#i asked it my work could pay for it because i got it when i was working nceca

[summertimesadnessirl]

The next step in the comic is when this person intentionally picks a fight with you. No matter what you say. No matter how you say it. Even if you discussed this before. Even if you came up with like, an action plan. Even if you carefully selected someone who you thought you could trust. Someone who would never.

If someone talks to you when you're overstimulated you should literally go ahead and start the fight yourself (I've never tried that but it's the one thing I haven't tried) because there is nothing you can do to stop the fight from happening. It is impossible. You got caught not being happy in public so now you probably lose this person as a friend or a useful ally or a significant other or a trusted person or whatever they are forever, and if you don't you are going to be at their mercy and owe them apology and deference for the rest of your relationship and they will never trust you and always pick fights with you and know that as soon as they goad you enough you will lose even if you're right so they can do anything they want and get away with it because you can't fucking control the volume of your voice. You're a loser. You're a baby. You're a monster. You're committing assault. You are not free. This is a cage. These are the bars of your cage. Anyone can lock you in it at any time for free. You begin to claw at your skin again, but it won't come off. It won't come off and you are too aware of it. People aren't watching. Thank God people aren't watching. If someone catches you clawing at your skin they will throw you in a cell for 72 hours. No one will actually do anything in the cell, but the government will take your tax refund for almost 6 years to pay for the cell and you will miss so much work you almost get evicted. Your boyfriend will yell at you a week after he cried and went down on you when you got out because you can't tell him how to fix your depression and the "emergency plan" you filled out with the doctor said "I have no idea just leave me alone in a corner someplace with my headphones." It's never about you. It's never about you. You aren't even allowed to die because your life is not your own. You can leave this boy but there will always be another boy. It could be a girl instead. They could be your "boss" or "friend" or "business partner." If they catch you unhappy in public they will also be a cage. Anyone can always turn into a cage. You wish you were actually in a cage most of the time, so you consider committing a crime. You think you could probably surprise your cell mate in prison with something weird enough that they would beat you to death or you would get solitary. That sounds easy. You only have to worry about one person and they also got thrown into a cage. They have a way you can lock them up, too. You don't care unless they can beat you to death. Pen stabbed into the brain. You can't hang yourself. You can't explain why you can't hang yourself. You are afraid death won't take if you hang yourself. You will wake up, somehow. You need it to be permanent. You need it to be over. Then you hear that in prison, they can force you to work in a call center.

They don't cover that part. That everyone wants you to be the biggest bitch in the world because then you don't get to be a person. They see that you are stressed out. They aren't fucking stupid. They want to make it worse because they want to hurt you. You learn that no one who says they are your friend will not sell you out. Will not gaslight you. Will not trick you or trap you or force you. Other people keep telling you to stop being avoidant and ask for help.

[comicaurora]

Hey, firstly I just wanted to say I’ve been consuming your content for years and thank you and Blue for being the only thing that kept my academic brain from turning to mush during online COVID middle school!

But I’m entering a new academic era, notably Junior year of my very rigorous collage prep program at my high school. I’ve always thought I would go to collage after high school but I’ve recently stumbled into some very interesting ways of making a living only perusing my creative passions (some very scary publishing opportunities). So I’ve been wondering if I actually want to go to collage or not, since going to collage just to be a published writer is an objective waste of money and I don’t want to spend the rest of high school breaking my neck earning collage credits I’m not going to use.

So I was wondering, if you had known you could make a living only perusing your creative passions, would you have spent the time, money and academic energy going to collage for something you didn’t end up doing professionally?

(I would ask my advisor but he’s too obviously pro collage and doesn’t have any experience making a living creatively).

(Sorry for the long ask)

No problem about the long ask! This is a very good question!

I'll start with the short answer, which is that nobody can make this decision but you, and if you decide not to go to college right now, that does not mean you are deciding to never go to college. Especially with Covid, plenty of people are taking gap years, and plenty of full-on adults go to college later in life, simply because the mood strikes them, or they now have income to burn, or they're interested in a career change, etc. This is not a coinflip that will decide the trajectory of the rest of your life.

For the longer answer, for me personally? Knowing I'd be able to earn a living doing art would have no bearing on my decision to go to college. Setting aside that a ton of the literary analysis my job is based on is skills I learned in college, I liked college because it gave me the opportunity to learn a wide swath of things, from anthropology courses to dinosaur science. I like learning new things! College was an opportunity to learn a ton of new things, and even if it was very challenging in places, I thrived in it. I didn't go to college with the goal of becoming qualified for a Real Job - because of who I am as a person I think I'd seriously struggle at most Real Jobs, and I knew that even back then. I was in college to learn, and to learn how to learn. I got my degree in mathematics, a thing I do not use in my Job, but the functionality of mathematics - to logically reason through problems, step by step, comparing it to known problems to map the way to solutions using operations that preserve truth - is an invaluable skill that I apply everywhere there are problems to solve, especially literary analysis. I learned a wide swath of tools with surprising applications, and I couldn't have known when I started how I might use them in the end.

However, there's a big caveat there. This was my personal experience of college as a playground where I could work towards a solid major and also branch out to take weird one-off electives and summer courses when anything struck my fancy. But I was in on a scholarship to cover a good chunk of my tuition, and one of my relatives very kindly paid for the rest. I got to do college without accruing any college debt, and that is an enormous factor. I can only share my personal take, but I'm not going to pretend that things would have been the same if I'd had to enter adulthood finding a way to quickly pay off a six-figure sum.

I've been extremely lucky to get to the point where I can navigate life in a way where money is very rarely something I need to worry about. It was certainly not always like that, and I do not miss those times, but it invariably shapes the way I see the world and the steps I took to get here. For me personally, I do not consider college in any way a waste of time; I think the opportunity to learn is one of the most exciting things out there. But my experience cannot be pretended to be universal.

This decision is yours, and it is also not final. Whatever choice you make, you can always choose again later. You have time.

[cillians-sweetheart]

Hihihi could you please Write for Jim from tds?

Ofc he’s so daddy 😋

Maid For Pleasure - Jim TDS

Jim Murphy(38) x Cleaner!Reader(18)

Plot: Y/N becomes desperate for a job while in school and comes across a house cleaning gig that ends up suiting her, and her employers needs quite well.

Content: age-gap, smut, dubcon, pervy Jim, dirty talk (m), dominant Jim, slight degradation, spanking, adultery (m), cvm trapping, porno type plot

(Because we don't know Jim's last name in The Delinquent Season, we're just gonna say his last name is Murphy in this scenario.)

Being a broke, College student -freshly 18- I was in desperate need of a simple job I could do after school to be able to afford my basic needs. I would search every day at the part-time jobs listed in my area, but all required too many hours that I didn’t have. It wasn’t just my school hours it cut into, but studying hours I urgently needed to pass.

I was already doing well in school because most of my time was spent studying and spending extra hours in class unlike everyone else who had jobs to attend to. I had a choice, either get some money so I can feed myself, or be the greatest student in all my classes. That second choice was for sure tempting but probably not the right choice in the end. I’m not someone who’s overly comfortable with asking for money. I’d rather starve.

After several, continuous hours scrolling through the internet in my dorm room bed, my eyes catch a listing for a “Part-time house cleaning - paying $20/hour.” It was perfect. Easy, and well paying. I instantly clicked the link and read further. “Available during mornings and noon between 9:00am - 1:00pm.” I could easily go during my lunch break and free period around 11am. So I clicked apply.

It wasn’t until the next morning I had seen an email from Jim Murphy accepting my application. I was pleased to see I could start today at 10am. Quickly I got up and out of bed, got ready in a comfy, but cool outfit that I wouldn’t mind dirtying while slaving my way through this man’s house. I didn’t doll up fully, but made myself presentable enough to hopefully keep this job until I can find something more ideal.

I waited around my dorm until the time came for me to leave. When I did I was emailed an address on one of the middle class streets. Definitely someone who could afford a maid.

I pulled up to the house with my hair pulled back in a messy bun, my makeup light and my clothes tight but comfortable. After taking a few -several- deep breaths I got out and knocked on the front door. A slim man with a kind face opened the door to me and introduced himself as, “Jim.”

“Y/N.” I grinned in return to him. His eyes slowly gazed from up and down my face and figure. As if he wasn’t expecting his cleaner to be someone like me.

“Please come in Y/N. Apologies for the clutter. Children.” He chuckled, with an almost flirtatious grin.

“No worries,” I smiled. “This is my job.”

Jim went back to continue his work in the kitchen on his laptop, quickly typing and occasionally sipping tea for a mug. His dark brown glasses laid comfortably on the bridge of his small nose, and his legs slightly spread beneath the table.

I purposely cleaned every other room first before I made my way to the kitchen because if I’m being honest I didn’t expect I’d feel almost flustered around him. And because of that I avoided him to not embarrass myself. I knew he was married and I’d respect that, but I couldn’t help finding him handsome. He was and I couldn't control that. I’d manipulate myself into believing my attraction towards him was purely his fault to hide from the shame.

Finally the time came where I had absolutely nothing else to do in any other room in the house. Not even a speck of fuzz on the carpet. I kept my head down coming into the kitchen, reframing from any and all eye contact. I wiped the counters, vacuumed the floor, dusted and lastly scrubbed every surface from the floor to the cabinets.

I felt while on my knees scrubbing around the edges of the furniture, eyes on me. But each time I’d peer between my legs, Jims eyes were glued to his computer screen. I made out that I was probably just paranoid, and jittery with that need for affection.

But I wasn’t. Really every time I’d refocus myself to cleaning, Jim’s eye would glance from the screen to between my legs. In his mind, he imagined the feeling of my plump ass in his hands and the feeling of it rubbing against his lap. The thought alone made him painfully hard. His aching bulge pressed tightly against his jeans. And of course, my skin tight leggings fit perfectly around the shape of my pussy. The sight was so clear and perfect.

Being on my hands and knees scrubbing at the floor, Jim couldn’t look away as my hips, and ass moved in sync with the motion of my arm. Each scrub they jiggled and began providing an easier view as I bent my chest lower, and lower to the tile floor.

Jim grabbed at his bulge in his pants and had stopped worrying if I caught him staring. He was far too deep into the fantasy of ruining my little body to care. He swore under his breath and his hand tightened around his pulsing cock under his jeans. While I on the other hand hadn’t had a clue what was going on behind me.

Suddenly Jim stood from his chair and came up behind me. “I think you missed a spot… on the counter.” He stated with a tone I couldn’t identify.

“Sorry sir,” I quickly stood to my feet, still not looking him in the eye. “I’ll clean it.” I quickly, with my rag, walked to the granite countertop and began to scrub the surface. I could hear, and feel Jim slowly moving closer to me from behind.

“That’s good…” He purred, coming close behind me, his hips and boner rubbing against my butt. “Just like that.”

I froze. Jim’s hands laid onto my hips and his hard cock pressed against my pussy through my leggings.

“Don’t stop, just pretend I’m not here love” he leaned down with his hot breath on my neck. I continued to slowly stroke the counter with my damp rag. I felt panicked, and uneasy. But the feeling of him rubbing against my clit made me unbelievably wet.

“Mr Murphy…?” I whimpered, gripping the counter.

“Mhm?”

“What are you doing?” I asked with my voice shaky and unsure.

“You wouldn’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve touched such a young, beautiful body,” he whispered to me. “I need this. I need to touch you.” Completely avoiding my question.

My skin felt hot and my cheeks went red at his words. And suddenly his big rough hands tugged at my leggings, pulling them down my plump ass. I wanted to say something but all that came out was a muffled whine.

Jim quickly undid his belt from behind me. The sound made my whole body freeze in place.

“You want this baby?” His voice was low and lustful as he stroked his now bare cock against my clothed clit.

I squirmed in return to him, “mhm..” I moaned.

“Yeah?” His hand gripped firmly to my plushy hip. “Is that why you wanted this job? To be fucked like a little maid?”

I was speechless. By his sudden dominance and the power he held on me, and the way I’d do whatever he told me scared me.

Jim, with one easy movement, ripped my little pink panties down my legs. I felt the cool breezy on my wet bare skin, and then his hot tip brushing between my slits. From behind me I could hear him groan at the sight. “Such a pretty little pussy,” He squeezed my soft thighs and spread them to look closely at my needy hole. “Good girl…”

Without a warning Jim began to push his throbbing cock into me. The deeper he went, the more he groaned, “mm, oh you’re so tight…” His hips pressed against my butt.

I could feel his thick cock stretching my wet walls, and hitting deep in my cervix. I gripped the countertop and my eyes rolled up while he began to slowly thrust himself into me. “Oh that’s good…” He moaned and his speed, and force grew pleasurably hard. My little body being fucked senselessly against his countertop, legs shaking and moaning far too loudly for my liking. I tried to bite my lip holding my sounds back, but each time I did Jim would slap my ass forcing me to whimper and moan at his command.

The sweet sound of moans, and wet skin slapping filled the room. My pleasure made me almost scream as he forcefully beat me with his cock. And the way he’d slap my ass made my pussy drip and tighten around him.

“Fuck…” He squeezed my ass pounding me forcefully, “You feel so much better than my wife… god you're just so sexy.” He groaned with an assertive tone. “You like that? You want my cock?”

“Mhm” I moaned with my eyes rolling into my head. I felt so close with the force of him hitting every good spot. I squeezed against him trying to hold back, but the pulsing and wetness caught his attention.

“Cum for me.” He demanded and landed a hard slap on my ass. “Cum on my cock.”

With the way his voice sounded, my legs shook and my pussy fluttered and pulsed against his cock. My sweet fluids dripped down my leg and soaked his length. I moaned so loudly he finally held his hand over my mouth muffling my orgasm.

I stood there barely able to keep myself up while he finished beating my insides. I couldn’t stay quiet as I continuously came until he pulled out. And when he did he stroked his cock eagerly, his cum spitting all over my clit and aching hole. It was hot, and thick. And before I could do anything he yanked my panties up, trapping his hot cum on my pussy.

I felt sticky and sensitive, and Jim quickly lifted his pants. He grabbed me and pulled my back against his chest. “You’re such a good girl,” he purred. “I want you back here next week. And I’ll show you something that’ll need cleaning.”

I left his house and he paid me $200 cash. I felt like a prostitute in a way, but also real happy that I could finally take myself out to dinner and have something to look back to when I’d get into bed tonight.

[lsunstreakerl]

Kink Prompt! Tentacles please!

you are not the only person that asked for this, so here I present to you all: lowbrow tastes, shallow writing, recycled characters, zero depth, and a ficlet that is intended to solely feed my own lazy ego. because tentacle smut is the way to do that, clearly.

anyways- only 2.3k of this is actually smut, just a heads up. the other 2.6k is just because I realized how absolutely comical the potential here was, and kept writing. the back half of this is a complete crackfic.

I was actually intending to write this with daniel until I did some digging and realized every other tentacle max fic I could find has maxiel, so I'm switching it up here.

HELLLOOOOO: this is pretty explicit, obviously written for a kink prompt fill. here ye be warned, smut ahead.

pairings: charles leclerc/max verstappen

relevant heads up: here we go. monsterfucking, tentacles, extremely dubious consent (due to:) aphrodisiacs, biological bondage, kind of a breeding kink? one sided breeding kink, overstimulation, implied mind break

crack tags: they're in the fic technically but I'm absolutely not taking them seriously- mpreg (kind of), eggs (actually just the one), extremely short lived parenthood. because nature.

The cove is beautiful. Max likes to come out here on evenings, watch the sun set. He'd gotten a few weird looks when he said he was taking a vacation in Italy alone, but he's needed his own space- his first season of F1 had been insane, and he's finally old enough to travel on his own, away from Jos.

So now he's got a private rented villa, and he gets to spend his evenings on the beach. He settles on his back, uncaring as sand gets into his hair. The sand is still warm, and the temperature is perfect, the slightest breeze.

He feels himself getting sleepy, eyes drifting shut despite his best attempts, the tide lapping at his feet. He drifts for a little bit, half awake-half not, semi-aware of the tide rising to his knees, but he's not worried yet- that's about as high as it goes.

Something brushes against his foot- stray seaweed, maybe. He doesn't pay much attention to it, relaxed and warm.

