#i just wanted to do SOMETHING for the holidays

[pucksandpower]

Crash Course in Love

Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz’s best friend!Reader

Summary: in which Carlos forgets to tell his two best friends they’ll be staying in his villa together, and now a stressed out lawyer has to survive living with a human golden retriever, but you know what they say … opposites attract

You’ve been in Marbella for four days and already gone through three bottles of wine and two existential crises.

Carlos’ villa is too quiet for someone used to white noise: emails pinging, heels clacking, cortisol. The silence in this place isn’t peaceful — it’s accusatory. You’ve spent more time staring at the sea than you have your own reflection in the last ten years, which is saying something.

It feels indulgent. Like if someone walks in, they’ll accuse you of being lazy. You’d have to explain the insomnia, the migraines, the crying in bathroom stalls between depositions.

But Carlos isn’t here to judge. He’s off somewhere filming shampoo commercials in Paris or golfing in socks with his dad. He just texted you the gate code and told you to “relax, coño.” So here you are, inhaling almond-scented air and avoiding your inbox.

You’re halfway through a rerun of The Holiday when the doorbell rings.

You don’t move.

It rings again. Louder.

“Delivery?” You mutter to no one. You didn’t order anything.

You shuffle to the door in socks and an old hoodie of Carlos’ that you’ve unofficially adopted. You crack the door open and freeze.

Lando Norris is standing there. With a suitcase. And a sunburn.

“Hey,” he says, blinking like he’s not entirely sure this is the right house. “You’re not Carlos.”

“You’re … not a delivery guy.”

“Definitely not. Unless you ordered someone with mediocre Spanish and no plan.”

You blink. He grins.

“Sorry, I’m Lando. Uh. Carlos said I could crash in the guest room. Hotel bailed on my reservation. Long story. But he didn’t mention you’d be here.”

“He didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

“Cool. So we’re both surprised. That’s … fun?”

You stare at him. He looks like he just rolled off a yacht he wasn’t invited on. Sleeveless shirt, board shorts, and the confidence of someone who’s never had to Google “how to flirt.”

You open the door all the way. “Come in, I guess.”

He wheels his suitcase past you. It makes an annoying thunk over the threshold. You follow him into the hallway, watching as he does a slow 360 like he’s never seen furniture before.

“Whoa. This place is insane. Does Carlos actually live like this, or is he secretly royalty?”

“Just rich.”

“Same difference.”

You cross your arms. “You want something to drink?”

“God, yes. I’m parched. Is that still a word people use? Parched?”

You turn toward the kitchen. “Not since 1912.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Alright. Tough crowd.”

He follows you to the kitchen like a golden retriever. Doesn’t ask where things are — just opens cabinets and drawers like it’s his Airbnb.

“I got this,” he says, pulling out two glasses. “I’m a fantastic guest. Top tier. Five stars on all platforms.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You have reviews?”

“No, but if I did? Flawless.”

He pours two drinks. One is wine. The other is apple juice. He hands you the wine. “Cheers.”

You eye the juice. “Is that … what you’re drinking?”

“I burnt a little on the flight. Gotta rehydrate.”

He’s completely serious. Like drinking juice is a medical emergency. You stifle a laugh.

“You okay?” He asks, suddenly earnest. “You look like you’re tired. But not like, normal tired. Lawyer tired.”

You blink at him. “Lawyer tired?”

“Yeah. Like … your eyeballs are sleepy but your soul’s still trying to finish a brief.”

You stare.

“I mean that in a good way. Like, impressive. Respectfully.”

“Wow.”

“I should stop talking.”

“Yeah, probably.”

***

Dinner is his idea. You offer to order something in. He insists on cooking. “I make a mean carbonara,” he says. “Or maybe risotto. Wait, do you eat dairy?”

You nod.

“Okay, sick. Chef Lando it is.”

You spend the next hour watching him destroy Carlos’ kitchen with the chaotic enthusiasm of a man who’s only cooked two times in his life and once lit a tea towel on fire.

He tells stories while he cooks, most of them involving near-death experiences, bad tattoos, and a rental car that somehow ended up in a lake.

You lean on the counter, sipping your wine. “Do you ever filter?”

“Rarely. But I can if you want. I can be quiet. Mysterious. Brooding.”

“You?”

He makes a face. “Okay, rude.”

“You burn your hand yet?”

“Twice,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m hiding it to preserve my ego.”

He fumbles with the tongs. Pasta flies out of the pan and onto the floor. He shrugs. “Five-second rule?”

You deadpan. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

He laughs. You notice he has a nice laugh. Not performative. Just … happy.

Dinner is terrible. Somehow both overcooked and cold. You take one bite and try not to gag.

“So?” He asks, eyes wide with hope.

“It’s … ambitious.”

He winces. “I’ll order pizza.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Should’ve stuck with cereal,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

You don’t mean to smile. But you do.

***

Later, you sit on the couch with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls through terrible Spanish romcoms on TV.

“This one’s got a 3.4 on IMDb.”

“Perfect.”

He clicks play.

You steal glances at him when he’s not looking. He’s gotten more attractive since the last time you saw him, though you’re not sure if it’s the jawline or the fact that he keeps folding your hoodie when you leave it on the back of a chair.

He’s obnoxious, yes. Too comfortable too fast. But when you yawn mid-movie, his entire face falls.

“Oh no, I’m boring you.”

“It’s the wine.”

“I’m still boring you.”

“You’re not.”

“I totally am.”

He turns toward you, earnest again. It’s disarming. “You wanna sleep? I’ll shut up.”

“You never shut up.”

“Harsh.”

He watches you for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

You pause. That question again. The one you’ve been dodging since the breakdown.

“Yeah,” you lie.

He nods. But doesn’t push.

You both go quiet. The movie drones on in the background.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a cool vibe.”

You look at him. “What does that mean?”

“I dunno. Like … your energy. It’s nice.”

You snort. “Are you high?”

“No! I’m complimenting you. With words.”

“This is how a teenager hits on a barista.”

“Okay, true, but still. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “Just accept the compliment.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t say no.

***

By the time you head to bed, the house smells like burnt garlic and whatever cologne he bathed in.

You hear him shuffling around in the guest room next to yours. Singing under his breath. Awful pitch.

You press your face into the pillow. You’re not supposed to like this. The noise. The chaos. The presence.

But when you wake up later and find your bags stacked neatly by the door — shoes lined up, hoodie folded on the chair — you smile.

Just a little.

And only when no one’s looking.

***

It starts the next morning with coffee.

You’re barely awake — just a hoodie-draped zombie with bed hair and a fading dream you don’t want to examine — when he appears in the kitchen, too chipper, too shirtless.

“You drink it black, right?” Lando asks, holding out a steaming cup like he’s been doing this forever. His curls are a mess. There’s toothpaste on his chin.

You blink at him. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

“You made fun of me yesterday for putting oat milk in mine. I remembered.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s called observation. I do it professionally.”

“Driving is not the same as remembering my coffee order.”

“I do both with style.”

You accept the cup, suspicious. “Did you spit in this?”

“Only love and a little judgment.”

You take a sip. It’s surprisingly decent.

“You’re not completely useless.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He says it with a grin, but something flickers in his eyes when you smile over your cup. You don’t catch it. Not yet.

***

Days pass like that. Mornings laced with caffeine and accidental comfort.

You fall into a rhythm neither of you talks about. He gets up earlier than you expect — blasts music while brushing his teeth, sings ABBA off-key in the hallway, makes smoothies that look like radioactive goo.

You argue over playlists constantly.

“No. We’re not doing Pitbull at eight in the morning.”

“He’s Mr. Worldwide! It’s inspirational.”

“He’s bald and shouting.”

“That’s showbiz, baby.”

Sometimes, you win. Most of the time, he sneaks Mr. Brightside onto every playlist and pretends he didn’t.

You never thought you'd get used to someone like him. Loud. Playful. Constantly hovering in your peripheral vision. But there's a gentleness under the antics. A sweetness that doesn't beg to be noticed, but you notice anyway.

He drives you to the market without asking. Carries your groceries like it’s a competition. Starts trying to cook again — more confident than competent.

“What’s your favorite dish?” He asks one evening, hunched over his phone like it owes him money.

You answer without thinking. “Cacio e pepe.”

“Easy. I got this.”

He doesn’t got this.

He overcooks the pasta, forgets to salt the water, and ends up Googling “what is pecorino” in a panic.

You walk in on him whispering “don’t clump, don’t clump” at the sauce like it’s sentient.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Need help?”

“Nope. I’m an artist. This is part of the process.”

He serves it with flair. You pretend not to notice the texture is more glue than cheese.

Still, you eat it. He watches your face the whole time, pretending not to. When you finish the plate, he beams like he’s won a Michelin star.

^**

The rain starts on a Tuesday.

You wake to gray skies and the soft percussion of drops against the villa’s roof. You think it’ll pass. It doesn’t.

By mid-afternoon, you’re both restless.

“I have to move,” you say, pacing in the living room. “I need to do something.”

Lando sprawls across the rug like a teenage boy at a sleepover. “Let’s play Mario Kart.”

“That’s not productive.”

“You’re literally vibrating with stress. Sit down. You need to get your ass kicked by Princess Peach.”

You do not get your ass kicked. You annihilate him.

“This game is rigged,” he whines as your kart zips past his. “You’re cheating.”

“I'm just better.”

“You're heartless. Cruel. Unfairly good at drifting.”

“You sound like a man who’s losing.”

He groans, flops over, and covers his face with a throw pillow. “I hate fish.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just thought I’d change the subject.”

You snort. “Okay. Why?”

“They smell weird. They look weird. Their eyes freak me out.”

“Do you think fish can understand us?”

He lifts the pillow slightly. “Are we high right now?”

“No, I’m serious. What if they know we’re watching them?”

“Then I owe a lot of apologies to some sushi.”

You laugh. A real one. Not the polite chuckle you use in meetings, not the rehearsed smile for courtroom civility. This one hits your ribs.

He sits up. Watches you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just … you’re different when you laugh like that.”

You glance away. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot something was weighing on you.”

His voice is soft now. Uncharacteristically so. You don’t respond right away. Just look out the window, rain sliding down the glass in long, lazy streaks.

After a while, you say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He looks over.

“I mean, with my life,” you continue. “I was going so fast, for so long, and now I’ve stopped and I don’t … know what’s left.”

You stare at your hands. You hate how raw that sounds. How uncertain.

He doesn’t jump in. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t try to fix it.

Just sits beside you. Quiet.

“I used to think being successful would feel better than this,” you say. “But I don’t even remember who I was before I started chasing things I don’t even know if I wanted.”

“Do you wanna go back?” He asks.

“No. But I don’t know how to go forward, either.”

He nods. Not like he understands completely — but like he’s trying to. Like he’s holding space for you, instead of advice.

“I don’t have answers,” he says eventually. “But I’m really good at distractions.”

You smile faintly. “Clearly.”

“I mean, c’mon. My carbonara almost killed you.”

“It did. I wrote a will after.”

“Harsh.”

“Truthful.”

He grins, and you feel lighter. A little.

***

That night, the rain intensifies.

You can’t sleep. Not because of the storm, but because something inside you is too noisy. Like your mind won’t stop pacing the room.

You wander out into the hallway, barefoot and restless, planning to make tea.

You don’t expect to see the front door open.

Or the rain soaking the floor tiles just past the entry.

Or him — barefoot, shirt clinging to him, hair dripping, crouched on the porch with his hands around a toppled plant.

You step outside. The rain is warm. Immediate. Your hoodie clings to your skin.

“Are you serious?” You call.

He looks up. His smile is sheepish, wide. “It fell over. I didn’t want it to drown.”

“In the middle of a storm?”

“Poor guy didn’t ask for this.”

You stare at him. His knees are muddy. There’s a leaf in his hair. He’s cradling the ceramic pot like it’s a kitten.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.”

“But also kind of … sweet.”

He looks at you.

You’re not sure what’s shifted. Maybe it’s the rain. The hour. The silence between the two of you that’s no longer awkward.

You’re suddenly aware of how close he is. How sincere his face becomes when he thinks you’re not looking.

He stands slowly. Water drips down his neck.

You say, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You say, “You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

And there it is — that moment. Hanging. Taut.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

But the kind of stillness that precedes something inevitable.

He tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t touch anything else.

His fingers are cold. His eyes are impossibly warm.

You shiver.

He notices. “Come on. Let’s not catch pneumonia.”

You nod. Follow him inside. Neither of you says much as you dry off.

But something’s different now.

And you both feel it.

Like you’ve stepped into something bigger than a holiday detour.

Something that might last.

***

You don’t expect him to ask.

You’re elbow-deep in a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some Spanish cooking show neither of you understands, when he says it — casual, like it’s nothing.

“You should come to Monaco next weekend.”

You blink. “What?”

“To the race. I’ll give you the VIP treatment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get a lanyard. And free food. And I pretend to be cooler than I actually am.”

“So, your regular weekend?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You scoff. “I’m not going to be some … grid girl.”

His grin falters. Just a little. “It’s not like that.”

“Lando.”

“You’d be my guest.”

“That’s worse.”

He turns toward you on the couch, legs folded under him like a golden retriever mid-persuasion. “Come on. It’s glamorous. There’s champagne. Helicopters. You love judging rich people.”

“That part is tempting.”

“I’ll let you wear one of my team shirts.”

“Still not sold.”

“I’ll bribe you with food.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll-” He pauses, thinks hard, then lights up. “-I’ll serenade you. Publicly. At the paddock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Off-key. Acapella. I’ll make the engineers cry.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

He leans closer, dramatic whisper: “Come on. I’ll look lonely if you’re not there.”

“You’ll be surrounded by people.”

“Yeah, but none of them steal my fries and insult my music taste.”

You try not to let the warmth bloom too fast. “That’s your best argument?”

He lifts his hands. “That’s all I got.”

You shake your head. “Fine.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You sigh. “Yes. Before I change my mind.”

He fist pumps the air. “YES. I mean — cool. Chill. No big deal.”

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

“Your loser.”

You ignore the way your chest does a weird little flutter.

***

You regret saying yes almost immediately.

Not because you don’t want to go — but because it’s a lot.

The paddock is chaos. Noise. Cameras. Sunglasses on everyone, like they’re all pretending it’s not just overcast. You can feel eyes on you from the second you step out of the car.

Lando’s bouncing on the balls of his feet beside you, grinning like he owns the place. Which, in a way, he kind of does.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod, a bit dazed. “You weren’t kidding about the VIP treatment.”

“Would I ever lie?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

He hands you a pass. “Here. This is your all-access badge. Makes you important.”

“Is it laminated?”

“Of course it’s laminated. We’re not animals.”

You laugh. He smiles like that was his whole goal.

People greet him constantly — engineers, press, fans. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder more than once, guiding you through the crowd.

You notice it after the third introduction: no one asks who you are. They all assume.

“Oh, so this is your-”

“Hey, you finally brought her!”

“Lando’s girl, right?”

You start correcting people. At first.

“Oh no, we’re just-”

“Not together, actually.”

“Just friends.”

But he never jumps in. Never clarifies. Just smiles, tugs you along, calls you mate in that annoyingly endearing way.

At some point, you stop correcting anyone. You tell yourself it’s just easier that way.

You’re lying.

***

You meet Oscar by the snack table.

He’s polite, a little dry, surprisingly funny. You’re mid-laugh when Lando shows up, scooter wheels screeching dramatically.

“Hey,” he says, too loud. “What’s going on here?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Just talking.”

“Looked like flirting from over there.”

Oscar blinks. “I was complimenting her trainers.”

Lando squints. “They’re mine.”

“Ah.” Oscar smiles. “Well, you’ve got good taste.”

You can feel the tension radiating off Lando like heat from asphalt.

“Oscar was just telling me about the simulator,” you say, steering the conversation.

Lando crosses his arms. “Yeah? I’m faster than him in it.”

“By two-tenths,” Oscar says mildly.

“Still counts.”

You glance between them. ��Are you … racing right now?”

Oscar shrugs. “Always.”

Lando tries to lean casually against a tire stack. Misses. Nearly faceplants into a crate of water bottles.

You wince. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, hopping back up.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable.

You bite your lip. “Should I, uh, go find my seat?”

