#has probably been done already but oh well

[postracehair]

say again

george russell x reader | 3.9k

three times george curses. or, a beginning, a middle, and a future.

cw: george cursing. a few scrapes and a little bit of blood, some kissing, and a love confession to boot.

a/n: this kind of ran away from me, especially in the middle but every time george russell says fuck an angel gets its wings. written ages ago but posting in honor of Las Vegas.

---

YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME

The door buzzes and you let yourself into the building.

You've only been here a few times, but a match day spent with your coworker and some of her friends is better than sitting on your couch alone, right? Wine and cookies in hand, you trudge up two flights of stairs to her flat. By the time you reach the landing, you can already hear the chatter and the TV.

No one seems to hear your knock so you push the door open and gingerly step in. The kitchen is on the other side of the flat, and you assume everyone is somewhere between there and the television.

But when you pass the living room where the TV actually is, there's just one guy on the couch. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees watching a penalty get called.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he says to no one.

You snicker. He whirls around. "Hello," you say.

"Sorry," he says, standing immedietly. Wow, he's tall. "Sorry, hello."

Oh, and he's familiar. You know him, kind of. He's -- god, he races cars, right? Shit, what is his name? Your coworker has social connections you barely understand so it's not really a surprise to find someone who is probably famous in her flat.

"It is just you, then?" you ask. He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. Dressed in jeans and a team jumper, his casual outfit is at odds with the severe cut of his jaw, his cheekbones. He just looks expensive.

"No," he says. "No, everyone is putting plates together. I'm afraid I might be the one most interested in watching the match."

"Not going well?" you say lightly.

He rounds the sofa, hand out. "Could be better," he says. "I'm George."

You readjust the items in your hands to shake his and tell him your name. He repeats it, and you smile.

"Let me go put these down," you say, "and then, um. Do you want some company, George?"

Honestly, you're not sure where that came from. But, though you came here to escape the smothering loneliness of your own flat, something about him makes you want to stay here rather than go into the kitchen with everyone else.

"'Course I do," he says. "I promise to tighten up my language. Won't do for that to be my first impression."

You wave him away though your cheeks feel a little hot and head for the kitchen.

Your coworker brightens at seeing you and takes your hostess gifts with ease.

"The match is on in the other room," she tells you, "but most of us are drinking in here."

"I saw," you say. "I met George."

She hears something in your tone that turns her expression something between amused and calculating. "You did, did you?"

You just nod, loading up a plate with the various nibbles. "How do you know him, anyway?"

She shrugs. "Oh, you know." No, you don't, but she plows on. "What did you think?"

"Taller than he seems on TV," you mutter. "But very polite. He shook my hand."

That gets her to laugh. "Oh, of course he did. Well, don't stand around in here with us. Go chat up a Formula 1 driver!"

George is back on the couch when you return, arm stretched over the back of it, brows furrowed.

"Has anything exciting happened?" you ask him, sitting down with a perfectly responsible distance between you.

He grimaces. "Nothing good. Wolverhampton, bless 'em, are quite bad."

That might explain why no one is watching this match with him, but you keep that to yourself.

"I see," you say, solemnly. "But loyalty is loyalty, I suppose, if they're your club."

"Exactly," George says. "It's suffering but it has to be done." Someone on the screen triggers a free kick and George leans in until it's over. He starts talking about one of the players being traded, or his contract being renegotiated, or something. You nibble on your plate and just watch. He's animated, this man. Fringe falling over his forehead the more he gestures, blue eyes wide and serious. It's all very endearing.

"Sorry," he says suddenly. "I'm being so rude. You don't want to hear about all of this, do you?"

You smile at him. "I don't mind. I came over for some company more than anything else."

He sinks back into the couch a little, hand running through his hair again. "Well, lucky for me that you did," he says.

Your face feels hot and you don't want to mistake this for flirting if it's not. He is a world-famous athlete, after all, but here you are on the couch next to him. "Lucky for you, indeed."

He laughs, delighted.

OH, SHIT!

This is not how you saw your life going, but maybe that's just the nature of it. Big moments happen just the same as small ones and we have to handle them regardless. The trajectory of your life shifted just a little bit when you sat down on someone else's couch to watch a football match with a stranger.

Because that stranger -- George -- is now much more than that. He asked for your number that day before he had to leave earlier than everyone else, and has been speaking to you ever since. Texts, phone calls, FaceTimes. And, when he's not driving hundreds of miles an hour halfway across the world, he likes to spend time with you.

They're dates, you know they are. But things are still casual, immensely so. Coffee, dinner, long walks through the park. It's probably past due that you ask him what he'd like out of this, but your friends tell you to just have fun for the time being. You've learned a lot about him in the last month or so, both from him directly and by doing your research.

You'd watched a few Grand Prix before meeting him but not with any kind of rapt attention. Now, obviously, you watch with purpose. See him zip around the track, read his radio messages, hope desperately that he'll be alright. He's a big mix of things, George Russell. Witty but determined, thorough but reactionary, polite but intense. You want to keep getting to know him on a personal level and measure that up to how he appears to the world.

Today, you're on one of those long walks. George is recounting the last race at your request. It's always more interesting to hear him talk about what happened than watching it, though you're really growing to love that part, too.

It's a bit chilly and he's got a scarf on in addition to a nondescript hat pulled down low over his eyes. You're used to this by now, though you wish you could see his face more fully.

"And then -- well, I'm sure you saw this bit -- he turned right into me like I wasn't even there!"

"But you avoided it," you remind him. "I saw that, too." A cold wind blows down the path and you shiver a bit.

"You alright?" he asks. "Nippy, huh?" He stops walking and turns to you, his huge hands coming to rest on your shoulders before he rubs them up and down your arms.

"A bit," you agree, a little breathless. God, you really need to talk to him about what this is. You're thinking about him all the time, which is a bit of a nuisance, as you're not sure he's feeling the same. But, a small voice in your head tells you, you can't be too far off in thinking that it might be based on the way he's looking at you right now.