It ghosts over his shin, half wrapping around his ankle, and Max frowns, starting to sit up so he can pull it off-

It tightens, and then Max screams as he's yanked, dragged into the sea faster than he can react.

He snaps his mouth shut- he didn't get enough air before he went down, he's going to die to a vengeful jellyfish, the ocean has decided it hates him.

He's still being moved, but now there's the seaweed texture around his arms, and then something is settling over his eyes, muscular and thick.

It completely blocks out his vision, and Max is panicking, trying to fight back- kicking his feet, squirming away- but nothing works, the things don't even budge.

His chest is starting to burn for air, and Max goes limp, trying to conserve energy, even though he's probably going to die down here to some fucked up kind of squid.

And then the water breaks over his head, and Max takes a desperate, gasping breath. He tries to kick his legs out, but there's something firm wrapped around them, winding up his thighs- he's being lifted into the air before he's suddenly on his back, smooth stone underneath him.

He can breathe but he can't see, renewing his struggle to get away from whatever it is. It's definitely not seaweed- too muscular and smooth.

A thick band is wrapping its way around his waist, and the sensation of it sliding across his skin makes Max shiver.

There's a hot breath by his cheek, and Max freezes- feels teeth lightly scrape against his neck.

"You weren't supposed to be out there."

The voice is mostly smooth, tinged with a slight amount of roughness, the hint of a French accent, and Max could swear it sounds familiar, but he can't pinpoint where.

He's afraid to move.

There's another soft scrape of teeth, this time over Max's cheek, and he can feel another band sliding across his chest, resting near his neck.

"Do you know how many others were watching you? You are lucky I was there, or this would be going much differently."

Max doesn't understand- he can't see, he doesn't know what's going on, and he's starting to freak out about how many things are moving on him, slimy and strong.

"But you smell so pretty, and you were all alone."

Max's breathing picks up, ragged and desperate as he starts struggling again, yanking at his arms and legs.

There's a deep rumble around him, and he realizes a second later it must be the thing. Another thick band wraps around his thighs, yanking them apart and holding them there as the one around his neck fully wraps around, and Max realizes he's in danger.

"They would have loved to have you, yes. You fight so pretty,"

The voice moves away from him, speaks up again somewhere near Max's stomach.

"And you'll be such a good carrier, give such a pretty brood, yes? They all wanted you, but I'm the only one who gets you- I know what you need."

Max doesn't respond, feels like he's trapped in one of those cautionary tales they tell children- 'don't go to the cove alone or the sea monster will get you' kind of thing.

There's a smaller tendril making its way up Max's chest, curling near his cheekbone.

"If you had just stayed inside, this would not have been a problem, Max."

It knows his name. Max feels ice in his veins, suddenly much more afraid than he'd been a moment ago. This isn't random, it's personal.

His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest. He finally opens his mouth to talk-

"Please, I do not have what you want-"

He's cut off by the thing on his cheek shoving its way into his mouth, and he panics, thrashing again as it swells, keeps his jaw locked open. He gags when it brushes the back of his throat, and he thinks his eyes might be wet, but he can't tell with the band covering them.

Max makes a strangled whimper around it, and then there's a hand- a human hand- running its fingers along his cheek, tracing around his lips.

"Easy, Max. Give it a bit of time, it will be alright."

Max is shaking like a leaf, and there's saliva building up in his throat- but when he swallows, it's immediately building up again, and he realizes with horror it's not from him, it's from the thing- and if Max doesn't want to choke he has to keep swallowing.

There's another deep rumble next to him, and Max feels humiliated, mouth stretched wide as he practically sucks at it. It's doing something to his head, getting his wires crossed.

The rumble gets louder, and Max realizes he's relaxing, even in the grip of the thing.

"See, this is not so bad. You like this."

Max tries to find the strength to struggle again, but he can't find it- the best he can do is helplessly squirm against the tendrils holding him down, and all that achieves is a heightened feeling of sensitivity across his body.

There's a sensation sliding across his waist, down between his legs, and Max knows what's going to happen next, head dropping back as he tries to twitch his hips away. It's futile- the tendril slips easily across his skin, slick and hot when it wraps around his cock, and Max moans around the obstruction in his mouth- it feels better than it should, shoots electric sensations through his skin.

The thing rumbles again, and the tendril in his mouth swells before there's a larger rush of liquid, and Max really does choke on it, thick as it coats his throat before pulling out of his mouth.

Max is panting, and the one around his cock is wet and hot as it smoothly glides up to wrap around his tip.

The tentacles pull his thighs further apart, and Max has a feeling he can guess what's next, caught between fear-want-scared-need-it, shivering in the things grip.

It rumbles again- Max thinks it sounds like a he, wishes he could pinpoint where he recognizes the voice from.

Teeth graze over his shoulder, sharp pinpricks against his skin.

"Feeling better now, yes? You were just nervous, it's okay. I will take good care of you- better than the others would."

The teeth dig a bit harder, a slight pressure against Max's skin.

"I'll bring you the best food, give you the best den, you'll brood so pretty for me and be done in time for the racing season, I promise."

Max isn't really paying attention, too caught up in the sensation of everything, the way he's pulled bare and exposed on the rock, the way he can't even see and he still wants it-

He's an embarrassment to the bloodline. He pushes his hips up anyways, needy and wanting.

There's tentacles wrapping up his waist and arms, a smaller one brushing across his chest, and it has suckers on it, latches tight to his nipples, and Max bucks up, overwhelmed at the feeling, the way they rhythmically contract and squeeze.

Everything feels like a live wire- he's never had sex that comes anything close to this. He's flushed, and he's starting to feel overheated, like things are too much and not enough all at once.

He wishes he could see.

Then again- a smaller tendril pushes past his cock, teases at his hole, and he thinks maybe he's better off not knowing.

He's still panting into the open air, and the tentacle is just toying with him, smearing something wet and sticky around his thighs, teasing at pushing into him before it goes back to circling around him.

Max can't help the whine, embarrassing as it is, and the thing rumbles again.

"You are always so impatient- give it a moment, yes? Do you need a distraction, are you that desperate to brood for me? Want your first clutch that bad?"

Max doesn't even know what he's saying, just knows that it's too much, that he needs something to change- the tentacles on his skin making him tremble, the one around his cock not moving fast enough, the smaller one teasing him- something has to give.

"Please,"

His voice comes out raspy, fucked out from the tentacle that had been down his throat. He doesn't even know what he's asking for, doesn't know what the thing was talking about, just knows that he wants.

He shouldn't. He's been kidnapped off a beach by a terrifying creature he didn't know existed, and it's about to fuck him, he should be scared, should be furious, but instead-

Max just wants the damn thing to get a move on. He wants, he can feel the need burning through his bones, mounting by the second.

He can start to feel a strange sensation where the smaller tentacle had been, an aching need that he's never felt before- like when he needs to stretch a muscle.

The suckers on his chest tighten unexpectedly, and Max feels his eyes roll back into his head at the sensation, the way he can feel them swelling up- he doesn't want to think about what they might look like right now.

There's a softer rumble near his ear.

"You're almost ready, I promise. Doing so well for me, pretty little brooder, going to be perfect, aren't you?"

The teeth are scraping across his neck, digging in deeper than before, and Max feels a slight sting as they break skin, and then there's a tongue lapping at the wound.

He moans, starting to really feel the need between his legs, and ache to be stretched, be filled.

"Just for me, you're so perfect- no one else could handle you, they wouldn't know how-"

Max's weird tentacle captor has a possessive streak. That's fine- as long as he gets something in him.

"I am- I want, I'm ready, please-"

There's another ghost of hot breath against his skin, and then he can feel something press between his legs.

It's huge.

Max flinches, tries to push back away, but his limbs won't respond, held down tightly by tentacles.

"It's okay, you're okay- it feels much scarier right now, but you are ready for it, I promise."

Max trembles, fear trying to override the rest of his brain. He's never had anything in his ass before, maybe a single exploratory finger, but certainly not- certainly not something like this, it won't possibly fit.

The creature sighs.

"You are lucky I like you so much- it takes a very specialized diet to make this, and I don't like eating it."

The tendril from before pushes past Max's lips, pressing halfway down his throat in a smooth slide as he gags around it, desperately trying to breathe through his nose.

He can feel it pulsing, pushing something down his throat, and the suckers on his chest work harder for a moment, and Max is lost to the feeling, eyes rolling back into his head.

He barely feels the thing between his legs prod at his hole again, just acknowledges a deep pressure, finally starting to relive the ache.

He's drooling around the tendril in his mouth, and it makes a wet squelching noise when it pushes a bit further.

The ache between his legs is settling, and when Max tries to weakly move a leg he finds he can't- there's a huge tentacle working its way inside of him, and he's never felt this full in his life- completely stretched open at both ends, completely at the whim of the thing that's taken him.

He makes a wet noise around the one in his mouth when the larger tentacle starts moving, and then he feels it- bulbs and ridges, pressing up against his prostate- Max screams as his cock kicks, orgasm pushing through him.

There's a satisfied sounding rumble, but nothing lets up- if anything it gets worse- the biggest tentacle is moving in and out of him, feels too big to possibly be real, remolding Max to be whatever the creature wants, dangling between its tentacles.

There's another burst of fluid down his throat, and then Max loses track of everything.

He's faintly aware at some point later- could be minutes, could be hours- that the thing is letting out soft sighs, clearly building up to its own climax, but it feels like it goes on forever-

More time passes. Max is fully suspended in the air now, completely at the mercy of the tentacles as they core him out, irreversibly change him. Nothing else could ever hit him this deep, could ever fill him so thoroughly.

He's half submerged in the water when the thing finally finishes, and then there's so much pressure-

------

Max has never felt this exhausted in his life. He's lying limp on something soft, and something is in his mouth, holding his teeth apart as careful fingers set a wet cube on his tongue. The tentacle leaves his mouth, and Max instinctively starts chewing- it's fish, raw and springy as he swallows. His eyes are half lidded, and he's not sure he could move if he tried.

There's a soft rumble next to him.

"Hi, Max."

Max tries to pull himself together- everything feels fragmented and hazy, and he doesn't even know where he is.

Charles Leclerc is sitting next to him, carefully deboning a fish with his nails.

Max is so confused.

"'rles?"

Charles reaches over and runs a hand gently through Max's hair. They're sitting in a cave, water lapping at stone nearby, and there's a few lanterns set up. Max is half in a pool of water, submerged from the waist down.

His chest and arms are resting on some soft blankets, and his head is supported by a solid pillow. His chest hurts- sore and swollen.

"Yes."

Charles easily slices down one of the fish, and there's no way that's just his nails- he must have a tiny blade in there.

Max tries to shift, but he's sore, his entire body twinging when he moves his leg. Charles looks over at him, eyes flicking rapidly across his body.

"You should not be moving- I will bring you everything you need, don't worry."

Max is not any less confused, trying to piece together what exactly had happened to him.

He'd been on vacation, been on the beach-

He freezes. He thinks his fingers might be shaking, the soreness starting to make sense. Tentacle thing. Creature. Person. Whatever.

In him.

Charles and his too sharp nails, Charles and his French accent, Charles here-

Max is trembling. Charles tilts his head before understanding dawns in his eyes, and then he's setting the fish down, carefully dicing another cube off.

"I will explain, in a minute."

His hand comes to Max's jaw, and it's practically autopilot when Max opens his mouth, lets Charles place the fish back on his tongue.

Charles is providing for him. Some part of Max feels good about that, deep in his chest- he's never had a feeling like this before.

Chew, swallow.

He looks back up at Charles, who winces, fiddling with a fishbone between his fingers.

"I would like to start by saying I am sorry- but also that I was doing you a favor."

Max's jaw drops, and he immediately snaps it back shut at the way it aches, which-

"I'm sorry?"

Charles cringes.

"If it was not me someone else would have grabbed you."

Max glares.

"Off of the private beach I was on?"

Charles blinks at him, and his pupils are weird- vertical slits, and it almost looks like a second eyelid sliding horizontally across his eyes.

"There is no such thing as a 'private beach', Max, those waters belong to us more than they do to you."

"and who, exactly, is us?"

Something lifts from the water next to Max, deep blue, smooth and thick, and he instinctively tries to jolt away- it moves faster than he does, pins him back in place.

"Seriously, you should not be moving."

"Would you quit doing that-"

Charles frowns.

"Will you stop trying to move?"

"No!"

Charles throws his hands up, exasperated.

"Well, obviously I am going to keep doing that then."

He huffs at Max, exactly as bitchy as he's been their entire lives. It's weirdly normal in the face of everything that's happened.

"I am a part of a distinguished Monacan bloodline, thank you very much. We hunt in the ocean."

Max makes a strangled noise.

"So you're going to eat me?"

He feels one of the tentacles around his ankle squeeze as Charles looks alarmed.

"No! No, I'm not going to eat you, god. That's archaic. We don't eat people anymore, have not for hundreds of years."

Max side eyes him.

"Right. You just kidnap them to creepy caves and fuck them. Makes sense."

Charles' shoulders slump slightly, and he almost looks guilty.

"Sorry, again. I had a rut. I was not expecting it, and I go to Italy because there is no chance of grabbing someone I know, but you were there-"

Max's eyes widen.

"You've done this to other people?"

There's a small tentacle that angrily slaps the water, sends small droplets flying everywhere.

"Ugh, you make it sound worse than it is. They don't remember anything. Also- it is a local legend, so there's usually monsterfuckers on the beaches at night anyways."

Charles slices off another piece of fish, and Max opens his mouth, dutifully chews and swallows. The whole-

This dynamic is fucking him up. He's confused.

"So why me, and not a monsterfucker?"

Charles is messing with the fishbone again.

"Well- you are you, Max. I could not let any of the others take you off that beach- I would have had to kill them. And then you would smell like them, and I'd have to fix that, so really the whole thing would've happened twice."

"It didn't have to happen at all!"

Charles glares.

"You went to a cove, on a monsterfucking coast, and now you are upset?"

"Obviously I did not know it was a monsterfucking beach!"

There's a heavy sigh, and then Charles is sliding into the water with him, and Max can feel the tentacles sliding across his skin, wrapping around his thighs and waist and chest. Charles settles... somewhere in the middle of the small pool. Max can't see through the water, it's too dark, but he knows there's more tentacles down there.

Max actually doesn't mind being suspended in the water- he doesn't have to do anything, just gets to rest. It's easy on his aching muscles and joints, even if he's realizing he's hungry again.

Somehow, Charles knows, and there's a whip-thin tentacle that wraps around the sliced fish, bringing it back to land in Charles' human hands as he cuts another cube.

"Mate, just let me have the rest of it."

Charles looks pleased, and then Max can hear him rumble, the same sound he'd heard as he was having the most insane fuck of his life.

"What the fuck are you happy for? Give me that."

Charles hands him the rest of the fish, and Max tears into it, lets it slide down his throat. It's weirdly soft- his teeth slice through it like butter, meeting no resistance.

Charles is still rumbling.

"I'm happy because you are hungry, Max, it is a good thing. It means the babies are growing."

What.

"What."

Max cannot possibly have heard that right.

Charles looks mildly confused. One of the tentacles around Max's thigh tightens for a moment before it's winding around his leg, thick and distracting.

"The clutch, Max. They are small, so you were providing fine for them before, but they're almost ready now, so you are needing more of their diet- fish, mostly. I've been giving you some sea stars as well."

Max is broken, he's pretty sure. There's no other explanation.

"Sorry- I think maybe I am misunderstanding? You said babies? In me?"

His voice goes high at the end, because- he may have dropped out of school, but he's pretty fucking confident he can't have kids.

Charles has that stupid rumble going again- he sounds like a tiny little engine.

"Yes Max, the clutch. Your clutch, really, you are doing all the hard work. Most of them have probably eaten each other by now though, so it is the strong ones left that are wanting more food."

Max opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a strangled squawking noise.

Babies. In him. His babies.

"They're eating each other?"

Charles looks fond, which is fucking ridiculous- Max must be having the weirdest dream of his life, it's the only possible explanation.

"Don't look so sad, that is just the way it is. You cannot possibly want to have all of them- that would be so many."

Max swallows. This is a dream. He's dreaming.