Oscar nods. “Probably safer over there.”

You follow Lando as he storms off, silent. His curls are a mess. His ears are red.

When you finally stop near the garage, you say, “What was that?”

“What?”

“You nearly crashed your scooter trying to interrupt a conversation.”

“He was flirting with you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was definitely flirting with you.”

“And if he was?”

Lando blinks. “I-”

You tilt your head. “Lando.”

“I didn’t like it.”

You cross your arms. “Why not?”

He stares at the ground. Rubs the back of his neck. Looks nothing like the confident, camera-ready version of himself from earlier.

Finally, he says, quietly, “I just really like you.”

You freeze.

“I know I’m not your type,” he adds quickly. “And I know you’re probably just being nice to me because I make dumb jokes and cook badly and follow you around like a puppy-”

“Lando-”

“-but I’d try, you know? To be whatever it is you’re looking for. Even if I’m not it.”

The words hang between you. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen from him before.

You laugh. Just a little. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s too much.

He looks crushed.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That wasn’t — I’m not laughing at you. I’m just … overwhelmed.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile through it.

You reach for his arm. “You don’t have to be anything else. You’re already …”

You stop. Your heart fills in the blank your brain can’t say.

You’re already it.

***

Back in the garage, you watch him from a distance. He’s talking to his engineers, gesturing wildly, helmet tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t glance your way.

For once, you’re the one staring.

Something’s shifted again. The line you’ve been walking is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with.

Maybe this thing — whatever it is — isn’t waiting to be defined.

Maybe it’s just becoming.

***

It starts with a subject line you don’t want to read.

RE: Return to Work Policy Update.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the villa’s sun-warmed patio, coffee cold beside you, when the email comes through. You stare at it for a full minute before opening it.

Then you read it. Reread it. And again.

By the time the words actually register, your throat is dry.

They want you back.

In the office. Full-time. Effective immediately.

No room for extension. No regard for the months of burnout, the time zone, the soft, tender recovery you’ve only just begun to trust.

The deadline sits there, bold and final: next Friday.

If you don’t return, they’ll consider it a resignation.

Your hands tremble. Not dramatically. Just enough to spill a little coffee when you try to pick up the mug.

You wipe it away with your sleeve. Then you close the laptop slowly, gently, like maybe that’ll keep the contents from being real.

***

Lando doesn’t notice at first.

You’re good at hiding. You always have been.

He bounds into the kitchen mid-morning, wearing swim trunks and no shirt, hair wet from the sea. “I made toast!” He announces proudly. “It’s only slightly burnt. Also, I may have used all the butter.”

You smile. Or something close to it.

He pauses. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna go for a swim?”

“Not right now.”

He watches you for a second longer than normal.

Then shrugs. “I’ll save you a good floaty.”

You nod.

But later, you don’t join him. You stay inside. You open a suitcase you haven’t touched in weeks. You fold slowly, carefully. As if touching your things too fast might make it all feel too real.

***

The villa shifts.

There’s a silence between you that hasn’t been there before. Not sharp, just … echoey.

You stop making jokes. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop stealing his hoodies and pretending not to.

Lando notices.

And he spirals.

First, he overcompensates — louder jokes, bolder breakfasts, compliments that sound like YouTube comments.

“You’re glowing today. Like, solar flare-level.”

“Okay.”

“That hoodie’s working overtime. Is that a new shade of existential dread?”

You manage a weak laugh. It makes him look relieved. Which only makes you feel worse.

Because none of this is his fault.

He doesn’t know.

You don’t tell him.

***

Wednesday, he plans the party.

He does it in secret. Sort of.

Oscar is in on it. So is Carlos — over FaceTime, mostly to say things like “Do not set anything on fire” and “Are you using actual TNT?”

Lando doesn’t care about the logistics. He just wants to make you smile.

“She’s leaving, I think,” he mutters, digging through drawers for balloons. “She hasn’t said it, but … I can tell.”

Oscar looks at him, concerned. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.” Lando shrugs. “I think I broke it.”

“You?”

“She’s … retreating. Like, emotionally. It’s like she’s packing her heart before her suitcase.”

Oscar frowns. “That’s poetic. Are you okay?”

Lando ignores the question. “I just want her to know she matters here. That this mattered. That I’ll-” He stops. Runs a hand through his curls. “-that I’ll miss her. So fucking much.”

***

The party is terrible.

Confetti ends up in the punch. The playlist is just ABBA and Martin Garrix on loop. Oscar bails halfway through. Carlos texts I warned you.

But the real problem is this.

You don’t show up.

Lando waits. He checks his phone. Checks the garden. The pool. The kitchen.

Nothing.

Eventually, he wanders outside. Something tells him to check the back.

That’s where he finds you.

Curled into yourself on a bench beneath the lemon tree, head bowed, fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. Shoulders shaking.

He stops mid-step. Heart hammering.

“Hey.”

You flinch, barely.

He walks slowly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.

You shake your head.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he admits. “But you’re-”

“I’m leaving,” you say suddenly, voice hoarse. “Next Friday. If I don’t go back, they’ll fire me.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lando sits beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just near.

You bury your face in your hands.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper. “But I don’t know how to stay, either.”

And just like that, the dam breaks. The tears come fast, messy, embarrassing in their intensity.

You expect him to panic. To joke. To offer a stupid, misplaced solution.

He doesn’t.

He just slides closer. Wraps his arms around you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says softly, chin resting on your hair, “but I can sit here until you’re okay.”

You cling to him like he’s a life raft. And maybe he is.

You cry harder.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I’ve spent years building a life I’m not even sure I want anymore.”

“Then don’t go back to it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am without it.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, quietly, “I think you’re someone who deserves to choose. And be chosen.”

You pull back slightly. Just enough to look at him.

His eyes are red. Not from tears, just open. Vulnerable.

“Lando,” you whisper.

He leans in.

Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle. Reverent. A question more than an answer.

You breathe into it. Let your hand slide to his jaw. Let yourself feel the way he sighs against your mouth, like kissing you is something he’s been holding in for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he says, barely audible.

You close your eyes.

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

You don’t decide to stay because of Lando.

Not exactly.

You decide to stay because the thought of packing up now — of folding all this softness into a suitcase and shipping it back to a life you’re no longer sure you chose — makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with clarity.

Lando doesn’t ask questions. He just finds you that morning in the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, scribbling a pros and cons list onto the back of an electric bill.

You don’t look up. You just say, “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

He’s quiet for a second too long, and you glance up — worried he didn’t hear, or worse, that he did.

But then he grins. Huge. Bright. Like someone lit a fire inside him.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No.”

“Like … not leaving leaving?”

“For now.”

“For now,” he echoes, nodding, trying to play it cool. “Right. Yeah. Cool. Chill.”

You sip your coffee.

He bumps your shoulder. “So … does this mean I can keep introducing you as my emotionally exclusive, spiritually bonded non-girlfriend?”

You laugh into your mug. “That’s not a thing.”

“It could be. It sounds deep. Very committed. Like a tax bracket.”

“Just say girlfriend.”

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“Then talk.”

He straightens, clears his throat dramatically. “Would you do me the honor of being my emotionally exclusive-”

“Lando.”

“Girlfriend. Would you be my girlfriend?”

You give him a long look. “Okay.”

He whoops and spins you around the kitchen before you can change your mind.

***

The days fall into place like dominoes after that.

Not perfect. Just … consistent. Yours.

Mornings start with half-burnt toast and Lando doing pushups in the living room because “I skipped the gym, babe. You want me to be weak?”

You steal his hoodies like it’s your job. He leaves little notes in your shoes like it’s his.

Sometimes, you fight. Over dumb stuff — who used the last clean towel, whether ketchup belongs in the fridge or the pantry, if “driver” is a real career or just a glorified Mario Kart enthusiast.

But the making up is easy.

It always has been, with him.

***

One afternoon, Lando walks into a coffee shop holding your hand and introduces you to the barista.

“This is my girlfriend.”

You blink. He hasn’t used the word out loud yet.

“Well,” he adds quickly, “not officially officially, but like, we’re emotionally exclusive. Spiritually connected. She knows where I keep my socks.”

The barista nods slowly, very confused.

You squeeze his hand. “We’re dating.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “Cool.”

Lando turns to you as soon as she walks away. “Was that weird?”

“A little.”

“Did I oversell it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you still like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He beams. “Sucker.”

***

You record a video of him attempting to fold laundry and accidentally inventing a TikTok dance while pulling a hoodie inside out. It gets 300,000 likes overnight.

He tries to act modest. Fails completely.

“I’m an icon,” he says, scrolling through the comments. ‘Boyfriend energy — see that? That’s me. I am the boyfriend.”

You steal his phone.

“HEY!”

“No more reading comments. You’re unbearable.”

He leans in, eyes wide and innocent. “You knew what you signed up for.”

You did.

You just didn’t know it would feel this good.

***

Carlos calls during dinner one night. You’re sitting outside, feet in Lando’s lap, a half-eaten bowl of pasta between you.

Lando puts the call on speaker.

“Have you both burned down my villa yet?”

“Nope,” Lando says cheerfully. “Just christened all of it.”

You kick him.

Carlos sighs. “I knew letting you stay there was a mistake.”

You grin. “We’ll leave it better than we found it.”

“Good. Because I’m coming back next month.”

Lando chokes on his milk.

Carlos raises an eyebrow — visible even through the pixelation. “What?”

“Nothing. Cool. Chill. Welcome back, mate.”

You lean in. “We’ll be out before then.”

“Where are you going?”

Lando shrugs. “Nowhere far.”

Carlos stares suspiciously, but lets it go.

For now.

***

It happens on a Sunday.

You come home from the market, arms full of fresh herbs and way too many lemons because Lando said “go big or go home,” and walk into absolute chaos.

Smoke. Everywhere.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Lando?”

A pan clatters. “It’s fine!”

You drop the groceries and rush in. He’s waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, eyes watering.

“What did you do?”

“I was trying to make that shrimp thing you like!”

“I told you I was allergic to shellfish!”

He pauses. “Wait, shrimp counts as shellfish?”

You just stare.

“I thought it was like … seafood.”

“It is seafood!”

“So … not fish?”

You blink at him. “That’s your defense?”

He drops the towel. “I’m really bad at this.”

You cross your arms. “I noticed.”

He opens his mouth to keep digging the hole.

You laugh.

It surprises both of you.

“God,” you say, walking over, “you’re a disaster.”

“I tried to impress you!”

“With anaphylaxis?”

“I got confused!”

You wrap your arms around his waist, still laughing.

He exhales, relief flooding through him.

You tilt your head up. “Next time, just buy me a cupcake.”

He grins. “Can do.”

Then he kisses you. Slow, familiar. Like you have nowhere else to be.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this mess of smoke and lemons and burnt fish-smelling air is yours.

***

Later, curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, you ask, “So what’s the plan when Carlos comes back?”

Lando taps something on his phone, pretending to be casual. “We … move?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”

He tosses the phone down and stretches, clearly trying to be nonchalant. “I mean, we can’t actually stay here forever.”

“No,” you admit.

“I’ve been looking at places.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, cheeks going pink. “Just, you know. In case we want … options.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “And do we?”

“I do.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then grins.

“Hey … do you know any good lawyers?”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because Carlos is definitely going to want his villa back. And I think I need legal counsel before I sign the papers on a new one.”

You laugh. “Are you trying to retain me?”

He grins. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.”

You nudge him playfully. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

And you’re staying.

***

Carlos arrives at the villa just after noon, sun-tanned and dead-eyed, dragging two suitcases and a single, unrelenting hope.

Peace. Quiet. Maybe a cold beer. No one yelling. No team meetings. No cameras.

Just Marbella, his lemon trees, and the blessed sound of absolutely nothing.

He exhales as he unlocks the front gate, breathing in the soft scent of sea salt and sunscreen. It’s good to be home.

Or so he thinks.

Because he hasn’t noticed the massive moving truck parked next door yet.

***

He’s halfway through unpacking — half a beer gone, half a suitcase open — when he hears it.

A crash. Then laughter. Then what sounds like, yep that’s Lando’s voice shouting, “Babe, I think I broke the blender but like … in a hot way?”

Carlos freezes.

“No,” he mutters. “No. No. No.”

He walks stiffly out to the garden wall, cranes his neck — and there, as if summoned by evil spirits and bad karma, is Lando.

Wearing a tank top, holding a screwdriver, grinning like the world is made of sunshine and Monster energy.

“CARLOS!” He yells, delighted. “You’re back!”

Carlos stares, horrified. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, right — funny story!” Lando sets the screwdriver down on what might once have been a blender. “We live here now.”

“You what?”

“Moved in last week.”

Carlos blinks. “Here? As in … next door?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”

Carlos looks like he’s trying to mentally summon a lightning strike. “You bought that place?”

“Well, technically it’s still in escrow,” Lando says, wiping his hands on his shorts. “But spiritually, we’ve already moved in.”

Carlos glares.

Lando grins wider. “Wanna see the kitchen? We painted one of the walls blue by accident but I think it kind of slaps.”

Before Carlos can recover enough to yell, you step out from inside, wearing Lando’s hoodie and holding a glass of orange juice like you own the sun.

You freeze. “Oh.”

He blinks. “You’re here too?”

You smile sheepishly. “Hi, Carlos.”

Lando beams. “We’re neighbors!”

Carlos closes his eyes. “I need another beer.”

“Want one of ours?” Lando offers brightly. “I bought those fancy ones you like. The ones with the weird labels.”

Carlos opens one eye. “Did you drink all the ones in my fridge?”

“No! I have your beer memorized.”

“That’s not better.”

You snort, already laughing.

Carlos stares at the two of you, then sighs. “This was supposed to be my peaceful getaway.”

“We can be peaceful,” you promise.

Lando leans against the garden wall. “Super peaceful.”

A loud crash echoes behind him.

You wince. “What was that?”

Lando blinks. “Oh no. I left the microwave on.”

Carlos groans into his hands. “This is my nightmare.”

“C’mon, it’s us,” Lando says, grinning. “What could go wrong?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He just walks back into his villa, muttering something about divine punishment.

***

From his kitchen, he can hear you both laughing through the open windows.

And weirdly, it kind of sounds like home.

[agentpeggycarterrogers]

Peggy shrugged. “Well, if you put it that way,” she said. “I just wanted you to have something nice. I suppose you want the same for me. I can think of plenty to celebrate. Anniversaries, promotions, achievements at work, birthdays. There are so many events to share joy in.”

She nodded. “Tours have their benefits, but I like that we can also just do what we want and be together. The one on one time, yes. I love that, even if we’re missing out on things. But I do love that we’re going out on our own to explore. Just us. I couldn’t pull you into an alcove for a kiss on a tour.”

She grinned at him. “You’re sweet, but we couldn’t have even honeymooned at home, darling. We married in England. I suppose we could’ve honeymooned in England as well, but that’s not much of a holiday for me. I prefer this. We deserve this.” She spread out her arms. “This is paradise.”

The first courses and drinked looked divine, and Peggy realized how hungry she actually was. “May I try those stuffed peppers?” 

@steven-g-rogers

“We don’t have to have it more often because it’s my favorite. Yes, when it’s free and part of an all-inclusive cruise, but you don’t have to do that for me.” But she also wouldn’t say no to him doing something nice for her, because she loved it, but he didn’t have to.

Peggy shook her head. “We know how to lead ourselves around a city; I don’t think we need tours. I think we’ve seen a lot of Europe as it is, and we know what’s important to see this time. But oh yes, we’ve been enjoying the food, and we’ve been seeing quite a bit of our room. This trip has been well worth it. My parents don’t need to know exactly what we’ve been doing - only that we’re very grateful and we enjoyed every moment.” She laughed. 

“Fairly mesmerized? Goodness, Steve. I’ll have to try a bit harder,” she teased. “But all of this, indeed. I think we do appreciate it all. It’s very special indeed.”

@steven-g-rogers

[iceman-kazansky]

Smiles, Sun, and Unsaid Feelings

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Requested by: anon, by ask

Request: "will you be writing any Mika Hakkinen or Kimi Raikkonen fics?"