Even under the cap, you can see the soft set of his brow, the way his eyes are shining. The gentle quirk up of his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him? Would he let you?

George stops his warming efforts, catching your hands in his. "Better?"

All you can do is nod. He grins, looking a bit too pleased, and starts walking again, you in tow. This is something else you've learned about him -- he really can be a cheeky bastard. He must have more than some idea as to how he affects you and enjoys it. It's somewhere between a game and a challenge.

You're thinking about ways you can get him back, ways you can flirt mercilessly. His hand is in yours and he's half a step ahead of you when suddenly your fingers are ripped from his and you find yourself on your hands and knees with a gasp.

George is immediately there with you.

"Oh, shit," he says. "Are you alright?"

"I--" You're a bit too stunned to say anything. George rarely curses, which is funny given how you met, but it unsettles you a little bit as much as it warms you. "I think I tripped?"

"Let me see your hands," he says, gently tugging at your wrists with his long fingers. He sucks on his teeth when he sees your palms. "Not too bad, but a little scratched."

You rearrange yourself so you're flat on your bum, legs in front of you. Your hands might be alright but your knees are another story. The fabric of your jeans isn't ripped but you can see the bloodstains already.

"Oh," you say. You look up at George, feeling a bit pathetic. "This is embarrassing."

He scoffs. "No, it's not," he says. "I do think we should get you cleaned up, though."

"We can go to my place," you suggest. The sting sets in a little more, but mingles with your chagrin and you just set your jaw. "Help me up?"

"Brave girl," George says. He presses his lips to the base of your wrist and stands, tugging you up as he goes. "Have you got first aid things at your flat?"

You nod, running through the contents of your bathroom in your mind. It occurs to you that George has not been to your place before, and you did not mentally prepare yourself to bring him there today.

George gently says your name. "Let's get a cab, shall we?"

It takes no time at all to flag one down. George removes his hat in what you can clearly see as an effort to get the cabbie to hurry along a bit, but it seems to work. He takes one look at you, one more at George, and steps on it.

"Let me get your belt," George mutters, making quick work of the buckle.

"I don't think I've ever worn a seatbelt in a cab in my life, George," you reply. He just pats your thigh.

"Think we've had enough injuries for one day, don't you?"

George and the cabbie chat about the race season, about how hot it really is in Singapore, about one of George's recent podiums. He keeps you tucked into his side the whole time -- he's ignored his own seatbelt, you notice -- hand on your thigh. You keep your palms turned up on your knees and wonder how on earth you got here.

The city flies by and you lean your head on his shoulder. You can feel something shifting between you, something clicking into place that wasn't entirely settled before. It's scary, it's exciting, it's big. It's something you're going to have to talk about.

George pays the driver in some large bills and helps you out of the cab and up the steps of your building.

"Where are your keys?" he asks.

"Front right pocket of my jeans."

"Pardon my reach," he jokes, and lightly rests on palm on your hip and slides the other into your pocket to find them. He tugs the keyring out and winks at you before unlocking the door. Up the stairs, into the flat. Shoes toed off, coats on the hook after George helps you out of yours.

"I'm not an invalid, you know," you tell him. He clicks his tongue.

"We don't want blood on this nice coat of yours, do we?"

You roll your eyes. George glances around your flat and smiles. "This is very you."

Dishes on the counter, the pillows a mess on the couch, your books and trinkets on every flat surface -- you suppose he's right.

"Thank you?" you say. He taps your chin with his knuckle.

"It feels like a home, I mean." Your cheeks feel warm and your heart sighs. God, the things he says.

"Oh," you breathe. "That's kind."

"And does this home have a first aid kit?" The reminder brings the dull sting of your scraped skin back to the forefront of your mind.

"Bathroom cabinet," you tell him. George nods.

"I'll get that. Why don't you change into something loose so I can get to your knees?"

In your room, you tug carefully tug on some sweatpants, mindful of your palms, and let yourself marvel at how today has gone. You expected to have George here someday, but certainly not like this. Will he want to see your bedroom? You shove some dirty laundry into the hamper and thank past you for making the bed this morning.

"I think you should sit on the counter," George calls. "Whenever you're ready."

You pad out to meet him in socked feet. It's quite the sight, him in your kitchen. He's bent over your sink, washing his hands. His sweater has been tossed over a chair and you can see the lines of his back under his t-shirt.

"Do you need help getting up?" he asks. You nod. Together, you get yourself on the counter, making you about eye level.

"Hello," you say. His hat is gone, too, so his fringe falls across his forehead in slightly curled strands. When you've cleaned yourself up, maybe you'll work up the courage to run your hand through them.

"Hello yourself. Right hand, please." You hold out your palm and George gets to work. He cleans it, getting all the bits from your skin, and then uses an alcohol wipe.

"Do you have a special interest in first aid, or something?" you ask to distract yourself from the sting. His thumb strokes your pulse point as he works.

"I guess you get beat up a bit in karting when you're young," he says. He wraps one palm in gauze and moves onto the other. "I suppose i just like knowing how to take care of people."

"God," you groan. "Is there anything wrong with you?"

He looks at you then, hair falling into his blue, blue eyes. "Oh," he smirks. "Plenty, darling." He finishes up on your other palm and holds it in his for a moment longer than you expect. Then he slowly brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the bandage.

You might gasp, You're not entirely sure, eyes glued to his lips like nothing else exists. Then he kisses the other palm. Your gaze flicks up and George is looking right at you.

"Knees," he says, voice a little hoarse. "Alright?"

"Alright," you breathe. You stick one leg out just to see what he'll do. You're learning that he rises to the occasion, and that's exactly what happens. He cups your ankle, places your foot on his thigh, and slides your sweatpants up above your joint.

"That's gnarly," he says, breaking the tension. You laugh and tap his leg with your other foot. "You ready?"

"I'm ready."

He makes quick work on it. One hand on your calf, the other gently cleaning and bandaging. The silence is comfortable, familiar, though you've not been in this situation before. It's not until George is almost done with your other knee that he speaks.