"How do I- Charles, I was not ready to be a father?"

"Brooder, technically."

"A parent."

Charles seems confused again before he snaps his fingers.

"Oh! No, they are not hybrids like me. I did not give you near enough material for that. They are just little things- maybe smarter than average. Stronger, because of you."

Max is confident his horror is showing on his face.

"Max, relax. It's alright."

The tentacles are moving against him, soothing motions down his sides and legs.

"You will probably only end up with one egg, and they are very independent- we'll find a good spot on the cove for it and then leave."

"Egg?"

"Max. I have tentacles- I'm not sure what else you thought it was going to be."

Dream, it's a dream, Max is dreaming. It's fine because it's not real, he's not going to lay an egg. An egg.

The rest of Charles' sentence catches up to him.

"Wait, we abandon it?"

Max is not ready to be a parent, but he's certainly not going to be a deadbeat.

Charles' tentacle snatches another fish as he starts deboning it for Max again.

"Well, yes. It is just nature, don't look so scandalized. I mean- I know I am too young to really be raising any kids, which means you are also, yes? It would be irresponsible."

"...but you fucked me anyways."

Charles shrugs, tossing the bones into a small pile.

"Like I said, I was in rut. Needed a brooder. It is fine as long as they aren't fully fertilized, obviously."

He pulls Max closer to him, tears a chunk of fish meat and pushes it between Max's lips.

"And you did a very good job. This is the most awake you have been in days, which is how I know it is almost time."

Max stops chewing. It's been curveball after curveball.

He swallows.

"Charles, how long have I been here?"

Charles rips off another chunk.

"About a week."

Max closed his eyes for a moment. He's not sure how exactly he can strangle Charles, but he's going to figure it out.

"A week? My family probably thinks I am dead-"

Charles waves off his concerns, presses the rest of the fish into his mouth. Max would be pissed at the blatant attempt to shut him up if he wasn't so hungry.

"It will be fine, Max. You can just say you had a journey of self discovery or whatever. We'll have a better plan next year."

Max is going to hyperventilate.

"What the fuck do you mean, next year?"

Charles tilts his head, blinking his eyes.

"I picked you, Max. You're my brooder- you smell like me, you've gone through some of the changes- it will get easier each year of course. You might get gills later down the line."

Max is feeling slightly faint.

"Also, your body remembers this, yes? This time next year it will remember it again. That's how it works."

"Changes?"

His voice is weak and thready. It's too much to process at once- can't possibly be real.

"Surely you noticed your teeth are a bit stronger- you have been ripping into the fish. This cycle was hard because it was your first, but- your body knows now, so it will start packing on the extra things you need over the year until it is this time again. You might have to work out harder, sorry."

A tentacle brushes across Max's chest and he jolts, sensitive.

"It will probably go to your chest. Not really anything noticeable- some extra muscle and fat. You will look like you just have impressive pecs."

Right. Eggs, teeth, gills, why not. Max has always wanted to be a fish person, it's a lifelong dream of his. Obviously.

His voice is still high when he speaks.

"Every year?"

Charles lets out another pleased rumble.

"Yes."

Max passes out.

------

He wakes up to a soft splashing noise, and it takes him a second to reorient himself, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. He's in Charles' cave, still half underwater, resting on a little shelf. He's curled around something protectively- he knows what it is even if he doesn't want to admit it.

Max swallows before looking down. There's an egg in his lap.

Where the fuck is Charles.

He looks around. He's not hungry anymore, just exhausted, aching and tired. Charles is missing, and Max remembers what he'd said about others- curls a bit tighter around the egg. He's not sure what kind of shit he's gotten involved in- has no idea if some other thing like Charles might try to come into the cave.

Apparently they can smell him. He pets two of his fingers soothingly over the top of the egg, presses further back into the corner of his little pool.

There's something flashing underwater, little rectangular squares of light getting closer, and Max curls tighter around the egg, top lip curling. There's not a whole lot he could do against one of- whatever Charles is- but he won't make it easy.

A head pops out of the water and Max immediately chucks a fishbone at it, perfect athlete precision- nails the intruder directly in the forehead.

"Ow- Merde, what the fuck-"

"Where the hell were you?"

Max feels his heart rate start to slow now that he knows it's Charles. Still-

Charles holds up his hands apologetically.

"Sorry- sorry, really. I was looking for a good spot for the egg, I didn't think you were going to wake up yet."

Max looks down at the egg. It doesn't look special, but- it's technically his.

"Did you find one?"

Charles nods, drifts closer to Max.

"I did, yes. It's ready, and so are you- I went ahead and extended your stay at the villa, so all of your things are still waiting for you."

"So, what- I just go back to normal, pretend this didn't happen?"

Charles winces.

"You'll forget about it. Until next year, anyways."

"What."

Charles makes a face, all scrunched up and annoyed.

"Yes, and I'm realizing now I am going to have to put up with you getting offended all over again for a few years until you start naturally remembering it. Eventually you'll have enough chemical changes to your brain that the reaction to make you forget won't work anymore. That is what Lolo said, when I asked."

Max is going to kill him. He can't do it in the water, but- the next time they are on a track, he's going to run Charles off the road.

------

"Deep breath."

Max breathes in as deep as he can, fills his lungs before Charles plunges them both back underwater, swimming to a peaceful spot on the ocean floor. There's a small nook inside some coral, and that's where Max carefully sets the egg, adjusting it gently.

He stares at it for a moment. He's never going to be able to eat eggs again.

His lungs are starting to hurt, and Charles gently taps him on the chest before he's swimming them back to the surface, laying Max out on the beach.

Max takes a few heaving breaths, tries to get his thoughts in order. Charles watches him from the ocean, head poking out of the water.

"Bye Max!"

Max flips him off as he staggers to his feet, making his way back into the villa.

------

Max wakes up sore as fuck, stretched out in the villa bed. His head hurts, and he's thirsty. He twists his head to the side to get up, and there's a sticky note directly in front of him, his own scratchy handwriting-

NO MORE EGGS

YOU HATE CHARLES

[lesmiix]

Can I ask for hyun-ju with a rich girlfriend like her girlfriend is slightly outta touch due to the insane amount of money she has

One Shot: Dirty Cash

Hyun-ju x Fem!reader.

Summary: You work at a very famous modeling agency around the world, which pays you a huge amount of money and you have a very high status. Hyun-ju still doesn't understand how you two are girlfriends.

Warnings: None

a/n: Sorry for taking so long to make this!!!😭 I've been quite busy, but hope you guys like it!!! English's not my first language so there may be some grammatical or spelling errors.

💗HYUN-JU REQUESTS ARE OPEN💗

You've been sleeping terribly these past few nights, waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to get back to sleep. You'd spend all night awake, reading a book, waiting for sleep to come over you.

Today, you had a terrible day, you were at work and your co-worker asked you to go out for dinner; ofc, you didn't want to, besides,, you already planned with Hyun Ju that you would go to dinner together, so you told him that you were busy. He started insisting, trying to convince you to go with him.

"Damn, come on, I can take you to dinner at places a thousand times more expensive than that girlfriend of yours can!"

You started to get on your nerves, you really hated the way some people looked down on your girlfriend because of her financial status.

"Hey David, listen, my girl does everything she can for me, alright? And she treats me way better than you could ever treat a woman, so fuck off." You replied as you walked towards your office desk, picking up some folders and your laptop.

"And I'm more than happy with paying for whatever my girlfriend wants." You said while taking your bag and leaving your office.

So now you were in bed, with your girlfriend beside you, sleeping peacefully after an amazing date. You got up, trying not to wake her up. You walked towards the kitchen, mind too blurry to think about what happended at work.

You came across the mirror in the hallway and you looked at yourself for a few seconds, noticing some hickeys on your neck. A giggle left your lips, remembering what happened just a couple of hours ago. Oh, that woman drove you crazy.

When you got to the kitchen, you grabbed a glass of water and took a sip, feeling the liquid go down your throat. You noticed a bill of about 50$ on the counter, you forgot you had to give them to David, as he bought you a luminous crystal ball for Vaneltine's day. A soft sigh left your lips, remembering that you had to see your co-woerker again tomorrow.

"What was that sigh for?" You slightly choked from fright. Damn military habits. Your girlfriend chuckled a bit while wrapping her strong arms around you. She was wearing some light grey sweatpants and a black bra, which made you slighly blush.

"It's nothing, don't worry." You muttered while leaving a peak on her lips. "Go back to sleep, my love, you have to go to work tomorrow."

"Is it about David again?" She asked, knowing all the times he asked you out.

You sighed again, frustrated at remembering David's attitudes towards you.

"Yeah, he's just... annoying, I don't know what else to do to make him give up." You groaned, hoping that your answer from before has put him in his place.

"Sweetheart, don't you think you'd be better with him?" She asked, burying her face in your neck.

"What do you mean?" You asked, slowly caressing her hair.

"Is just, I think you'd be happier with him. He could give you anything you wanted, he could give you really expensive gifts and take you out for dinner to fancy restaurants. I can't give you any of that and it's not fair that you're always the one paying for all my bills and surgeries." She answered, softly pulling away from you. "I feel like I'm taking advantage of you".

You looked at her in a slight shock. You? Be better with anyone but her? Please.

"Are you kidding? Do you really think I'd rather be with that idiot than be with you? I pay you for the surgeries because I want to, I want to see you happy, to be yourself. I don't care if you can't give me expensive gifts, I'm delighted to have you by my side, and that's enough for me, okay? I want you."

"But-"

"Haven't I already shown you a few hours ago how much I want you? Or do you need me to remind you again?" You teased, playing with the hem of her sweatpants. "Let's show David how much my girl cares about me." You said, folding the 50$ that were on the counter and putting it between her breasts.

"Idiot" She murmured as she followed you to your bedroom.

[lynnie-s3all]

any forsaken killers and maybe chance with a reader thats like ignored perchance

Alright. I'm not gonna do Jason for obvious reasons. I kinda disliked him. So...

I'll try my best to make the most of the headcanons since I'm very much a lazy person to do all the requests. Like... i got eyebags on me.

Forsaken killers + Chance x reader who gets ignored most of the time.

Despite c00lkid trying to almost killing everyone in the whole team, he stumbled towards you who got left out most of the time, even your teammate's wouldn't want to work with you, especially with fixing the generators, and also never gives you a bloxy cola to outrun him.

Well... he accidentally does the walkspeed override so he can kill you instantly, but you dodged right away and he slammed himself right on the wall.

You were scared to even talk with him, even though he's just a small child who doesn't want any harm at you. He slowly approach you and asked why you weren't with the others.

"oh, sorry for that! I'm just wandering why aren't you with the others to play? Are you sad because they don't wanna play with you?"

you just stood there. And then you replied back to him.

"They don't really give me any attention towards me..."

He thought about an idea to try and help you, and he did. So he gave you one of his sword.

"Take revenge, you can join me play tag, I'll spare you this time."

Oh...

You grabbed his sword on his hand and and took your hand to go and swing at them to attack

Well your teammates... weren't happy when they looked at you trying to kill one of them.

He helped you through the whole run so... you just killed all of them.

A revenge. Yeah.

John Doe... Well it's not really special until he decided to do corrupt energy to trap everyone is seperate ways.

Uh..

He's... almost about to attack you by the way and you kinda just there at the corner terrified.

I know he doesn't have any remose on trying to kill a lot of the survivors and he just felt really bad when you're panicking so much because he trapped you in basically

Since he has the corruption on his own body, he couldn't get near you or you'll get hurt by it.

Well... Not so lucky enough that the whole part of your body gets even more corrupted and took control over you.

There's nothing you could do right...?

Thinking about it though... He thought about why you were just not helping the others. Well you, being helpless. You really couldn't do anything.

"It's okay. We'll teach them how it feels like to feel betrayed after leaving you like this. MAKE THEM PAY!!!"

Same thing. I'm not going to finish how you two killed all of the survivors.

Well king of hatred himself. He knows what betrayal means to him. And he will seek revenge to the one who caused him like this.

He saw you first and purposely attack you until almost getting very low on health.

Well, did he witness someone shooting and stunning him? Nope. They ignored him. And when he did analyze you, it made him felt... remose? guilty? But he was supposed to be filled with hatred, not sympathy.

Well, you took it up the notch and just tell him to kill you.

the truth is, he doesn't want you to die. Thinking about you being his allies to join him to take over and kill everyone, it would be perfect for him.

And so, he tries to say something.

"I don't think they really understand how much they made you to suffer like this. My apologies for hurting you. But I should handle it myself. I'm not going to kill you anyway. I know how it feels to be that way."

Oh yea i can't do chance in this one cuz the images i have are full.

[multiheadcanons]

THE MERCS ACTUALLY WOULD WISH THAT ON THEIR WORST ENEMY

aka: request— the mercs receive an invitiation to their enemy’s funeral

scout: he wakes up one day and checks the mail. didn’t know why he thought to do that today, but it was a good thing. somethings in there for him. from his cousin, no less. weird. he opens it, and sees card stock saying “gather in remembrance for Matthew Hunter Crowsman” matthew…. matthew. that son of a bitch is dead? he is off to a phone. to any phone. begging snipes to take him to the payphone. uses the “i gotta call my ma” excuse because it always works on snipes. when he gets to a phone and makes the call, the second he hears that muffled “hello?” of his cousin through the static he is cackling. “who got the bastard? who ordered the hit??” “oh, you finally get that card i sent ya, jerry?” “received it, read it, laughed. who ordered the hit?” “ma got sick of his shit, man. asked me about a month back, at this point. they found him a couple weeks ago. construction dug the body up.” “you need to dig deeper graves. hey, i know a lady down here, she’s damn good at disposal—” he doesn’t end up going, but he’ll send flowers for the next of kin. matthew hunter crowsman has lived rent free in jeremy willis’ mind since the fourth grade when he killed the goldfish his dad got him at show and tell. it was the only thing he had of the man. well now the fuckers dead. dead by his family’s hands. and he didn’t even have to do it. it’s nice to have a big family sometimes.

soldier: soldier had one woman who could be considered his nemesis, and he found out she died through the obituaries. it was this crotchety old bitch he ran into at the grocery store. she took his favorite box of cereal, the last box of his favorite box of cereal in the only store in town, directly out of his cart. he was not invited to the wake and showed up anyway. looking nice and societally acceptable in his military blues, most family of the deceased asked his relation to the woman. he said he was an enemy. and he’s happy she’s dead. they end up getting him up there for the eulogy. he looks very nice behind a podium, even if he is ranting about a dead woman’s sticky fingers.

pyro: pyro doesn’t have enemies, they don’t know enough people to genuinely not like anyone. but pyro does love a funeral. just shows up to funerals to watch people cry. it’s like a touching film for them. the display of grief born from so much love, so much love never to be seen or felt again… it brings a tear to their eyes. but when that nasty french cigarette addict dies they’re gonna be front row to slam dunk the body into a two foot hole. it’ll be a party for pyro at spy’s funeral.

demo: demo also doesn’t have many enemies. and the enemies he does have at this point are in different continents. and he’s pretty sure they don’t think about him as much as he thinks about them. but he does keep an eye on the obituaries in case he needs to update his shit list and remove those who he outlived. he won those, by the way. those are considered wins in his book. if he outlives you he wins. he’ll send flowers to the next of kin of the first ten on the list. superiority rule and all.

heavy: heavy doesn’t need to go to the funeral! he’s there when they die! he has not had a mortal nemesis he didn’t kill with his bare hands. it’s somewhat sad, as he ponders that more, but it’s the way his life turned out. and he’s okay with that much. he knows some people wish they could say that one day, if at all. he’ll pay a moment’s worth of respect. then he’s moving on. might even be in a bit of a better mood on the outside! it’s a good day when enemies die. it’s one less worry off his plate. he even moves lighter. quicker on his feet. yes, it’s always a good day when an enemy dies.

engineer: engie wants to state for the record that he was a kid. and what happened that day was legally ruled an accident. but engie was never a big kid. he was on the chubby side, but he was never big enough to really hold his own against anyone who would find themselves in the position of being a bully against a conagher kid. and engie’s always had issues with keeping his hands to himself. it took a lot of work to not grow up to be that man. but there was this one kid. james. he wouldn’t leave him alone, and always managed to catch him alone, or off guard. and one day, he just got sick of it. nobody was looking at what was going on on the road. dell just shoved him. he didn’t see the car. the kid died from his injuries a couple days later. and he did go to the funeral. he genuinely didn’t mean to do it. he liked the feeling of satisfaction he got when they told him he was dead though. that made him feel real good. so now he just makes sure the body can’t be found. easier that way for everyone involved.

medic: the doctor had an academic rival. insanely intelligent, incredibly ugly, and much nicer than the doctor. everyone loved this guy. loved him a lot more than they liked herbert. but this guy was a fraud. nobody’s able to prove it, even to this day, that the man is a fraud. there are no controversies, no conflicting scientific research, the man’s got a squeaky clean record; but medic knows in his heart of hearts and his soul of souls that the dude was and still is a fraud and a liar. it wasn’t like the guy was doing groundbreaking research here, either. who cares about cancer treatment? but he was so beloved. so the joy, the cathartic sigh of satisfaction he let out the day he read the obituaries and saw he died from a hit and run… he thanked whatever god was there. and he did go to the funeral. told the team they were going to be down a doctor and dipped. he arrived drunk in his best black. sat in the back and smoked a cigarette. didn’t make a noise. just watched all of these people mourn him. then spit on his grave as they carried it towards his resting place and left. he claims it was the happiest day of his life.

sniper: sniper doesn’t have enemies like that. nor would he go if that was something offered to him. you probably would’ve already lost him at the mere mention of the name. if you insist on telling him someone he doesn’t like is dead, he’s going to respond “oh. that’s... okay then—” and then he will exit the conversation. might chuckle to himself when he’s alone, maybe even shake his head, but after that he’s done. back to business. he does not think about the people he doesn’t like. that’s a waste of mental effort.

spy: spy does a weekly check of the obituaries just in case he sees a name he may recognize. sometimes he does; but he remembers he’s reading the obituaries. and he continues.

