little snippet for Max's 4th championship <3

Daniel hasn’t watched the race. He didn’t think it’d that good for either his mental or physical health, his legs often jumpy when he watches f1 onboards now that he isn’t the one sitting in the car, now that what he has behind his back is the soft cushiony material of his sofa and not the harsh, too-hot metallic seat that barely separates him from the rumbling engine. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on that too much usually.

He thought he should watch the Grand Prix at first, because it was obvious Max was going to win the championship at the end of it, even if he didn’t step on the podium because, let’s be honest, the Ferarris and Mercedes had been doing a hell of a job all week end, and even Daniel, who made a point of not keeping himself informed on neither practice sessions or qualifying, knew that.

But then he thought better. He remembered he would’ve had to watch Christian’s face contort in hat sick smile and all the team's sparkly eyes look at the screens in front, above or under them, all showing Max with four fingers pointing to the sky, helmet still probably over his head because Max can’t stop himself from not showing when he’s emotional, turning his teary vision green-ish and tears hidden. 

So, Daniel hasn’t watched it. 

And when he gets a call from an ex-teammate, red in the face and blue in the eyes, photo all blurry from one of their first ever meetings outside of work, smile real, real, real like it always is, Daniel is grateful for that. Because he gets to enjoy this without all the bad things he would’ve gotten if he had watched the race.

« Daniel. » Max’s voice is filtered through the speaker, bubbly and wet like all the champagne-slash-Red Bull that was most likely poured on him the second he got out of the car, « Daniel, did you see? »

Daniel smiles. He didn’t. He saw his ceiling turn darker as time passed, saw the imaginary stars in the sky glitter like light pollution wasn’t a thing and the red on his screen from Max’s cheeks fill the room. « I did, Max. I saw. You were beautiful. » 

[sappymix1]

I don't wanna fucking talk about it

George’s hair smells like raspberries, and smoke. You want a cigarette. You don’t smoke, but you want a fucking cigarette. Want something you can press your teeth too that’s not a firm, cracked lip or the thin scrapped up skin on the inside of your own. Want something to wrap your lips around that isn’t – well. You’ve never even fucked. Not that that’s the same thing necessarily – is it? – but it’s a step. But you haven’t, really. That seems like it shouldn’t matter, when every hand that’s ever touched you you remember as his.

George smells like raspberries and smoke and you wonder if he even knows that you’re thinking about all the self destructive paths that you would let him drag you down. The damn DNF bluff – you make each other better. You can make each other a hell of a lot worse with one brush of your hand on his hip bone and one wide eyed gaze filled with heavy brown directed at you like a fucking loaded gun. You didn’t know if the finger on the trigger was yours or his. You didn’t know which one of you would pull it faster. George was always so careful with the way he moved. You were careful with the way you did, too, when it came to him. You wouldn’t point the gun at him, not that that made much of a difference in the end.

Maybe you were the problem. You could probably kiss him, right now. You had done it before. You had done it on this couch, the scratchy fabric rough against your knees and the space where your palms met your wrists. Kissing George wasn’t anything new; it was just the thing you did when you were lonely – that’s mean – or bored – that’s mean and untrue – and you felt a little bit brave. You weren’t brave. You really weren’t. If you were, you would have told him that you liked the smell of his raspberry shampoo and you would have told him that everyone else is just him too. You would have told him that you weren’t fucking friends and you wouldn’t have layered it under a million other things. 

Maybe you were the problem because you kissed him all the time, except you couldn’t right now because all that you could think about was the way that the glow of the fire that Sapnap had labored over had made his eyes and his hair burn orange. You could love him. You do, but you could too. Maybe you were the problem because you had had the conversation before and you knew that it was your responsibility, because you knew him. You knew what he was like.