"You know," He says, lightly. "If you wanted me to touch you, all you had to do was ask. The tripping wasn't entirely necessary."

"George!" you gasp. He squeezes your calf.

"I'm just saying, darling."

He ties off the gauze and rolls down your pant leg. You widen your knees and he steps between them immediately, hands resting gently on your thighs. It's absolutely electric -- going from shy, appropriate touches to being in your flat together, his hands all over you. How are you going to go back?

Maybe you can't.

George's eyes rake over your face. You inhale his exhales, feeling them on your lips. His pupils dilate.

"What is this, George?" you whisper. His fingers press into your thighs a little harder.

"Well," he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "What would you like it to be?"

"I don't know," you say, honestly. He is not dissuaded, does not back away. He must know that this is hard for you -- his life is so different from yours. As it is, you avoid social media so you don't see pictures of you splashed across gossip accounts. It's impossible to totally stay away from it but you try, because you really like being with him.

"Shall I tell you what it is for me?" George says.

You nod.

He cups your face in his hands, thumbs stroking the delicate skin under your eyes.

"Every second I am not with you I am thinking about when I'll see you next," he says. "I store up things to tell you and take photos to show you and I have a bag full of things I've bought you but been too afraid to give you. Beautiful things, things that remind me of you."

"George--"

"I worry about fucking up your life," he continues, and you fall silent. "This is a lot. I am a lot. My life is not simple, and you've already seen that. But I want you in it. I want you in it however you want to be there, though I have my suggestions. I promise that if you let me, I'll treat you so well, because you deserve everything, and --"

Your heart is going to explode if he goes on any longer, so you close the gap between you and kiss him. Finally.

It's just the press of your lips against his for a few seconds, your eyes fluttering shut, before George catches up to what's happening and angles your faces a little bit to make it deeper. Your bandaged hands rest on his elbows and you swallow a sound from deep in his throat, something that lights a fire in your belly.

"Blimey," George says, leaning your foreheads together.

"What, no curse for me?"

His eyes sparkle and he wrinkles his nose at you. "Fuck," he says. "I've been thinking about that for weeks."

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "That's more like it."

BLOODY HELL

What the fuck was that? Is he serious? Keep focused, George. This is fucking ridiculous. Head down.

It's a bad day. Not as bad as it could be -- George does not end up in the wall. But he ends up way further down the pack than he should, barely scraping together a few points. It's the car and everyone knows it. The bouncing, the drag, the understeer. A showing far too poor for this late in the season.

And George is pissed. It's not often that you see him this way -- he's fairly levelheaded, even when things get tough. Something about him causes conflict to lull, things to fall into place, but even that can't fix the silver arrow.

You slip out of the garage during the last lap to sit in his driver's room and wait.

This isn't your first race. Far from it, by now. Things got official halfway through the season after that day in your flat, and you've been coming to as many as you can. It's a rush, really, to see him work. Scarier than anything, but when it's good? It's amazing. You love the energy of the garage and everyone seems to have taken to you, too.

So much so that they know to send George right to his room before the media pen so you can calm him down.

You sit on the bench and wait.

He comes in, closing the door firmly but never slamming it, and sighs. All the tension melts from his body and he looks defeated. Sweaty, annoyed, and defeated.

"Hello," you say, lightly.

He smiles wryly. "Shit day, huh?"

You love how George looks after a race. Hair a mess from his helmet, skin beaded with sweat. He unzips his race suit and lets it hang at his hips and you can see the outline of his muscles through his fireproofs. It's genuinely swoonworthy, even with his visibly bad mood.

"Are you alright?" you ask. He shrugs, rolls his shoulders, and winces.

"Bloody hell," he curses. "My back is killing me."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing," he says automatically. "You're perfect just as you are."

It's a reflex he has -- not to ask for things. You're still working it out, poking and prodding to find the cracks. Maybe, with time, he'll loosen this grip he has on his desire to make your life as comfortable and wonderful as possible without thinking of himself. There are moments when it's best to just let him fuss, but right now you think you can push back a little.

"George," you sigh. "Come on."

He hides his face behind a sweat towel for a breath, then tosses it aside. "Alright," he says. "Just sit with me for a bit."

You scoot over on the bench and he flops next to you, head back against the wall and eyes closed. His hand fumbles around for yours, pinching your thigh when he overshoots, which makes you laugh. He cracks a smile and opens one eye just enough to see your grin before settling back into his rest.

He breathes deeply, fingers entwined with yours. The line of his jaw is pronounced in the awful lighting of the room and the shadows under his eyes look worse than usual. A few more races and then he can rest. What will you do in the off season? Maybe a vacation. Hopefully a vacation. You imagine George in swim trunks on a beach somewhere, dozing in the sand. Rubbing sun tan lotion on his back and his shoulders and his nose, reading books for hours until he convinces you to run into the water. Lazy days on a balcony or in a bed with all the windows open, never being far from each other --

Someone knocks on the door.

"Christ," George mutters. "Let's ignore it."

"You need to go to the pen, darling," you whisper back. He squeezes your hand and presses your legs together.

"Just a few more minutes," he says. "Eventually they'll just come in."

"If you say so."

You press a kiss to his tacky cheek and lean your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

George takes a deep breath. "I love you," he says.

The words stretch into the silence that comes after, the moments it takes for you to process it. They fill the small room, sneak their way into your bloodstream, your lungs, all the way to your heart.

Part of you is waiting for the follow-up. I know it's too early, I know it's a lot, You don't have you say it back. But George doesn't deal in excuses. He feels it, so he says it.

You lift your head to look at him and find him already staring at you. Not expectant, just looking to look.

"I love you, George," you say.

He grins bigger than you've ever seen, bigger than after your first kiss, than the days when he's on the podium.

Someone knocks on the door again.

"Oh, piss off," he mutters and leans in to kiss you.

[tinydefector]

Hi, hello Tiny. I've got a little "Human Effect" scenario in my almost always empty head.