[suddencolds]

duffel bag, packed light (yves/vincent AU fic)

Hello! Happy (definitely-not-late) Valentines day. <3 I hesitated on posting this because it's a little disjointed, but I think I need to kick it out of my drafts (go! leave!) before it gets stuck in there forever.

My kind anonymous prompter dropped some of the most fire prompts known to mankind in their submission 😭🙏 These are the two which I went with:

Write an AU oneshot that is completely different from the current Yvescent setting using a combination of 3 or more of the following emojis: 🏝️🎒🛳️🗓️📓🌧️🍱🌠🎬 + hear me out what if we got um spicy kink!Yves or kink!Vincent au 👀 and flowers or an irritant of your choosing

This whole fic is AU!Yves + AU!Vincent w/ the kink, in which they are not coworkers, but instead meet as strangers on a cruise, and Yves turns out to be allergic to something unexpected 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️. I should apologize for the long exposition; the first half of this reads more like a character study. If you don't care about how they meet, you can scroll down to the section labeled "Firsts"!

—

The stranger breaks the silence first.

“It’s a nice view,” he says.

They’re on one of the rooftop floors. It’s surprisingly crowded out here—apparently Vincent’s idea to take an evening walk was far from original. Vincent looks out at the unending expanse of water before them, the sky dark, the cruise deck high enough that the waves below them are almost too small to make out.

“It is,” Vincent agrees.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the ocean plenty,” the stranger says, leaning out onto the railing. The wind picks up on the strands of his light brown hair. “Assuming you’re a cruise person.”

Vincent contemplates going with the assumption. He is not obligated to tell the truth, of course—that he is terribly out of place here; that, if he’s being honest, it is a little strange and embarrassing to be here alone.

“I am not a cruise person,” Vincent says. “I won the tickets through a work raffle.”

“A work raffle?” The stranger turns to him, perking up.

Vincent nods.

“You’re kidding me,” the stranger says, suddenly animated. “You should’ve bought a lottery ticket right after, with that kind of luck.”

“I think I’ve used up all my luck reserves,” Vincent says. “Out of everyone who could have won, I may be the least suited to be doing this.”

“What does that mean? That you don’t like cruises?” When Vincent shakes his head, the stranger stills, contemplative. “Do you get seasick or something?”

“I am not the kind of person who would pay for a cruise.”

“Huh. Well, I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t have to pay for this one.” 

Vincent supposes that is true. His coworkers had been happy for him when the announcement had come out—are you serious? I’m so jealous! And you’re going to love it! And Take lots of pictures! We’ll definitely be grilling you for them when you get back!—he thinks he probably ought to be happy, too, considering how expensive this kind of thing would be normally, considering how statistically unlikely it had been for him to win.

Instead, he’d felt a sort of blankness, bewilderment veering on apathy—but it would be ungrateful to turn this kind of thing down, or to sell it off to someone else, wouldn’t it? In the end, he’d nodded a little stiffly at them, and smiled, and promised them their pictures.

“And what about you?” Briefly, Vincent entertains the possibility that this stranger is someone who takes ten cruises a year—the exact opposite kind of person that Vincent is, the kind of person who likes being hundred of miles out from the nearest coast, who likes the extravagance of the room service and the on-deck waterslides and the quaint high class diners, who likes talking to strangers. “Is this your hundredth cruise?”

The stranger laughs. “It’s actually my second. I was planning to go with someone. We bought two tickets way back—not company-sponsored, by the way, though I wish they were.”

“Did they decide to call it a night early?” Vincent asks.

The stranger laughs—a short, curt laugh. Vincent cannot tell if it’s genuine. “She’s actually not here. She couldn’t make it.”

It seems strange, to Vincent, that someone might miss something as expensive as a cruise. “Something else came up?”

“To be frank, I was in a relationship with her up until two weeks ago,” the stranger says. Then he laughs again, a little self-deprecatingly. “Sorry, that’s probably too much information.”

“Oh,” Vincent says. “I’m sorry about the breakup.”

The stranger waves a hand. “It’s fine. She left me the tickets, which wasn’t cool, but I found someone to resell hers to, even though it was sort of last minute. Facebook marketplace is the maker of miracles. The guy who bought it is somewhere on this ship, though I don’t think I could point him out to you.” 

“Are you alright?”

The stranger blinks at him. He looks a little caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“With the breakup,” Vincent clarifies. “Two weeks ago is still recent. Are you alright?”

The stranger is quiet for a moment. “That’s very considerate of you to ask,” he says, at last.

Vincent looks away from him. “That’s not an answer.”

The stars are starting to come out. The ocean stretches out, wide and dark, beyond them. The stranger says, after a moment: “With a view like this, who wouldn’t be?”

He reaches up a hand to swipe at his eyes. His sleeve doesn’t linger for very long. If Vincent weren’t looking, he might mistake the motion for something casual, something unassuming.

The stranger squeezes his eyes shut, and takes in a breath. The exhale that follows is carefully, meticulously even. 

Vincent doesn’t know what it is that prompts him to open his mouth. It’s a stupid, impulsive decision, directed towards someone to which he has no allegiance. It’s entirely unlike him.

And yet.

“My cabin number’s 3-75-F.” he says, before he can think better of himself. “If you need company, or if you want to talk about how your ex was the worst person on earth, we can get dinner, or just take a walk. If you don’t, I won’t take it personally.”

He turns, starts off in the direction of the deck entrance—this is preferable, he thinks, to sticking around to hear the stranger’s response. Judging by the size of the cruise ship, there are probably two thousand people on board. Vincent tells himself that it’s statistically unlikely he will run into this particular stranger again, which means his offer doesn’t have to mean anything at all.

“Wait,” the stranger says, falling into step with him.

Vincent turns.

“That actually sounds really nice. I’m glad you offered. Dinner, tomorrow at 6?” The stranger extends a hand. When Vincent looks up, he is surprised to find that he’s smiling. “I’m Yves.”

Vincent takes it. “Vincent.” he tries to keep his surprise out of his voice. “I’ll be free.”   

Yves says: “Great! I hear there’s a restaurant on the third floor which people really like. Do you like seafood?”

“Seafood’s great.”

Yves grins. “I’ll make the reservation tonight. Goodnight, Vincent.”

“Goodnight,” Vincent says, before he can second guess himself into taking it back. He has the distinct sense that he’s just gotten himself into something he’s fundamentally ill-equipped to handle.

—

In truth, the first time Yves meets Vincent is not the first time they meet. Vincent meets Yves for the first time when he’s in line to board. This, like their second meeting, is a coincidence.

— 

Before.

The stranger is smiling.

The girl he’s talking is interested in him. That’s the first thing Vincent notices. It’s not a secret—it’s evident in the way she cranes her entire body towards the stranger as he speaks. Evident in the way she laughs, her shoulders shaking, after he tells her something Vincent can’t quite decipher; evident in the way her eyes snap to his hands as he gesticulates.

Briefly, Vincent wonders how they know each other. A couple? But the more Vincent watches, the more he realizes that that doesn’t make sense. His body language is so deceptively open, as if to dismantle any line upheld between the two of them, but he is careful not to touch her. Likewise, she doesn’t reach for him, even though—from the way her gaze lingers on his arm, too long, loaded—Vincent thinks she probably wants to.

Long-time friends, then? Whatever the stranger is saying is too novel, and the girl is nodding vigorously at him, now, and Vincent can see that she’s trying to make a good impression. Have they just met tonight, then? The girl rummages through her purse for her phone, pauses briefly to type something out. Holds the screen up so he can see it.

The stranger leans in, his face intimately close to her, to peer down at it, too. There is something so confoundingly thoughtless about the gesture. It is almost as though there is a gap in how long they have known each other—as if she is, to him, already a longtime friend. There is no nervousness to the way he regards her, no pointed self-consciousness.

It’s a little interesting, Vincent thinks. He wonders, briefly, if the stranger knows that she likes him.

What strikes him about the arrangement is how open he is. It’s peculiar. It is as if they are not strangers at all. He holds the conversation seamlessly, with such warmth that Vincent marvels at it, as easily as if he has known her for years.

—

Dinner.

It’s around 5:41 when Vincent hears the knock on his cabin door.

The cruise room is more comfortable than he’d expected it to be. The ship is large enough that it feels oddly stationary, and the room—despite its relatively low ceilings and narrow walkways—has an excellent view of the ocean when he pulls back the curtain—the unmoving blue line of it, the inky sky above it, the clouds low on the horizon. 

Vincent, who had been half expecting Yves to not show up at all, puts his book down on the nightstand and heads towards the door.

When he opens it, Yves is dressed in a button-down collared shirt and slacks. He looks boyishly handsome, Vincent thinks—kind of like he could be a movie star, probably someone who would play a childhood-friend-turned-lover. 

“You’re early,” Vincent says. 

Yves checks his watch. “I guess I am. Did I catch you unprepared?”

“No, I’m ready,” Vincent says, nodding towards the hallway. “Lead the way.”

The living quarters on the cruise are ordered in neat rows. They head down a long hallway toward the central elevators. Yves talks about his morning—about how he’d spent his time perusing the second floor shops, how he’d played one game at a casino, won twenty dollars, and now he’s determined to never go back. (“I need to keep the net positive,” he says, “statistically unlikely as it is.” “You’re already doing better than everyone else in the casino,” Vincent says.)

The elevator ride is short. The cruise technically has fifteen floors—more if you count the partial floors at the top: the rooftop bar, the rooftop garden and grill.

“I can’t wait till we get to shore,” Yves says. “Not that the cruise isn’t nice, and all, but whenever I take a walk on deck, it never really feels like I’m stretching my legs.”

It’s Thursday evening. They’ll dock early tomorrow morning at the Amber Cove cruise island, spend a few hours there out on the beach, and then head back onto the cruise for their next stop. Vincent has packed swim trunks, sunglasses, a couple bottles of sunscreen, but the idea of going to the beach on his own feels distinctly out of character. He’s never been the kind of person to seek out experiences like this—sunny and indulgent—on his own, without someone else to pull him into them.

He supposes this isn’t really an exception. The company tickets which landed him on this ship in the first place were the catalyst to everything.

“You haven’t eaten here before,” Yves asks, as they round the corner to the door of the restaurant, “have you?”

“No,” Vincent says. “I’ve only been to the diner on the second floor.”

Yves smiles back at him. “That’s good. I don’t have to cancel my reservation, then.” “I wouldn’t have made you cancel it anyway.”

“You seem too polite to do that sort of thing,” Yves says, with a laugh. “There are too many things to do on deck for me to be dragging you to the same few places.”

Yves relays his reservation name and time to the waiter, who shows them to a table by the window. The restaurant is dimly lit—the majority of the light is coming from a single candle that sits in front of them, next to a vase of tastefully arranged flowers.

“This place is very romantic,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “I guess it is. Does that bother you?”

Vincent thinks that he can easily imagine another version of this evening—a dinner in which the seat across from Yves is occupied by his ex. An evening where they talk and laugh over a shared bottle of wine and eat the best seafood on the ship.

“I can see why you would have wanted to come here with her,” Vincent says. “I’m sure you had a lot to look forward to. I’m sorry.”

Yves glances back at him, his expression unreadable. Then he looks down. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says. “You didn’t have any part in it.”

“In your decision?” “In hers.” He shakes his head with a laugh that doesn’t quite show in his eyes.  “It wasn’t mine to decide. She rekindled an old relationship at a bar. It was with this guy who went to the same college as the both of us, though I didn’t know him that well.”

He unfolds his cloth napkin and positions it gingerly on his lap. “I didn’t even know that they were friends, or that she would be meeting up with him. We were still together when it all happened, and then suddenly we weren’t.”

“That must have been painful for you,” Vincent says.

“I probably should’ve known better,” Yves says, tilting his head up to the ceiling. He smiles, a little self-deprecating.“I think there were probably signs that I missed. It’s the sort of thing you dwell on, you know. If everything really came out of left field, or if she’s already been falling out of love for a long time. This is depressing, but I keep thinking about—well, if maybe I could’ve done something to fix things if I’d realized it sooner.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Vincent says. 

Yves blinks at him. “What?”

Vincent looks down—at the flowers between them, arranged artfully in a shallow glass vase. “You shouldn’t have had to do anything. You shouldn’t have had to speculate at all.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying this. It is none of his business, he knows, and besides, it’s not as though Yves has asked for his opinion. He finds himself thinking, abruptly, to Yves’s conversation with the girl in line, a couple spots ahead of him—the girl smiling, leaning close; Yves somehow reflecting back her interest with warmth.

It is part of the reason why Vincent is here, right now, if he’s honest with himself. Vincent understands exactly why people would be drawn to that particular sort of warmth. It’s the sort of warmth he doesn’t know how to cultivate, probably wouldn’t be able to cultivate, even if he tried. It is evident even now, in the way Yves seems to so readily offer his ex the benefit of the doubt, in the way his warmth extends towards her still.

“If she was having second thoughts, then she should’ve said something. You shouldn’t have been expected to read her mind,” Vincent says. Perhaps being so honest is overkill, but even if no one else in Yves’s life will say it, Vincent finds he has no such reservations. “At the very least, she should’ve ended things with you before looking for other options. Frankly, your ex sounds like a terrible person.”

Yves blinks at him, a little taken aback. “I’m sure I’m giving you a very biased impression of her. She’s a pretty reasonable person.” 

“Reasonable people can do bad things,” Vincent says, crossing his arms. On some level, he understands—of course Yves, with his proximity to the problem, would not see it this way. “Your ex hooked up with someone behind your back. I find it hard to believe that someone who had your best interests in mind would do that.”

Yves seems to consider this.

“I don’t think I’ll be in the business of forgiveness anytime soon,” he says, as if he is choosing his words carefully. “You’re right to say that what she did was pretty terrible.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “But?”

Yves is quiet, for a moment.

“I think it would be easier,” he says, at last, with a small smile. “If I thought about her that way.”

It’s a confession that Vincent has already figured out. “You still think highly of her. It makes sense.”

“She was my best friend for three years.” he shakes his head, smiling. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. When I thought about a future with her, everything seemed so intuitive. Like all the problems that could come up would be things we’d already know how to work through.”

The waiter stops by their table to ask them for their choice in refreshments. Yves greets him with a polite smile—one that Vincent finds no holes in—and asks for one of the drinks on the cocktail menu. Vincent picks something at random, to match.