Pairings: Kimi Raikkonen x f!reader

Warnings: Probably unrealistic dialogue, alcohol consumed, Nando is a flirt, 2006 F1 season

Word count: 1.9k

A/n: This kinda took awhile. I was going to write this a week ago (for the 7th,) and I had it ALMOST finished but had school shit thrown on me and now I'm away on holiday. So, what better time to do it then now?

Taglist: @anamiad00msday

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Kimi was a tough nut to crack.

He was aloof, appearing closed off to all onlookers. He was difficult for press and didn't have much of an opinion on anything, always giving short answers to in depth questions. Kimi didn't mind, though, as long as it kept nosy reporters and crowded cameras out of his face, he'd do anything.

Another factor of his personality was, in short, a lack of friends. Sure, he had plenty of acquaintances, but were they really friends? They didn’t know what he was like outside of racing. His personal life.

It wasn't that the iceman didn't want friends, rather that he couldn't be bothered to make new ones.

But he also was beyond content keeping many people in the acquaintance zone. He deeply cherished his privacy.

He stood off to the side of the garage, getting ready for qualifying.

The 2006 season was mid way through when Montoya left Mclaren for good.

Kimi didn't necessarily feel too down about it, he had remained purely cordial with the Columbian.

He saw you step into the garage, clad in racing gear with a helmet tucked under your arm and pressed to your side. At first, he didn't believe you were his team mate. Perhaps an engineer or a mechanic, but a fellow driver? No way.

You were the first to introduce yourself to him. Sauntering up to him without a speck of hesitancy, you reached out and offered to shake hands.

“Hi!” You said, voice cheery.

It was then that you smiled. You beamed a hearty smile that stretched from ear to ear.

Kimi could've sworn he'd been blinded. Teeth so bright they seemed to shine and shimmer. He'd never seen something so.. so bright. Friendly. Outgoing.

He didn't realize it, but from that moment onward, he was hooked.

Kimi didn't return the smile, only offering a small nod to you. His ears burned red hot and he felt strangely awkward.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Kimi wasn't particularly interested in being friends with you. He had made that much clear. Or atleast, that's what you'd made out his reserved persona as.

But you were determined.

Hot summer sun beat down on you, feeling like every second you stood under its gaze you darkened with tan.

So, what better day for a cold snack?

With two ice-cream cones in hand, you weaved through the many people on the grid to your team garage.

You managed to get close to Kimi, standing beside him. Gently nudging him with your shoulder you presented one of the cold treats to him.

For a long minute he just stared, ice blue eyes flickering from you to the ice cream cone. It looked like he was contemplating or considering something, his brows pinched together and a quizzical look fell into his gaze.

Eventually, Kimi took the ice cream cone, mumbling– or grumbling, you weren't quite sure– a very quiet ‘thank you’.

But what you could've swore you'd seen on his face a moment before was just an ounce of shock. And that was enough to keep you determined to befriend the reserved driver even more.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥

The minute you'd climbed out of your car you looked for Kimi.

Your team had reported that he'd had some technical malfunction mid lap but said nothing else.

It was only after the fact that you exited your car that you found out he had walked off the track and went straight to his yacht.

You imagined he'd be upset over the race; no racer would have been jumping with joy after his incident. Kimi had made it well over half way through the race before unfortunately ending up out on lap 50 due to a mechanical issue.

So, doing the only thing you thought suitable, you sought him out– bringing an offering that was in hope of comforting him and being a good friend.

Or atleast, being a good friend is what you'd told yourself. That there was nothing besides friendly intentions, is what you resorted to claiming. Only, your heart had it twisted. Your emotions had already acted like a fishing hook, thrown straight into the flesh of your heart by his cool blue eyes and ocean vast personality. Kimi had you hooked.

Others may not agree with the ‘ocean vast’, but they were very wrong. Kimi was unique. He was reserved yet still cared about those around him. He wasn't outgoing, eager to meet new people, but he wasn't disinterested in maintaining a friend once you'd gotten there. Sure, it may have taken a bit more effort on your side, but before long you'd chipped through that glacier-tough outside to discover his real self. The one he had put aside for friends only, tucked away from media and press and the other competitors. Kimi wasn't as he appeared, he never had been and it only took a bit of time and observation skills to see that.

Before long, you were at his yacht. Kimi looked shocked when you appeared on the ramp of his boat, still clad in your racing gear and a smile on your face. “Hey,” you greeted, raising a hand slightly to showcase the items you'd run to get as soon as you'd found out about his incident.

In your hand sparkled a bottle of liquor, glinting under the sun. Then, Kimi grinned. His lips tilted up and he genuinely smiled. The action almost made you drop the bottle in shock, luckily, however, you managed to snap out of it and keep your grip on the glass. He may have been feeling upset, but your inclination of bringing a comfort of sorts had him feeling grateful beyond his own words.

And his smile was worth a thousand words to you.

You were welcomed onto Kimi's boat then, the two of you cracking open the liquor and sitting in the shade provided by the boat.

The liquor goes by quicker than you'd imagined.

By the bottom of the bottle you've moved closer, sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressing together while your hands almost touch, lingering a hair's breadth away from each other.

You converse animatedly with Kimi, even if you're the one doing a majority of the talking.

Kimi didn't mind it, though. His head, which previously felt weighted by the loud swirling thoughts, had cleared. Something likely because of your presence.

You're mid story, telling him about some childhood thing you remember when he closes that distance with his hand.

You stop talking, shocked by his action. In your chest, your heart does somersaults, flipping and beating wildly against your ribs. Your eyes dart down to his hand, which tentatively touches yours. Slowly, you reciprocate the action, moving to shift your hand into his. He spreads his fingers and you take the initiative to lace them together.

For Kimi, it's a grounding tactic and a way to show how grateful he is for you. He'd never been one for words, so instead he chose to show his emotion by holding your hand.

Nobody says anything, instead taking the moment silently. Neither of you know what it means to the other, or how the action mirrors an unknown, unspoken affection that’d been brewing for a while.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

The end of the season rolled up quickly. The Monaco incident was far from forgotten to either of you, rather pushed away by the lightning-paced world of Formula 1. It was the evening after Brazil, the final race of the season.

Most of the drivers had gone out to a local bar, deciding to get shitfaced in celebration of what they would argue a successful season.

Kimi sips on a Hardwall Long, a drink of gin and grapefruit soda. The bitter yet sweet mixture dances on his lips as he swallows a mouthful.

Across the bar, you sip your own drink. You know Kimi is here, but you're content while off on your own or meeting new people.

A presence makes itself known to you, leaning against the bartop and flashing a charming smile at you. Immediately, you recognize the face of the Championship winner and fellow driver, Fernando Alonso. His hair peeks out from behind his ears, brown locks waving hello.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks politely, gesturing to your almost empty glass. When he speaks, his Spanish accent is thick and rather nice on your ears.

But you don't care for the Spaniards' speech, you've already got your own accented man – whose voice lingers even now in the back of your mind,– to charm your ears.

You smile at Fernando, but politely decline, “I'm good but thank you, Nando. Congratulations on winning the championship, by the way.”

Little did you know that on the other side of the bar, you've caught none other than The Iceman's attention.

It's rare for the Fin to change expressions often– he's simply a man wearing a neutral face most of the time. But as of now, his eyes have narrowed uncharacteristically more, face pulling together in an expression of pure jealousy. Though, Kimi wouldn't really admit that out loud.

Fernando doesn't stick around too long after that, he just flashes you another smile and makes a comment about ‘still being there if you change your mind, hermosa’ before slipping away.

It isn't long before another figure stands beside you, only this time he seems.. off.

You turn your eyes to look at Kimi. He's got this subtle, sour look on his face, like he's just sucked on a lemon. It's unnatural on him, something you're unaccustomed with.

“Is everything alright, Kimi?” you ask, feeling concern.

He doesn't look at you, instead glaring at some object across the bar. “What did he want?”

“Alonso?” you ask, eyeing Kimi suspiciously, “he just wanted to buy me a drink.”

Kimi's eyes dart to the bar top, where a half-finished drink of yours sits. You can see his jaw clench while he simply hums.

“Let me take you on a date.”

“What?”

Kimi stares at you now, icy blue eyes trained on yours. He's serious and there isn't a speck of joke or jab in his speech.

“I promise it'll be better than whatever that.. Kusipää,” the foreign word slides off his tongue smoothly, alien to your ears, “has to offer.”

To say you were speechless was an understatement. Out of everything you expected to come from Kimi's mouth, his offer to take you on a date was not one of them. It wasn't even in the ballpark.

“He didn't ask me on a date,” you say, feeling confused. This whole thing feels confusing and like a big misunderstanding. Like a trick.

“My offer still stands.”

Something in his voice has you doubting your previous thought. How could he sound so sincere and be deceiving? It would be far-fetched. Even more so when you meet his gaze and see the genuine ask present in his eyes.

“Then I'd be honoured, Kimi,” you say, smiling at last. Your heart has taken that leap of faith.

He nods, and for a split second a smile graces his lips. You're thrown back to Monaco, even just for a short time, where he's smiling at you and you're smiling at him with booze in hand. He checks his phone before turning back to you, “let's get out of this place.”

The night was still young, and outside of the bar, within the city of Sao Paulõ, it was alive. Kimi extended his hand and you took it instantly, letting him lead you out of the bar.

[midnightmisty]

too sweet - chapter 1

masterlist | ao3

18+ !no outbreak joel x f!reader Summary:

“Joel—are you su—” “Let’s go.” Ten minutes ago, you were sitting in a freezing police station with no phone, no money, and a record waiting to happen. Then Joel Miller—your daddy's ex best friend—walked in, spoke six words to the cop, and took you home like you already belonged to him. Now you’re in his house. Wearing his shirts. Sleeping in his spare room. He buys you a brand new phone, stocks the fridge with things he knows you like, leaves cash on the counter like it’s nothing.

In which Joel Miller ends up being your sugar daddy who absolutely ruins you.

author's note: hi, this is my first time publishing fanfiction to tumblr. (please tell me if i'm not doing something right.) i've only been an ao3 author(bridgerton/stranger things). so here is sugar daddy joel. now, it's not full on. it's not he's buyin' her expensive stuff — think practical sugar daddy? i'd like to thank my bff karina for encouraging me to try another fandom out.

tags: content warning!! blowjob, male orgasm, dbf!joel, joel miller x f!reader, lots of smut, slowburn on romance, dom joel, alternative universe - no outbreak, !light sugar daddy, sugar daddy/sugar baby, joel is bad at feelings, age gap, joel is 50s x reader is 26-27.

word count: 4.2k status: ongoing.

chapter 1: i'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to somethin'

I think I'll take my whiskey neat My coffee black and my bed at three you're too sweet for me

The police station ain’t exactly the best place to be on a Thursday night. 

It’s cold. The bright lights are flickerin’ on and off giving you a headache that rings in your skull. You sit there, arms crossed, eyes on the dirty tile like it might somehow make the time pass a little faster. 

How the hell did you end up here?

Well, that’s easy. Your dad. 

Fraud. Money Laundering. Stolen Cars. 

Stealing cars? Yeah. That included the one you were driving home. 

Figures. 

The lobby’s dead. Cold air blowing in from the doors, buzzing lights, and the smell of someone’s dinner filled the air. Nobody wants to sit at a police station unless they have to. Fuck, you just wanna go home. 

To make matters fuckin’ worse, you lost your phone. 

You had the cop call Tommy—your dad’s friend, well sort of. The only one who might answer and not make a huge scene out of all of this. 

That was over an hour ago. 

Were you going to be stuck here forever?

The officer walks over, bored expression and a small note pad in his hand. “Tommy answered,” he says. “Said his brother’s on his way.” 

He looks down at the paper in his notebook. “Joel, I think his name was.” 

Fuck. Joel.

Joel was your dad’s best friend. Well…before all this.

Told him not to get involved in all that messy shit. Warned him somethin’ bad was going to happen. Said it to him straight, like he always did. But your dad…he didn’t listen. He never really did.

You grew up around Joel around. He was there–almost every barbecue, every holiday. Always showing up with a six pack and that quiet look that always said so much more than your dad’s drunk yelling ever did. After your mom left, he stuck around. Checked in every once in a while. Fixed your car when your dad was too drunk to. Made sure your dad didn’t drink himself stupid. You’d watch his daughter, Sarah, she was younger, always tagging along like a little shadow. 

He was always around. 

That’s what made this worse. 

You sigh and stare down at the checkered tile, the kind that somehow looks dirty even when it’s scrubbed clean. You’re just waiting now. For this mess to be over. For a way out. 

The front door creaks open. Heavy boots echo across the lobby floor.  You don’t even have to really look up to know who it is. 

It’s Joel. Rugged. Grey streaks in his hair. Worn denim and that damn tan jacket he’d had for years. Jeans. Boots scruffed. That look on his face—the one he wore when someone around him did something stupid. Like this wasn’t the first time he had to clean up someone else’s mess. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, casually, like you’re not sitting in a fucking police station. 

“Hey,” you mutter back, quietly. 

“Y’they lettin’ you go?” Joel asks. 

You shrug. Been there for hours at this point and honestly, no one’s told you shit. 

“They won’t say much,” you say. “Talkin’ to me like I’m five.” 

Joel doesn’t say much. Just walks over to the cops, starts talking in that low voice that somehow makes people listen. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. Between work and part-time classes, life just… got in the way. 

But Joel?

He hasn’t really changed. He’s always had this way of making you feel—calm. Safe, maybe. Even now. Joel handles shit the way men are supposed too. Not like other people who’d just talk too loud and make things a thousand times worse. 

You find yourself staring. Too long. Watching him as he talks to the cop, his voice low, hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a worry in the world. Like he’s got everything handled. 

Joel walks back over, his expression unreadable. 

“Get your stuff,” he says. 

“–Joel—are you su–” 

“Let’s go.” 

You grab your backpack, sling it over your shoulder, and follow him out. 

He’s already at the truck, passenger door open, just waiting. It’s newer, bigger, and cleaner. You can smell the leather and sawdust as you climb in. 

Your dad had mentioned the construction business was doing well. Said Joel had a crew now. Jobs lined up for months. You’d seen it too; last year at the neighborhood barbecue, when he showed up in a clean shirt and boots that didn’t look like he’d been wearing them for a decade. 

He shuts the door and doesn’t look at you. Just rounds the truck, climbs in, and starts the engine. He doesn’t say a word as he drives. Neither do you. 

Feels like Joel don’t even know what to say. Truth is, you don’t either. He just picked you up from a goddamn police station. You were so fucking close to being tangled up in your dad’s mess. 

“Where ya stayin’?” he asks finally. “Dorm?” 

You shake your head. “No…I–uh.” 

School wasn’t something you could afford anymore. Had to drop to part-time. Scrape by. Make payments late and hope the university didn’t send you notices. Your dad was paying for it. 

Until he wasn’t. 

“I’m crashin’ at a friends,” you mutter. “Just ‘til I find somewhere.” 

“Your dad said you were livin’ in the dorms,” Joel says. “Or was he payin’ for that?” 

“He was.” 

Joel just nods. Doesn’t say nothin’ else for a while. His eyes fixated on the road. 

“You’re comin’ home with me,” he says. 

“Joel…” you sigh. “It’s fine. I’m good, really, I promi–”

“You’re stayin’,” he says, sharper now. “Got the space. You don’t gotta figure this shit out on ya own.” 

You nod, slow. “Ain’t forever,” he says, looking over. “Just ‘til ya get settled.” 

And you can’t help but wonder— Is he just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re his friend's kid? His only kid. “Ya eaten anythin’?” Joel asks. 

You shake your head. “No.”

Before you know it, Joel’s pulling into your favorite fast food place. Doesn’t ask. Just knows. 

Maybe–just maybe–this won’t be so bad.

Stayin’ with your dad’s best friend? Can’t be the end of the world.

Right?

🎀🌟🎀💫🎀✨🎀🌸🎀💖🎀🌟🎀💫🎀✨

You wake up to the smell of bacon. Don’t know what time it is. Don’t even remember falling asleep, really. First night in a new place–well, not new. Just unfamiliar. Same floors, same creaky hall, different energy. 

You slept in a baggy T-shirt Joel gave you last night. Soft, worn with a hole in the bottom of it, it smelled like fabric softener. You stretch, muscles feeling stiff, hair a fuckin’ mess, then slip out of bed. The house is quiet as you wander downstairs, your feet brushing against the cold hardwood floors. The clock in the living room blinks:12:30. 