Do you think the Galactic Council would try to persuade the human crew from the Lost Light to abandone their cybertronian friends?. Like, the Council listing all war crimes from the cybertronian war yadayada.

But the humans, especially the Ambassador, always defend their cybertronian crew. I think it will boils down in "but we all love them" type of argument. Until one day the Ambassador just tells them "¡STOP BULLING MY BELOVED CREW YOU GALACTIC RACISTS!".

All the crew would be like D: "they just said that to the Galactic Council?". And the entire human crew would probably start throwing swears and overal talking about all the good things their cybertronians have done.

Side-note, the DJD is also listening (because I need to include them) and they can't believe they are taking the humans side in the discussion.

Ok that would be all from me at the moment. THANKS.

Oh I can definitely see something like this happening.

Enjoy the meme

The council: we can not have you working with the cybertronians any longer due to the amount of war crimes they have committed.

Ambassador: Ha that's rich coming from you, one word. America.

Council: That does not change the matter. We are pulling you out, and if you refuse to return to earth within the time pool given, you will be court martialled and jailed.

Ambassador: than all your so called outpost and new alliances will be for nothing as they than automatically fall into the hands of the cybertronian sector of the union as they are the ones who forged them. Which means all further communications are to go through the cybertronian Alliance and Commander Prowl.

Council now trying to back track: no, that's not what we-

Prowl: Thank you, Ambassador, as I have stated multiple times this is the reason I had stated to Optimus Prime multiple over why a union between our planets wouldn't work out, I had already calculated and assessed that there was a 78. 874% probability of you betraying the alliance.

Council: Ambassador for this you will be reprimanded and interrogated over conspiring with Cybertron.

Ambassador under their breath: oh I've been doing more than that.

Ultra Magnus: due to the hostility of the earth council I ask that the human crew of the Lost Light be allowed asylum on Cybertron

Prowl turning to Optimus: are we allowed to offer that?

Optimus: it is up to Chancellor Starscream

Starscream sitting back watching the shit show and having heard the Ambassador little remark: Ambassador please share the details of what else you have been sharing with the crew.

All the cybertronians knowing full well how much of a shithead Starscream can be.

The Ambassador stand proudly: chancellor Starscream. Permission to use foul language.

Starscream rather amused: granted

Ambassador: I've been fucking most of the crew of the Lost Light and it's been the best sex I've had before. And I don't intend on returning to earth becuase Cybertronian pussy and dick hit different. And yes I Did in fact Fuck Megatron until he whimpered!

Everyone going silent before Starscream cackles: permission for the humans to have asylum.

[biblical-chronicles]

A quiet shift

_______________________________________________________

where Liam starts distancing himself as his mind has led him to believe that the reader feels summat for Noel, the reader helps him to understand that he's actually the one for her.

_______________________________________________________

You’d always been caught in the middle of the Gallagher brothers. Not in a dramatic way—most of the time, anyway—but in that strange, chaotic balance they both seemed to keep. You were mates with both, though in different ways.

For months now, you’d been growing closer to Liam. There was an ease about him that felt like home—well, when he wasn’t winding you up for fun. He had this knack for making you laugh when you needed it most, for knowing exactly what to say to brighten your day. Somewhere along the way, the laughs and the banter shifted into something more, though neither of you dared to admit it.

But then, something changed.

At first, it was little things. Liam didn’t call you "love" as often, nor did he call you at random times of the day just to make you laugh. Then, when you’d pop over to see him, he’d make an excuse to stay busy, the warmth of your conversations cooling into something awkward and distant. The banter, the light-hearted insults, and that signature Liam energy—it all seemed to drain away. You’d catch him watching you sometimes, but when you’d look his way, he’d turn away like nothing happened.

You’d tried to brush it off, thinking maybe he was just having an off week. But weeks turned into over a month, and the pit in your stomach only grew heavier. It wasn’t just that you missed him; it was the way he’d gone cold without explanation. You started overthinking every interaction. Did you say something wrong? Was he annoyed at you for some reason?

One afternoon, after a particularly awkward encounter where Liam barely acknowledged you, you found yourself pacing in Noel’s kitchen while he leaned lazily against the counter, sipping on a brew.

“What’s up with you then?” Noel asked, raising a brow. “You’re wearin’ a hole in me floor, stomping about like that.”

You stopped, crossing your arms. “It’s Liam. He’s been acting... weird. Like, properly weird.”

Noel smirked, already amused. “Weird how? He finally grown a brain?”

You shot him a look, but he just shrugged.

“He’s been avoiding me,” you admitted, biting your lip. “Won’t talk like he used to. Barely even looks at me and I don’t know what I’ve done.”

Noel took another sip of tea, clearly holding back a laugh. “You? Nah, you ain’t done owt. He’s probably just bein’ his usual daft self.”

“That’s not helpful, Noel.”

“Look,” Noel said, setting down his mug, “Liam’s stupid. Like, properly thick, always has been, always will be. He probably thinks you and me have summat goin’ on.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Me and you? That’s ridiculous, he surely doesn't”

“Yeah, I know that,” Noel said, chuckling. “But him? He sees you hangin’ round here, havin’ a laugh with me, and his brain turns to mush. He gets all shy when he’s actually feelin’ summat for someone, y’know.”

Your cheeks flushed. “He—he feels something for me you think?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Noel muttered, rubbing his temples. “It’s so obvious it hurts. He’s just too much of a muppet to say owt.”

The pieces started falling into place, and a mix of relief and frustration flooded through you, although you were still doubtful of Noel's theory. After all reading Liam wasn't the easiest of tasks.

“Well,” you said, taking a deep breath, “I’m gonna have to talk to him either way, aren’t I?”

Noel raised a brow. “Good luck with that. R’kid’s as stubborn as a mule. But, hey, might be worth it, just don’t tell him I helped, yeah? Can’t have him thinkin’ I’m nice or owt.”

You laughed despite yourself, feeling a slight spark of hope for the first time in weeks.