“Sorry,” Yves says, after the waiter leaves. “I didn’t mean to get into such a depressing tangent. We don’t have to talk about my ex. I’ll give you time to actually look over the menu.”

Vincent says, “You don’t have to apologize. I won’t take long.” He opens the menu—it is nice, he thinks, that all the food and drink is included in the cruise fare which he didn’t have to pay for—makes a mental list of all the items which look interesting, and stack ranks them in his head. Then he shuts the menu and sets it off to the edge of the table, so the waiter won’t have to lean over to pick it up.

He feels, without looking, that Yves is watching him.

“You weren’t kidding. You’re very efficient.”

Vincent meets his eyes from across the table. Yves has his own menu open, too, but he’s pretty sure Yves has been waiting for him. “You decided more quickly than I did.”

“I cheated and looked up the menu beforehand,” Yves says. “I didn’t want to subject you to my indecisiveness.”

This makes sense to Vincent—as does the early knock on his door. “You were looking forward to eating here.”

“With a hot stranger,” Yves says, with a laugh. “Yes.”  

The compliment is unexpected. It settles something inside of him, something nervous and wanting, though Yves says it offhandedly enough that Vincent thinks he probably shouldn’t take it to heart. He raises an eyebrow. “Am I still a stranger? We’ve exchanged names.”

Yves laughs. “I guess we can be acquaintances, then.”

The waiter arrives with their cocktails—Yves’s has a sprig of lavender near the rim, and Vincent’s has a dried orange slice and a stem of mint—and sets them down in the middle of the table. They place their orders.

After the waiter leaves, Vincent shifts his cocktail a little closer to him. He’s not much of a drinker, but his drink of choice is usually on the sweeter side. 

“Does it live up to your expectations?” Yves asks.

“The drink?”

“The cruise.”

“I don’t know if I had many expectations to begin with,” Vincent says. “The ship is bigger than I thought it would be. I’m still finding my way around.”

“Have you explored everything already?”

“Not everything.” Vincent thinks through his morning. “I walked around the shopping center, and then the fourth floor plaza.” he says. “I stopped by the theater, too, though I didn’t sit down for a show.”

He thinks, distantly, that perhaps the ship’s amenities are getting wasted on him—during his walk through the shopping center, he’d briefly thought about bringing gifts back for his coworkers and ultimately decided that if he’s going to do any shopping, it should probably be on his last day here, not his second. “I went up to the deck to see the pools. There were more distinct pools than I imagined—I had assumed they’d all be connected.”

“Did you go swimming?”

“I didn’t.”

“So you just walked around all twelve of the pools,” Yves says, incredulous, “without ever getting in?”

Vincent can see how this fact could potentially be off-putting. “The pools were all pretty crowded. I decided it’d be more symbolic if the first time I change into a swimsuit is tomorrow, after we dock.”

It isn’t entirely the truth. Truthfully—and he thinks this might be worse—he’d been more preoccupied with taking pictures of everything—nicely framed shots of the different pools, the different entrances of the shopping center, the crowds gathered around the theater for the midday show—half so he can have something to show his coworkers when he gets back to work (and thus, dispel any accusations of his own ungratefulness around winning) and half so he can have something to send back to his family (particularly Ji-Sung, who he thinks will get a kick out of seeing all of the amenities).

“You’re really serious about this,” Yves says, looking strangely amused. “Are the vacations you go on always so structured?”

Vincent says, “something like that. The cruise is not the main attraction, anyway.”

“For some people, it is.”

“For the same people who make it a mission to take a swim in all twelve of the pools, maybe,” Vincent says, and Yves smiles.

Yves, as it turns out, is an easy person to talk to. Vincent finds out that he doesn’t get seasick—or carsick, for that matter—but that he feels a little claustrophobic if he doesn’t go up to the deck (“to remind me that we’re actually still making progress towards some destination,” he says. “That way, I don’t feel as though I’m trapped in some giant feat of human engineering.”) He finds out that Yves has two siblings, both of them younger; that most of his extended family lives in france; that he likes vacationing in warm places; that the next time he steps foot onto a cruise, it will probably be with his younger sister and his younger brother. That he’d been working late for three weeks in a row to make this trip happen; that it feels a little wrong, now, to have nothing pressing to do.

It turns out to be a nice night, after all.

—

Firsts.

The cologne is an offhanded purchase. 

It’s not something Vincent thinks much about when he picks it up. It’s on the third day that he purchases it, after he holds too long of a conversation with the sales assistant—who seems to have an uncanny ability for translating whatever it is he says into one recommendation, and another, and another—to feel like he can walk away unguiltily. In the end, he settles with a tall, sleek bottle with a wooden cap. The cap is lined in gold—to suggest that this is a classy choice, presumably—to match the serif lettering on the front, which says Wood & Flame. 

It’s not something he intends on using, either—that is, until Yves messages him, dinner? And then, a moment later: feeling kind of lazy tonight. Mb we can order in 

Vincent texts back, Sure. Let’s order in. 6:30? 

Yves’s response is immediate. You haven’t been to my room yet, right? I can host :) 

It doesn’t mean anything, Vincent thinks, that the dress shirt he picks out is the newest one he owns, that he spends time ironing the creases out of it. It doesn’t have to mean anything, when he lingers longer than usual in front of the bathroom mirror, suddenly apprehensive. Yves is asking him out of friendly camaraderie, and nothing more. He runs another hand through his hair, catches himself, lowers it. Fixes his tie, straightens his collar, finds himself having to fix it again.

With a hot stranger, Yves had said, as if it was nothing. So offhandedly it seemed almost like it didn’t even matter—a throwaway comment, maybe. 

The cologne is an afterthought—he spritzes some on his wrists, and then, upon further thought, sprays some in behind his ears. It’s probably not going to be noticeable anyways, unless Yves gets close enough, which is unlikely. The scent of it is somewhat mild, understated—that had been one of the factors which had led him to pick it up in the first place—even when he lifts his wrist to his face, it’s not nearly as obvious as he expects it to be.

The bottle is large enough that it seems as though it will never run out—the liquid in it seems to be at the same level as before, even though he feels like he’s been generous enough in his application of it. He’s starting to think he won’t have enough occasions to wear it to.

Perhaps he will get some mileage out of this purchase tonight. Or perhaps, optimistically, this bottle will last him the rest of his life, he’ll never have to shop for cologne again in his lifetime. If he thinks about it that way, it doesn’t seem like such a financially bad investment.

—

Through his walk down the long, narrow hallway, and up two flights of stairs, Vincent prepares himself for the moment when Yves opens the door.

He’s still caught off guard, though, when the door swings open. Yves is dressed in a green button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—the shirt is loose-fitting, but the way the fabric tightens around his arms does not do a good job of obscuring the muscle definition underneath—and well-fitted khaki chinos. His light brown hair is tied up in its usual low ponytail, but the strands which were too short to secure are tucked behind his ear.

“You made it!” He grins—it’s the kind of charming smile that completely overtakes his features—and steps aside to let Vincent in. “Now you can compare how different the rooms are three floors up.”

Vincent looks past him, at the arrangement of the room. “It looks like the same elements have undergone a few different transformations,” he says. “The wall art in this room looks more like it’s trying to remind you what you’re here for.”

Yves follows his gaze to the large landscape painting which hangs in the living room, to the right of the TV. It’s a watercolor drawing of waves crashing onto a white sand beach, except it’s drawn in a way that the waves closer to shore are saturated and dazzling, and the waves further from the shore fade out in color into the horizon. There’s faint detailing of buildings in the distance, too. Vincent is pretty sure it’s supposed to be the shoreline of Nassau, which they’re set to dock at two days from now.

“Huh,” Yves says. “It’s sort of like it’s taunting me. What’s in yours?”

“Mostly abstract art,” Vincent says. “Aside from that, a photograph of a conch shell, up close. There’s also a photograph of a ship out at sea, with no land in sight.” 

Yves laughs. “That’s pretty ironic. I heard that lower floors are better for seasickness. It would probably suck to be seasick, and then when you look up you’re forced to look at some sailboat in the middle of nowhere. Super on-the-nose.”

Vincent smiles. “It’s probably a good reality check.” he presses closer in to leave his jacket—which he is realizing now that he doesn’t need, but which he brought with him just in case, on the occasion that their evening culminates in a night-time walk on the deck—folded on Yves’s couch. “Were you thinking of ordering room service?”

“Yep,” Yves says. “I think everything on there is complimentary except for the wine. Do you need the room service menu?”

“I took a look at it already,” Vincent says. “I recalled that a certain someone does his research early.”

Yves looks briefly taken aback. Then he laughs. “You caught me. I totally did look at it beforehand. Though I was ready to act indecisive if you needed more time.”

“Very gentlemanly,” Vincent says. “Should we call in?”

Yves ends up calling for room service, on both of their behalf. (“That sounds really good,” he says, when Vincent recites his order to him. “It was probably my second choice.” “You can try some when it comes,” Vincent says.) He orders wine, too, to share, and waves off Vincent’s offer to split the cost.

After that, they settle on the living room couch. Yves says: “I’m thinking we can put something on while we wait for dinner to arrive? But probably not something you care about too much, because I might talk over it.” he passes the remote over to Vincent.

Vincent flips through the channels. There’s some sitcom which is playing which seems somewhat suitable, up until one of the couples gets into a sincere-seeming argument onscreen and Vincent thinks that, considering Yves’s semi-recent breakup, maybe everything with romance should be quietly vetoed. He eventually settles on one of those reality TV shows where people have to partake in increasingly difficult obstacle courses in order to not get eliminated.

“These are always fun,” Yves says. “You know about hysterical strength? I’ve always wondered if being nervous on these kinds of shows helps you or hurts you.” 

He reaches up with a hand to scrub at his eyes. Vincent looks over at him with a frown.

“Are you tired?”

“No,” Yves says. He blinks, and then sniffles—if Vincent isn’t mistaken, his eyes are a little watery. 

“Bored of the competition already?”

“Not at all. I think these kinds of shows are manufactured so that you can’t get bored.”

“There’s probably an optimal amount of nervousness,” Vincent says, “to answer your question. I’ve found that to be true with public speaking.”

“Huh,” Yves says. “Does your work require a lot of public speaking?”

“Not particularly. Mostly internal presentations, occasionally a conference.” He looks over at Yves. “If you weren’t tired before, talking about my work is going to make you tired for sure.” 

Yves laughs. “No way. I love hearing about other people’s work.”

“It’s not very life or death. There are no obstacle courses. Just a lot of regression analysis.”

Yves blinks at him. “Do you work in business, by any chance?”

Vincent nods. “I’m a quantitative analyst.”

“Huh,” Yves says, contemplative. “I heard it’s very competitive.” He sniffles again, quietly enough that it almost goes unheard. “You must be good at math.”

“A small subset of math,” Vincent says. “What do you work in?”

“Wealth management. It’s a little more client-centric, so I had to plan pretty far ahead to take time off for thihh-!” The inhale is sharp, unexpected. They’re sitting close enough to each other that Vincent can feel Yves stiffen beside him, can feel the sharp upwards stutter of his shoulders as his breath hitches again. “hHeh-!” He pivots away from Vincent, burying his face into his elbow—polite, Vincent thinks—and then, after a long, torturous moment, loses the fight to a loud, vocal, “HhHEh-IIDZschH-iEEw!”

Vincent wills himself not to look. “Bless you,” he says, staring straight ahead. Onscreen, a contestant loses her balance on a high mounted totem and drops straight down into the water, much to the dismay of her teammates. It is a wholly ineffective means of distraction.

Yves’s sneeze—like Yves—is painfully Vincent’s type.

“Ugh,” Yves says, sniffling again. He lowers his elbow slowly. “Sorry about that. Where was I?”

“You said you had to plan far ahead to take time off,” Vincent says. It’s no small miracle that he remembers this.

“Right, yeah,” Yves says, and launches into a story about the hoops he’d had to jump through to make sure all the clients he was assigned to would have their needs accounted for.

“That’s a lot of work for a week’s absence,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “Yeah. Sometimes the pickier clients really hate the idea of not getting round-the-clock attention. I’m— hh-! hHEH-!” He reaches up with a hand to scrub at his nose, though the look of ticklish irritation doesn’t quite leave his expression—Vincent really shouldn’t have looked. After a moment, he lowers his hand, takes in another uncertain breath, as if he’s still testing the waters. “Ugh, I lost it. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. This must be distracting for you.”

Distracting is an understatement. “Don’t worry about it,” Vincent says. “Is it worse during tax season?”

“Oh, yeah. No one in their right mind really takes off during tax season, snf-! It’s not like, officially against any rules, but it’s pretty openly acknowledged as one of those suggestions that’s not actually very optional. That doesn’t affect you guys as much, does it?”

“No,” Vincent says. “My free time is mostly dependent on project deadlines.”

“The ticket you won happened to not conflict with any of those?”

“I brought my work laptop with me,” Vincent says, a little sheepishly.

Yves’s eyes widen. “No way.”

“It’s not like I’m working long hours,” Vincent says. “Just some catch-up work, here and there. I don’t want there to be any surprises when I get back.”

“Always putting out fires,” Yves says, shaking his head. “It’s probably good that you won the—” He reaches over to lay a hand on Vincent’s arm—presumably as a comforting gesture—only he wrenches away at the last second. “The— Hheh-! Hh… hHEH-!” There’s another brief pause, as though whatever is affecting him has left him stranded again on the precipice of a sneeze. For a moment, Vincent prepares himself mentally for another false start.

But then Yves takes in another sharp, ticklish breath, and it turns out to be enough to set him over the edge. “hh’hEHh’iITSSSCHh-EEw!”

The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist to meet the crook of a hastily-raised arm. It’s just as attractive as the first, if not more—Vincent can hear his voice in the ending syllable, can hear the ticklish desperation in the release. Yves keeps his face buried in his elbow for a moment longer, sniffling wetly.

It takes everything in Vincent to not visibly shiver. What are the chances, really, that the attractive stranger-slash-acquaintance he’s having dinner with—someone who, when this cruise is over, he probably will never see again—just happens to have a sneeze which happens to be perfectly aligned with his tastes?

“Bless you again,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“I feel fine,” Yves says, with another sniffle, his eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t think I’m getting sick. I was fine earlier.” 

“Are you allergic to anything?”

“Not that I know of,” Yves says. “No seasonal allergies. Nothing pet-wise, either.” 

Vincent tries, and fails, to think of what else might be causing this. The cabins seem too clean, too well-ventilated, to be dusty. There are no flowers anywhere in sight. Is Yves coming down with something, then? But he’d said I don’t think I’m getting sick, with the certainty of someone who probably isn’t. 

“Let me know if you start feeling worse,” Vincent says.

Yves smiles at him. “I will. I’m really fine, I promise. It’s just—” he reaches up with a hand to rub his nose. A distant look crosses his expression for a moment—as though he’s warring against the need to do something about it—before his breathing levels off. “—tickish, snf! Not unpleasant.”

The sneezing doesn’t stop. Yves, for the most part, proceeds as though he’s completely unaffected by it—he’s no quieter than usual. It’s as though every time he feels the need to sneeze, he is intent on ignoring it until the need is too pressing to ignore. When that happens, he turns away just in time, except for a couple close calls when he misjudges and instead doubles forward with a sneeze directed into his lap, sniffling afterwards. 

Vincent blesses him intermittently, but otherwise offers up no comment. Yves apologizes sheepishly, after the fourth or fifth sneeze, for interrupting the show. Vincent doesn’t tell him that he probably couldn’t care less about the show. Truthfully, he has no clue what’s going on onscreen anymore—obstacle course shows are interesting, but not that interesting.

Dinner arrives not too long after. Vincent can barely focus on the seafood pasta he’s ordered, though he offers Yves a bite, as promised. Yves unfolds one of the napkins room service leaves for them and blows his nose quietly into it. He sniffles afterwards—as though his nose is properly running, now—and resumes talking as usual.

Vincent crosses his legs, does his best to ignore the heat radiating below his stomach. This is really bad timing. The entire inexplicable setup—the fact that they’re sitting so close to each other; the fact that he can physically feel Yves tense beside him, rigid with anticipation, his shoulders jolting upwards with every inhale—is honestly nothing short of torturous. 