Fuck. 

You step into the kitchen, Joel’s at the stove, back to you, flipping something in a pan. He looks over his shoulder, shakes his head at you. 

“It’s past noon,” he says. “Whole damn mornin’ gone, sunshine.” 

“I don’t ‘member what time I fell asleep,” you mumble through a yawn. “Hard to sleep.” 

Joel doesn’t say anything. Just keeps working at the stove, like he hears you, like he understands what you mean. You sit down at the table. The chair creaks loudly under you. It’s strange being here. Still not yours.  But it’s quiet. Feels like something solid after years of nothing but mess. 

It was quiet for a while. Just the sound of the pan and the clock on the wall ticking. Then he moves, walks over, grabs something from his bag. A small box. Black Bow. 

He sets it down in front of you. 

“Ain’t like not bein’ able to reach you,” he says, firmly. “Use it. Set it up how you want.” 

You look down. It’s a phone, a brand new one. You’re speechless. You’re not even sure what to say to him. Joel doesn’t look at you. “Didn’t ask what color,” he mutters. “Don’t bitch.” 

“Joel–you—” you start. 

He cuts you a look, a look that was sharp. You know better than to argue with him. 

“Thank you,” you say, quietly. 

He sets a plate of breakfast down in front of you, still hot. He writes something quickly on a different piece of paper, then he grabs a scrap of paper and a pen from the counter. 

“I’ll grab your stuff later,” he says. “Write the address.” 

That’s it. No offer for you to go with. No questions. You just do it. 

Used to bite people’s heads off who told you what to do. Your parents, they constantly told you what to do. Exhausted you with it.  But with Joel? You don’t. You just listen. 

“You sure you don’t want me to come?” You ask, quietly. 

“Quicker if I do it myself,” he mutters. 

You write the address. Slide it over and he grabs the paper, grabs his work bag. Doesn’t say nothin’ else. Just leaves. 

Now you’re alone. In Joel’s house. 

You look down at the box, phone still laying neatly inside.

He bought you a phone. Just like that. No big talk about it, no strings attached. You’re sleepin’ in his spare room. Eating his food. Staying here “until you figure shit out.” 

And he’s not asking for a damn thing. Why does that feel so fuckin’ strange?

That he’d just do this. No questions. No rules. Just–here. 

You finish up your breakfast, scrape the plate, head to the sink.  There is a note. 

Home late. 

Order Pizza. 

–Joel. 

Twenty dollars sitting on top of it. That’s it.

🎀🌟🎀💫🎀✨🎀🌸🎀💖🎀🌟🎀💫🎀✨🎀

It’s been almost two weeks at Joel’s. 

Feels longer. Feels like nothing. He’s barely home. Out before you wake up, back late. 

You get rides to work. Keep your head down mostly. Classes are on break ‘til spring, not that you’ve paid your tuition bill at all. You’re not even sure if you can. 

Joel doesn’t say much. But he does things. 

Keeps the fridge stocked. Leaves a clean towel on the counter for you to shower. Bought you face wash last week–just left it by the sink. No note. No comment. Just there. 

You never asked for any of it. You keep wondering what he gets out of this. 

It’s not like you’re doing anything. Not helping. Not giving him a reason to keep getting you things. You just exist in this house. Taking up space. Most likely annoying him.  You’ve started thinkin’ maybe you should cook dinner.

Something simple. Just…something. Feels like the least you could do. Joel’s never been picky. Not that you know. But cooking feels like a way to give a little back.  It’s been quiet though. He works all the time. But not the bad kind. 

The kind that makes you feel safe, but drives you mad. Still, you’ve found yourself lying awake more than once, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing just down the hall. If you knocked on the door; if you asked to just sit with him. Would he let you?

You don’t. 

There’s a line. 

Should you cross it? No. Yes.  No. 

Today, you got home later than usual. Picked up a shift at the restaurant  for a friend. Didn’t mind it–kept yourself busy to keep out of your head. You take a quick shower when you get in. Let the water rinse the entire day off your skin. Let yourself feel clean again. 

You head downstairs, barefoot. Hair still damp, dripping down your back. Thin tank top. Shorts. Should be fuckin’ freezin’, it’s winter. But Joel kept the house warm for you. 

You round the corner and see him. 

Feet kicked up on the coffee table. One hand wrapped around a half-empty beer. TV playing some old black-and-white western, the kind he’s probably seen a hundred times. He doesn’t look away from the screen. 

Just says–

“C’mere.” 

You do. No hesitation. 

You walk over, eyes landing on the screen. “What’s on?” 

Joel doesn’t look over at you.

“Nothin’ good,” he mutters. 

You sit beside him. Close, but not too close. His arm draped around the back of the couch. Casual. Calm. But it’s there. 

He smells like cedar soap. The kind you saw in the shower earlier. And underneath that–sawdust and a little bit of sweat after a long day. 

After a while, he speaks. “Work was a bitch.” 

You look over at him. His head leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. Then his hand drags down his face, slowly. He looked tired, completely worn out. 

“Delivery truck didn’t show,” Joel mutters. “Big job. Had me on the damn phone all day with some fuckin’ kid who didn’t know shit.” 

He shakes his head and takes a slow slip of his beer. 

“Bein’ in charge just means cleanin’ up everybody else’s fuckups.” 

It’s the first time he’s ever opened up and said anything about work. Or when you think about it, his day. 

You reach out to him, slowly. Hand resting on his arm–just above the elbow, your touch so light and careful. Your thumb moves softly over the fabric of his shirt. You’re nervous. You shouldn’t be. 

But you are. 

Your fingers keep fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. 

You look up at him. “You do a lot,” you say. “You…deserve to relax.” 

He tenses, shoulders shift, like he’s a little caught off guard. You freeze–should you stop? But…he isn’t pulling away. Doesn’t move at all. So, you leave your hand there. Fingers dancing along his arm. You’re not trying to push, just trying to be there. A quiet way of showing that you care. 

He continues to watch the movie, keeping his eyes on it like nothing’s changed. You feel the change in him, the tension, the stillness. Like he’s holding his breath and doesn’t even realize it. 

The movie keeps playing, slow, pointless background now. You’re used to the quiet now, used to him. Joel’s never been a man who needed to fill the space with words.  You don’t even realize how much time’s passed. Not ‘til Joel shifts. Subtle, just barely. Then his hand finds your knee. He still doesn’t say anything, just leaves it there.

A minute later, it moves. Slow. Steady. 

Fingers drifting up, stopping just shy of the hem of your shorts. He squeezes your thigh lightly. Then his fingers slip higher, pushing your shorts up a little, settling on the bareskin. Like it’s nothing, like he’s just mindlessly doing it. 

Your breathin’ practically stops. He just keeps watching tv, and doesn't flinch. Doesn't look over at you. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe, he did. He just keeps watching the screen like nothing’s changed. 

But…something has changed. 

🎀🌟🎀💫🎀✨🎀🌸🎀💖🎀🌟🎀💫🎀✨🎀

Joel’s been on your mind for weeks. 

Won’t leave your head. Not when you’re awake, not when you’re dreaming. You know it’s wrong–thinking about him like that. Wanting him so fuckin’ bad it keeps you awake. 

Imagining what it would feel like for your lips to be on his, him on top of you. Imagining what it would be like to knock on his door in the middle of the night. But you don’t. You stop yourself…every time. 

After that night on the couch, movies became your routine. Evenings where he wasn’t workin’ late, you’d sit together on the couch, watching whatever you’d bicker about puttin’ on.

Somehow it was just…easy. 

Money left on the counter without a word. A new pair of headphones when you complained that yours stopped workin’. Always buyin’ your favorite snacks. One afternoon, last thursday, he dropped you off at the mall–handed you his credit card. 

Said, “Get what you want.” 

Still, somehow, didn’t ask for anything back. 

But no matter what, you settled nicely into this routine. Nights with Joel. He’d sit beside you on the couch, he’d rub your leg with that hand of his, like he didn’t even realize he was doin’ it. You’d lay against him sometimes, feel his chest through that old flannel, watchin’ whatever movie he picked–usually some western, sometimes an action flick that had low ratings. 

One night, you talked him into Friday the 13th. 

He just grumbled about it being total nonsense. 

But he still watched it all the way through. 

You wanted to cross that line, needed to. Every night, it got so much harder not to. But you held back. 

Until now…

You woke up late. House was quiet already. Joel was gone… at work. 

But when you walk into the kitchen, there’s a box on the counter. Wrapped, a bow on top of it. Joel’s thing he did with his gifts for you. 

You recognize it before you even open it—the necklace. The one your mom gave you. The one that snapped last week when it got caught on your sweater. He fixed it. Didn’t say a word. Just left a little note folded under the ribbon. 

For you, Darlin’. 

—Joel. 

You’ve been tryin’ to get used to the gifts. 

To the way Joel leaves things for you without a word. Pays for what you need. Asks for nothin’ back. You don’t know if it’s guilt over your dad bein’ locked away—or if he just likes takin’ care of you. 

There’s a part of you that wrestles with it. That still wants to earn it somehow.

But there is another part. One that secretly loves the idea of being taken care of. 

You made him dinner tonight, even he was a little shocked. He ate in silence, like he asked. You left him there while you showered. Now you’re headin’ back downstairs. Back to him. 

Back to this new routine. 

You’re wearin’ one of his shirts–big, warm right out of the dryer. You took it from his drawer a few weeks ago, he didn’t notice. 

But he’s seen it on you. 

“We ain’t watchin’ another one of them damn horror movies,” Joel grumbled, settling back on the couch. “Last one was fuckin’ terrible.” 

You roll your eyes as you sit down next to him. “Fine,” you mutter. “You pick, then. Since I’m so awful at it.” 

He picks some older movies. Lettin’ it play in the background, more noise than anything else. You take a small sip of beer he put out for you. 

“How was work?” you ask softly. Joel just huffs. Doesn’t look over. “Long,” he says. “Tired of dealin’ with people who don’t know what the hell they’re doin’.”

He seemed a little better when he walked through the door. A little less stressed out. You wonder if it’s the movies. The silence. Just sittin’ together. 

You lean into him, slow, like you always do. And he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift away from you. He’s gotten used to it.

You watch him. Not sayin’ a word—just takin’ in the way his jaw stays tighty, the way he grips his beer a little too firm. Eyes on the TV, but not really watchin’. He’s so wound up. You can see it. The movie drags on, just background noise between the two of you now.  You debate it. Talk yourself out of it. Then back into it. Then out again. 

And then his hand moves. To your thigh, fingers slowly grazing your skin. Like he means it this time. 

Fuck it.  You slide off the couch and down to your knees. Settle between his legs–spread wide and lazy where he sits. 

He looks down at you. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. 

“What’re y’doin’, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low. 

You don’t answer at first, just reach for his belt; your fingers trembling, eyes locked on his. “Helpin’ you relax.” 

Joel doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t flinch. Just exhales through his nose.  You tug the belt free quickly. Pop the button, fingers slippin’ to the zipper–but he gets there first. Reaches down before you, grabbing it. 

Drags it down himself. The sound cuts through the room. Then he pushes his jeans and boxers down to his thighs, stopping just under the muscle. Hard. Already waiting for you. Joel leans back into the couch. One arm thrown over the back like he’s settlin’ in. His eyes are on you, just watching. 

You pause. Just for a second. Because he’s there–thick, swollen, and the tip of his cock is glistening with pre-cum. 

You swallow hard. 

“Go on, princess,” he mutters. “Ain’t the time to get shy on me now.”

You reach out, wrapping your fingers around the base of his cock. A low groan comes from his throat when you start stroking him.

“Fuck,” he says, jaw tight. “This’ a bad fuckin’ idea.” 

 But he’s not pulling away. Just lets you keep going. 

You stroke him, feel him twitch in your hand, just a little. Then again. You do it just to tease him, you hear him moan, strained, quiet, fighting that need to thrust into your palm. Leaning in, you lick a slow line from the base of his cock to the tip. Draggin’ your tongue over the thick vein. The taste of him–salty–spreads across your lips. Then your mouth wraps around the head of his cock, tongue swirling. 

Joel’s hand moves fast–right to the back of your head and his fingers knot in your hair, firmly. Holding you. 

You open your mouth wider, taking him in slowly. Let him guide across your tongue, inch by inch, until your lips are nearly at the base and your throat tightens around him.

“God—fuck,” he breaths. “That mouth... Been thinkin’ about this. Thinkin’ how good it’d feel.” 

You set a rhythm, steady, wet and he lets you for a minute. Just watches. His cock disappears into your mouth over and over, until your chin’s slick and his cock’s shining with spit. 

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” Joel mutters. He grips your hair tighter, it hurts a little. 

“You hear me?” 

You moan around him. You’re drooling now, a filthy fuckin’ mess and he’s lovin’ it. 

His hands lock in your hair now, fingers twisting deep as he starts to move. Not sloppy. Not rushed. 

Controlled. 

He knows what he’s doin’. Knows how to use your mouth…how long to keep you right there on the edge. Just enough to drive you crazy. Just enough to make you fuckin’ need it. 

“Just like that, baby,” he groans. “Goddamn–y’know what you’re doing, don’t you?” 

You gag, just a little, when he pushes deeper and he grunts, breathless. “Easy,” he says, even as his hips roll forward. 

“Don’t choke, sweetheart,” he breaths. “Ain’t done with you yet.” 

Your spit is all over his cock, your throat is raw, eyes glassy, tears threatenin’ to spill. Joel watches, doesn’t miss a thing. 

“Look at that mess,” he groans. “Drippin’ down your chin. So fuckin’ pretty like this.” 

He holds your head steady and starts to thrust harder into your mouth. Your hands dig into his thighs, bracing. Your jaw burns–but you don’t stop. You take it, like you’re supposed to. 

“Shit,” Joel growls, voice cracking. “The way you suck my cock–princess, fuck.” 

A deep moan.

“Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.” 

He’s breathing is ragged now. Not gone…not yet…but close. Right on the edge. 

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” he asks. “Wanted me usin’ that mouth like this.” 

You moan around him and his cock twitches on your tongue. 

“Baby,” he breaths. “You keep doin’ that–I’m gonna fuckin’ cum.” 

But you don’t stop. You moan again–on purpose. Throat tight, lips wrapped, tongue draggin’ slow along every thick inch as he fucks your mouth. 

Joel moans, louder this time. 

“Jesus–fuck—you’re takin’ me so good,” he pants. “So. Fuckin’. Good.” 

You can feel it. The way his thighs tense up. The sharp jerk of his hips, the rough sound of his breathing. “I’m gon’ cum,” he growls. “You ready for it? Gonna swallow for me, huh?” 

You nod–best you can, mouth full, eyes up. He pushes you down deeper onto his cock. 

“That’s it,” Joel groans. “That’s it–God—don’t—”  Then he spills into your mouth. Thick, hot, endless. You try to swallow every drop, but he’s still twitching, still pulsing, and it leaks past your lip.

His chest heaves, breath ragged. 

And then—

Buzzzzz. Buzzzzz.

The phone on the coffee table goes off.

Joel exhales hard, like the wind just got knocked out of him. Then carefully, he pulls out of your mouth, stands up, pulls up his pants and grabs the phone off the table. You’re still on your knees. Panting. Lips swollen. His cum at the corner of your lips. “Yeah?” he answers. 

A pause. 

“I’m home.” 

His eyes drop down to you. He reaches out and swipes his thumb across your bottom lip. Smears the cum away with one slow drag. “Tommy,” he sighs. “Was workin’ on somethin’.” 

Walks into the kitchen like nothin’s changed. Pulls his zipper up, belt clicks as he threads it back through. Phone still pressed to his ear. 

He leaves you there. Kneeling. Swollen-lipped. Messy. Wet. 

And you don’t know what’s worse. That he walked off like nothin’ happened–like everything’s still the same. Or that you’re just kneelin’ there–cunt throbbing, soaked, mouth wrecked from takin’ him. Wanting more. 