Maybe that was where George was the problem. The inability to bring it up, the way that he wouldn’t push without you leading the way. When his fingers found your skin, found the rough skin of your cheeks while you searched the smooth skin of the back of his neck, you thought about marriage. You’d talked about marriage. You wished that you could be there already. Then and now, you wish that you could be there already. Just skip this, skip having to commit to anything, and just be in the happy ending. Your imaginary fingers on his neck brush a thin strip of very real metal. You’d waited so long. Maybe you had both just gotten used to it, and that was why you couldn’t jump.

Maybe George was the problem, but how could you ask him to change? How could you ask him to change when he was sprawled out on the couch and he was the most beautiful person that you had ever seen and his hair smelled like raspberries and smoke and you could feel your hands shaking. 

You should do it now. Just tell him what you want, because you know he wants it too. It’s been a good day. You’re happy, and you can tell by the tilt of his neck that he is too. You know him like you know a keyboard, the layout of the apps on your phone. Your fingers find the spots that make him happy and it’s so expected that you don’t have to talk about it. You need to talk about it. He needs to bring it up. You need to talk about it.

Your hands are shaking and you need a cigarette, and when George looks up at you, you know they should shake worse, but they don’t. You feel empty. You feel so full that there’s no space for anything else. You should talk about it. When George looks at you, your hand finds his, and he smiles like that’s what’s supposed to happen next. 

“I’m too sleepy to walk all the way to my room,” he says, and he blinks in a way that makes you think for a second that he knows what he’s doing, that he does this on purpose, but then he blinks again and you’re less sure. You read him like you have a direct link to his brain, but sometimes you think he doesn’t know what he’s thinking either, or he’s trying hard enough to convince himself that he doesn’t that, for you, it’s functionally the same thing. You should tell him. “Bring me with you.”

He’s your best friend. He’s supposed to be your best friend. You sleep better to the sound of his stilted breath and the way that he talks in his sleep and the feeling of his legs knocking against yours. You should nudge him awake and shuffle him to his room, tell him to sleep well because he’s your best fucking friend. You should kiss him until neither of you can breathe and you die the way that you were always supposed to. 

He’s your best friend. You’re the problem, you think, and maybe he is too. His feet are freezing against your legs and the heaviness in your chest makes it so that you don’t fall asleep until long after his breathing across from you has evened out. You can still smell the smoke from the fire, and the sweet scent of his raspberry shampoo.

[blackandwhiteflag]

okay so what i’ve deduced is the sole reason daniel thinks him and max can’t date is because they’re competitors

[soaqrudyz]

it’s a warm, spring afternoon, the grass is still wet from yesterday’s shower, and the sun does little to block the chill from the constant breeze. ghost is beside him on the hill, laid back with an arm slung over his face.

soap closes his eyes.

he imagines they’re at home, some little house in scotland squared away from all civilization. it’s just them, but they like it that way.

he imagines what it’d be like to have that life with ghost. picnic blankets and anniversary dinners, sleep warmed bedsheets and two sets of keys in the bowl by the front door. in his head they invite friends over for birthdays, and holidays, and maybe even just for lunch.

he paints the walls and simon builds bookcases.

it’s a fantasy he revisits often, though mostly on nights when nothing can lure his panicked mind back to sleep. it’s a comforting thought: him and ghost being regular people, learning to take it slow together.

it’s indulgent, childish. he knows this, acknowledges it, and doesn’t do a damn thing about it.

fantasy soap takes fantasy ghost’s hand as they’re bickering over the shopping list, and real soap, if he focuses hard enough, can feel those palms against his own, cherishes it.

eventually, they’ll pack this up. they’ll walk back down the hill with their shoulders brushing, will look to see if the other had noticed, but nothing will come of it.

for now, for as long as it takes to muster the energy to pretend he wasn’t in love with his lieutenant, he’ll keep his eyes closed.

damp blades of grass brush his forearms and the sky is hopelessly blue. soap can feel ghost’s eyes on him, and wonders if he’d find himself in ghost’s fantasies if he asked. he doesn’t think he’s strong enough for whatever answer lays at the end of that question, though, so he doesn’t.

fantasy soap traces fantasy ghost’s frown lines and kisses the furrow from his brow.

real soap silently aches.