It’s worse, too, that Vincent can see the ticklish irritation in Yves’s features—the crease of his eyebrows, the fluttering eyelashes, the sharp, uncontrolled gasp—before he wrenches forward with another desperate sneeze. It’s always a full-body endeavor—something that snaps him forward at the waist, leaves him bent over, a little breathless, sniffling wetly.

It absolutely doesn’t help that the underside of Yves’s nose is slightly flushed red, now, from the unusual attention—perhaps this is to be expected, seeing as Yves keeps rubbing it. More than once, Vincent contemplates asking to use Yves’s bathroom, and subsequently, well, getting rid of the problem at hand. Yves has no idea what this is all doing to him. After all, how would he know?

It’s only when they’re almost done with dinner that it clicks.

“Hold on,” Vincent says. Yves had said he wasn’t allergic to anything, but there’s a first time for everything, right? Particularly, there’s always a first time exposure to allergens. That first time might come later in life for those that are less commonplace.

It seems glaringly obvious, in hindsight. Yves hadn’t been sniffling when he’d opened the door for Vincent, had he? From the way he’d reacted to the first sneeze, it didn’t seem like this has been going on for long.

But of course. He’d been so focused on the environment that he hadn’t considered it. There’s only one thing Vincent did tonight which was pointedly out of the ordinary.

The realization leaves him feeling suddenly cold.

“Yves.” Vincent flinches away. “I think I know what’s causing this.”

Yves pauses. “What is it?”

“I’m wearing new cologne,” he says. “I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it earlier. I didn’t think much of it when I was applying it.” He feels a little like an asshole, now that they’re discussing it. It wasn’t his intention to leave Yves suffering. He hadn’t known. But still, the fact that they’ve been sitting in such close proximity this whole time definitely hasn’t helped.

The last thing he wants to do right now is look at Yves, but he forces himself to, anyway—wrenches his gaze upwards until he meets Yves’s eyes. “I’m really sorry. I should’ve made the connection earlier.”

Yves blinks at him. He doesn’t seem as upset about this as Vincent thinks he should be—strangely, he doesn’t seem upset at all. “Are you saying you think I’m allergic?”

“Allergic, or sensitive, yes,” Vincent says, frowning. “In any case, I take full responsibility. I should probably just—”

“Wait,” Yves says, reaching out with a hand to latch onto Vincent’s wrist. “I haven’t been allergic to anything before.” 

“It’s probably not something common,” Vincent says, wondering if he should pull away.

“You applied it to your wrists?” Yves asks.

Vincent nods, a little stiffly. He doesn’t quite trust himself to speak. It feels like Yves’s fingertips are burning holes into his arm.

Everything that happens after happens in a flash. Yves tightens his grip around Vincent’s wrist, pulls it gently towards him, and leans down to take a long, indulgent inhale.

Vincent feels all of the blood drain from his face. He rounds on Yves, wide-eyed. “What are you—?”

The reaction is almost immediate. Yves drops Vincent’s arm as if he’s been scalded. He shuts his eyes, barely turns to the side in time for a harsh, “hhEHH’iiDZZSHH-iEW!”

The sneeze is so forceful he coughs a little afterwards, his eyes watering. His shoulders jerk upwards again, his nose twitching. “hHEH… HEHH… hehH’IITSSCHh-EEW! Ugh… coughcough, you’re right, it’s defidetely… hHEH—!!”

Vincent can only watch, frozen in place, as Yves jerks forward again, burying his nose into his sleeve. “IHHHh’DZschH-IIEW! Snf-!” He lowers his arm slightly—Vincent can see him scrunching his nose up, trying to rid himself of what must be the worst tickle he’s been faced with all night. That thought sends a wave of electricity down Vincent’s spine. “Hh-hHeh-! Definitely the cologne that’s… hh-! that’s… hEHH… setting me… hh… HhEH’IDDzShHH-IIEW!! —off, snf, f-fuck… hh-Hehh-hhEHH’IITTSHhh-IIEEW!” The sneeze explodes from him, barely contained, snapping his entire body forward with the sheer intensity. Yves barely manages a breath in between before he’s doubling over with another: “IIIiDDDzSCHHh-YyiEW!”

Vincent swallows hard. He’s, well, so turned on that he can barely speak. It feels a little like the heat he feels—more of a full-body-flush, at this point—might actually melt the clothes off of his arms. “Bless you.” It’s remarkable that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

He stands, heads over to the coffee table to retrieve a small box of tissues. Takes in a deep breath.

When he gets back to the couch, Yves has cupped both his hands over his nose and mouth. Vincent tilts the opening of the tissue box towards him without comment. 

“Thadks,” Yves says, with a laugh. He takes a handful and blows his nose. “I needed those. That was probably ndot the best idea, in hindsight.”

Understatement of the fucking century. Vincent stares at him, disbelieving. “Your first idea after learning you’re allergic to something is to test it out?”

“Scientific rigor, and whatnot,” Yves says. “I had to be sure. Like I said, I’ve never actually been allergic to something before. This was quite the… hHeh-!” He raises the handful of tissues back up to his face, his gaze going unfocused. “Just a sec—hh… hH… hHEH’IIDZSCHh-IIEW! snf!”

“Bless you,” Vincent says. “I guess this answered your question, then.” Yves laughs. “It definitely did.”

“I think you—” Vincent places the tissue box—which is at risk of falling off the edge of the couch—directly into Yves’s lap. “—should take this.” He takes a cautious step backwards. “And I should go take a long shower back in my room.”

Yves looks up at him, still a little teary-eyed. “It doesn’t bother me that much,” he says earnestly. “It’s just sneezing. I don’t mind it.” Just sneezing. Vincent shakes his head.

Yves stills, his expression probing. “Unless…” His voice comes out a little softer, now. Uncertain. “...Unless it bothers you?” 

That couldn’t be further from the truth. Not in the sense that Yves means it, at least.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Vincent says. “But I’ve been in your situation before, so I know what it feels like. I… know it isn’t pleasant.”

This information seems to surprise Yves. “You’ve experienced this before too?”

Vincent nods. “Every spring, more or less. I’m allergic to tree pollen.” His face feels hot from the admission—it feels strangely inappropriate to be admitting this, but then again, it’s not as though he’s bringing it up out of nowhere. “You can imagine that’s harder to avoid than a singular kind of cologne.”

Yves’s eyes widen. “That sounds terribly - hhEH-! hH… HEHh’iITSHH-iIEWW! snf-! terribly incodvenient. I can’t imagine having to deal with this feeling for an edtire season.”

“It is. That’s why I don’t want to subject you to this for longer than I have to.” He steps past Yves to grab his jacket from the couch, which he ties around his waist. It will be better for both of them if he leaves now. “I really should shower and get changed. Your symptoms are not going to get better if I stick around.” 

Yves seems to be coming around to this. “Sorry to have to end things off early,” he says, frowning. “You came all the way here.”

“It was barely a walk,” Vincent says. “And this wouldn’t have happened if not for me. I should be the one saying sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Yves says, with a laugh. “It was an illuminating experience. I’ll see you, then?”

The possibility is so fleeting that Vincent almost dismisses it. Could Yves really be disappointed?

“I have some Claritin back in my room,” Vincent says, trying his luck, though a part of him recognizes that this kind of confidence is categorically unlike him. “We can resume our night when you can get through two sentences without having to sneeze.” And after Vincent takes care of something else, and preferably spends enough time in his room flipping through boring travel pamphlets and sensational catalogues to get his mind out of the gutter, so he can face Yves again with some semblance of normalcy. “...If you still want to.”

Yves brightens.

“Of course,” he says, with sincerity. “I’ll look forward to it.”

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Love on the brain chapter 4

Master List

CW: Please check the master list. This chapter alludes to child sexual abuse. Nothing is graphic in detail.

You had spent the better part of your day out at your son's soccer game. You are pleasantly surprised that your four neighbors showed up to cheer him on. All of them are incredibly involved with watching the game, as if it were a professional game. Johnny and Kyle had been pacing up and down the field following the game, encouraging Jabari and his teammates. For some odd reason, you found it incredibly nice that John had made it his business to chat with the other fathers as if he's always been a part of the group. Chatting away about whatever it is that men talk about, household projects, work (things he could share), being invited to help with the team cook out for Sunday to celebrate getting into the playoffs. You notice that he doesn't correct people when they compliment him on how his boy (and despite Jabari looking nothing like John) is well adjusted and a good team sport, always willingly leading others effortlessly. He certainly doesn't correct anyone when they say that his little girl Jayla is a quiet and well-behaved girl. They find it cute that she clings to his hand. She swings from his arm, pulls at his hands, and is just generally using him to stim and keep occupied because her twin isn't paying her dust at the moment.

The reason her twin is paying her dust is because Jada has made it her mission to play out in the farther fields with Simon. She's got her baby Anni with them, and she's fussing about Simon making sure his little flower crown is on right. She smiles at him and explains that Anni has been asking about him, wondering when the next time he could keep her for a sleepover.

“Wouldn' ya want Anni to stay with you?” Simon asks her, “I'm sure she hates being away from ya.” He's careful with how he arranges the doll's little flower crown on its head. Truthfully, never in a million years did he think he would be playing dolls or be within range of children again. Not since his brother and his family. He feels protective of this little girl and her twin and her older brother.

When Price had told him that the neighbor next door was in trouble, her husband beating her black and blue, Simon could feel ‘Ghost’ slipping to the front that night. Before they even knocked on the front door, they could hear the shouts of bloody murder coming from the woman. He was so angry, absolutely seething with rage. He had to keep himself calm so he wouldn't kill the bastard when he stepped out onto the front porch after Price flashed his gun.

The coward didn't even look at or speak to him.

“No.” Jada says clear as day, “Anni prefers to stay at other people's house so that way she knows she's safe.” She is digging through her pink backpack, and finally, she pulls out what she is looking for. It's a little charm bracelet, and she offers it to Simon. “It matches my bracelet. See, it says TTC. It stands for The Tea Club.”

“Well.” Simon takes the dainty pink and purple bracelet with the little white letters and flowers, “you do make some of the best tea.” He tries not to dwell on the ‘She knows she's safe part’ of the conversation. Still, something in his gut tells him he needs to ask. He's just never been good with being tactful, and he feels like he should be gentle with his questions.

“Jada…” He takes a deep breath, “have things been okay since your father has been home?”

She looks up at him and purses her lips. It's clear that she is thinking, not entirely sure what to say for the conversation. She turns towards the field as the sidelines erupt into cheers over the game. Then slowly she turns and looks back at Simon, “I…I don't know Mr. Simon. Mom and Dad fought last time…when I asked Dad why, he didn't say anything and told me that it was all fine.” She sniffles a bit, “I try not to let Anni or even Jayla and Jabari know how upset it makes me, especially Mom.” She rubs at her eyes, trying to make her tears go away. “Sometimes he gets mad at me when I don't behave, and he spanks me if I cry, but sometimes I cry, and I can't help it.”

Simon feels his heart drop in his stomach. He remembers the look on your face when you admitted that you don't spank your children. Why would you if the fucker you're married to hits you? This though, seeing Jada cry and sniffle about spankings and crying didn't seem right. His throat felt dry and he also felt like he was going to murder. “Why would he spank you for crying?”

“I don't know Mr.Simon, sometimes his hugs hurt, and I cry.”

You were chatting with another one of the parents, taking note of what you were supposed to bring to Sunday's cookout. The game is in its final moments, Jabari's team is clearly going to win. Your eyes are covered by two sets of hands, a broad chest pressed against your back and kiss pressed to your cheek. You know instantly that it's Kenny, even more so. You are surprised that he even showed up to the match. “Kenny, glad you made it.” You turn to face your husband, and he is smiling at you. He's handsome right now, the cool suave man that swept you off your feet eleven years ago. He's sober, polite, bright, and sweet.

“Yes, I told you I would show up for his game. Is his team winning?” He says as he presses a kiss to your head.

“They most certainly are.” You say and wiggle out of his grip. Your attention goes back to watching the game, but you do notice how Kenny tenses up. “What's wrong now?”

“Why are the neighbors here?” He's glaring at where John is, Jayla is perched on his shoulders. John is still chatting with a group of parents. “And why's he got my daughter with him?”

You roll your eyes, “Kenny, be nice, please. The kids happened to like them, and Jabari invited them to watch the game.”

The whistle for the game to end is blown by the ref, and your son's team is jumping about in celebration. Kenny watches as his son runs up to Johnny and Kyle and is immediately hoisted up onto Johnny's shoulders. The irritation can be felt radiating off of him in droves. You sigh and give him a side eye, a silent plea for him to behave, don't embarrass you, and please for the love of God be cordial. You make your way over to the crowd of cheering families, and when you get close to Johnny and Jabari, you lean up and kiss your son on the cheek as he leans down.

“I scored the last goal, mom!” Jabari is sweaty, hyper, and loud. His smile is so big it stretches his face. Brown eyes sparkling in the daylight, he is your baby, and you feel like you're staring into the sun right now. He looks and sees his dad, and his smile falters a bit but stays big. “Dad, you made it!”

Kenny raises an eyebrow but strategically avoids the glare that Johnny sends him. He holds his arms out for his son. It can be written off as Jabari being careful of heights, but he eventually goes to his dad. “Good game sport.” He ruffles his hair, “you really gave them a run for their money.”

“Thanks Dad.” Jabari laughs and hugs his waist, then he lets go, “Mom, can we cut the strawberry cake when we get home?”

“You made that cake?” Kenny says, his brows drawn up in a bit of disgust, “You know I don't like that sugary mess.”

You look over at him, ready to defend the celebratory treat. Jabari had been asking for weeks, and you finally had squirreled away enough spare change for the cake. You open your mouth to say yes, but Johnny beats you to it.

“Good thing it ain't fa ye mate.” His blue eyes aren't welcoming. They are hardly the same pretty light shade that you've come to know. Kyle is standing beside him, a strained but polite smile on his face. You notice how his fingers flex, hand opening and closing. There's tension between the three men. The chatter of everyone else sorta fades from you as you anticipate some form of violence.

“Everything okay?” John comes to the rescue. He somehow appears out of thin air, and Johnny and Kyle relax. Their metaphorical hackles lower. John has Jayla tucked under his arm as if she's a bag of potatoes. She really is just swinging limply.

Jayla lifts her head up and smiles, “Hello.” Her greeting almost missed amongst all the noise. Johnny and Kyle dutifully greet her with smiles.

“Yeah. Good to see you, Price.” Kenny says, but it's more like a growl.

“Miss Bonnie was just inviting us over for cake. I was thinking we could all get together and have dinner.” Johnny looks at you with the tilt of his head.

“Oh! Can we get sushi?” Jabari jumps up and down, “pleaseeee” He begs.

“No-” Kenny starts.

“Sure” you say at the same time. Both of you look at each other. And it's not lost on you that he doesn't like sushi. He could never stand the food, but Jabari does, and he rarely gets it. It's a mini stand-off before Kenny sighs.

“I spoil you all too much. Let's get out of here.” He says and heads off to the car.

You ignore the eye rolls from both Kyle and Johnny. “You guys don't have to have dinner with us. Kenny can be kinda tense.”

“Nonsense. Jabari wants us there, right soldier?” John says with a shrug.

“Yeah Mr.Price, I do!” He stops jumping about and looks around, “Where's Jada?”

This also makes you look around, but you spot her and Simon coming in from the unused field. He's got her in his arms, holding her protectively, her little pink backpack slung over his shoulder. Her baby is crushed between her body and his, her face hidden in the crook of his neck. She clings to him, shaking just a bit, and you feel your heart ricochet between your throat and stomach.

“Baby what's wrong?” You're rushing over to them and trying to peer at her face. Simon stops you, though, and he shakes his head no. You're a bit indignant because how dare he.

Simon pulls you close to him, and he leans down to your ear, “She, her sister, and brother can ride home with me and John. You ride home with Kyle and Johnny.”

“What why?” You ask, and there's panic in your voice, “what happened to my baby? What did you do to her?” You go to take her, but Jada only clings to Simon more. She sniffles and won't look at you.