The next evening, you found yourself standing outside Liam’s bedroom door, nerves rattling your chest. You’d rehearsed what to say a hundred times on the way over, but now, staring at the scuffed wood of the door, every word had fled your mind.

Still, you couldn’t back out now—not after everything. Summoning your courage, you raised your hand and knocked. A shuffling noise came from inside, and after a moment, the door creaked open.

Liam stood there, dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, his hair slightly disheveled. He didn’t flash that cheeky grin you’d come to expect, nor did he give his usual “Alright, love?” Instead, he just nodded slightly and stepped aside to let you in, his silence hitting you harder than any insult could.

You walked in, your eyes scanning the familiar room. The bed was unmade, a few discarded records lay scattered on the floor, and a small pile of clothes lay in the corner. Usually, the space felt warm but now, it felt muted, the weight of Liam's distance pressing down on you.

He stayed by the door, arms crossed as he leaned back against the frame, avoiding your gaze. The air between you was tense, heavy with unspoken words.

You took a deep breath, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Alright, spill it,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nowt’s goin’ on,” he mumbled, not moving from his spot.

“Don’t give me that,” you snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks, Liam. You barely talk to me, you don’t even joke around anymore. It’s like I don’t even know you right now.”

He shifted uncomfortably, still not meeting your eyes. “You’re makin’ a big deal out of nothin’, love.”

“Nothin’?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You’ve practically shut me out, Liam! Do you know how much that’s messed with me head? I’ve been sitting here thinking I’ve done something wrong, that I’ve somehow fucked this up without even knowing it.”

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, finally glancing at you. His voice defensive, his posture stiff, only fueling your frustration.

“Then what is it like?” you demanded, standing up now, unable to stay still. “Because I’m at me wit’s end, Liam. You’re the most important person in me life, and I feel like I’m losing you. Do you even care how much that’s hurt?”

Your voice cracked on the last word, and before you could stop yourself, tears started streaming down your cheeks. You hated crying—especially in front of him—but the weeks of bottled-up emotions had finally burst free.

Liam’s head shot up at the sound of your voice breaking, his defensive walls crumbling in an instant. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward you. “Don’t—don’t cry, love.”

But you couldn’t stop. You sat back down on the bed, burying your face in your hands, the sobs shaking your shoulders. “It does matter, Liam,” you choked out, your voice muffled. “I’m so lost. I don’t know what’s happening, and it hurts so much to lose you.”

Liam crouched in front of you now, his hands hovering awkwardly as if he didn’t know whether he was allowed to touch you. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “C’mon now, don’t... don’t cry. Please.”

When you didn’t look up, he sighed and hesitantly placed a hand on your knee. “I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry for bein’ a knob. Just... look at me, yeah?”

Reluctantly, you lowered your hands, your tear stained face meeting his wide, worried eyes. “Why, Liam?” you whispered. “Why have you been like this?”

He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I thought... I thought you and Noel had summat goin’ on.”

You blinked at him, utterly confused. “Me and Noel?” you repeated, your voice incredulous. “What the hell gave you that idea?” You said not believing Noel's theory to actually hold true.

He shrugged, looking down at the floor. “Dunno. You’re always round his gaff, laughin’ at his shite jokes. Figured I was just gettin’ in the way.”

Your jaw dropped, and despite the raw emotions swirling in your chest, you let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re a fucking moron, Liam.”

He flinched, misinterpreting your tone, and started to pull back. But before he could, you grabbed his hand, holding him in place. “No, listen to me,” you said firmly, your voice steady now. “You’re a moron because you could’ve just asked. Instead, you’ve been torturing me for weeks over something that doesn’t even exist.”

His brows furrowed. “So... you and him... there’s nowt going on?”

“Of course not!” you exclaimed, giving his shoulder a light shove. “Noel’s like... like an annoying older brother. And he thinks you’re a muppet, by the way, for getting this in your head.”

A flicker of his old self returned as a sheepish smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t be wrong, would he?”

You rolled your eyes, but the sight of that smile sent a wave of relief washing over you. “No, he wouldn’t. But you’re me muppet, alright? And if you ever pull this shite again, I’ll knock some sense into you.”

For the first time in weeks, Liam let out a proper laugh—a warm, hearty sound that filled the room. “Fair play,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’m sorry, love. I dunno what I was thinkin’. Just got scared, I guess. Thought I’d lose you either way.”

“Well, you’re stuck with me,” you said, giving him a watery smile. “so get that through your thick skull.”

His grin widened, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Stuck with me, eh? Lucky you.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Before you could say anything else, Liam pulled you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go. You melted into him, the weeks of tension and confusion finally slipping away.

As you pulled back slightly, he tilted his head, his nose brushing against yours. “Can I...?” he started, his voice uncharacteristically shy.

You didn’t let him finish. Closing the gap, you pressed your lips to his, the kiss warm and full of all the emotions you’d been holding back. When you finally broke apart, he smirked down at you.

“Knew you fancied me,” he teased, his energy back to normal.

You swatted his arm playfully. “Don’t push it, Gallagher.”

But as he leaned in for another kiss, you couldn’t help but smile. It was good to have your Liam back as a friend and summat more now.

________________________________________________________

me daft brain totally left this one sittin' in the drafts... So massive apologies to the person who asked for this a while back. But it’s here now, so I hope it was at least worth the wait. Proper sorry again, and if you wanna throw another request my way, I’ll sort ya with a priority pass xx

[kairyuuyaps]

Oh thank god, I've been feeling pretty alone with that thought.

Arcane as a show lives on implications. It's super short by any meaning of the word, and what runtime is has it uses well. It's dense, symbolism everywhere and what we are shown is done with incredible craft and care. But the runtime is limited and what we're NOT shown is a lot. There's only so far you can get with implications and symbolism, and at some point what you leave out stops being artful and starts just being a plothole.