[abrahamvanhelsings]

i think edward little would be great at emails actually. i think he'd love having to opportunity to think abt what he needs to say and formulate it well and concisely. i think he'd write perfectly ok emails, to the point but polite enough not to be blunt. in normal circumstances he'd receive normal emails and write normal replies and it would be fine. the problem in terror is that he keeps getting increasingly upsetting emails from his boss and they're all no-reply

[mechanicalhandsyaoi]

thinking about Butchlander meta - how Homie has a real fucked up sense of relationships because everyone wants him for his powers or money or influence - if he were stripped of that no one would like him, not many people would even still hate him - except butcher

[quotidianish]

Some retired bnb doodles. Because the world runs on senile folk

[shannonsketches]

something something foils moving in opposite directions Goku's always happy to seek and fight stronger opponents because he spent most of his life being the strongest guy in the room and Vegeta wants to be the strongest/is always exhausted to find stronger opponents because he spent most of his life having to navigate his survival around the whims of the strongest guy in the universe room and so Goku has a foundation of safety and stability and so spends his time craving challenge and adventure and Vegeta has a foundation of challenge and adventure and spends his time craving safety and stability and the overlaid section of their venn diagram is that the only way they know how acquire and maintain those things is through battle

[limewashedup]

BOAT BOYS ARE SEPERATED!?! *i am shot with bullets

Yep 🥲 they had a thing during the year Etho spent on an exchange with the university that Joel and a few other familiar faces attended. I'm gonna put the details below the cut in case anyone doesn't want to know, especially given that you didn't outright ask, but for anyone who's curious:

They meet through Grian, who met Etho through Mumbo, who's in the engineering program that's hosting the exchange. It starts off casual—literally on the same night they meet—which is already a bad sign because Etho doesn't really do casual and even from that first night, the other guys are constantly taking the mick out of Joel for his lifelong crush on a girl named Lizzie.

It's really more of a situationship than a relationship (though Joel does take Etho out on a stupid touristy boat ride where they accidentally end up on one of those two-person pedal boats with "The Relation" stamped across the side). It's sort of accidentally established as something to keep quiet very early on, and both of them are just trying to respect what they think is the other person's wishes to not tell any of their friends because obviously it's no big deal, right?

Unfortunately Joel is as chronically affectionate as he is abrasive and as much as Etho presents himself as aloof they're both very very attached to each other even if they both think it's just casual/physical. Joel thinks Etho's really a private person and doesn't need their nosy friends getting up in his business, plus he doesn't need anyone thinking that he's obsessed with Etho, or anything, especially when Etho is inevitably going to leave anyway.

Etho is a private person who doesn't really want their nosy friends being nosy, but he's also a bit insecure since it seems like Joel is a lot more experienced in relationships than he is, and with the other guys constantly teasing Joel about Lizzie, he doesn't want to add fuel to the fire. But as his program's end approaches, and he and Joel get closer, every next not-date and hookup feeling less and less casual, Etho starts to get bad ideas like staying, though it kind of freaks him out that he's even considering it. 

Then, out of the blue, Joel tells him that they should stop all of it, because Lizzie is coming back, and she's actually asked him out for a change. Etho is upset, more at himself for getting carried away on a pointless venture, and pretends (badly) that he's happy for them, and then packs all his things and moves back to Canada as fast as he can without saying goodbye.

Really it's all a classic miscommunication debacle + emotional constipation + a bit of right-person-wrong-time/circumstances. And also very much not Lizzie's fault she has done literally nothing wrong. In this world they probably wouldn't have worked out anyway, but a lot of the mess could have been avoided if they maybe had a single conversation about what they were doing, but they'll get to that conversation eventually, I just need to put them in situations ;)