“Listen to me and trust me, yeah.” He stares deep into your eyes. There's something akin to restrained rage in those honey brown eyes. He, too, is shaking now that you've noticed. John approaches the three of you with concern on his face. It's like he can sniff out distress and discomfort. Simon tells him the game plan for the ride home, and John doesn't question it.

You feel like you're going to throw up.

You arrive home, confused and worried sick. You find it odd that you trust Simon implicitly along with the rest of your neighbors. You chalk it up to them, saving you from Kenny and being genuinely nice to your children. The way they just allow the three of them to clamber and hold onto them. You notice how the four of them seem interested in their well-being. You, Johnny, and Kyle arrive at your homes, and you spot your husband's car in the driveway. But before you can get out of the passenger seat, John is approaching the car. He looks livid, his face red with anger. You're halfway out of the car when he kneels down in front of you. His hand on your knees, blue eyes searching yours for a moment.

“Sweetheart…I'm gonna tell you something. And you have to stay calm.” His voice is leveled. It doesn't match the urgency of the moment.

“I just want to get Jada and see what's wrong.” You whisper. Your stomach is in knots as it waits for something, anything to happen.

“Soap and Gaz go inside and keep him from committing murder.” John barks at the other two. You think you hear in the distance their front door slam shut.

Your eyes snap to your neighbor's house, and you see Simon, on the porch, a handgun in his grip. Your body moves on its own, and you're pushing for John to let go of you. “Move John, I need to get my children.” There's a swell in the air.

“Sweetheart, has Jada ever come to you about anything inappropriate?” John isn't budging. He keeps his hands on your legs so you can't leave the car. There's shouting in the background, Kyle is trying his best to diffuse Simon.

“John- no- I don't-” It's like your mind is running on dial-up. Everything is slowed down, and it's like a fresh new Hell opened up and swallowed you.

“Jada confided in Simon that her father has been touching her.”

You're not too sure what happens after that. It's all static, really. Slow motion. The sky is too bright. The air is too cold. John's hands feel grounding, and they also feel scorching. You aren't sure if you want to scream or not. Maybe you do scream. Maybe part of you feels like if you march into your home and bury your teeth into Kenny's neck, rip out his throat, you can right every wrong that led you to this moment. Spill his blood in penance for all the hurt he's caused your children. You'd also, in the same breath, cut out your heart. You don't deserve to live, especially when you are so blind.

Your mind is racing back to every little thing that Jada has said or imitated. Her idea of ‘me time’, her casual statements about spanking. Anything you can think of, every interaction, comes screeching to the forefront of your mind. It hurts. How are you even a mother? You were so worried about your husband hitting you, beating you and children to death, you never once entertained the idea of him killing your children in this sense.

Good God. Nights that you've been too tired to fight him off and blacked out from pain. Has he done things to them then? What about when you've left him alone with any of them. Jabari, now that you think about it, always hated being left alone with his father. He's shied away from his touches and hugs.

“Sweetheart?” John brushes away the tears from your face.

“Get me in the house John…” It's not really your voice that's speaking. It's too vacant. “Take my keys.” You hand him your house keys, “throw any and everything into a few bags. If I go in there, I'll kill him.”

He does as you say and steadies you. When you're in their house, you see Jabari talking with Kyle and Johnny, talking to Jayla. Simon is nowhere to be seen, but a part of the sectional is pushed against the basement door. Jada is sitting in the quiet room that belongs to Simon. He's in there with her, but he's on his knees. Holding her hands between hers, whispering something to her. She's got tear tracks on her face, and when she glances up at you, she launches herself into your arms. She's sobbing, saying sorry, she didn't know it was wrong.

You only shush her and kiss her head. You are doing your best not to bolt next door and kill the bastard.

a.n: so everyone take care of yourselves. This was heavy. There will be immediate consequences in the next chapter. Just you wait.

Tag list: @leahnicole1219 @uraeus56 @royalty-cashinout @chickennuggetuwu @gazsluckyhat @justanerd1 @the-monster-under-the-bed @curiouslittleprincess @flairenragebelmont

[goldfades]

ok congrats girl u got me into dbook... could you write a little something about devin being whipped for his girl xo <3

heheh mission ACCOMPLISHED!! my dbook agenda is working. this is such a cute concept i'm obsessed<3 i hope you enjoy!

Devin Booker was whipped.

Not in a pathetic way—not in the way his teammates joked about, calling him soft every time he left the gym early because you called, or the way they side-eyed him when he was on FaceTime mid-road trip, listening to you talk about your day like it was the most important conversation in the world. No, it wasn’t that. It was deeper. Quiet. Engraved into his every movement, into the way he carried you in his mind, in his hands, in his heart.

Because it wasn’t just that he loved you—it was that he liked you. You were his person, his peace, his everything. And everyone around him knew it.

It was in the way he never let your gas tank go below half, even if he had to sneak out at midnight just to fill it up. The way your iced coffee order was saved in his Notes app, down to the extra caramel drizzle because, God forbid, they forget it and ruin your morning. The way he listened—even to the small things. Even to the things you swore he wasn’t paying attention to.

Like today.

You had mentioned—once, in passing—that your favorite bakery had a limited run of some seasonal pastry you used to get as a kid. It was an offhand comment, a memory laced with nostalgia, nothing you expected him to think twice about.

But Devin? Devin heard it.

Which is why, despite practice running late, despite being dead tired and fully capable of sending someone else to pick it up, he found himself standing in a tiny bakery at 7 AM, waiting for them to open because he refused to risk them selling out.

“Man, you are gone,” one of his teammates had laughed when he mentioned it.

And yeah. Maybe he was.

But he didn’t care.

Because seeing your face light up when he handed you that bag, watching you take that first bite, eyes wide with surprise that he even remembered—that was the whole reason he did it. Not for credit. Not for a thank you. But because you were worth it.

You’d always be worth it.

--

You were still curled up on the couch when Devin walked in, the scent of warm, buttery sweetness wafting through the air before you even saw what was in his hand.

He looked too smug, standing there by the door, holding a small brown paper bag with that cocky little smirk playing on his lips. His hoodie was slightly damp at the edges from the early morning chill, and his sweatpants hung low on his hips, like he had barely taken the time to get dressed before running out the door.

“What’s that?” you asked, stretching lazily, still wrapped in the blanket you had dragged from the bedroom.

Devin just shook his head, walking toward you with slow, deliberate steps before plopping down beside you. He handed you the bag, his fingers brushing against yours, warm from the heat of whatever was inside.

“You tell me,” he murmured, watching you expectantly.

Curious, you peeled the bag open, the scent hitting you all at once—something rich, sweet, a little nutty, and somehow nostalgic, even though you hadn’t tasted it yet. You blinked, pulling out the delicate pastry, your breath catching for a second.

No way.

It was exactly what you had mentioned weeks ago, in passing, with no expectation that he would ever remember.

A golden, flakey rozaliak.

Not just any pastry—something so ridiculously specific that you hadn’t even thought about it in years. It was this obscure little Eastern European dessert your grandmother used to buy for you as a kid—made with layers of sweet, honey-soaked dough, filled with walnuts, cinnamon, and the faintest hint of orange zest. It wasn’t something you could just pick up at any bakery. You had offhandedly mentioned that a tiny shop downtown had started selling them, recalling how it was one of the few things that reminded you of childhood winters, sitting in your grandmother’s kitchen, watching her warm them over the stove.

You had said it once.

And here it was.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, fingers still gently holding the pastry like it was too perfect to be real.

“Devin.” Your voice was soft, almost in disbelief. “How did you—”

“You said they were hard to find,” he said simply, leaning back against the couch, stretching his long legs out. “So, I found them.”

You just stared at him, your heart swelling with something indescribable.

“You woke up early for this?”

He shrugged, all nonchalant, like he hadn’t just proven for the thousandth time that he was the most absurdly thoughtful person you knew.

“I mean, yeah. Bakery opens at seven, so I had to be there before they sold out.”

You gaped at him. “Devin.”

“What?” That smirk tugged at his lips again, but this time, there was something softer behind it.

“You—” You exhaled, shaking your head as a slow grin stretched across your face. “You stood in line for this?”

“Only a couple of people were ahead of me,” he said casually. “Not a big deal.”

Not a big deal.

Like it was normal to wake up at the crack of dawn after a late-night practice. Like it was nothing to drive across town, stand in the cold, and wait outside some tiny bakery just to grab a pastry you had once mentioned liking.

You broke off a piece, the flaky layers crumbling slightly between your fingers, and took a bite. The moment the taste hit your tongue—the warm honey, the slight crunch of walnuts, the soft, citrusy hint of orange—you swore you could feel your childhood come back to life.

You let out an involuntary, contented hum, your eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Devin chuckled beside you. “That good, huh?”

You turned to him, still chewing, and without thinking, you grabbed his wrist and pressed the pastry into his hand. “You have to try this.”

He hesitated for a split second—because he wasn’t much of a sweets guy—but then he let you guide his hand, taking a small bite where your fingers had just been.

He chewed, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nodded slowly. “Damn.”

“Right?”

He huffed out a laugh, licking a stray crumb off his bottom lip before leaning in, close enough that his voice was just for you. “See? I know what I’m doing.”

You shook your head, grinning, your heart aching in the best way.

“You are so whipped for me,” you murmured, teasing but utterly affectionate.

Devin didn’t even hesitate.

“Yeah, I am.” His voice was soft, sure. No denial, no defense. Just the simple, easy truth.

Because he was. And he’d do it all again tomorrow, just to see you smile like that.

[the-heliophile]

GOOD LUCK BABE! - MEL MEDARDA

FROM FOURMI 🐜 💌 I got a couple of comments on my previous works and it made me so happy, also I have so many songs I want to write to but I feel like I'm not good enough yet AAAAH

song. good luck babe!, chappel roan

pairing. mel medarda x zaunite!reader

content. angst, situationship, toxicity on both ends.

summary. you're a zaunite and Mel keeps you hidden like a dirty secret but that's not what you want anymore. (2.6k words)

“it's fine, it's cool

you can say that we are nothing, but you know the truth”

It had been going on for two years now, two years of you being treated like a dirty secret to be kept hidden forever. And yet you had never found the strength to give up on what you and Mel had, hopelessly clinging to the idea that one day you and her would become official, that you would be enough for her to show you off in public. You were tired, tired of leaving her bed right when you were done because she couldn't risk getting caught with you, always the same excuse, so you would always go back to Zaun feeling stupid and used yet knowing that you'll get back in her bed the minute she would want you to. You were nothing more than a lovesick fool, an idiot letting Mel play with your heartstrings, deep down you knew you'd never be good enough for her to be seen with you but you couldn't help but hope that maybe one day she'd reciprocate your feelings enough to officiate things. “It would be casual, just fun between friends” is what she had offered and you had agreed without hesitation, despite knowing what you were getting into you couldn't help but want more, more of her attention, more of her time, you wanted to be the only recipient of her love. “Do you..do that with anyone else ?” You asked, a hint of hesitation in your voice, you could feel your heartbeat speeding at the mere thought of her seeing others but you wanted, no you had to know. Were you the only one for her or were you just one of many faces ?

“and guess I'm the fool,

with her arms out like an angel through the car sunroof”

Mel sighed in response, “Sweetheart, please don't make us seem more than we are, you know it won't lead to anything good..” You knew, from the way her eyes darted around the room and the corners of her lips turned downward, you knew you weren't the only one and that she didn't want to tell you that. You felt as if your heart stopped for a second, your breath stuck in your lungs. All of a sudden it felt like her hand was around your heart, squeezing all the blood out of it and leaving it an empty mess. You didn't reply, merely nodding before getting up, it was time for you to leave anyway. You got dressed with a bit of struggle, your mind too focused on her words to actually pay attention to what you were doing, your hands hastily fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. The knot in the pit of your stomach seemed impossible to undo, but it was fine, you could take it, you could wait for her, until she was ready to love you back. Mel looked at you with a heavy gaze, she muttered the same thing she always did, “Please, you know it's just casual between us, it's what's best for you, for us.” and you forced an answer out, “I know, I promise..” you said although the shakiness in your voice was too strong to hide.

“I don't wanna call it off,

but you don't wanna call it love,

you only wanna be the one that I call ‘baby’”

Despite you guys being nothing, Mel was somewhat possessive, perhaps a result of the way she lost everything when she got banished to Piltover so she holds onto anything that is hers, because even if you are nothing you are still hers. Her possessiveness shows whenever you bring up a previous lover or mention that you went on a date. Mel can't help it, that ugly feeling showing its head whenever she thinks about you slipping through her fingers, she doesn't love you, she knows that much, you're just convenient and you're too in love with her to break things off but you still belong to her and she's not exactly one for sharing. The others come and go, most of them end up wanting more than she wants to give them and they get tossed aside like a toy she grew bored of. But she doesn't know how often you've been considering breaking it off with her, she doesn't know how hesitant your steps are now whenever you walk towards her house. It's been plaguing your mind, the fact that there are others, the idea that for every night you're not in her bed somebody else is warming it, the feeling of not being good enough because why else would she need others ? Is it because you're a Zaunite ? Are you not educated enough ? Not pretty enough ? But then why is she so possessive of you ? Growing cold and nonchalant anytime you mention an ex or someone who is interested in you, she wants to be the only one for you while expecting you to be fine with being one of many and you don't know how much more of it you can take.

“I'm cliché, who cares ?

it's a sexually explicit kind of love affair”

Your mind keeps drifting to all the times you thought were romantic between you and Mel and you're progressively realizing that it was all in your head, your feelings for her seem to have thoroughly messed with your judgement. You used to think that bringing her flowers every time you came to her house would flatter her, but looking back on it you cannot remember seeing any of those bouquets in her room, ever. In your mind Mel and you had nice chats after sex, you remember vividly how beautiful she was whenever the afterglow would hit but you weren't chatting, you were asking her questions and she was giving you short answers, but still it had been enough for you, you were getting to know her, even if just a little. You had even tried inviting her to dinner though she declined because “The Undercity is too dangerous” which you couldn't blame her for. Matter of fact is that the romance only came from your side and you are only realizing it now. It feels suffocating, all of a sudden it's like you can't breathe anymore, the realization of how much you had idealized your nonexistent relationship with Mel makes you feel so, so stupid. It was just sex, just that, not even aftercare, you fucked and you left, no idle chats, no dates and no exclusivity.

“and I cry, it's not fair

I just need a little lovin', I just need a little air”

Your eyes sting, your vision is getting progressively blurry as all the tears start to form and you let them fall freely, using the safety of your apartment to let the torrent of emotions overtaking flow out. You want to scream, to break things, anything to ease the ache in your heart, anything to stop the memories of her from flashing in your mind. You let yourself fall onto your bed, curling up into a ball and closing your eyes. You love her and all you had wanted was for her to love you back, you gave her your everything and more in hopes she would reciprocate your feelings but you were wrong, she doesn't love you and she never has. That night you decide to go out, it's not like Mel needs you anyway. You're all dolled up as you enter the Last Drop, ready to spend the night in a blur of dancing and alcohol to take your mind off of things. And that's exactly what you do, the next morning you wake up in a stranger's bed and force of habit, you leave in the morning unnoticed. But you don't feel better, if anything you just think about Mel even more now. Would she be jealous if she knew what you had done last night ? Would her heart clench at the thought of losing you ? Or would she simply move on to the next person with ease, as if you and her had never shared anything in the first place ?