🎀🌟🎀💫🎀✨🎀🌸🎀💖🎀🌟🎀💫🎀✨

[elliespectacular]

Hello,

My appology in advance, as I'm not familiar at all with actually using Tumblr, but it seems that's the last source of news since you quitted Twitter (for understandable reasons).

Just wanted to know if your current projects have changed since I noticed you were less active on the Dathings youtube channel.

Regardless, I still intend to keep supporting you, even if by a small amount.

Have a nice day!

Thanks for asking! So basically, I needed to take on some warehouse work back in October to make ends meet 'cause tax payments were adding up and things were getting scary. I took an informal break from DaThings while I was working that job, and since it was a seasonal position I left after the holidays.

Since then I've started like 5 or 6 YTP projects with promising ideas that just didn't end up going anywhere. I do have one bigger project that I'm actively working on but I'm trying to go about it casually rather than let scope creep get the best of me. It doesn't feel good to spend so many months with so little to show, but I'm trying to be kind to myself about it. I'd rather take my time and make something everyone can be happy with rather than force something half-assed to fill the gap.

It's been difficult to get back into the YTP headspace ever since the Forklift video. It's likely a combination of burnout, real-life stress, and having an abundance of distractions. Taxes hit hard again this year so if all goes according to plan I'll be back in the warehouse this summer.

I'm still pretty active on Twitch if you want to keep up with me outside of YTP. Obviously the financial support of my viewers is never an expectation, especially during times like this where I'm not putting much out and everybody's kinda Going Through It. Still it's a big help and keeps things steady for me, so I appreciate it very much <3

[viperify]

AU | ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

₊˚.☾⋆ Mine, forever.

Short Summary: Strange dreams and memories plague your sleep. You would do nothing rather than to forget about everything that has happened—but Tom has other plans for your shared future.

Warnings: obsessive!Tom, biting, blood drinking, Tom doesn’t know what to make of his feelings, slight misogyny, kidnapping I suppose? Also manipulation through the effect of a vampire’s bite.

A/N: This is my participation for week 2 of @acourtofchaos’ Festival of AUs! Just had to take part with my beloved vampire Tommy. <3 — Repost bc I had to make some slight adjustments. Sorry!!

wordcount: 2,5k

also, this is part two of In His Fangs!

Bruised.

Marked.

Branded.

That’s how you left the forest that night.

But not only that.

Tom Riddle was alive—and it would be a burden for you to carry alone.

—

You expect him to come back—almost wait for it. The first few nights, you don’t get to rest. Tossing and turning, trying methods from old books in your attic. It’s all no help. The memory of him, his scarlet eyes, his sharp fangs dragging over your neck, cold hands roaming over your bare skin—keeps you wide awake for most of the night.

Days and weeks pass. Still, no sign of him. People have stopped talking about Voldemort’s return. Just a rumour. Nonsense someone made up back when all these dead sheep were found.

Just rumours, you repeat to yourself, shaking your head slightly. Right.

That evening, after your shower, you take a look in the mirror, eyes drifting to the letters he’s carved just below your collarbone. They have reduced to scars, small imperfections on your skin. Still very visible, and not something you could cover up—no matter what you tried, nothing worked. They’d always shine through, even if you put five layers of makeup.

You have decided to stick to high-neck shirts from now on.

However, today, when you reach to trace them with your finger, you feel a slight burn—not much, barely there—yet, your hand jerks back at the sensation.

It’s almost been four weeks since you last saw him—which means the next full moon should be right around the corner.

You swallow hard at the realisation.

That same night, when you close the curtains to your bedroom window, you take a look at the moon. It’s an almost perfect circle, shining brighter than usual. So bright, you pull the curtains shut, as to protect yourself from it.

As you do, a flash of red in the distance. So small, you barely even register it.

You look again.

Nothing.

You are tired, drained. Sleep catches up faster than you’d want it to, and mere minutes later you are asleep. One of the deepest sleeps you have had in a while.

For a reason.

You don’t often dream, certainly not lately, as you have hardly slept anyway. Though today, you can’t seem to catch a break. Dreams of your years at Hogwarts, of classes and free periods, of your late-night study sessions in the library. They all have something in common—such a small detail, it’s easily missed if not pointed out.

Tom is in every little scene. Sometimes staring at you from across the courtyard, other times reading a book in the library, just an aisle further.

You never noticed, but now it seems so straightforward.

The quiet, nerdy boy with no family to go home to during holidays, the young, handsome prefect with the prettiest eyes and softest hair had been observing you back in school.

As soon as you connect the dots, still half asleep, these little memories fade into a blur—and the scenery changes.

Darkness.

Creaking wood.

The soft, vanilla scent of lit candles.

Freezing cold hands roaming over your exposed skin—having you shiver.

A sudden, sharp pain on your neck—

You shriek awake, drenched in sweat. Looking around you, you are met with nothing except for darkness and silence.

Just a dream.

He won’t come back.

Never.

Right?

Though you have slept for at least eight hours that night, you feel more exhausted than before you went to bed when you wake up in the morning.

Getting out of bed is hard, your neck stiff and sore. But work is waiting, and these days you can’t allow yourself to call in sick. They’ll replace you on the spot if you even only attempt to. You sigh. It’s messed up, but that’s how it is. And you need this job and the money if you don’t want to end up without a roof over your head—urgently.

You carry yourself over to your bathroom, applying toothpaste to your toothbrush before you start cleaning in circular motions. When you look up at your reflection in the mirror, you gasp—toothbrush falling into the marble sink.

There are massive bags under your eyes, cheeks sunken in, eyes glassy. You look horrible—so sick you have no business going outside, let alone working.

But weirdly enough, you don’t feel how you look.

You are just fine—yes, your neck could be better, and you are just a tiny bit dizzy—but that could as well be the result of your recent sleep deprivation—or the fact you are constantly worrying about everything.

Heading to your workplace, you notice people staring, whispering to each other as you pass. You try to ignore them as best as you can, releasing a deep sigh as soon as the entrance door to the little coffee shop you work at closes behind you, the one just around the corner from the Three Broomsticks with barely any customers.

You prepare for your shift, and as expected, it’s slow. Barely served two customers before lunch. Just as you are about to close the shop for break, a man enters. Tall, dressed in all black, face almost unrecognizable as it’s hidden behind a hat, scarf and coat.

Weird, it’s summer.

“We are about to close,” you apologize with a soft smile.

He gets seated nonetheless.

Internally, you want to tell him to leave. Drag him out by his hair if you have to. You are tired, exhausted—but also not in the mood to argue with someone who might just quickly drink a coffee and then leave. Especially when you need every customer you can get anyway.

So you serve him his order.

He doesn’t talk much, yet you feel his gaze burning through you, almost uncomfortably so. You think you know his eyes from somewhere—but you can’t exactly recall from where.

“You look sick. Are you doing quite alright, sweetheart?” He asks, stirring his coffee. Eyes meeting yours as you don’t immediately find an answer.

The voice.

You could swear—

His hand briefly brushes against yours as you clean spilled water from the table, and you flinch at the sensation. They are freezing cold.

“I am— fine.” You reassure, though startled.

He doesn’t speak again after that, and five minutes later, he’s gone. Left a tip, though.

With a note.

“Looking forward to seeing you again.”

You throw it away when you get home.

That night, it’s the same ordeal. Scars burning more than the day before, moon completing a full circle. Dreams of your past, each of them featuring Tom, as though you can’t escape him. Then, memories of that one night in the hut. Clearer this time. How he touched you, where he touched you. How he marked and branded you as his.

Again, you manage to tear yourself from the dream, waking up. Hair stuck to your damp forehead as you turn on the light, checking if there is anyone.

Nobody.

Just as you are about to go back to sleep, you spot a note on your bedside table.

“Come and find me, sweet girl.

Tomorrow, 20:00. I will be there.

If you don’t—as you see, I know where to find you.

And remember, I don’t appreciate disobedience.”

You quickly scrunch the paper, throwing it across the room. You wish he’d just finished the job last time. Like he did with the animals.

Why didn’t he?

—

It’s not that you want to go back, no. But you would rather have it happen in the forest than in your own sacred four walls. Again, you ask yourself—why you? Why not someone else?

Tom is already waiting when you enter the wooden cabin, deep in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

“I knew you would come if I called for you.” He drawls, stalking towards you.

You scoff. “Did I have a choice?”

A grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “Of course not.”

His eyes scan your body as though he wants to imprint every detail in his mind.

Even more beautiful than last time he saw you, Tom thinks. So pretty when you are scared, shivering. When your heart rate is twice as high as normal—pumping his favourite blood through your veins.

That’s what he’s been waiting for ever since you left.

Tom has done research in the meantime. Gone to several healers he knew he could trust—mostly those closely related to the Malfoys and Rosiers—where he assumed the secret of his return would be safe.

They told him what he had already suspected.

His death broke the curse of the Love Potion his mother had used to seduce his father. And suddenly, when he chose to return as a vampire, all these pent-up feelings he was never able to experience broke free.

He’d always seen you as someone special. An intelligent girl back at Hogwarts, someone that could challenge him—it intrigued him. He observed you, without you ever noticing. But Tom never knew what to make of this strange pull he had towards you.

Until he saw you wandering the street, smelled the scent of you and your blood from a mile away. All these emotions came crashing down onto him, and he realised what it was that interested him about you.

But even now, that he is able to feel—he doesn’t yet know how to love.

So it has turned into obsession instead.

An unknown feeling spread in his chest whenever he saw you from afar. Something that made him crave you, your touch, your affection. He didn’t like it. It made him vulnerable. You made him feel like that. And Merlin, he wanted to punish you for it.

So he lured you into the forest that night. Took everything from you.

He needed you to want him back. But it didn’t happen. So, instead, he made sure you would be his either way.

His initials carved into your skin a constant reminder of who you really belonged to.

“You did that, didn’t you?” You ask, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible. “The dreams, the note. The man at my work. It was all you.”

He nods, face mere inches from yours.

“Why?” You ask again, more silently this time. Voice barely above a whisper.

His hand tilts your head upwards so you are forced to look into his eyes, his thumb wiping over your trembling lips.

“You are so beautiful.” He whispers after what feels like an eternity. Completely disregarding your question. Your heart sinks.

You shake your head. “Answer me.”

His hand trails down your neck, barely touching, slipping beneath the fabric of your sweater—pausing briefly as he feels his initials on your skin.

“You are mine. I usually keep my eyes on my belongings.”

The next sentence slips faster from your lips than what you would have wanted it to.

“You shouldn’t walk around in Hogsmeade. What if— people recognize you?”

His eyes, once focused on where his hand rests beneath your top, snap up to meet yours, a subtle grin forming on his lips.

“Since when do you care? It was you who got me killed, after all.”

You’d expect him to be angry with you—but it’s the opposite, really. His head dips, placing a single, feather-light kiss to your jaw.

“I am sure you’d do nothing rather than go running to your pathetic Aurors at the Ministry and report the rumours are true, no?”

Tom doesn’t wait for a response—instead, he starts trailing kisses down your neck, directly along your vein.

A shiver runs down your spine. You shake your head.

“No— no, I don’t.”

“Mmmh,” he mumbles, his fangs scraping against the sensitive skin of your neck. “Not convinced.”

“Please, I—“

“Shh.” He shushes you, tilting your head to grant him better access to your neck. “Just be still, and I won’t hurt you.”

You nod slowly, a single tear falling down your cheek. You just want this to be over.

Before you even get to process his next move, his teeth sink deep into your flesh, drawing the first drops of blood, pinning you against the wooden panels of the wall. It burns at first—until a warm, pleasurable sensation spreads throughout your body. Your breathing and heart rate slow, and you relax against the wall.

It’s quick, less painful than last time. You try to endure. Not fight back.

It’s hard.

Each time he praises you, or even makes the tiniest sound as he feeds from your neck, you have to hold back a sob.

By the time he’s done, you are more than dizzy. A headache forming. Blood staining your neck, your sweater. Legs trembling.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hands before he presses a kiss to your lips.

“Taste that? How delicious you are? And you really think I would ever let you go.”

You barely register his words as your knees give in, and you sink down on the floor, vision blurring, ears ringing.

The next thing you remember is waking up the morning after. Not in your own bed. The mattress is harder, pillow thicker than your own. Your neck hurts—and not just because of the pillow.

You try sitting up, lift your head—and immediately lie back down. It hurt too badly.

“There she is. Good girl.” An all-too-familiar voice drawls from beside you, and as you turn your head, you see him, for the first time since he came back in daylight.

He is still as handsome as he was back at Hogwarts—though even paler, if that was possible. Still the same beautiful brown eyes. Sharp jawline. Pointy cheekbones. Broad shoulders. A dream, if he wasn’t what he is. If he didn’t do to you what he did.

“Let me go, please. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I can come back, I will—“ you sob. “I will give you anything you want. I promise.”

He merely laughs.

“Seems as though you still haven’t understood. You are mine. From the second I touched you, you have been mine. No man will want you now that I have had you.” Tom says, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Instead, you will be with me.”

You try to find your voice to object, to tell him to forget it. He is the last man you would—

He kisses you instead. Softly. Slowly. And for whatever reason, you don’t protest—let him kiss you—even part your lips to grant him entrance.

Tom turns to look back at you when he gets up to leave—grinning. He is so close to getting you where he wants you. Just a few bites more and he would have you following his orders, make you like him back. And then, at some point, in a few years, maybe—

“One day, I am going to turn you,” he murmurs. “Make you mine, forever.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | AUs.

©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

[teaguehq]

I can imagine how amazing it was being in Spider-Man, especially if you were a fan of the comics as a kid too! It's just cool being able to do things your kid self would approve of. I'm excited for Dune 3 myself, and it's good news that there will be another! Though I can imagine you being done with sand for a while after filming that and I can't exactly blame you. I was so happy our film got nominated for an Oscar for visual effects, especially since I know Wes and his team put so much into those. So had to feel like a little victory for them! And if we do end up having another film, it'll be fun to get back into the swing of things, literally! I almost feel like the ape greetings are something special for my cast members, so I'm sorry, I have to reserve that for them! I still can't say much about the true crime project aside from that it focuses on JonBenet Ramsey, even though we've finished filming it. Though hoping it'll be something you'd like to watch, with being a true crime fan! I only wish I were part of a mafia film since I feel like that'd be a lot of fun. How's filming for the show going, or are you finished with it now? See, you'll fit right in with the cast given your love of jungle gyms! And why not get a jungle gym at your place since you like them? Nothing wrong with it, and if you decide later on to have kids, they'll have something to play on. I appreciate that, and you know I'll excitedly give you the news if we end up doing another film! I think Wes would be so happy you want to work with him, and he's certainly a lot of fun to have at the helm of a project! I'm hoping you two can work on something together one day, and bonus if I'm part of it. I hope you had a good holiday season yourself! We mostly spent them in New York, which was nice. Can't deny that city does up the holidays with amazing flair. | @dayamsc

of course, the film was amazing and it always makes me happy to tell people i love the film they're in -- and honestly, i can't stress enough on how much i loved noa and mae. it's always amazing being part of something that you loved when you were a kid, right? because that's exactly how i felt being part of spider-man! well, from what i've been contacted about, dune three is a go, and i'll admit i'm pretty excited about that. even though i'm not excited about all the sand again, you do what you got to do, right? and thank you for saying i was incredible in it, that makes me happy to hear! i'm always amazed by all the new technology they have for films, and when it looks so realistic, it just blows my mind. i saw you guys got nominated for an oscar for best visual effects, and that's just so amazing to me! i'm glad that you're back to normal now, but i had a feeling that if they do have a second one, you'd have no problem getting back into the ape mannerisms! i just think it's neat the way you guys moved your bodies and made it so believable -- that's so much talent if you ask me! you've got me wanting to facetime you so you'll greet me like an ape, i hope you know that! even though i have no idea how to be an ape, so i can't greet you back sadly! you're filming something for true crime? big fan of true crime, i'll admit, in fact i've been watching snapped late at night when i can't sleep. is the true crime thing something you can talk about? i always feel like if you're filming in jersey it's about the mafia for some reason, so that's why it always makes me curious. which is silly, right? well, filming starts on the 30th for euphoria, at least that's what i was last told so we'll see. i just want to start filming so i can end this chapter, you know? and end the chapter for rue! hey, you've got me excited for ape school, so i know i'll want to do it. especially since i love jungle gyms so much, like if i could have one at my house and not be looked at funny since we don't have kids, i would have one. i'm keeping my fingers crossed for you, alright? because i want another one too for your sake, because i'd love to see what else noa could get up to! and thank you, you're a real friend for offering to casually drop that i'd like to be part of the sequel to see if it'll happen. plus, i've loved wes's work since the maze runner, so i would just love to work with him in general. also, i hope you ended up having a good holidays! did you end up doing anything special? || @teaguehq

[lightlycareless]

warnings: none too explicit. fluff. you and naoya have a baby girl named Naomi :) slight mentions of you know what in the end.