Arcane is incredible, and I love it dearly, but hell if season 2 didn't feel like a particularly embellished skeleton. It's a piece of art and it's wonderful, but I need muscles, tendons, organs, even a little fat on those bones! S1 was already lean as hell, but s2 felt like they trimmed some things they probably shouldn't have.

Your audience can only be expected to fill in the gaps so much. And the reasonable size of those gaps changes with target audience, and it's a tricky thing to get the size right. Too small and it will feel condescending, like the piece of media you're consuming is talking down on you. Too big and it will break immersion, or in the worst case people fall through entirely. Sometimes the gaps are even caused by financial constraints. I don't know what was the case with Arcane. It certainly would've benefited from having a handful of filler episodes, but those would've been extra. They're not necessary, per se. But some things, like as OP said Cait's "redemption", did not get the time and room to breathe and I think that's a real bummer

To those of y’all foaming at the mouth and spewing hot-n-ready racism towards Ekko’s VA about the “KluKluxKiramman” joke… you are not fun at parties.

Better yet, your PRIVILEGE is showing.

I’ve never really felt one way or another for Caitlyn as a character. Like Vi, I distrusted her because she was rich and a government official - because I understood how it felt to be viewed as less than (nevermind the fact that I am also a Black woman living in America). But I never disliked her or her romance with Vi, in fact, I found their class/societal differences the most interesting aspect of their entire relationship. I liked her for the most part, and them as couple, until S2.

Yes, Caitlyn was grieving her mother and yes, it was reasonable to put a hit out on Jinx after the Council Attack. Everything she did made sense, ESPECIALLY the things I didn’t like watching her do, and yet she still did them. She was a villain. Aside from leading the ultimate charge against Ambessa and losing her eye, I’m not convinced her “redemption arc” even happened. Why? Because she never had one.

Not redemption worth anything for somebody who started out with integrity and a true desire to help people, at the very least.

S2 is flawed for this exact reason. As breathtaking as the animation was, as heartrending as a lot of the scenes were, there wasn’t enough room for these characters to grow in a way that’s supposed to be satisfying for a final season. Caitlyn included.

[storiesaplenty]

Jelly Bracelets (12) (18+)

Eddie Munson x f/Reader

Jelly Bracelets Masterlist

This has not been proofread. Please enjoy, though.

Warnings: swearing. Mentions nudity. Lap dancing. Grinding.

Gifs & photos do not belong to me: 1st gif: @munsuneddie

WC: 1123

©️ storiesaplenty 2024: Do not repost or translate my work. This is the only place I post my work.

Red - wearer is willing to perform a lap dance

Eddie Munson may be the freak of Hawkins, but he is your best friend. Who is always willing to teach you new things, even when you get new bracelets from your cousin. Eddie will even go as far as teaching & showing you what each one means.

"Oh get out of here Eddie. I don't feel like doing anything today." I pulled the covers over my head, trying to ignore him as he tried to hank the covers away from my bed.

"The is shining. The birds are singing." I snorted at him, loudly.

"You must be high Eddie. It is raining out, and there are no birds singing."

"I am not that high, and you know it. Come on. I rented some movies, got pizza on the way. Lets get you out of bed and into that living room to watch some movies.

I didn't move.

I heard him sigh. "I even rented Flashdance."

I pushed the covers down, and looked at Eddie's handsome face to see if he was lying.

"Show me." I demanded.

Him, knowing me so well, pulled it out of his inner coat pocket, and I couldn't help but squeal as I saw that he wasn't lying.

"Now will you get out of bed, and watch the movies?" He asked one last time, and I was already getting out of the bed, rushing past him to get my favourite spot on the couch.

The movie was almost over, half of the candy was gone and there were still a slice of pizza.

I knew Eddie was bored, but I know he is watching this for me.

His arm is on the back of the couch behind me as I am leaning against his side, just like we have always done.

"You know if you stuck with dancing, you probably would have gotten out of this shit hole town." Eddie said, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

"Please. I stopped just before high-school, and I am glad I did. The teacher was creepy." And she really was.

Her husband was also creepy as well.

"You still remember any moves?" Eddie questioned me, which I responded by nodding my head yes as I took a sip of Pepsi.

"Enough to do a lap dance?"

"I didn't do that type of dancing Munson." I pointed out.

"Well, now you know what I am asking for." He snapped the red one

Wearer is willing to perform a lap dance.

"When do you want this?"

"I think now may be a good time. I even got a song picked out." He said smugly, as I pushed off the couch.

"Fine. Get in my room." He hopped up, and ran to my room.

I went to the laundry room and grabbed a pair of clean, lacy red panties, along with it's matching bra and put it on and fixed my hair just a bit.

As I am walking through the living room, I grabbed his discarded jacket and drapped it over my shoulders, knowing this would drive him wild.

"Start the music Eddie." I called out, and the moment I heard the music playing, and of course it is AC/DC. None the less, I opened the door, and Eddie was sitting in my vanity chair, almost looking a bit too relaxed, but he looked good.

His legs were spread and his hands were on his lap.

He saw me and his mouth dropped open as I took a few steps in my room, closing the door behind me.

His eyes trailed up and down my body.

He gave me the confidence to get me through this.

My hands trailed up and down my body, my hips moving back and forth to the beat.

I turned around, bending over slightly for him to get a good look at my ass, and as I looked over my shoulder, biting my lip I could see him adjust himself in his jeans.

I reached up and took the bra off, and putting his coat on fully now.

I turned around and his eyes were drawn to the bra in my hand, and it dawned on him that his favourite jacket is touching my breasts.

I flung the bra at his face, and he instantly grabbed the bra and put it around his neck as I moved towards him.

I smiled at Eddie as I circled around him, my arms rubbing his shoulders and touching his chest.

He reached up to touch me, but I slapped his hands away, making him pout.

"No touching, Eddie."

I placed my hands at the back of his neck as I lowered my body so we are making eye contact.

Eddie licked his lips nervously, and I watched nothing more than kiss him, but I held off.

The music faded as I turned my body to face away from Eddie, leaning forward as I sat down his lap.