“think I'm gonna call it off, even if you call it love

I just wanna love someone who calls me "baby’”

You're dragging your feet, standing on Mel's doorstep at 3AM wasn't in your plans but you could use a little distraction from your thoughts and it's a good opportunity for you to have an actual conversation with her, to settle this once and for all. She opens the door for you and you remove your shoes before hastily following her to her bedroom. Once you're both done and catching your breaths you turn to her, clenching your fists to steel your nerves before uttering “We need to talk.” Mel raises her eyebrows, looking at you almost expectantly, “Well, what is it ?”. You take a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling and force the words out, “I don't think this arrangement is working, I think we should stop.” Mel looks taken aback, clearly not expecting you to be the one to end it between you two. “Why ?”. She questions with furrowed brows. And you mumble, feeling a lot smaller now when you're facing her like this “I don't think we're compatible, I am not enough for you and in a way, you're not enough for me either.” She looks at you, her gaze hardening at your words, “Why do you say that ?” Her voice is colder now, you can hear her irritation clearly and it makes you want to disappear so bad. “We had different expectations when it came to our arrangement and clearly we don't harbor the same feelings towards each other, I don't want to keep doing this with you when it's really just hurting me.” Mel takes a few moments to answer, gathering her thoughts, she doesn't want to give a rash answer “That’s alright, I understand.” You feel disappointed at that, a part of you was hoping she would try and convince otherwise, maybe even confess, but instead she seems to have immediately accepted your decision, as if what you had truly didn't matter to her. You decide not to elaborate any further, you put your clothes back on and take your leave, giving a last glance towards her house, trying to commit it to memory. 

“when you wake up next to him in the middle of the night with your head in your hands, 

you're nothing more than his wife”

It all happened over three months ago and you're still not over her, she left such a big imprint on your heart that you feel like you'll never love someone as strongly as you loved her. Today you're working in Benzo’s old shop, you took over it after his death years ago though Ekko still drops by to help you. While you're cleaning the counter and the register you hear the little bell chime and look up, your heart drops and your throat suddenly closes at the sight. Mel and her boytoy, the man of progress, councilor Talis. You could just tell, from the way they behaved with each other that something was going on between the two and it made your blood boil. As you helped Jayce with whatever tools he needed you kept casting glances at Mel but she was looking around, not once catching your gaze. Eventually Jayce left with Mel on his trail, you can't help but call out to her “The Undercity is too dangerous to come see me but it's fine with your new toy ?” The words tasted bitter, the painful feeling of not being enough for her making your eyes sting with tears threatening to fall any moment. She doesn't even look at you as she answers, “We have enforcers with us. Why, do you have a problem with me coming here ?”. You look down at the counter, “You moved already haven't you ? It's only been three months..” Mel raises an eyebrow, giving you a skeptical look “Move on from what ? Our casual hook ups ?”. Your head shoots up to look at her back “We had more than that! You can tell yourself that there were no feelings but you had to have felt something! I loved you!”. Mel sighs, her head turning just enough to eye you “There was nothing, Jayce and I are together now, you should really move on, for your own good.” You're seething but you try your best not to show it, “He can't give you what I gave you, you know that as well as I do. I gave you my everything and I would've given you anything you wanted, even if you never reciprocated. I won't move on, and deep down I bet you'll still think of me in years.” The words feel like lies on your tongue but you don't want to back down, though the argument is quickly settled when Mel leaves, not bothering to spare you a glance or give you a proper answer, she wishes you good luck in life and leaves. You wipe away the tears on your face and try to relax your breathing, not wanting anyone coming in to see you like this.

“and when you think about me, all of those years ago

you're standing face to face with "I told you so”’

It's been 6 months now and you're over it, at least that's what it feels like most of the time. You still think of Mel here and there but you've made peace with the idea that it was impossible between you, instead you focus on the shop and your hobbies. You've come to realize that you have no reason to waste your time and love on someone who feels the need to hide you because of where you come from, on someone to whom appearances are too important not to keep in the shadows. You don't blame her, not anymore, she's in a respected position and worked so hard to get there that she doesn't want to risk it all going down the drain for some passing fancy. Surprisingly enough you can't say the same about her moving on, you've seen her in the shop several times since she came in with Jayce, though she's always alone now. She has tried making small talk, you gave in the first times but eventually as you started to move on your replies turned shorter and shorter until your conversations were the same as with any customer. You don't know what's going on in her life, if she's unhappy with her lover or if she misses you, the convenience of having you at her beck and call but you don't care anymore. It's her problem now, she'll just have to sort her feelings and move on like you did. You can't help the slight satisfaction blooming in your heart anytime you see her, she never even buys anything, she looks around, attempts a conversation and leaves and you rejoice in her dejected face when you don't chat with her. A small part of you is happy to know that she might be getting a taste of how you felt throughout your whole “relationship”. You're back to enjoying your life as it is, it's not all pink but it's a nice routine with a job that gives you enough money to live and that's all you need. You can live without her, even if it didn't feel like it months ago. 

"Well good luck babe!

You'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling."

[sbarrysncream]

Ey yo, not to get cheesy on my blog, but in the spirit of the Baftas, I wanted to genuinely thank a few of the blogs I follow here for keeping me wrapped in the GO and DT fandom, and subsequently, having my art improve a TON because of it.

(this is gonna be a long one, so strap in, or scroll if you don't wanna read my ramblings, lol)

Tw: mentions of depression, art block, and unmotivation

For a bit of background, up until October of 2024, I was in a nearly seven month long (honestly, probably more like 1 year) stretch of unending art block. I was feeling really bad about my art style, and I started doubting my future as an artist. I was barely putting any effort into any of my college projects, and I stayed up late crying and panicking because I just didn't enjoy making art anymore, and I was afraid I'd end up with a job I hated because I don't have any other skills. The only source of comfort I had at the time was David Tennant media. I was teased a lot about my special interest by my family (it was all good natured, don't worry), but I was the only one that I knew personally who liked David as much as I did. Which brings us to the first person I wanna mention: @davidtennantgenderenvy

I can't pinpoint when or how I discovered their Youtube channel, but when I did, I honestly felt more seen than I ever had about my insane special interest with this actor. And she was a musical theater nerd who maladaptive daydreamed all his characters to different musical songs??!? It was genuinely like finding my twin, and made me feel just a bit more normal about my love for David's projects. I then clicked on her Tumblr link and began looking around the website (without an account, mind you, I was just browsing), but when I did, I eventually stumbled across the art blog @hg-aneh, and fell in love with his style and how he drew Aziraphale and Crowley.

His art was so cute and simple and it just made me sadder that I was stuck in this never ending artist's block. However, one day, I was looking at one of his works (I can't remember which one it was, im sorry), and I was like, "You know what? Just to humor myself, I'll make a quick sketch in his style. Cuz its cute! And it won't be too detailed. So I did. Sure, I quickly erased the sketch, but that was the first time in MONTHS that I had made my own art outside of school work. It must have kicked something off, because I started sketching on my iPad again, slowly but surely making more and more little pieces. Which again, isn't much, but it was such a huge step for me. Yeah, I started focusing more time on my personal art than my school work, and my grades suffered because of it, but I was SO happy that I was finding some joy in making art again.

I finally got Tumblr around the middle of October, thanks to some persuading by davidtennantgenderenvy when I told them I wanted to show them some Macbeth fan art I made, but I didn't have any social media. I asked them if Tumblr would be worth getting, and they assured me it was, so I made an account and almost immediately started getting likes. It honestly made me want to cry because I always thought my art was boring and uninteresting. It doesn't help that around this time, I was barely getting any feedback from my peers during class critiques, so I just assumed my art wasn't anything anyone wanted to look at. But then the first Macbeth piece I posted on here got so many notes, that I was like "eh, I'll post my Good Omens fan art too. What could go wrong?" Nothing went wrong, and I continued getting notes on the pieces that I posted, and I was almost confused by it? I can't really explain it but I was like "wait, so is my art good, or are these people just taking pity on me?" (I have a huge complex about pity, but we don't need to get into that LOL)

Anyways, I started making art primarily just to post on Tumblr, but I guess the practice was beginning to pay off, because when I would barely get any feedback on my classwork pieces, people in class started speaking up a bit about my work. Giving compliments and critiques, which helped so much. Wanted to cry when it happened again lol.

Can't really write out a good segue between these two points, but another person I wanted to thank was @depraveddame . If you don't know who she is, she is an insanely talented writer who, I think I discovered back when I was just browsing Tumblr without an account. I started reading her ao3 story Vine Slips of a Strange God, which is a human AU Good Omens fanfic, for those who have not read her work yet. First off, I am NOT a reader. Like, you could not pay me to read a book in my spare time, so idk what drew me to this fanfic (it was probably the mention of 'hurt/comfort' in the tags, ngl.) But I ATE THAT SHIT UP OH MY GOD IT WAS SO GOOD. It took me a bit to click with the story, but when I DID?!?! It genuinely took over my life in the best way. There was also BEAUTIFUL art in the chapters, made by the very talented @zivilzz .The way they colored and shaded their pieces made me want to practice on my coloring and shading, and it has improved so much because of it. I ended up reading all of her works in the span of like, a week or two. I also made a small sketch of her gardener Crowley around the time I started slowly getting back into making my own art. I ended up loving Vine Slips so much, that I'm currently planning on making a comic of one of my favorite scenes in the story. Also, while depraveddame is an amazing writer, she also informed me a TON about the BDSM community. (btw, if you don't support the bdsm community, and you think its morally wrong, or that it should be illegal, unfollow me rn.) But anyways, I used to be a bit judgy about the idea of bdsm. I knew of it, and I never thought it should be illegal, but I would just ask myself "why? why would you do that to another person, or why would you just let that happen to you?" Luckily, I don't think that way anymore, and it is very much thanks to her insane writing.

Also one more person I want to thank, that doesn't really have anything to do with my art improvement was @aq2003 for prayer circling for me to be able to watch Macbeth at my nearest cinema *cough* 50 minutes away during a snow storm *cough*. Genuinely, thank you, dude, that recording changed my life

OOH!! and also, thank you, @davidtennan-t for chubby Fourteen 🥹

Damn, this was a long post, sorry y'all, but basically, the point of this post is, while I have many things to thank for my latest improvement of art, I really dont think it would have been able to happen as quickly as it did without these blogs, so thank you guys so much, you'll never know how much it meant to me.

yes, I cried while typing this, shhhhhhhh

[doginprogress]

it’s kind of funny you referred to as handlers as being broke when you own houses and sometimes multiple pure bred dogs. that is not broke person living.

My friend, I do not know why you are upset with me or professional dog handlers, but we are not your enemy. As you do not contribute to my finances, you do not have any right to the details (deets can be bought for $500 per person, ask me for my venmo). And yet, I’m gonna fill you in a bit cause I’ve had a long day at work and you hit a sore spot.

I wouldn’t classify any of the pro handlers I know as rich. They all work for their living, and work hard. They don’t own most of the dogs they show, and the ones they do are usually dogs that they themselves spent significant money to breed. Some own a house, some do not.

I do own my house (well, the bank owns my house and I make mortgage payments) and when I bought it, because of first time home owner and rural housing government programs, I did not have to make a down payment. The seller covered closing costs and I only had to pay money for the inspection. This was cheaper at the time than paying a deposit on an apartment (which I could not afford) and was just before the entire market fell apart. I got incredibly lucky.

I did not pay for Ponzi and I am not paying for the puppy coming home soon. This is due to the absolute generosity of their breeder, my friend, and the trust that I will honor the contract we have. I purchased Spork on a co-ownership payment plan, also thanks to the generosity and trust of her breeders. It would not have been, and still isn’t, affordable to me to purchase them outright or upfront.

These are huge privileges - I fully recognize that. I am much luckier and better off than so many - I totally get that. And yet, I work in customer service and make approx. $45k per year, putting me in a lower to lower middle class income range. I, like so many people in this country, have some significant debts, and am only 1-2 missed paychecks away from being homeless. Maybe that isn’t broke by your standards, but it feels pretty broke to me. Your anger is misplaced and would be better directed at those in power being oppressive and exploitative.

[tessa-liam]

A Marabelle Series...

One-shot, upcoming chapter snippet

Thank you @snoopdogcone for your ask...prompt: First Valentine's Day Date after a big break up!

Choices book: The Royal Romance, book2

Pairing: Drake Walker x Riley Brooks (F!OC)

Rating: Mature

Category: angst/fluff. One-shot, ask/prompt

A/N: not Beta’d, please excuse all errors.

A/N2: CFWC Valentine's Day 2025, prompt: Ouch! - First Valentine's Day after a big break up.

Premise: It's Valentine's Day, Drake is remembering the last fight he had with his now ex-girlfriend, Melanie. Sitting alone in the beer garden, his outlook on life instantly improves when Riley Brooks enters and bumps into him.

As the familiar strains of a Cordonian folk song hummed from the far corner of the beer garden, Drake downed the remnants of his beer and scowled to himself.

He should have known it wouldn't work out with Melanie. Hell, it was Valentine's Day, for Chrissake. A holiday invented to screw with bachelors everywhere. All of the cute little couples strolling by outside with their perfect life. Ugh. If I have to listen to someone ask for an 'appletini', I might just drown myself in that damn thing.

On the one day when his lack of romanticism would be glaringly evident to the rest of the bar crowd, the last thing Drake wanted to do was to be around people. As the dour thought crossed his mind, it seemed that the very world conspired against him.

Just then, another patron bumped against Drake's arm. As the person went to apologize, she turned to him and stopped.

"Drake?" the feminine voice said with surprise. "It's me... Riley."

As he shifted in his chair, Drake recognized the woman's piercing hazel eyes and charming smile. It was hard to forget someone like her, who was bursting with charisma and personality. He knew instantly who she was, but he played ignorant.

"Well, I needed to get out of my apartment..."

"Oh, hey, Riley. What brings you here today?

"And the brew at the bar is free today." Drake smirked.

"Yes, that, and not knowing anyone here besides Melanie."

"Ah, so it is Valentine's Day that's got you so worked up," he grinned, shifting a little on the small stool.

"If I was alone," he continued, "there'd be no difference. I usually make a point to keep myself too busy to even realize it's today, so as not to feel so fucking inadequate and depressed."

"Really, you've found this day a blight upon your lonely existence? Because that's totally not how everyone else on the street looked as they sauntered down the road holding hands and giggling," Riley chided him, doing a spot-on imitation of the most saccharine romantic she could think of.

"This, I would not deny. Clearly, others have the magical ability to connect and establish real relationships with actual human beings. This does not work for the emotionally stunted, who prefer a good bottle of whisky anyway. Their company is sufficient; it does not care who is paying for dinner."

Riley rolled her eyes as she took a sip of her appletini, smiling ruefully at him as she chewed on an ice cube. It felt nice to make conversation with him. They were usually working when she saw him and not really talking about anything significant. She would occasionally shoot him a glance or two, but it wasn't really an equal exchange.

"Maybe I can remedy the issue of no company on the date," she grinned, enjoying their light banter. "But where is the famous Melanie today?"

"Melanie," he started, his mouth turning into a sneer when he mentioned her name.

"Oh shit, did she leave you for the romantic stroll under the street lamp?" She patted him on the back empathically.

"Well, not exactly..." he trailed off, unsure of the word choice for describing his previous romantic involvement.

"Well, I take that as good news for you. What happened, Drake?" She brought her eyes up to meet his, cocking her head to the side. She sincerely wondered why anyone wouldn't be attracted to a tall, dark haired, chocolate eyed handsome gentleman. It must be some serious defects and faults for Melanie to say goodbye.

"When did it end? Or should I say, how long had you been expecting for this to happen?"

Drake had the sinking feeling that he'd managed to summon the relationship proverbial demons into the conversation, but for better or worse, he was starting to really like the company of this clever-tongued woman next to him.

"It wasn't expected. Not by a long shot. It ended about a week or two ago."

She frowned, studying his face carefully for the nuance of regret she detected. When he couldn't meet her gaze, she figured out there wasn't any lingering feelings between Melanie and him. The frown turned back into a wicked little grin.

"Damn," he breathed, looking away from her stare. It was unnerving, being so vulnerable.

"Let me guess," she started, gazing at him with her pale, inquisitive eyes. "Things have gotten bad because of all the witty and intelligent discussions. You've driven each other so crazy that you can't stand being with the other anymore. Sound familiar?"

Drake laughed to himself and swiveled his bar stool to face her, resting his back against the bar. He wasn't going to be the only vulnerable one anymore, not if Riley kept probing like that.

"Actually, yes, it was those witty and intelligent conversations that killed the romance."

"I'll drink to that."

"Seriously?!" Riley looked away, glancing at the array of glasses behind the bar. "What kind of geek dates someone and talks for fun, then ruins everything?"

✨️💘✨️

[alongtidesoflight]

i swear my stepdad is so illogical AND stubborn it hurts

[pilonciillo]

lol didn’t think someone giving money would give me anxiety