Whenever it rained it meant it was time to cozy up, stay within closed doors and indulge in activities that would distract you from the fact that all your plans have been ruined by this unexpected weather, and hope it’ll change soon.

Or at least that’s how adults are kind of expected to handle these situations, what you were planning to do, until a small ray of sunshine shakes the foundations of your beliefs and reminds you that life is much more than your responsibilities.

“Mama… why can’t I go out on the rain?” Naomi silently laments as she looks out the window, yearning to play by the puddles forming near the garden yet stuck in the silent, dull company of your seemingly endless paperwork—and plushies that have long gone to sleep, bored of their shared predicament.

“Because you’re going to get wet and then sick. You wouldn’t want to get sick, right, baby?” You respond, barely looking over the papers before you. Budgeting this year… has been quite the challenge; such things are bound to happen when a new heir comes along, whom also harbors an especially strong technique.

Well, at least the Zen’in heritage will be striving for the next few years, not like you and your daughter whom are currently boring themselves out of their mind.

“…Ok, mama.” She lets out a deep sigh, resting her small head against her arms as she remains fixed on the outside world.

It’s no surprise why she was so upset. She was promised to do all kinds of activities once she got out of school, after all. To fully enjoy her school break by going to all of her favorite places plus new adventures with her parents, whom also made sure to set aside time to make up for all the days they were apart.

But this sudden change of plans was bound to put everyone on a foul mood. And Naomi, your always bubbly girl, was no exception.

Sure, you tried your best to replace such disappointments with things to do around the estate, but none did the cut. How could one compare going to a theme park with… well, this?

And make matters worse, she wants to do something you’re not particularly keen of, which is play under the rain. What if she ends up getting sick? Her holiday would be undoubtedly ruined even further!

Yet, considering all that happened… was it really that bad that she got a bit wet? That she gets to play on the puddles, bask underneath the rain, and enjoy the simple things in life?

If it’s just for a bit, there’s no real reason for her to get sick. More so if you give her a bath soon after and change her into warm clothes—or perhaps take out her rain boots and coat!

…

…

…

Since when did your job value more than your daughter’s happiness?

“Oh, to hell with all!” You gasp, throwing your papers to the side before swiftly grabbing your baby’s hand and guiding her towards the garden.

“What are you doing, mama??”

“We’re going to have fun, dumpling!”

And that’s exactly what you do; dive straight into the rain and towards the puddles as you perhaps should’ve done the moment your daughter suggested said idea. Ignore the concerns of a soaked kimono, the reputation you had to upkeep now as the wife to the heir, a responsible mother that should not incentivize her daughter to misbehave!

Which you would’ve caved into if alone, or with the judging gaze of Junko over your shoulder…

But against Naomi’s bubbly laughter, or heartwarming smile… no force could compete.

“Mama, mama!” Naomi she giggles as she jumps from one puddle to the other, kicking and splashing all the water in her way, with some on your way you soon found out to be done intentionally. “Hehe, I got you!”

“Not so fast, dumpling! I wouldn’t underestimate me yet!” you laugh, retaliating by cupping your hands and throwing the water settled in them; which your daughter quickly evades by using her technique, the same as Naoya’s, a talent she has only abused since discovering it. “Hey, that’s cheating, pumpkin!”

Luckily, you’d have someone on your corner that was more than capable of competing with her who coincidentally was already making his way towards you—talking about excellent timing!

Naoya tries to check in on princesses’ once or twice a day whenever busy, usually during breakfast, lunch, and dinner, which he always refuses to have unchanged unless it was an emergency (but even then).

Because of the proximity of one of these occasions, alongside his dire need to be replenished through his loved ones’ presence, your husband might as well-made use of his own technique to arrive sooner.

He anticipated to be received with unparallel enthusiasm, as it usually occurred, alongside the cute babbles of his adorable Naomi trying to catch him up with all the two have done. Or just about any other domesticity that always warmed his heart…

Expect the sight of his two loves giddily hopping around the garden underneath the rain, carefree of their sickly worries, soaked clothes…

Or that he’d be caught in the crossfire thanks to his baby, who did not hesitate to attack him with the same ministration as you—much to your horror.

“Oh, no, Naomi! Your papa’s clothes—”

But just as you, Naoya was victim to his daughter’s lovability.

“Ah, so that’s how it’s going to be, dumpling? Well, I hope you’re prepared for what’s coming, ‘cause I ain’t holding back!” Naoya smirks before using his technique to quickly catch up to her, taking a hold of her and attacking her with relentless tickles that have him proclaimed as an undisputed victor.

“Stop it, papa!” Naomi cries, hesitant to admit defeat, yet very close to doing so anyways. “Nooo!!”

“Surely you couldn’t expect anything different from me, little princess.” He adds, blowing a raspberry on her cheek; she laughs. “You cannot play with fire and not expect to be burnt.”

“It’s just a game!” She adds, trying to get away from his hold. “You don’t have to ruin it, papa…”

“Ruin it?” Naoya says, doing his best to not appear offended. “I would never do anything to ruin your fun, little princess.”

You laugh; her comment obviously comes from the fact on how easily he seized her and put an end to her mischief—it was just a matter of letting her down and she’d be back to her usual, bubbly self.

“Though I am intrigued to know why the sudden… need to play under the rain?” He wonders. “Were there no other options to your liking?”

“No, they’re all boring!” She responds honestly. “Mama has been working all day and I wanted to play under the rain!”

“We did promise to take her out, honey.” You gently remind, he sighs.

“I understand, sweetie. But this rain will be over soon, ok? And then, we’ll do all we were supposed to.” Naoya smiles, reassuring his distraught daughter. “In fact, I was actually thinking about going out now, get something to eat down in the city; now, doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Better than paperwork, I might say.” You jest, he laughs.

“Can we go now, papa?!” Naomi breathes, excited at the prospect of escape. “I’m hungry and bored!!”

“Only after you take a bath and change into warm clothes, sweetie. But quickly if you don’t want to get sick!”

It’s probably the first time you ever see Naomi willingly run into the bathroom; as any other kid, she normally puts up a fuzz and pulls out just about any kind of excuse to avoid taking a shower—yes, even using her technique! How you managed to catch her back then is something only you, and your staff still have trouble understanding. Though it’s quite endearing to look back to when considering how Naoya must’ve been during his own childhood.

Unfortunately, you’d have another kind of turmoil to undergo this time around.

“But I want to take a bath with mama!” Naomi pouts, harshly pulling at tugging at papa as hard as she could with the hopes of peeling you away from him! But he barely moved an inch, as seen in the proud smirk of a man who’s earned the upper hand against his daughter, again.

“Not this time, pumpkin, you’ve had mama all day to yourself.” He really tries his hardest to not laugh, but ultimately fails to hide his amusement and subsequently makes her pout even more. “Now, don’t give me that look, you know I’m only telling the truth.”

“Naoya…” you murmur; even if amusing, you really don’t like encouraging competition between the two like this!

But you won’t deny that spending some private time with your husband, beyond sharing the same bed, quickly catching ON the things the two did throughout the day, before eventually passing out due to exhaustion, sounded very… inciting.

Highly so.

«Sorry, sweetie. Just this time» you succumb.

“Well, Naomi, dumpling, I need someone to wash my back and only papa can do that.” You begin.

“That’s not true, I can do it too!” she quickly retorts, as stubbornly as her father.

“Ah, um… well— I also like the way he washes my hair.” You continue on, doing your best to conjure up another convincing excuse. Life was easier when she didn’t question her surroundings that much.

“You said you liked how I washed your hair too!” Naomi frowns, you swear you almost see her stomping her feet. “You’re lying to me!”

“Pumpkin…”

Fortunately, Mariya’s quick thinking would prove helpful yet again when she manages to convince your baby to accompany her instead, citing disappointment at the fact that she didn’t want to spend time with her anymore, apparently, she had grown too uncool for her. Unfitting to be Naomi’s friend—the highest of treason for someone whom she completely adores, thanks to her willingness to spoil her when you don’t.

“That’s not true, auntie!! I like you!!” She gasps, now tightly holding onto Mariya.

“It doesn’t seem like it.” She quietly laments. “…I suppose you no longer like my Hello Kitty dumplings either…”

“No! I do!!” Naomi adds, now teary eyed. “I really like your Hello Kitty dumplings!”

“Alright, alright, there’s no need to cry, I was just being dramatic.” Mariya says, quick to wipe her tears away, hug her, and kiss the top of her head. “How about I make all your favorites after you take a shower? Let’s just leave your parents alone, they’re going to talk about boring clan stuff anyways! Like they always do.”

She winks, you blush.

This conflict dies soon after that, allowing the two to dive right back into each other’s presence, unable to keep their hands to themselves much longer.

“Now, where were we?” He purrs, slowly stripping away your soaked kimono and throwing at a forgotten corner.

“Doing something about these wet clothes.” You respond, placing your hands over his chest and doing the same. Naoya pursues your affection by captivating your lips with a kiss, trailing your cheeks, jaw, before moving to your neck and stopping there.

His inaction unsettles you a bit, soon cupping his face to figure out what perturbed his mind.

“Are you ok?” you ask, he sighs.

“Well, I don’t like making our baby upset.” He admits, leaning into your touch.

“She’s not upset, not with you at least. The weather just got her in a bad mood, that’s all.” You explain. “But that’s not all is it, Naoya?”

He smiles.

“You know me very well.” Your husband admits. “…I don’t know, I just can’t get the sight of you playing with our Naomi out of my mind.”

“Oh.” You breathe, caught off guard by his answer. You expected something related to the clan, missions, responsibilities as the heir… not his family. Naoya must’ve greatly worried when seeing the two like that. “We won’t do it again, I know I shouldn’t have, but you know how I can’t—”

“No, it’s not that. Far from it.” Naoya interrupts, your eyes widen.

“Then… what is it?”

“I guess I’m… in disbelief. There’s just… something about it that makes it hard to believe.”

“Believe what?”

“That this is my life now, that I’m a husband to a beautiful wife, and father to an adorable child.”

“Oh, what is there not to believe? You have done more than enough to deserve such things.” You ease as he buries his face into your neck. “I think you just realized how much you enjoy being a father.”

“Even if it means being homesick most of the time?”

“More like all the time.”

“I can only imagine how it’s going to be with more kids running around—I’d never see the end of it.” Naoya says, almost… expectantly. As if this thought has crossed his mind far more times than he’d like to admit.

Than he’d like to burden you with.

“…I need time.”

“I know.” He smiles, pecking your lips. “We have lots of practice to go through anyways. Though we better make it quick if we don’t want our little princess to get too angry at us for making her wait.”

“Quick? But you know what they say, Naoya… fast isn’t always better.” You tease.

Something within Naoya stirs.

“My wife, such a vixen.“ Naoya says, taking your lips in another sweet, yet bold kiss. “Do you have no decorum when it comes to your desires?”

“My beloved husband, you ought to know better than to deny yourself as well.” You say, pulling him closer and kissing him back. “We’re nothing but two sides of the same coin when it comes to that, are we not?”

“Yeah—yeah we are.”

And he wouldn’t want it any other way.

cranky naomi is so adorable, i love her.

[kiddotarot]

what will your future spouse first time buy for you ?

Pile 1. Pile 2. Pile 3.

Pile 1.

Ok i think your Future spouse in a hurry they wants to take action Toward you it is not just about gifts now . It is more than that now you both already above That stage where buying cute gift and things as a dating couple For each other , this can be the time before the marriage and i think you both are already date Each other or dating from a long time and this person your future and you may realized that this is an end game . You both are meant for each other. You are not lovers any more or this connection is not the begging for them you both may be already living together as This time not married but as husband and wife yes but as couples and you both may unconsciously starting behave like married couple and it's hard for your future spouse to imagine any day with you and i think that this things just hit them like “ hey we are behaving like those old couple who used to sit in garden at their 60s “ . They don't want any other option hell no , they don't even think of anyone else when they hear women cause you are one for them who are already going to spend every life with them . with Ace of cups either they are going to propose to you so they are buying a Diamond ring or a baby ( some of you can get pregnant) so they are ready to have lids with you and are going to propose to you .

Mini Moodboard ~

Pile 2.

Ok Either you do astrology, occult and some devotional stuff , Because your future spouse here knows you very well here. They can buy you gift when there is some disagreement and argument happening between you and your future spouse it can be related a project or may be you both are trying to start and invest in something i think it's your first argument cause there don't like it they way you both are awkward and not talking to each Other. They really want to clear things behind all the problems and the things which you are both hiding. They want to communicate and make things clear in this marriage and relationship . more like a gift , they will surprise you with a tour or a holiday Package and maybe a trip where you both can take a break from the outer world and focus on each other and have a good time.

Mini Moodboard ~

Pile 3.

I think your future spouse is going to give you something That motivates you and makes you feel comfortable and makes you feel good about yourself . Here is the condition that you are really introverted or a person who sacrifices yourself for others and you also have insecurities. It can be about your body and your behavior . This world always tries to make you insecure and tries to break your confidence by some tricks . Your family or your friends can be very mean or not supporting something like who always tries to point out your weakness and never be happy no matter what you do for them, some kind of toxic ( like indian relatives) . That why these all things stop your creativity and make a blockage towards things that you like , they make you feel that you are not good Enough for things you like and constantly criticise it , but your future spouse can see your potential so the first thing they going to buy for you that make you feel good about yourself . here the empress card gives me mostly body ( if you are insecure about it ) do they surly buy you a dress and going to compliment how you look beautiful in it.

Mini Moodboard ~

@ kiddotarot book your reading now ...

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[charliegyrth]

Speedos - 2 of 2

The Off-Season Continues

Read Part 1 here.

“How was the pool?” Micah asked when I stepped in the door.

“Refreshing.”

He raised an eyebrow. He knew I was lying. I wasn’t gone very long, and my hair was dry. He didn’t ask me what happened, though. (If he had, I definitely wouldn't have told him about how my jiggling body had given me an embarrassing erection in front of everybody.)

I collapsed onto the couch and turned on the TV. A bag of chips was waiting on the table in front of me. I knew I shouldn’t, but I grabbed it and ripped it open.

Micah sat next to me. “Are you excited about next Thursday?”

“What’s next Thursday?” I asked. Then it hit me. “Oh. It’s Thanksgiving already!”

Last year, we went to my parents’ house, so this year we were visiting Micah’s mom. I was excited.

“I asked Mom what we should bring, and she said to surprise her. So what do you think? Out of everything I’ve cooked for us, what’s your favorite?”

“Your scalloped potatoes,” I said automatically. My sudden answer surprised me. I looked down at the potato chips in my hand. And I saw the snack cakes on the table. And I saw the curve of my belly under my shirt. Slowly, I looked back up at Micah and said, “I need to lose weight.”

“What? Where’d that come from?”

I hated how surprised he sounded. Acting all innocent, as if he had nothing to do with all this new fat. “It came from you!”

“Is that what you think?” Still playing dumb.

“You’re telling me that you haven’t noticed this?” I grabbed my stomach roll and wobbled it up and down. Never in my life would I have thought I’d be able to freaking wobble myself like that.

“I have,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. “But I’m not… I mean… Do you think I’m trying to make you fat?”

“Aren’t you?”

He flinched at the accusation. “Of course not. I’m trying to make you happy. Months ago, when I saw you scarf down that speedo cake, I knew how much you’d been depriving yourself, and how much you wanted to eat. I give you food because you like it, because it makes you happy.”

“But…”

“You’re eating potato chips right now. Is that my fault?”

“No,” I admitted. I’d grabbed those myself. “But you hid my speedo!”