I moaned softly at hard he is.

I reached behind me as I leaned back, my fingers playing with his hair as I moved back and forth, then rolling my hips in a circle motion.

"Fuck." I heard him say behind me.

I grinded my ass against him, my hands now gripping his thighs.

I needed to see him, so I got up and turned around to sit back in his lap once more, continuing gyrating my hips once more.

I grabbed Eddie's hands and moved them up and down my body, listening to soft moans fall from his lips.

Our faces were close and he leaned in to kiss me, and I pretended to lean in to kiss him as well, until I pulled away and stood up, knowing the song is about to end soon.

I ran my hands up and down my body as I closed my eyes, wishing it was Eddie.

I turned my body, bending down to touch the floor as I stand between his spread legs, my ass against his cock as I grinded my ass against him.

I felt him wrap his arms around me and I was about to say no touching once more, as he turned me around and slammed his mouth against mine, moaning into the kiss as he was muttering against my lips.

"Need you. Please let me have you." Eddie as he grinding his cock against me, making me gasp.

"Yes, please Eddie." Was all I needed to say before he was walking me backwards towards my bed, and gently pushing me back to lay on it.

I looked at him, and he looked at me as he was just about to undress when there was a loud knock on my bedroom door.

"You two want some tacos? I made tacos." Robin excitedly called out, instantly killing the mood.

"Be out there in a second." Eddie called back, through clenched teeth.

♣︎

"My place. Tonight. Wayne is working and no one will bother us." He kissed me one last time as he opened the door and shut it behind him.

Green (18+) ♥︎ Glittery Green (18+) - coming soon

[grainscharacter]

read on ao3

There are a few things that Grian has been… too preoccupied to think about, with all of his worries about making the desert defendable, but not hazardous (because surely either he or Scar will forget about any traps he sets, and trigger them, and he is only green, technically).

His to-do list is long enough that, if he were to put it to paper, it would probably fill up a whole book. So it’s understandable that something has to fall to the wayside.

It’s not bad—really, it’s not!—it’s just slightly annoying, when he’s building and his hair falls into his face, or when he’s making his way through a forest and it gets caught in a stray branch, but it’s nothing terribly inconvenient.

It’s just—in the desert, he hasn’t really have the time to cut it, and now it’s getting long enough to be truly dangerous if he were to get in a fight, and he never learned to style long hair.

He can put it up in a messy ponytail, but it always comes out quicker than he’d prefer. So. What’s even the point?

He’s weighing the merits of chopping it all off, dagger in hand, when Scar comes into the fortress and gasps.

“Grian!”

He pauses.

“Don’t cut off your hair, Grian! It’s just too pretty, and I never get to see your hair all grown out and long like this!”

Grian lowers the dagger away from his hair, but doesn’t put it down, “It’s too long. There’s no point in keeping it if it's just going to get in my way.”

“It won’t get in your way! And, really,” and here Scar puts his merchant voice on,“if you think about it, all cutting it is gonna achieve is make it awkward in a week or so when it’s too long to do anything with.”

Grian tilts his head and shrugs. He already can’t do anything with it; he doesn’t know how to. He likes the feel of his hair long like this, but it really, really is not worth it. “I guess.”

“Oh!” Scar says, “I get it! You don’t want to do your hair! Well don’t you worry, Mr G-Man, I have got that 100% covered! Scar’s hair services, coming right up!”

“I—Scar, no!”

“What?” and now he sounds sad.

“I just. I don’t know how, Scar. It’s not worth it.”

“Awh, come on, I’ll do it for you!” and then, as if worried Grian won’t let him, Scar says, “I’ll even teach you! Easy and simple!”

“Alright, alright,” Grian relents.

Scar beams, and gestures for him to go sit on the bed. Grian goes, and sits with his back to scar as he bustles around looking for… something, Grian’s sure.

He feels Scar’s presence behind him right before he speaks, “Well, G, we’ve gotta start with brushing all of your tangles out, which, mister, I’ve only seen you do a few times. Really, it’s easier if you do it more often.”

Grian hums as Scar drags the brush lightly through his hair. It pulls some, and is a little painful, but Scar seems to be doing something to make it hurt less than when Grian does it, so it’s not even unpleasant.

They sit in a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of the brush, before Grian fees Scar’s hands in his hair again.

“Okay. We’re not going to do anything fancy here—you need to be able to do it by yourself, and you haven’t ever braided your hair before—which is a shame, because you would look uh-mayyyy-zing with those wonderful elven braids I used to have.”

Grian can feel him… parting? his hair. He thinks that’s correct. He does know the basics of how a braid works, at least.

“Okay. We’re gonna take three even strands of hair—just separate it all out, for the simplest braid—and layer them over each other. You’ve done this before, for rope. It’s just like that, only you do it more by feel than sight.”

Grian hums again.

“Here, you try.”

He reaches back and finds the strands of hair, then tries to clumsily weave them together. He doesn’t do well, but he’s not doing terribly, so there’s that.

“Yeah! Like that!” Scar says, and then, “But I wanna do a Dutch braid, which is a tiny bit more complicated, on you today. That way you can probably leave it in for a few days, if you’re careful with it.”

Well, okay. That’s fine. Scar’s hands in his hair have a calming effect, so Grian doesn’t even feel a little bit bad about nodding and settling back into the bed with his hands in front of him.

Scar keeps up a gentle narration as he unbraids the part of Grian’s hair they had braided together, and then as he separates Grian’s hair out again. Grian’s not listening at all, and, as Scar establishes a rhythm, he can’t keep his eyes from slipping shut, for a moment.

It’s nice. Scar’s hands in his hair are gentle and warm, and he’s pulling at it softly, at a steady rhythm, and gradually, Grian finds he isn’t at all worried about his long to-do list, or about thinking up any fun traps.

Scar’s voice gradually gets quieter as he goes on, but he never stops talking entirely. Not until, an indeterminate amount of time later, he ties a ribbon at the end of the braid he’s made and tells Grian he’s done.