“What? I put it in the closet. Isn’t that where it's supposed to go?”

I breathed out a long sigh. I’d misinterpreted everything. Micah was giving me food to keep me happy, not to make me fat. “Sorry.”

He squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t be. I can see how you’d think that. I’ll stop cooking so much, if that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Okay. But just know, I think you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met. And that’ll always be true, no matter what size you are.” To prove he meant it, he placed his hands on my rounded stomach and kissed me.

“I love you, Micah.”

He slid on top of me, running his fingers through my hair. The bag of potato chips fell to the ground.

“This afternoon, I’ll get rid of all your snacks. Though that might be hard, with the holiday season and all.”

Oh. He had a point.

“Actually,” I said between kisses, “maybe I can start my diet in January. What do you say?”

“If that’s what you want.” He pulled off my shirt and gave my flab a single, loving kiss.

***

I woke up at eleven, my head throbbing from all the champagne. Today was January 1, the official end to the holiday season. Classes wouldn’t resume until the 8th, so I’d have a week to really focus on my health.

The last few months had been absolutely wonderful. Thanksgiving with Micah’s family was a nonstop parade of laughter, games, and food. Tons of food. (His mom was an even better cook than Micah, and that’s saying something.) Then we did our finals (all good) and spent Christmas break in a rental house over in Solvang, this really cute tourist-trap town that transformed itself into a winter wonderland.

I was so glad that I didn’t start my diet yet, because I would’ve been miserable. Everywhere we went, I was surrounded by cookies and pastries, and each one was better than the last. Micah constantly asked if I wanted something, and I constantly said yes.

I was finally allowing myself to give in to the season, something I’d never really done before. I was just so happy all the time, and Micah was happy because I was happy. It was… It was wonderful.

But today was the day I’d start getting my life back on track. I trudged into the bathroom to take stock of my reflection (something I’d avoided for months). I wasn’t surprised by my reflection, but it did sadden me. I had a definite belly now. I had moobs. My hips were massive. I’d grown rolls along my sides, and another one just under my chest. My face was rounder (not by a lot) and I had zero muscle definition now. Literally anywhere.

I did not look like a competitive swimmer.

I trudged into the living room, where Micah was watching the news. I’d grown accustomed to waking up to another one of Micah’s delicious breakfasts, but nothing was waiting for me this time.

“Morning, babe,” he said from the couch. “There’s oatmeal in the pantry if you want.”

That used to be my go-to breakfast, but now it sounded so insubstantial. The last few months hadn’t just changed my body; they’d changed my hunger, too. It would take a while to get back to normal.

I plodded to the kitchen and microwaved a bowl of plain oatmeal. I leaned against the counter and took one bite.

Awful. No taste at all.

So I added a few sprinkles of sugar. That helped a little, but it still wasn’t enough. I added a little more. And a little more. Soon, the bowl was more sugar than oatmeal, but at least it was palatable. It took me less than a minute to eat the whole thing. I looked around for a chocolate chip cookie, but the jar was empty. Micah had cleared out all our sweets, just as I’d asked him to.

I trudged back into the living room, ignoring the loud rumbles from my stomach.

“Nate? You okay?”

I sat next to him, trying (and failing) to hide my sour expression.

He asked me another question, but I was too hungry and petulant to pay attention. That’s when he nudged me in the side, sending a wave through my belly fat. “Nate. Come on. You’re not gonna do this to me again, are you?”

“Do what?”

Instead of answering me, he grabbed his phone from the table and snapped my photo. Then he made me look at the image.

The picture made my face look even fatter than I’d realized. My double chin was on full display. “Yeah. That’s what I look like now.”

“And this is what you looked like yesterday.” He swiped to another photo, showing me at the New Year’s party grinning from ear-to-ear.

The pictures were like night and day. I was fat in both, but I looked so much happier in the second one.

“If you want to lose weight,” Micah said, “go for it. But don’t be miserable. It’s off-season.”

“Okay,” I said. I still had months to get back into shape. I could go slowly. I could still indulge a little.

Micah smiled. “Thank you. And in case you’re wondering, I didn’t get rid of our Christmas cookies. I just stuck them in the back of the pantry.”

I jumped to my feet.

***

Micah was scrolling through his phone when I waddled through the front door with a bag in my hands. It was from BXL, the plus-size clothing store. “Hey, Micah! Look what I bought!”

He ran over and dug through the bag, expecting that I’d gotten him a present. I didn’t.

“A speedo?” He held up the huge, blue fabric. “But… you said you decided not to compete this year.”

“Obviously,” I said, slapping my hanging gut. I couldn’t make it across the pool if my life depended on it. Besides, the season started months ago. “But I’d like to go swimming again. It’s time.”

“Okay?” he said, a bit confused. I hadn’t been in a pool since I broke the school record last September. I can’t even remember the last time I even mentioned swimming.

“So? What do you say? Would you like to go for a dip?”

“I’d love to.”

An hour later, we arrived at the community pool on the other side of town. (I had lost access to the university’s pool after I quit the team. And while a part of me really wanted all my old teammates to see me now, it was probably for the best.)

Micah stripped off his shirt, revealing his pale, freckled stomach. He’d softened up a little in the last few months (either from my influence or from the constant supply of snacks around the house), and I thought his starter belly looked really cute.

He sat on the pool chair next to me so I could lather him with sunscreen. “When we get in there, I think we should race.”

“You know I’m a champion swimmer, right? I’ll beat you hands down.”

That made us both laugh.

Then, after I rubbed him down, he turned around and stripped off my shirt. All my new rolls flopped out.

“Good thing you bought the extra-large bottle of sunscreen,” I joked.

He took special care to reach into all my creases. When he got to my moobs, he looked me in the eyes and asked, “Do you miss it?”

“Do I miss being hungry and moody for half the year? Not at all.”

It took him a while to rub down all my extra flesh. I think he was just savoring the moment. When he was done, he gave me an encouraging pat on my gut and said, “Okay, big guy. Let’s swim.”

I stood up and peeled off my shorts, revealing my new speedo. There weren’t a lot of people at the pool, but everyone who was there glanced over at me. I tried to ignore their judgmental looks, because I didn’t want to get hard. Besides, it didn’t matter what they thought. The only person I cared about was standing right in front of me.

“How do I look?” I stepped back so he could get a better view of my 260-pound body.

“You know how hot you are. Do I even need to say it?”

He was right. I knew I was beautiful. I knew that this was the body that made me happy. Sure, I would’ve preferred a more solid gut instead of the hanging apron I’d grown, but whatever. More softness meant more parts for Micah to play with. And yeah, the stretchmarks on my love handles weren’t my favorite, but they were already starting to fade.

I used to be a gorgeous swimmer. I used to be lean, and sleek, and powerful. Now, I was so much more.

“Is the speedo okay?”

He laughed. “Nate, I can barely see it.”

I guess that was for the best. Now, if all my jiggling got me hard again, people were less likely to notice.

Micah and I walked to the pool, and together, we jumped into the deep end.

The End

Thanks so much to Anonymous for the suggestion. There's nothing hotter than a fat swimmer bulging out of his clothes.

[millerskitty]

Running If You Call My Name

❥ dbf!joel / f!reader x joel miller

❥ (18+) nsfw

❥ reader insert

❥ medium burn, no outbreak au. some timelines are changed to fit the story.

dividers by @/saradika !

warnings: angst, confrontation, minor burn injury

word count: 1.7k

tag list: @foxin5billion @victoriaholland @persiar9

masterlist

Chapter 10

Winter was back in full swing and you were excited to have some vacation time. You’d managed to get Joel and Sarah to go to the Trail of Lights with you. It was a drive thru Christmas light and decoration event and it was your favorite thing to do during the holidays. Pop would be hosting Christmas for you and the Millers with the addition of Joel’s younger brother, Tommy.

“Whatever happened to that Caleb fella?” Pop asked, looking up from his crossword puzzle. You sat across the living room on the sofa watching tv.

“Uhm,” you cleared your throat, surprised by his sudden inquiry, “he uhh, he was kind of too perfect. It was off-putting, I guess.”

“Huh. A guy can’t even be too perfect these days.” He clicked his tongue and continued to look down his glasses at the puzzle, crossing out the word “bewilderment.”

“Well, I just don’t want a guy who tries too hard to impress me, it comes off as phony, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” Pop sounded unamused then spoke after a beat of silence, “What about Tommy?”

”Miller?” You squeaked, trying to keep your facial expression as neutral as possible.

“Mhmm, he’s not too much older than you.”

“Tommy’s uhh, you know, Joel’s brother.” You wanted to eat your words as they left your mouth.

”Yes, and?” Pop looked down at you over his glasses now. “Why does that matter?”

“Pop, I’m not talking about guys with you!” You shrieked, feeling small under his gaze. You jumped up and scurried off to your room, plopping onto your bed with a sigh.

If you hadn’t just given it away he was probably onto you, testing you and you’d failed. Your skin prickled with anxiety. You wanted to make things right, to tell him the truth, but you couldn’t calculate the fallout. You hated not knowing the outcome or where you would go if he disowned you for choosing the Miller brother who was over a decade older than you. You liked to believe that your loving father wouldn’t make a big fuss over it, but Joel’s paranoia was rubbing off on you.

~

Christmas Eve had finally arrived. You’d finished wrapping gifts for everyone attending the holiday at your home. You’d gotten Pop a fishing rod that he’d put back on the shelf, too frugal to indulge despite being able to afford it. You also got him some high end fishing sunglasses and some new shoes. Joel was getting some strings for his guitar, a steering wheel cover for the one that was rotting away in his old pickup, and Pop pitched in to get him a brand new cooler.

Sarah was harder to shop for; her style was constantly evolving. You decided to treat her to a mini shopping spree with a few gift cards loaded from her favorite stores and a couple of vinyls to go with her expansive collection.

Tommy was getting some hunting gear and cologne. Everything was labeled from you and Pop, so you made sure to get Joel something special for when you were alone.

Around noon, Pop met you in the kitchen to start cooking in time for dinner at six. You cranked up some music and got to work, side by side. Pop was the more efficient chef, outdoing your progress and making damn sure you knew it. He was competitive in the kitchen. He threw back the rest of his beer, stepping out for a cigarette break just as the Millers arrived to help.

You checked your reflection in the mirror and wiped your hands on your apron before answering the door. Joel greeted you with a friendly hug and walked past you holding a tray of brisket. Sarah jumped on you, making you swing her around a bit before setting her down. She rushed to the backyard to greet Pop as you turned around and welcomed Tommy in with a warm hug.

“Where do I put this?” Tommy asked, wielding a large case of beer.

“God, we’re gonna have to go out and buy a second fridge!” You giggled.

“If only it was snowing. Texas, am I right?” He playfully rolled his eyes, making his way to deposit a few cans of beer into the freezer.

“Hey you.” Joel waited behind you, sizing you up with his eyes.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Eve.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re opening gifts tonight.” You said, leading Joel to the kitchen he’d been in at least five hundred times. He looked delicious, he’d trimmed his beard and he smelled so good. His cologne was clean and woodsy, lingering on you from your hug.

“Pop is waiting for y’all to fry the turkey.” You said to the men, “And you’re gonna help me peel potatoes and carrots.” You said to Sarah who’d come in and started peeking at the dessert in the fridge.

Sarah jokingly saluted you, taking her place at the counter and you peeled vegetables for half an hour while you chatted about her upcoming senior year at high school. A surge of emotion sprung tears to your eyes as you discussed Sarah’s future. It felt like just yesterday she was a silly little girl bossing you around at her tea parties. You fondly remembered chasing each other with the water hose and having horror movie marathons. Now she was contemplating going out of state for college, leaving her old man behind. Leaving you behind.

The sound of your name snapped you out of your reminiscence. “Hello?” Sarah asked, looking between you and Joel who was just coming inside from the backyard.

“What’s wrong?” He asked you, stepping closer but being mindful to leave a few feet between you.

“Nothing, I’m just feeling a little emotional.” You chuckled, “The holidays, am I right?”

“Right, what those mean reindeer did to Rudolph still doesn’t sit right with me either.” Sarah joked, mashing potatoes animatedly.

Joel rolled his eyes before giving you a serious look that said “Are you really okay?” You nodded, assuring him you were fine. He didn’t press further and stepped outside for a smoke.

The interaction made you realize just how lucky you were to have the Millers in your life. You may have lost a parent at a young age, but the universe gave you two wonderful people to enrich your life. You would die for your little village.

You were interrupted from your snowballing emotional realization when Pop jumped into the kitchen using his oven mitts as crab claws, squatting and walking like a crab for effect. Sarah found it the most amusing, hooting and hollering as he pretended to pinch her.

The timer for the baking macaroni and cheese went off and you stepped forward at the same time that Tommy moved forward to dodge you, but you ended up playing the back-and-forth game for a few moments. Tommy chuckled and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you aside and then went the other way. Your skin prickled at his touch and you knew without looking that Joel had seen the interaction from behind the glass door. You didn’t have to look to know the stern look that was plastered on his face.

You snuck a glance as you pulled the baking dish full of macaroni out of the oven and found that you were right. His jaw was clenched as he took a drag from his cigarette and put it out. When his eyes locked onto yours, you couldn’t look away, which was a nasty mistake. You had tipped the macaroni dish towards yourself and some of the liquid cheesy lava spilled onto your shirt and you dropped the dish onto the counter, jumping back.

The cheese mixture was boiling hot and you lifted your shirt halfway up to relieve your burning skin. Tommy didn’t hesitate to jump into action, having become a first responder a few years ago after a brief stint in jail for bar fights.

“Fuck,” You hissed, looking down at your stomach in pain.

“Move, lean back.” Tommy said, lifting you up and onto the empty kitchen counter. “Keep your shirt up, honey.”

“The fuck just happened?” Joel asked, rushing in from the backyard.

“She’s gonna be fine, just burnt herself with the mac and cheese.” Pop said, his face twisted as he watched you wince from the pain of peeling your shirt up to expose the burn.

“Need ice.” Tommy said, turning to wet a kitchen towel. Sarah rushed to the garage to grab ice from the deep freezer.

The initial shock of the pain started to die down and you were able to assess the damage. It was a small patch of splotches from where the cheese mixture had soaked through just moments before you pulled the shirt from your skin. When Sarah returned she was going to hand the ice to Tommy when Joel stepped forward and took it from her. He held his hand out for the towel that Tommy had soaked with water.

“Whatcha doin’ bro, I got her?” Tommy said, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“I got her, gimme the towel.” Joel said calmly.

“I’m a medic, I got this.” Tommy said, confusion growing thicker in his voice.

“She’s m- I can help her, go check on the turkey.” Joel pulled on the towel. Tommy reluctantly released it to him and stepped away.

You were sitting on the counter in shock, no longer registering the tingling, throbbing pain on your skin. You looked at Pop who avoided eye contact, but his eyebrows gave him away. He was thinking, digesting the scene and remaining silent. For now.

Joel wrapped the wet towel around the ice and gently patted it over your skin. You looked up into his eyes and there was something there. Jealousy. Concern. He was being reckless, risking everything because his brother put his hands on you more than once. He’d lifted you up by your hips and set you down onto the kitchen counter like you weighed nothing. Joel had seen it all and couldn’t let it slide.

You winced as he applied more pressure, the melting ice sliding down into your jeans.

“Sarah, can you please go to my closet and grab the blue dress that’s hanging on the door?” You asked her, eager to remove her from the awkward scene that had just unfolded.

“You bet. Be right back.”

“So Joel.” Pop said, and you closed your eyes. Fuck.

“Yes?” Joel asked, not taking his hand off of your injury.

“How long you been after my daughter?”

[jenthebug]

Hey! I figured I'd ask you about your job because an Emergency Communications Specialist I job opened up in Weld County and I've been contemplating a career change (again lol). I miss being a public servant but going back to education isn't an option I really want to take (yet) and while I'd love to be a firefighter, I'm too old and out of shape and the necessary certifications are confusing. I'm a former music teacher current project manager. I have ADHD which makes my current job harder than it should be because it's the online only kind of project management with a lot of reading and writing on the computer. What are the pros and cons of your job? You're on the computer/phone but does the fast paced nature of things help you focus? Thank you for any guidance you may have!

Okay! Weld County is a primary PSAP (public safety answering point). It sounds like you’d be calltaking from the general public, plus dispatching police, fire, and EMS. I’ve done something similar, though not exactly the same.

The PROS:

You’re helping: Generally, when people call 911, the help 911 sends improves the situation.

Shift work: You’ll probably work 10-12 hour shifts, giving you more than two days off for a weekend. This is AMAZING for quality of life. If you play it right, you can get all your days off on weekdays, allowing you to set all your appointments on days off and save your PTO for illness and vacation.

Fun work: Dispatching is fun to do. It’s like solving puzzles in fast motion. The fast pace, when it happens, keeps me focused.

Downtime: It’s not balls to the wall all the time. When no calls are dropping, most centers allow you onto read, talk, or go online. I wrote a novel at CUPD!

The CONS:

The general public: Many people are entitled, petty, drunk, stupid, or just plain mean. Your customer service voice must be on, and honed to control that call, no matter who is on the line or what verbal abuse they’re spewing at you.

Drunks and stupid people: These are the two strongest prejudices in dispatch. For your sanity, your conscience, and possibly your career, do NOT lean into these prejudices! Approach with compassion and respect.

Shift work: Sometimes you gotta work shifts that you don’t like. I’m a diurnal dispatcher gearing up for at least a few months of nights because my seniority is low. Also, you work holidays.

Police: If ever a scene is going to go bad, it will be because of the cops. You have a chance of making someone’s day/year/entire life worse by sending police. And because you’re not on scene with the complainant, you can’t just say “shut the fuck up, Karen, you’re being racist” or “I happen to like those punks feeding the homeless” and not send. You must plan for the worst case scenario and send the police when protocol tells you to.

The UNKNOWNS:

Fire: I’ve never dispatched fire before. Don’t know if it’s enjoyable or not.

Greeley: Not sure what the call volume or call types would be like out there. It is a college town, though, so I know there will be lots of alcohol related issues around the UNC campus.

I hope this helps!

[ofeliaxoxo]

charlos game time... how do u think they propose to each other?

I’m so silly because I’ve literally thought about this multiple times. I landed on this scenario which I shall lay out before you.

So they’re on holidays and obviously numerous friends are there because who would they be if they went to a location sans harem. At a certain point in the evening the two of them go off together. This is near the end of the trip so they’ve been spending every day together and having a very nice no pressure time. And they’re alone together in this scenic location maybe a beach at night or a balcony or something. And Charles is looking into Carlos’s eyes like I love you. Let’s never break up let’s just promise to stay together. And that is sincerely what he means to say. He’s overwhelmed in the moment and having such a nice time really in love so he just wants to communicate Be With Me Don’t Leave Me. And Carlos is able to read between the lines of that and is like….Oh. Really? Yes. I will Never Leave You. And then Charles is like wait. Oh. And neither of them quite say it directly in that moment but they’ve both understood. Cue the most over the top romantic tipsy sex. And later on after that night they would actually explicitly discuss the Ramifications and decide the logistics of marriage but what really is important to both of them much more than legit marriage is the knowledge that they both want to Never Leave Each Other and want to be functionally married.

That’s the scene I pictured but I’m interested if anyone has any other images bc I’m unsureeee

[h1biscvst3at1m3]

hi big bro ^_^

im very very new to tumblr but ur blog has quickly become my fav,, i love love love the way u write and what u write about

some food for thought: weepy, guilty older brother x sweet, consoling little brother who coaxes him into believing there's nothing to feel bad about

is this anything

-☁️ anon (in case i get the courage to send more asks)

lil sib, this is anything!!🙏 in fact it's SOMETHING🙂‍↕️

i love this a lot, let me brew smth up

big brother who moved countries while his little brother grew up at home. they're a decent couple years apart, 10ish, they don't know what eachother are like or anything apart from their name and their brotherhood. they're practically strangers.

big bro finally catches a break with work and decides to fly back home for the holidays, to meet his lil bro and his parents after a long time.

but fuck, he didn't know his little bro would be so handsome. that was supposed to be wrong, he knew it was wrong in some way. forbidden in each glance. but lil bro was attracted all the same. he shows his big bro his room in the basement, coaxes him to watch movies together in nothing but a shirt and boxers. it's what brothers should do, right?

something snaps in him when his lil bro is talking with him, that eye contact, and he kisses him. the very act had big bro shuffling back, apologising profusely. only for his lil bro to move back next to him on the bed, rubbing his arm and running his hand through his hair.

"no, no, you didn't do anything wrong. if i didn't want it, i would tell you, i promise" as he kisses his big bro's forehead. each kiss melted away the pain and guilt in his heart. his little brother was an angel, and that made him fall in love with him even more.

(and then they have passionate steamy sex with a bath as aftercare bc lil bro's just showing him how they both fit, ofc!!)

[wcfieldsimpersonator]

The movie that Gregg chose to set the movie house in is an odd pick for him. While The People Under the Stairs is not one of Wes Craven’s better known films, it’s not forgettable in the way that Gregg’s movie picks often are. It’s not exactly a comedy, though it has a lot of camp elements, and it doesn’t have a lot of big names to drop. So what is it about this movie that drew Gregg in?

I think the answer is in what Gregg leaves out of his discussions of the movie. He talks around a lot of the horror of it, calling it the most famous movie about stairs and comparing it Father of the Bride. He avoids discussing the main themes and events of the movie, only referring to them in detached ways like the “bath scene” and "the stairs scene".

“If you’ve seen the movie, you know what happens when you go down these stairs. In this case, it will be good because we will fill the under the stairs area with popcorn classics.” His stated purpose with this new popcorn classics segment is to rewrite what happens in that basement with something that makes him happy, something that comforts him. Like how people will try to return to places where trauma occurred and try to replace those memories with good memories of that place.

Except Gregg is misguided in this because the film was not set inside the movie house. It was filmed in a set that was probably torn down the second the production ended. He has no real access to the place where the trauma happened, it doesn’t exist anymore. And he seems unwilling to accept that. Is that because he is already using the movie house as a place to rewrite his own trauma? Deferring it to a movie he loves, one that reminds him of something in his own life.

We don’t know a lot about Gregg. We don’t have any direct references to his childhood, his family, anything like that. We know that he watches movies alone during the holidays. Everyone has their theories about what Gregg’s life was like before On Cinema, but I think most people can agree that it probably wasn’t great.

Gregg seems used to being homeless, in living situations with infestations, mold, and no access to bathrooms. I’m sure part of Gregg really does just like movies, but the way he molds his entire personality and life around it reeks of escapism.

He doesn’t talk about uncomfortable subjects or use profanity unless he is pushed, though the celebrities that he and Tim admire often bring up these uncomfortable subjects (Johnny Depp, Woody Allen, Dudley Moore, etc.). It seems like a huge blind spot for him. This is why it is so strange when, during season 5, Gregg immediately goes to “being part of a family doesn’t mean being raped by dad.”

(On Cinema and HEI Network are supposed to take the structure of a nuclear family, with Tim Heidecker as the father. You can see that in the way Tim wants everyone to refer to him as the father, in the language Timheads use. Tim has shown little regard for consent throughout On Cinema. In this instance (the 1st season of Decker), he feels that anyone would be happy to be on Decker because he loves Decker, so Gregg’s consent becomes irrelevant to him. The father of a nuclear family makes decisions for the family, without asking them, because he is supposed to know best. The choices and wants of the others in the family are less important than his. “As soon as you become part of the realm, become part of the On Cinema family, you become mine. Everything you do is mine.” In the same way that Tim feels ownership over women’s bodies, he feels ownership over Gregg Turkington and the rest of the cast. We see this with Final Conclusion which is even worse because of how many people he was keeping out of the know to make it happen. Like he knows Toni would not have wanted that movie to be made, but he wanted to make it so he disregards her feelings.)

It leaves me thinking that it's not ignorance with Gregg, it's avoidance. In the same way that he will railroad a conversation to be about whatever movie he feels like talking about, he will ignore something uncomfortable or traumatic and shut down completely. Tom Cruise Jr.'s death, the two cases of arson, even just Tim crying in season 1. He needs to view those uncomfortable events through the lens of movies: Murmuring "Kramer vs. Kramer" as Toni divorces Tim in front of him, treating the electric sun 20 trial like a movie (you can see the difference in his demeanor when he stops doing that during the 6th day), and notice how Decker vs. Dracula comes up like every time Tom Cruise Jr. is mentioned (though this is also because he’s just like an opportunistic shit). To me the most damning thing is that Gregg saw the dashcam footage and ignored it until it was accidentally released to the world.

So Gregg is trying to fix something that happened in his past, perhaps he's just trying to fix the On Cinema family itself. He and Tim both make big changes after the disaster that was Amatocon. Tim does what he always does: run in the opposite direction of wherever he was going. He goes from letting his hair go gray and somewhat accepting that he's aging, to dyeing it all black and using massage oil like lotion (to prevent aging). After the failed proposal with Kaili, Gregg goes back to movies. He goes to Father of the Bride and he sees a perfect family. And when he can't buy the Father of the Bride house, he decides that transforming a house from a horror movie into a movie house museum is more fitting. But, in trying to rewrite what happened in the movie house, Gregg actually helps Tim recreate the “family” in The People Under the Stairs.

The heads of the family in The People Under the Stairs are an incestuous couple with the names “Man” and “Woman” (Man is also referred to as “The Landlord”). There is a direct connection made between capitalism and white supremacy in this movie, and a push back on the insistence that the nuclear family model is the only natural family structure (the insistence upon the “tradition”). We are shown how rotten it all is.

Their children are treated like servants and shunned when they disobey the parents of the household. And we see this reflected in the character of Mark in On Cinema, especially in season 15. He is no longer credited as an actor or an impersonator, he is simply a repairman now. Gregg makes him do all of the construction work and Tim makes him greet the customers for the massage parlor. They scold him for not being able to do both jobs at the same time.

The way abuse happens in the movie is very calculated. Man and Woman keep the house locked down tight, they make sure not to shoot their gun outside, and they have a whole fake story for the children’s rooms when the cops eventually visit. In the same way, though to a lesser extent, Tim goes to great lengths to cover up his abuse of Mark. He has Mark send out that tweet before the 4th Oscar Special to make an excuse for his bandaged nose, he immediately goes to denying blame with the scuba outfit thing, and he insists that him pushing over a comatose Mark was intentional (that it was meant to knock him out of his coma).

Mark has a direct parallel in the movie with Alice. She is the last child in the house who hasn’t been put in the basement. She walks on thin ice, “I do not hear or see or speak evil. It’s the only way.” She has a lot of trouble leaving the house, even though she wants to. She doesn’t think that there’s anywhere else to go. But, later in the film, you find out that Man and Woman aren’t even her real parents.

Mark has become a pawn for Gregg and Tim, they only seem to care about the abuse done by the other when they can use it against one another (like they’re in divorce court or something). We see Mark get away from both of them for a bit, but that doesn’t last. In the same way that no one else will accept the Gregg being a film expert, no one else will pretend like Mark has any talent. And it seems like all Mark wants to do is act. So he feels like he can’t leave, even though he wants to.

And, finally, Alice is punished for having sympathy and caring for the “things in the walls”. The titular people under the stairs are compared to rats at the beginning. They are the people who have been abused and hidden away in the cellar. Mark is also punished for having sympathy for the rats. He says he doesn’t want to hurt them, and he doesn’t, knowing that it will most likely lead to more punishments from Tim.

In On Cinema, it seems like rats and rat infestations are also used as imagery for abuse and the hiding of abuse. In the same way that Gregg sees himself in discarded things, Mark and Toni see themselves in the rats that Tim wants to kill. They are innocent, plucked from their homes into a confusing, all-consuming world of pain.

There’s the rat who dies in the 8th Oscar Special that Toni projects onto, though it’s not much of a stretch because it dies in a recreation of her wedding with Tim. She says that the rat is “hiding from Tim” and she insists on adopting it instead of giving it away. When the rat dies, Tim does what he normally does. He avoids blame, saying that it “just passed” and then blaming La Rue when that doesn’t fly (just like he did with the pepper spray incident). And then there is Mark’s complete refusal to kill the rats in season 15, when he normally will do anything to avoid abuse from Tim.

There is Gregg’s avoidance of the whole subject, which often happens with Tim’s abuse when he feels like he can’t directly use it against him. All the evidence of the abuse (evidence of rat infestations) is ignored. Tim says he sees a rat scurrying across the bedroom and Gregg says it was just a shadow, rats are actively getting into the bags of popcorn and Gregg's solution is to just tape up the holes. Even when they bring in an expert on rat infestations who says that there is a rat infestation, Gregg will not acknowledge it.

When Gregg is talking about rat infestations he literally brings up The People Under the Stairs as an example of a rat infestation, but there are no actual rats in the movie. The “rats” are the people under the stairs. He ignores the abuse in the movie in the same way that he does in real life.

[luv-nikki]

I was wondering if you could write where George and his friend group go on holiday and reader really likes him but also readers friend does too. But George likes reader and readers friends try’s GETING to him and try to do stuff but George’s eyes are only on reader and readers friends and him have really cute moments and readers friends is jealous. Ok you get me something along the lines like that and reader and him have a cute moment then realise that they feeling for each other and it’s just cute angst and fluff and also do u think u could add some smut in there thank you

Eyes on me₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

George Clarkey x reader

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It was one of those rare, golden weeks where everything was perfect—sun-kissed beaches, late-night swims, cocktails that tasted like freedom, and a massive villa split between a group of close friends and a few new faces.

George was one of them.

I’d followed his YouTube for a while, sure, but nothing prepared me for what he was like in person—funny, warm, quick-witted. And then there were his eyes. Brown and mischievous, like he knew exactly what effect he had on people.

My stomach twisted every time he smiled at me. And I hated how obvious it felt.

Even worse? My friend—let’s call her Bella—definitely noticed. She’d been flirting with him since the plane ride over. Laughing too hard at his jokes, draping herself over the sun loungers near him, playfully splashing him in the pool like we were in a romcom. And George… well, he was polite. But his eyes never lingered on her the way they did with me.

Not that Bella saw it.

The turning point came one night after dinner, when we all headed back to the villa’s massive balcony, the sky still painted in streaks of lavender and peach. Someone put on music, and everyone danced, tipsy and careless under fairy lights.

Bella grabbed George’s hand and pulled him toward the makeshift dance floor. I pretended not to notice, sipping my drink, trying not to look jealous. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see her leaning in, whispering something against his ear, her hand brushing his chest.

That’s when I left.

I ended up by the pool, feet dangling in the water, the music faint in the distance. I hated how I felt—petty, dramatic. It’s not like I had any claim on him.

“You always disappear when things get fun?”

I turned. George was behind me, hands shoved in the pockets of his linen trousers, hair a little messy from the wind.

I blinked. “Didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“I did.” He sat beside me, our shoulders almost touching. “You okay?”

I nodded, but he gave me that look—the one where he was trying to read my mind.

“You don’t have to pretend around me,” he said gently. “I’m not stupid. I know Bella’s been trying to make a move.”

I snorted before I could stop myself. “That obvious, huh?”

“Painfully.” He tilted his head. “But I’m not interested in Bella.”

My breath caught. “No?”

He turned toward me fully, and my heart thudded in my ears.

“Why would I be, when you’re right here?”

The words knocked the air out of me. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

George laughed softly, shaking his head. “You have no idea, do you? Every time you smile at me, I feel like an idiot. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to say something for days, but you’ve been so quiet.”

“I thought you liked her,” I whispered.

“Not even close.”

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his hand lingering a second too long.

“You’re the one I want.”

Then he kissed me.

It was soft at first—hesitant, like he wasn’t sure I’d kiss him back. But I did. God, I did. My hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer as weeks of built-up tension melted into that single moment.

When we finally pulled away, I rested my forehead against his, smiling like a total idiot.

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“I really like you.”

He grinned, that lazy, heart-melting grin. “Good. Because I’m absolutely crazy about you.”

We stayed by the pool for hours, wrapped up in each other, the stars above and the sound of the waves in the distance. No drama, no games. Just us.

And for once, everything felt exactly how it was meant to be.

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Hope you enjoy pls feel free to send a request!! PLEASE I need more inspo. 🙂‍↕️