Grian hums back sleepily, but he doesn’t make any move to get up. He does the opposite; now that his head doesn’t need to be accessible he can slump back against Scar’s chest, which makes Scar laugh.

“Yeah?” He says.

“Yeah,” Grian says back, and doesn’t feel even a little bit stressed as Scar gently moves his head to the side to settle into the bed himself and runs his fingers over the braid he just made.

“It suits you.”

“Mm?”

“Long hair. The braid. It suits you.”

“Oh,” Grian says, sleepily, and then turns over with his head in Scar’s lap, “Of course it does. You made it.”

[johanna-swann]

I'm sorry, I just can't stop wondering what the hell happened to 911. It was never highbrow art, but it was genuinely entertaining and enjoyable. And people keep saying it's been going down hill since season 4, but season 8 has hit an entirely new low. They're really limbo-dancing with the devil at this point.

I mean. I wasn't a big fan of the season 5 opening disaster or the ppd arc, the season sure had its ups and downs. But they also did something interesting with Eddie for once, I am always a Taylor Kelly stan first and a 911 fan second so I enjoyed having her there, the story around Jonah was maybe a little far fetched but still fun, we had May at dispatch wihch I LOVED, Michael and David were still around and the season finale was pretty decent.

Season 6 also had a relatively strong first half. Once again not a big fan of the opening disaster, but Hen's med school storyline was still going strong at first, we got that Henren begins episode, we learned more about Athena's family and childhood (including conflict between Bathena and Beatrice), Madney was house-hunting and then we had the lightning strike and its aftermath of course. So most of the protagonists had stuff going on that we hadn't seen x times before.

After that... well. There was no reason to push Buck back into dating so soon after he had just learnt that being himself and by himself could also be enough. For Eddie it sort of made sense at this point? But it still felt like he wasn't dating because it's what he wanted, he did it because it was expected of him. Madney getting engaged was somewhat predictable though I would've also loved it if they hadn't done that. Lots of families with children and a house are happy without the parents ever getting married. And the finale in season 6 was really bad. Very underwhelming, very rushed.

But at least 6b had an excuse? The show was about to be cancelled. At the time those scripts were being written they probably didn't know yet that there'd be a season 7. And then season 7 had even more excuses why it was, well. Like that. (Network change, multiple strikes, the showrunner changed, a drastically shortened season, etc.) I can forgive a lot under those circumstances.

Season 8 though? Season 8 had it all. They had their og showrunner back and he had already had time to find his bearings. They knew about the renewal very early this time, so they had a lot of time to prepare. There were no more huge strikes. They got a full length season again. The network wasn't new anymore. Despite season 7 being a bit of a clusterfuck, they did manage to set up a few storylines to explore further in season 8. Everything was lining up perfectly!

And then they completely dropped the ball. I already went into detail post-8x06 on a different post, I didn't even watch 8x07 in full because it sounded rather boring (and police brutality heavy). Then they gave us a mid-season finale that was centered around an irrelevant comic relief side character who most people found annoying or boring. On the side we had another Athena B plot that had nothing to do with the rest of the episode and didn't influence any of the main characters in any way. Eddie announced that he might consider moving to Texas which for now doesn't mean anything, nothing else of importance happened. And that was the mid-season finale! Like. Guys. The episode wasn't horrible, but for your "great fall finale"?

And Eddie STILL hasn't put even a little bit of work into processing his trauma around Shannon's death. He was told once by a stranger that he deserves nice things and that fixed him? He's ready to confront the conflict between him and Christopher now? Yeah, sure Jan.

Maddie is attacked in her home and gets abducted by a violent and dangerous criminal who has the intention to murder her? Wonder where I've seen that before. Oh right, it was on the same show and it happened to the same character. Cool. Glad to see I won't miss anything new when I don't watch 8b next year.

It's not even funny anymore and I sure hope they have a reason for this and they haven't just lost all their braincells over the summer hiatus. But we won't know if any of the conspiracy theories about impending cancellations or main cast members leaving are correct until sometime next spring.

[mx-anthony-janthony-crowley]

how it started // how it's going

[quinn-the-bicon]

Tiresias: I see your wife with a man who is haunting. A man with a trail of bodies.

Odysseus: WHO? WHO IS IT? I MUST FIND THEM AND KILL THEM! I MUST BECOME THE MONSTER WHO HAUNTS THEIR DREAMS AND KEEPS HER SAFE! I WILL DO ANYTHING TO GET TO MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE AND I WILL KILL ANYONE AND EVERYONE WHO GETS IN MY WAY UNTIL I CAN BE WITH HER FOREVER AND I DON'T CARE HOW MANY I HAVE TO KILL TO DO IT!

Tiresias: You really can't see it? Really?

[clown-bugs]

alastor and vox dancing, call that electroswing

[cod-dump]

Ghost, in a skeleton themed outfit: *just minding his business*

Random Shadow: Nice outfit, it come in men’s?

Ghost: I think you cum in men enough for all of us

Random Shadow: *stunned*

Soap: *cackling from across the room*

[izacore]

“This was the kiss he'd been waiting for. It was...

[aliciarose-art]

Cyno being really into the card game in Genshin gave me an idea-

[bambinafangirls]

klaus: let’s talk about your emotions

diego: stabbing

klaus: that’s not an emotion, an emotion is more of a feeling.

diego: well, maybe, i’m feeling stabby.

[em-allay]

“No- I’m giving YOU the golden apple!”

[waywardstoryenthusiast]

Was watching Fellowship of The Ring the other day, and I had a thought: Has anyone done art or a story of Boromir as the Winter Soldier? Cause I feel that would be a fun (heartbreaking) AU.

Either Aragorn or Faramir as Captain America.

I just really love the mental image of the reveal scene.

"Boromir?"

"Who the hell is Boromir?"

(Course, Boromir is the one with the round shield (in the movies) so he could be Cap. But then Faramir would likely be the Winter Soldier. Oof, that's worse.)